Original manuscript

Opening chapters in original draft form prior to publication. Minor changes and corrections were made to this version.

 

INDIANS ROGUES & GIANTS- The Tale of Lt. St. Crispin Mull

 

 

“I St. Crispin Mull, being a man fallen from grace and about to meet his maker, give this testimony of my own free will. God grant that the crown may be merciful to her wayward son. I have been many things in my day, but now stand with the lowest.  I am accused a murderer and a common thief. The only crime I am guilty of is avarice. May my maker forgive me, I have fallen in with rogues, supped with rabble and slept with w****s, but I have never killed an innocent man. My last wish is to redeem myself before God and King as a soldier doing battle against our Popish enemy.”

 

 

                                     CHAPTER ONE

                                    ~The Black Dragoon~

 

It is rare when a man so handsome and so keen and as well made as St. Crispin Mull finds himself locked in the Albany Gaol, but such was the case in mid July 1756.

 

Born to Ezra Mull and Abigail McHughes in Glasgow in the year of our Lord 1734, wee Crispy Mull was the treasure of his mother’s heart. Perhaps the cord wrapped around his neck should have been an omen of things to come.  Perhaps the way we enter the world foretells the way we will exit it.  The midwife slipped her finger ‘neath the cord and lifted it off the bairn’s throat until Abigail had finished pushing.  While the blood was still wet on her thighs and the sweat was curling off her temples the purple gray infant began to cry; St. Crispin Mull had made his first narrow escape.  He was named in honor of one of the twin Patron Saints of Cobblers and tanners. His father had thought the name sounded grander than Thomas or David and calling him St. George after the patron saint of England would have gotten him a beating even in lowland Scotland. Most referred to him as Crispy or when need demanded formality- Crispin.

 

In the weeks, months, and years to come the lad would experience the rough and tumble of all wee boys, but Crispin Mull was different.  Of course he fell and skinned his knees and on another occasion nearly drowned in the River Clyde. Other boys took a beating from their da for lesser offences but Crispin never got caught. Most likely that is how it all began. Crispin knew he was ‘lucky’. He stole a meat pie right from under the nose of a street vendor and ate it under the cart and for good measure took another for the walk home. He punched a chubby, gap-toothed bully boy twice his size right in the nose and the lad ran crying even though he was ten and Crispin but eight. His torturous birth had left his mother barren and so she poured all of her affection and love into her only child, always forgiving any youthful transgression the boy committed.

 

Ezra Mull had a thriving business supplying the scientific community in Glasgow and Edinburgh with everything they wanted in the way of specimens for dissection, examination and rigorous description. From live salmon, to rare plants, mummified toads from china, dead alley cats, two headed lambs, the odd purloined corpse or skeleton, and even a small whale calf, which beached in the Firth of Forth one July for no apparent reason other than faulty navigation. An associate of Ezra’s, an ancient, gouty Jew named Jakob Schultes, realizing its scientific market value hauled it by cart to Glasgow where Ezra paid 2 pounds for the now rather ripe example of cetaceous progeny. He turned a tidy profit of five pounds on the stinking carcass when the second son of the Late Earl of Mentieth bought it for dissection. The Earl's stuttering son was preparing a boring and erroneous treatise on mammals of the sea and was only too eager to piddle away his inheritance on rotting whale meat and pickled seal pups as long as it extended the knowledge of mankind. Ezra gave the money to Abigail who salted it away in an iron-banded copper coffer under the stone floor of the bedroom. Of course she gave young Crispy, now 12, a few pennies to fritter away on sweets.

 

Ezra and Abigail lived fairly in the years before Crispin, but it was their long-term goal to lift the Mulls above their current social station. Ezra proposed that if they scrimped and were careful with their purchases that they might set aside enough so that by the time Crispy was 17 they could buy him an [i]Ensign’s commission in an English Regiment of Foot and thereby make a silk purse of a lucky sow’s ear.

