There was a war on, nor had he come ashore through reasons of dishonour. But although the first responses had been prompt, it seemed to him a weary time before the process was got running. And then the job had come, the place, position, the assigning to a ship. It was a small ship, the sort of ship that no one, he could imagine, would join from choice, a tender based in London River, another weight upon his heart's unease. Bad enough to have to serve, but that was that. But how much worse to join the Impress Service, so universally reviled. Then, last evening the express, and here he was on horseback, alongside this lanky, stupid man, this prattler.
To be fair though, William argued with himself, Samuel Holt had maybe prattled for discomfort's sake, and indeed had not spoken now for something like an hour. In fact, as they jogged along, he it was who felt some need for conversation. Normally, William was happy to be silent, and spent the main part of his hours in lanes and byways, on horse or foot, in peaceful solitude. He had a boat as well, an open yawl with leg o' mutton rig, that he sailed endlessly in the soft wildernesses of Langstone and Chichester havens, or out into the Solent and beyond the Wight. He fished, as he had to have a reason to be out there, no one sailed for pleasure, naturally. Him neither, in the last analysis, perhaps: William sailed because he needed to. Now, he had a need to know.
The rain had broken through the last de fences of the felted wool around his neck, and was moving in runnels down his chest and back. Below the dampness was a band of discomfort, almost pain, around his waist, and below that still a spreading, jolted ache and soreness. They had ridden solidly, changing their hacks some thirty miles back, and William assumed and hoped that they were near their destination. London was not unknown to him, and the Portsmouth road a good one in the summer months at least, but this night was darker than the Shades. He had no inkling where they precisely were, and he needed rest. It was a way to frame his question.
"Mr. Holt," he said. "What is this ship like, when we get to her? We will have a place to lie and sleep, at least?"
Holt, up ahead, had given him some details of the ship before, in the early stages. A brig, quite old, quite small, but not unhandy. He swivelled in his saddle, looking back.
"Mr. Bentley, yes! That is to say, the Biter has such things, cots for the officers, all comforts of the home. Yes, there will be beds for us; I hope."
"But what do you mean by "hope", sir? Pray tell me more, and sensibly. What sort of ship is she? How run? Is it a bad ship?"
Through the rain there came a muffled laugh. Holt eased his pace, dropping back until they went side by side.
"Hereabouts," he said, "there lives a man I know. He is a rich man, a baronet, a trader in the East. His house is large, and ornate, very comfortable, the alpha and the omega. To be frank with you, the Biter, sir is not!"
He dug in his heels, and his horse moved back ahead. Before its rump, wet and rhythmic, could disappear Will Bentley clogged his horse also, to draw up alongside. As he did so, they emerged from out of a clump of roadside trees and saw a long vista of rolling grass and hedge as the moon gleamed through a thinner patch of cloud. No buildings, no outer village of the Great Wen, but just the road, more like a river in the misty light, and another copse ahead.
"So," he said, determinedly. "What is your meaning, or must I wring it from you? Should we stop again? Would this merchant welcome us, or is there an inn hereabouts for getting warm and dry? How long are we from London? How long from Deptford and the ship? You make her sound a fright. Is that true?"
He was thoroughly annoyed with Holt by now, a vulgar, laughing thing that would not give him answers. For hours he had talked too much, now there was no sense from him, just evasions. If there were truly no good berths on board, William was determined he would sleep on shore, at least for one night more.
"I've told you all I can," said Samuel, suddenly and tersely. "Good God man, the Biter is my ship, Lieutenant Kaye is my commander, what should I say to you? If it were my choice, we would stop off at Dr. Marigold's and get some wenches, or feather beds if Hampshire men prefer them for lying on! It's above an hour, maybe two, to London Bridge, then a wherry to the tiers at Deptford. Then you will see the Biter for yourself, for your approval or disdain!"
In silence, Will Bentley held his station, but a little chastened. Holt was right in one thing, but it gave him little comfort. If he disliked the vessel never so much, he could hardly say so to his new and fellow midshipman. Will felt he ought to make amends.
"There is necessity," he mumbled, 'and speed is of the essence is the theory. We are under orders, after all, to join the ship. This Dr. Marigold he is the merchant, I suppose?"
Holt let out a hoot of joy, all animosity evaporated.
"The merchant! Marigold!? Nay, Mr. Bentley, that is capital! The merchant is my ... well, a kind of benefactor, a gentleman who has done me aid and kindnesses. Dr. Marigold has a gay house in the Blackfriars you know, maids for hire, harlots. He is a whoremaster!"
He was laughing, so William joined in, to hide confusion. The use of whores, although he'd seen it on his uncle's ship when lying in St. Helen's Roads, was a thing beyond his own experience, or even comprehension of such harsh desires.
"Lord," he said. "When next you see him the good man, not the bad please you don't tell him my mistake."
Holt threw a glance at him.
"Well, that's not likely, anyway," he said. "My times for talking to Sir A..." He stopped, and wiped rainwater from his eyes and face. "Nay, private things, sir. Men like you have no need of benefactors, I suppose, and men like me are insufficient grateful. Nay, wrong again, I do him wrong again." This last was almost muttered, but he flashed a bold smile, adding loudly: "He has a sense of humour, does Sir A, but perhaps to call him whoremaster would be a shot too far. There is much he disapproves of in my life, I'm sad to say. No matter, then."
So they would not go to the great house for their comfort, nor to a gay house neither, that was settled. Will dropped his horse behind as the road became a narrow, sodden bottleneck, and tried to fathom out. Earlier his strange companion had talked too much on shallow subjects, then he'd uttered cryptically on deep, while now he did not talk at all. Under it there was embarrassment of a sort, thought Bentley, there must be. He decided the offhand manner was not perhaps innate vulgarity, but more like a social cover. Holt was above him in the Navy pecking order, but not in any other, clearly. He had prattled earlier of his lawyer father, who had gone to Virginia but had died 'before he made his fortune', and said it with a laugh, engagingly. But the fact that he had gone, and his son had stayed at home, argued that the unmade fortune must have been a sad necessity. What's more, Holt had got his naval education at "Christ's Mathematical, where all the jolly paupers go!" and made another jest of that. Momentarily, Will felt a blush begin to rise. When Holt had breakfasted at his father's house, much at his apparent ease, Will had remarked the stains and grass stalks on his clothes, and Samuel, drinking tea, had chuckled that he'd slept in a hedge the night. Could it be he had not spoke in fun?