At least the night was dry by now, and still quite warm. In London they could truly disappear..
Five
Charles Yorke was still alive, just, but he thought his friend was dead. They were lying in a stinking brewhouse outside another inn, in Hampshire still as he imagined it, but perhaps in Dorset or in Sussex for all he really knew. They had travelled long in the night, although they might not have travelled far. There had been much stopping, much gathering of drunken men to beat and gawp, much ill-treatment at many hands. At each stop they had been misused and then abandoned in a corner while more drinking had gone on, and each time they had hoped to meet the men they were intended for at last.
It had not happened, though, and they had got weaker as the night wore on. Yorke had lost consciousness from time to time, while the older man had lapsed for longer periods, which filled Yorke with despair. After his first long hanging upside down, beneath the horse's belly, his tormentors had not allowed a repetition, which argued that they did not want him dead. Charles Yorke, in fact, had thought him so the first time they had righted him, so drenched in blood was he. His face, wiped down, was cut and bruised beyond recognition by the horse's hooves. He had teeth missing and one eye closed entirely. Oh God, thought Yorke; that we should have come to this.
At one halt, tethered to a post beside a stream while the drinkers went off for some more refreshment, they had found themselves half capable of speech. For moments, they had leaned against each other, both panting as if they had run, not ridden. They had had new beatings, although not full-hearted ones, which acted Yorke had noticed this before as a kind of stimulator, strange to tell. But the men had moved away for further cannikins minutes ago. "Charles?" Charles Yorke was tentative. His friend was desperately low. For moments there was no response. "Charles, how do you?"
"You do not need to ask," Warren said, eventually. It was an attempt at jocularity, but Yorke was too tired to be moved. The older man's breath came uneven, with a rasp behind it. They were touching. That was the only comfort.
"Do you think they mean to kill us?" Yorke said. "It is hours now. I thought to have been presented to the venturers. This round is endless, it does not have a purpose or a point that I can see."
In the silence, each noise extraneous was made larger and discrete. Across the yard a horse moved its feet on stone, then there came the uneven spatter as it dropped fresh turds. After that a sighing, a kind of yawn, then the high scream of a vixen. In the silence after that sound a dog barked half a mile away, a heavy, thudding bark. A burst of laughter from inside the house. Then a gentle breath of wind, that brought the fresh manure smell to them, sweetly familiar, unendurable.
"Oh God," said Warren, 'we are doomed to die this night, I think. This is a progress, a triumphal round to show us off, and put some mettle in the Hampshire and West Sussex men. We are not intended for the venturers, I guess. They have proposed, their people will dispose of us. It is to warn the faint hearts and a celebration, both."
Charles Yorke considered this. They had been betrayed, no doubt of that sad fact. But surely they would not just be paraded, done to death, without some questioning? Good God, he thought, we could be innocent! He caught the thought, and was amazed by it, and sourly amused. They could be innocent, but they were not. If they were to be destroyed as spies against the new free traders, who sought to bring harsh Kentish ways into this local scene then so they were.
They did meet more important men, however, in the end not after that halt, nor the next one, or the next but by this time Warren was too far gone to be worth questioning, and Yorke was not much better. They saw the men at a manor farmhouse, not a country tavern, and the rowdies stayed outside. They were pushed, half carried in the case of Warren, into a fine large kitchen, where two gentlemen in looks at least were seated at a long scrubbed table. Warren, released, dropped to the flags in silence, hitting his head against the table with a bang. That, for Yorke, was sufficient. His only thoughts were hatred and revenge, if thoughts they counted as. He was rational enough, certainly, to stare at the faces opposite, burning them on his mind and eyeballs. It was said that a murdered person's eyes retained a picture of the perpetrators, although he hardly thought it to be true. In case it was, he stared. Perhaps he would survive, in any case. If so, these men would be remembered though he lived to see a hundred.
One was fattish, one was thin, one wore a fullish wig, the other man was bald. The thin one had a glinting greyness in the eyes, which caught the candle-flare, the fat one had had the smallpox bad, and bore the pits and scars. The fat one had on a stretched waistcoat of dull stuff, enlivened by a silver chain that would have tethered a treasure ship so enormous were its links. He took snuff. His chin was stained, his nostrils reddened. He must use it constantly.
Indeed, before either of them spoke, his two fat fingers snaked into his fob, returning with a box of figured silver, which he opened with dexterity, tapped, and penetrated. Then a double snort, the box instantly disappearing, and a large lawn handkerchief smothered his nostrils with a flourish. Yorke watched and waited, eyes like gimlets. He tried to meet the thin man's gaze, to crush him with the weight of hatred, but the thin man knew, and kept his eyes averted. The fat one, nose well polished, was the first to speak. His voice, like his form, was large and strangely comfortable.
"My friends," he said. "How good of you both to take the trouble. Had you let us know in advance, we would have prepared some sweetmeats."
This was mere unpleasantness, so Yorke ignored it. The thin man made a gesture of impatience.
"No, all jollity aside," went on the fat. "You have put yourselves through much to be here with us. We understand from our friend in Fareham that you have proposals. He talked of cash to sink. He talked of business. So tell us what have you in your minds?"
For one wild, mad moment, Charles Yorke had a rush of hope.
Maybe they did not know, maybe this ill-treatment was a ... was a what? Warren lay in front of him, unconscious and grey-faced. This devil was just playing, for his sport. However:
"You think in some wise we are what we are not," he said. It came out thickly, his lips were suffused with blood. "I guess you think that we are agents of the Crown, but I promise you, we are in the business like yourselves. If Mr. Felton told you otherwise, he made a grave mistake. We are honest like yourselves, which is to say ... that some ... might call us ... rogues."
A glance had passed between them, though, a glance of some significance. He had lost their interest and attention even before swallowing his last and dangerous words. The slight man touched the big one's arm, but he was already quivering with laughter. It came out as a grunt and snort, and he ended it by taking in a bolt of snuff. Through the noise, the thin man's voice cut nasally. He did not sound amused.
"So, Mr. Felton is it?" he said. Yorke felt the bottom of his stomach drop away at his mistake. "To you his name was Saunders, I believe."
"I..." He stopped. The big man trumpeted into his handkerchief.
"Aye," he said. "Aye, aye, aye indeed! His name is Saunders, and yours is Yorke. And his is Warren, and your proposition is a load of yeasty shit, sir! You are spies, you are Customs House, you have heard of our new ventures over here and you wish to put your oar in, isn't that the truth?!"
"Tssssssh!" went the other man, quietly but sharp. "Pah!" returned his pock-marked friend, but stopped. He stared at Yorke and panted, dabbing at his nose. They know our names, thought Yorke. It had surprised him for a moment, but it depressed his spirits more.