 

 

***************

 

 

Colonel Sir Beverly Blanchard of the 58^th Regiment had issued orders for the reordering of the companies and the formation of new flank companies. Sergeant Major Spurling was given the onerous task of shepherding the newly commissioned Ensigns as well as overseeing the drilling and instruction of the troops. Generally speaking, a new Ensign is not a terribly useful item in the life of a regiment. With little knowledge of military life and without the trust of the commander they have little to do other than the work which the Lieutenants and Captains will not do, unless placed in a situation in which there is no junior Sergeant or Ensign. The work in question most often was keeping the company records and overseeing the digging of offal pits for the disposal of things which if left to the air produced residual odors less than savory, never gentlemanly and definitely not conducive to ingesting stewed oysters. If a detail was to be ordered to town to pick up a pot of fresh eels for the officers’ mess or cabbages and turnips for the regimental kitchen, then more often than not an Ensign was chosen to lead the three Privates necessary to manage the successful transfer. Senior Sergeants were far too important to be wasted on such trivial matters. Outranking only the Privates and Corporals, Ensigns invariably but quietly turned to the seasoned Sergeants for direction. Of course as an officer, it was unseemly for even a junior Ensign to be seen requesting or receiving instruction from a man of the ranks. St. Crispin Mull was now to discover the life of the regiment.

 

“Here’s the cold coin Ensign Mull,” said Sergeant Major Spurling, placing the purse in Crispin’s hand. “Watch them men going with you--they’re not gentlemen like yerself.” In a more conspiratorial tone he leaned close to Crisp, “ye might ha time fer a nip at the Crown an Scepter laddy but don’t be late getting them eels to cook. The Colonel likes his supper prompt. There’ll be the very divil ta pay an all the Papist Saints in Rome won’t save ye if it’s late.”

 

“My thanks for the warning Sergeant Major, and I’ll remember what ye said about the men,” grinned Crispin, eager to begin his ‘mission’, the first duty he had been given since settling in with the Regiment a fortnight before.

 

Reaching the village of Hartl was no difficult task; Private Lane of Dublin and London volunteered that they had nearly worn a rut down the middle of the road running errands for ‘Old Barley Blanchard’. The Colonel had received his unofficial moniker from the troops for the amberish color of his hair, which resembled a tankard of ale. Of course no one ever called him ‘Old Barley’ if he was within a hundred feet, for fear of the “Gunner’s Daughter’ or worse. Acts of insubordination generally involved a sweating Sergeant standing in his small clothes beating the blood out of some poor sod who couldn’t hold his tongue or who had imbibed too much and wagged on like a fishwife. The Gunner’s Daughter was one of Old Barley’s favorites. When the offender was taken down off the cannon’s wheel he was usually dragged face downward through a bit of muck or along the length of the picket line so that he got a good mush full of horse dung. Then the whips were scraped to clean off the blood and then oiled and hung up ‘til next time.

 

Said Private Lane of Dublin to the likable new Ensign as they strolled briskly toward Hart, “Ensign, Sir you seem like a fine mun and a credit to yer people and as this is yer first official duty the lads an I would like to buy yer a nip at the Scepter to welcome you to the Regiment on behalf of the ranks. What’re ya say?”

 

“I say lead on Private Lane!” Crispin Mull trusted his luck and his apparent growing popularity with the men.

 

The truth was that Crisp had grown up with men just like Lane and if his father hadn’t saved the price of the commission he would himself be a Private in the ranks. It wasn’t Crispin’s nature to look down on an Irishman just because he was Irish. After all he himself was lowland Scots, looked down on by the Highlanders as some form of traitor and looked down on by the English as a second rate citizen. Crispin knew what it was like to be looked down on because of some accident of birth. What Crisp could not know was what it was like to be unlucky. Good looks and his uncanny luck had often made up for the lack of title and fortune.

