He lapsed. They jogged. Sir A's face was not that of a lecher, Will had noted that himself. But the talk of soul he found ... Samuel must have shared the thought. He grunted, half amused.
"Nay, I make it sound like playhouse flummery," he said. "Sir A was lonely, true, he is a lonely man, but he seeks to help young men, not have them, in whatever way. He has made a habit of it, I cannot find a better word instanter. Three or four have benefited, and some are easier with it than I. Most, indeed, I guess. Perhaps I should feel shame about myself, I cannot tell for certain, but I find it... hard. I want to be my own man, Will, not beholden. So I play the ingrate, refuse to see him almost unless forced, go against his wishes and advice. And end up off my own pig-headedness -in the Impress Service, which the baronet so dearly, clearly thinks despicable, as who does not, these days?"
To this line, William could say nothing, when denial or acceptance equally would cost his dignity. Samuel spoke plain, and Samuel accepted the Impress as an inferior situation. Will Bentley must keep mum.
He did say, "Why so lonely, though? He is rich, his house and lands enormous. Why bother with young men at all, indeed? We're ingrates all, if you believe my father; it is in the bone!"
The jest eased him, but Samuel stayed dour.
"He had three sons, all dead years ago. He is a shipper, his wealth comes from the East, he is connected with John Company, I believe. One day he sent his sons out to Batavia, a passage from Calicut, and they were dead within a week, from the ague. Then three months later, when she heard the news back home in Langham Lodge, his wife went, oh horrors, very quickly, not above five days I think. Mrs. Houghton, the housekeeper, once named it as a broken heart and who could argue, in this case? She sat there in her room, and gave up food, and drink, and everything. And life." A pause. "He is a good man, William. I can despise the rich, it was my father's training, although one day one wants to be up with them, I suppose. But Sir A is neither pig nor toad, venality and corruption touch him not. One day, perhaps, I'll reconcile myself, stop being my own man or trying to so hard. But first there's the Biter, eh? After the Welfare you should eat her, Will! By God, though, she will not make you rich on prize money, nor me neither. Lieutenant Kaye is rich already, so he don't need to try!"
Samuel's mood, perversely, had lifted at the prospect of the ship he dearly hated and the service he, like his would-be benefactor, so despised. This time, when Will asked him leading questions, he would honestly respond. The Biter was the sort of ship his sort of officer men without interest went to as if by natural law, he said. She was dirty, vile and poky, with a crew so low they would not have pressed themselves, even, if they'd come upon themselves blind drunk in the gutter one dark night. Sir A had known her name by her reputation, which was why Sam had hoped to get out of the house without vouchsafing it. Sir A had known that he must be in her not out of choice, but out of sheer necessity. He should have passed for a lieutenant long ago, and been called to greater things, but he had clashed with the baronet with monotonous frequency when he'd thought string-pulling had been mooted. He was a prig and fool, it served him right to end up on the Biter, there was no argument about it, none at all.
William was discomfited to his soul. And what, he wondered, must their lordships think of him to place him on this ship? He asked feebly: "But if she is dirty, Sam, is there no one who will see her clean? Surely Lieutenant Kaye ... ?"
The laugh was harsh and short.
"Lieutenant Kaye has his own reasons, I believe, although I know them not. She's not a King's ship, though, she's under charter from her owner for a fee, he sails on board as master, and has last say in many things, including cleanliness and fizz. John Gunning's not a very cleanly man."
William was mystified and showed it, but Samuel took it very easily.
"It's not unusual in these days," he said. "Wars cost money so we're told, and ships to build cost hundreds, even thousands. So Mr. Gunning gets his charter rent, the Navy gets his seamen for a crew with the best protection from the Press that any man could have! and the Biter has a navigator and a pilot all in one, which is fortunate with Richard Kaye as captain of her, for he could not navigate a paper hat across a puddle in the sun. So everyone is satisfied save us!"
William said, awkwardly: "But there is some honour in it, surely? You make it sound .. . well, we are at war, and the Press is very necessary, otherwise there would be no men in our ships, no men at all. And there are legal ties, and rules, and so on. You're not suggesting .. . ?"
"I'm not suggesting nothing," riposted Holt. "Aye, sure it's legal, they taught us that in black and white at Christ's; and the moral side. We rehearsed the moral side till our tongues clove to our mouths, although my father, rest his soul, would not agree, I'll warrant me. Nay, the service has its good points, so does bold Cap'n Kaye, come to that. Between him and John Gunning we spend a lot of time in Deptford, is one for instance, and we spend a lot of time on shore. Lieutenant Kaye's a great stickler for liberty, at least of that sort, and if you don't believe in pressing centum per cent, then he's your man, as the
Irish say, for he has the air of a fellow with better things by far to do, especially if drink and whores are in the question. That's where he will be now, our good commander, you might depend upon it. We'll get to the ship as ordered, foot-sore and arse-weary, and Slack Dickie will be stuck in some neat strumpet, lucky bastard. Don't call him that to face, by the way, he wouldn't catch the joke. But as I told you, he has his good sides, don't you see!"
A vision of Deb's face, exhausted, bruised, exquisite, arose behind Will's eyes, sudden and unbidden. He forced himself to moral things again.
"Your father," he asked, awkwardly. "Why would he not agree about the Impress Service, that it is just? Was he a victim of it?"
For a while there was no reply. Just the sound of horses' hooves on mud and stone, the creak of leather. Holt sighed.
"He was a lawyer. He went to Virginia, among other reasons, because of a spirit who had preyed on villages around where I was born and raised. That is, near Lewes, you may have heard of it. He had a strange belief the law could help wronged people. His passage out theirs, he would not leave my mother and the littles their passages were paid by subscription, the families of wronged parties, friends, well-wishers. Who knows, if he had lived .. ."
"A spirit? I have heard of Lewes, but forgive me. You do not mean a ghost?" "Hell, William, I am the bumpkin, not you, man! Nay, I mean a rogue who kidnaps poor sufferers and sells them to the colonies as slaves. Indentured servants, Seven-Year Passengers, you must have 'em down in Hampshire, surely? This man, this agent, as he styled himself so grand, scoured the land around Lewes for two years till he was murdered by a man whose sons had been taken and despatched on transports. The man was hanged, of course, but my father was approached by many other families and resolved to go to the Colonies himself to try for rescues or releases of the victims he could prove coerced by fraud or violence. Those who answered the handbill and the advertisements of their own volition well, naturally he held out little hope for them. You Hampshire people have a song for us Sussex men, I know. If your country clods don't get spirited, perhaps it's right and we are stupid, after all."
Will did not suppose it, so he merely smiled. Too tedious to tell of the isolated, simple life he led much of the time, so little knowing of the world at large.