 

Private Lane, on the other hand, was serving in the 58^th after being recruited out of Newgate Prison. Lane had had a lucrative trade supplying women to lonely members of the House of Commons from outlying districts. All of this was well and good and could have gone on indefinitely except that one of the members refused to pay his bill, which had grown rather hefty after six months of frequent use. Lane finally lost his temper one night when he was in his cups and sent a note to a patch-eyed strangler whose demesne were the closes and alleys of London. Trepan arrived at Lane’s run-down pleasure house and came in by the back door. The two had been acquainted for years. Lane used Trepan for jobs that were unclean and Trepan sated his desires with women he could never afford otherwise. Lane explained that a certain member of the Commons needed to choke on an oyster or trip and fall on his own knife or be struck by an errant chamberpot. Trepan agreed that something would most likely happen to the unfortunate gentleman, as everyone’s end is pre-ordained.  In the meantime he would like to sample the wares upstairs.

 

The upshot was that just as Trepan emerged from the shadows and struck the honorable member in the head with a chamberpot, his foot became stuck fast in a gap between cobbles. Literally brought to heel. Trepan sang from the docket like a spring thrush and Patrick Peter Lane, whoremonger, went straight to prison without hope, until a few years later when he was offered the opportunity to enlist in the 58^th of Foot, rarely named as the ‘Cheviot Guards’. Trepan escaped as he was being dragged to the gallows by biting off the eyebrow of one of his guards and showing nothing but his heels. The honorable member of the House of Commons, Sir Douglas Barden, outlived his attacker by many years, though he had a permanent droop to the left side of his mouth and a dent in the right side of his head from the chamber pot. The dent remained until he died some forty-six years later. He patched up things with his wife and never again frequented houses of pleasure, and was reelected seven times to his seat in the Commons. Other than the occasional tremor or seizure, he lived hale and hearty, dying quietly in the night at the age of 99. Though he lived soberly, he passed with a crooked smile and obscene amounts of cash made in illegal contracts for inferior rope sold to the Royal Navy. Had the right honorable member died when Trepan struck his porcelain blow, Crispin Mull would have been denied the companionship of P. Peter Lane, as Lane would surely have swung.

 

The interior of the Crown and Scepter was dark and pleasantly smokey with the strong underlying aroma of oak casks, roast beef and the sweet  warmth of singing hinnies. The leaded windows let in little light and it took more than a minute for the eyes to adjust to the dimness. Private Lane and his companions sat at a table near the fire and stretched out their feet before them while Ensign Crisp stood with his long straight spine turned toward the flames. God was in his house and all was right with the world was the message leaking from Crispin’s expression. Mother would be right pleased to see that her wee laddy was in charge of three grown men, the youngest of whom was a year older than Crisp, and all of them calling him ‘Sir’!

 

The smash-faced barman, one Joab Kinney, an Irish, brought out a battered tray of tankards, bobbed his bald splotchy head at Crispin and caught the coin that Lane flipped at him.

“Good ta see yer payin yer tab Lane,” the publican tossed over his shoulder.

 

“Pay im no mind Ensign---P. Peter Lane always pays back everything eventually. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, but if yer gonna ask fer an advance never fergit a goodness, is my motto," which he shared with everyone who ever borrowed from him. "Since we are on the subject of finances, mayhap you would like to listen to a little business venture that I’ve in mind to include you in?”

 

“I have little to no knowledge of business Private, and it takes all of my pay just to maintain myself in food, lodgings and uniforms---but if you can find a way to increase my fortunes I am game,” replied Crispin, feeling a pleasantly warm glow from the ale spreading towards his toes.

 

Lane signaled the barman for another round of ale and then began a beguiling and lengthy tale of his ‘cousin’ in the rum trade who was looking to expand his business but needed help because he had no friends in government. The nameless cousin had begged P. Peter Lane to intervene with some influential officer who might be able to help him get his cloven hoof in the door with Army contracts.

 

“Now I understand yer no general but you seem like a man destined fer greatness Ensign. I’ve no doubt but I’ll be callin’ you Major before you shall be callin’ me Corporal. Do you think you might help my cousin out Sir?”

 

“My da always told me to look out for ma own interests Private Lane. What I should like is to become a Major or at least a Captain. Do ya think ye could make tha happen? If the answer is yea then I ‘d say we ha a deal, if nay then I think we should finish our round and fetch the eels.” Crisp picked his Tri-Corn off the table and cleared his throat.

 

“Not so fast Ensign, where’s the rush?” returned P. Peter Lane. “I think we still ha some time fer both talk an eels.” He motioned Crispin to slow down. “I think we might be able to reach a mutually acceptable arrangement Sir. I think I see how ye might git a promotion and I think ye might be able to return the favor.” Lane placed a special emphasis on favor.

 

The crafty one-time whoremonger outlined a devilishly simple plan to make Crispin the hero of the hour. Old Barley’s wife and clubfooted daughter lived in apartments over the only other Inn in the Village. The Black Dragoon was a small step uptown from the Crown and Scepter. In a town with only two Inns that wasn‘t saying a great deal. Old Barley had rented out the entire upstairs and had installed Madame Blanchard and his comely but clumsy daughter in the four good rooms. The Black Dragoon looked out over the village from a small eminence at the north end of the main (and only) throroughfare. The fishmonger’s shed was a half-mile beyond and down a track near the river. Nearly twice a week Beverly Blanchard sent a detail down to the fishmonger to purchase oysters, eels or some other morsel of the deep. Blanchard, not wanting his family too near, preferred to stay in camp with his men until the weekend when he would be forced to ride the two and a half miles to the village. It was agonizing enough to spend the weekend listening to his wife complain about the lodgings, being away from her friends and the lack of society for young Sally Anne.

 

The major problem for Old Barley was that he couldn’t send his wife and daughter back home to live at Blanchard Hall until he devised a plan to get his mistress out of the house. Beverly Blanchard was many things and well planned wasn’t one of them. He had asked his wife and daughter to come stay with him because his mistress had demanded that if she didn’t get to visit him at Blanchard Hall then she would publicly expose him. Beverly was unlike his peers---he lacked the resolve to take care of the situation once and for all. Peggy Fairchild was a fine, saucy, auburn-haired girl who had started life as the oldest child of a dressmaker. Her shapely figure and sparkling blue eyes soon caught the attention of many a young rake and before long she had taken up the life of a kept woman. Beverly Blanchard was smitten and entrapped in her romantic snare. It never occurred to Old Barley that he only had to say the word and place the right amount of coin in the right hands and Peggy Fairchild would just be gone from his life. Word amongst the other Colonels and the few others who knew of Peggy was that Beverly did all his thinking with a certain extremity, which it is not necessary to name.

 

While P. Peter Lane did not know about Peggy, he knew exactly where Madame and Sally Anne Blanchard lived. He rightly surmised that if they were saved from a group of toughs bent on rapine and robbery then the rescuer would be in very good standing with Old Barley. That officer not only would receive a promotion but would likely have the Colonel’s ear regarding the business of the Regiment, the kind of business that involved the purchasing of watered rum at premium prices with ‘gifts’ for the officer or officers granting the contract. Lacking any other plan it seemed brilliant on the surface. 

 

On the appointed day, some of P. Peter Lane’s old associates gathered in the pre-dawn gloom under cover of a beech grove down near the fishmonger’s shed. At the same time, in the camp of His Majesty’s 58^th of Foot, Ensign Crispin Mull was pulling on his worsted stockings and slipping his feet into brass buckled shoes. After a light breakfast at the Ensigns’ mess Crisp would gather his three Privates and start the 40 minute walk into Hart in order to get the oysters from the fishmonger for the Colonel and the Major, and also to pick up two bushels of turnips for the ranks. Because the pickup was larger than a pot of eels, they had brought along a large pushcart which Private Spooner was propelling. Crispin walked in front with his sword and pistol buckled on and Lane and the third Private, Lear by name, walked alongside either wheel. The sky was just brightening and it was a few minutes before six in the morning, the overcast kept it from becoming light quickly. As Crispin and his detail trundled up the main road, lights were beginning to come on in cottages and smoke puffed lazily out of chimney pots.

 

The five toughs hiding under the sylvan boughs passed a rum flask between them.

 

“Remember, take whatever yer want but don’t hurt no one bad. The innkeeps got a blunderbuss under the bar so don’t let im get it. The ladies is off limits, right?” said the biggest and ugliest of the ruffians.

 

“Say Shep,” piped up another. “Der ye suppose we could torch it?”

 

“Listen Burnie,” said Shep.  “Leave off settin her a fire, we go in an we git out as soon as the reglers hit the front door. We duck out the back with what we can carry. We meet back at the river an row down stream just like Lane said.” The five toughs picked up a small log they had brought for the express purpose of battering down the back door of the inn.

 

The Black Dragoon was still a hundred yards distant when Crispin heard the first screams. A woman flew out the front door and fell down the steps. “Robbers! Help! They’re killing my man!” She ran towards Crispin’s detail.

 

Crispin drew his sword and pistol and the Privates each drew their bayonets. They never brought their muskets with them on a victualing detail. Crisp had agreed with Lane not to harm any of the hired toughs and only to make a show of it and drive them off. A dull roar echoed from inside of the inn as a firelock was discharged and voices could be heard yelling and screaming. A shabbily dressed, unshaven tough in sailor’s slops barreled out of the front door with both of his hands clamped to his smoldering head. Wisps of smoke curled up from his burnt, greasy hair and rivulets of blood ran down his stubble covered cheeks making his face a mask of ghastliness studded with rotting teeth bared in pain. Crispin and his men reached the front door just as the scalawag disappeared around the back corner of the building running for all he was worth towards the river.

 

As Crispin stepped into the dim interior of the inn, he saw a great heap of a man in a dirty frock coat and workman’s cap making for the back door. Crisp hauled up on his Tower pistol, thinking only to make a good show of it, he touched off the round. Shep’s pulpy head slammed forward and he tumbled out the open door into the daylight, collapsing in a lifeless pile of dirty, wrinkled clothes, shaggy unwashed beard and rapidly clotting blood. Yells and curses could be heard throughout the inn mixed with the voices of terrified women. The remaining three toughs still in the inn put up a mock fight with the soldiers who were all in on the deception. Fortunately none of them knew about Shep or their comrade with the immolated scalp. Windows flew open and then all three made timely exits, unlike their ill-fated companions.  Carrying off silver plate, a clock, a whole still flapping salmon and for no good reason, a cracked chamberpot, the three headed for the rendezvous on the river. Crispin dashed up the stairs and made a show of calming the hysterical Madame Blanchard and her comely but clumsy daughter.

 

“Ladies, rest assured the villains have been dealt with an tha inn is secure. One of the divils lies cold on the stoop. I warrant he won’t be terrorizing anyone. I shall send one of ma men for reinforcements and we’ll smoke out these rogues. I’ll order a coach to take you to the Colonel immediately."

 

Crispin posted Lear and Lane on the front and back doors respectively and sent Spooner, who was now mounted upon a borrowed shire horse, back to camp for the Colonel and reinforcements. The innkeep who had blasted the one villain in the head with his blunderbuss, lent his pony and cart to the cause and reloading his weapon, escorted Madame and Sally Anne Blanchard up the road in the cart behind Spooner. Meanwhile Crispin began to organize the gathering mob into a pursuit party. Naturally, not wanting to catch the thieves, he sent all the men home to pack a lunch and to gather weapons. Rallying back at the Black Dragoon a half an hour later, Ensign Mull led a cautious pursuit towards the fishmonger’s shed, leaving Lear to report to the officer in charge of the reinforcements. As the angry but fearful townsmen approached the fishmonger’s shed, Crispin hailed the building.

 

The fishmonger came out wiping his hands on his bloody, scaly apron. “What’s all the blasted commotion about?”

   

“Have ya seen anyone about this mornin’ Mr. Suply?” queried Crisp.

 

“Nay, I’ve not Ensign. What was all the racket comin’ from the Black Dragoon? It sounded of nastiness and bloodied knuckles.”

 

“Indeed it was nasty Mr. Suply. Have ye seen four rogues coming this way, one of them holding his head with his hair on fire?”

 

“Nay, but there were voices down near the river this mornin’,” replied Suply. “I figgered it fer some of the local laddies goin’ fishin.” Suply stuck his fish-gutting knife into a stump next to the shed door.

 

“Our thanks to ye Mr. Suply,” said Crisp. “Thieves attacked the Black Dragoon this morning. They were seen coming down this way. We’ll have to search yer shed, by yer leave.” Crispin new the stall would give the surviving house breakers a lead in their flight.

 

A half-dozen men armed with old swords and pikes surrounded the fish shed while Crispin and the remaining two men in the party cautiously entered. The interior was lit with several fat lamps that guttered and cast long shadows in the early morning overcast. Wicker baskets sat on the floor in confusion. Some were filled with writhing eels, others were heaped with oysters and cuttlefish, and still others held innumerable fish. There was nowhere for a tough to hide and so Crisp and the others backed out into the morning.

 

“Mr. Lane, pick the finest oysters and take them back to the camp. Don’t forget to pick up the turnips. I’ll take these men and search the riverbank for a mile or so. If you should chance to see the reinforcements tell them what we’re about,” ordered Crispin.

 

P. Peter Lane was beginning to think he had created a monster. The lad took charge as though he’d been born to the manor. He seemed to show no remorse at having shot down poor Shep Wells, and he seemed to have a natural instinct for getting at what needed to be done. Lane feared for the remaining toughs if Mull caught up with them. Without Lane to remind the lad about their agreement and with Lear and Spooner dispatched to other duties, the only thing to save Lane’s friends was a swift current carrying them out to sea.

 

Lane surmised correctly. Crispin was becoming emboldened. What, he thought, was to stop him from apprehending and executing the toughs? Society would be shed of cutthroats; no one would be the wiser to his dealings with Lane, and he would seem to be the bold and dashing officer capable of leading a company or even a battalion. Crisp’s luck was showing itself again.

 

The men fanned out along the riverbank and beat the bushes with their swords, but the only thing they flushed were a pair of ducks, a swan and a three-legged tabby cat out mousing. As they neared the end of their mile they came upon a muddy spot on the bank, covered with footprints and the crease created by a small boats keel. Clearly the toughs had debarked and likely they had an hour’s lead. The only way to catch them now was with a small boat or with fast horses in pursuit along the bank.

 

Crispin paced and thought for several minutes. At last he spoke. “Alright you men, I think we’ve done all we can on foot. Perhaps I will take two men and continue the pursuit while the rest of you return to the village. Send back a fast horse and commandeer Mr. Suply’s boat. If we don’t catch them we’ll surely drive them from the district.”

 

Crispin took the only two men who owned firelocks and set off at a brisk pace, hoping he might catch up with the toughs before the reinforcements came up. It dawned on him while he had time to think that if any of the thieves were captured they could inform on him and Lane. They would either need to get away clean or have to be cut down like the brigands they were. The greatly diminished pursuit party had gone no more than another half-mile when horses could be heard thundering up behind them. Crisp halted his companions. Three officers red-coat tails flapping came pounding up, their horses well lathered and blowing steam in the early morning light. The Regimental Major, flush with the excitement of the chase, was accompanied by two Captains mounted on the Colonel’s horse and remount. Shiny pistol butts showed in their belts and each carried an officer’s fusil.

 

“Ensign! Mull isn’t it? Where are the blackguards now?” asked the Major, who had rarely deigned to speak to Crispin before this.

 

“Well Sir,” returned Crispin.  “I believe they are about an hour ahead of us on the river. I have dispatched. . .”

 

“I know about all of that Mull. You did a good job of keeping us well informed with messengers. Right good fun, this. Like a foxhunt. Listen, you continue along with your two men here and I’ll take Captains Lyon and Nash and fetch up these b******s. Sound the chase Nash! Come along as quickly as you may Mull!”

 

Captain Nash brought a shiny hunt horn to his lips and gave a blast and away the three went with great gusto. Major Patterson slapped his hat against his mount’s foamy flank. The horses seemed as eager and excited

as their riders, carrying their heads high, manes flashing, with a great thunder of hooves and farting they roared down the greensward that ran

along the river.

 

Blast and damn, thought Crisp.  If they don’t kill them I’ll land in Newgate for sure. Crispin wasn’t aware that he would more likely be executed for his role than to be locked up. Nothing to do but trust to luck. Crispin put his head down and plodded along with his townsmen stalwartly keeping apace.

 

The entire district around Hart was abuzz with the news of the attack at the Black Dragoon. When all was said and done the damages to the Black Dragoon amounted to about 6 pounds in smashed crockery, broken chairs, and stolen fish and chamberpots. While the loss of first-rate borders was not to be laughed at, the throngs coming in to see the place where Shep Wells had met his rogue’s end, more than made up for the losses. Ale and meat pies sold briskly. Stewed oysters and claret less so, however there were a number of officers from the Regiment who had to remain in camp during the riot and manhunt who later just had to come in to see what that new young Ensign had done. They were more of the oyster and claret crowd and provided a dash of color and civility against the rustic, dull backdrop of the locals.  Most visitors quaffed an ale and whispered while pointing at the swan shot holes in the ceiling beams. That was where most of the charge had gone that had removed the one tough’s cap and scorched his scalp. Examining the rapidly fading bloodstained stoop and praising the marksmanship of the new young Ensign, the patrons removed themselves to the quieter and cheaper surroundings of the Crown and Scepter.

 

After several days the furor died down and life began to return to normal in Hart. Farmers argued wool prices, housewives gossiped, three quartered tabby cats moused peacefully by the river, and another Ensign was seen leading a detachment into town to fetch a pot of eels and a half-dozen bushels of cabbages. Crispin Mull cooled his heels for a week, hearing nothing more on the subject than the praise of his Captain and the adoration of the other Ensigns. Everywhere he went Lieutenants glowered jealously, and the ranks nearly bowed and genuflected. Senior Sergeants now included him in their conversations, even asking his opinion of military matters, and Privates asked him to settle their disputes, but there was no talk of a promotion or reward.

 

One problem still remained. While Madame and Sally Anne had been happy to leave the Black Dragoon, they were not terribly happy with the life of the Regiment and demanded to be sent home immediately. Beverly Blanchard was coming to the end of his rope. Figuratively speaking, he had fashioned the noose for his own hanging. Unless Peg Fairchild could be persuaded to leave Blanchard Hall and keep her mouth shut tight, Old Barley was in for it when Madame ‘Old Barley’ Blanchard caught him out. Backed into a tight place with nowhere to retreat, Beverly showed uncommon guile.

 

The candles guttered in the draft as the door of Colonel Blanchard’s headquarters swung open. Old Barley had occupied the office of the tannery for several months while his men slept in drafty little tents. [ii]Winter cantonments were being constructed from the various barns and warehouses that made up the abandoned tannery. Ensign Mull leaned into the door and heaved it shut against the clammy gale. The milky rotten smell of soaking hides still pervaded even here.

 

“Ahh!, Mull good of you to stop by,” said Blanchard, as though Crispin actually had an option and would turn down an order from the commander. “That was excellent work you did last week and you cannot know how much I appreciate your efforts on behalf of my wife and daughter.”

 

“Thank you sir,” replied Crispin. “And may I say it was ma pleasure to serve yer family.”

 

“Well spoken for a Scot! Let me say that after reviewing the reports from yourself and Major Patterson and after interviewing Private Lane I must congratulate you and offer you this reward.” Old Barley picked up a small leather purse from the pad footed gaming table that served as his desk. “Five guineas. I know it seems a large sum to one so young. I hope you will use it to improve your appearance or further your career in some way. The Army needs daring young men like you. Carry On.” Blanchard began shuffling through the papers in front of him.

 

Crisp executed an about face and started for the door, silently fuming. How dare Blanchard---for all he knew the attempt on his wife and daughter was genuine and all he could offer was five guineas for their safety. Killing a known cutthroat was only worth five guineas! Damn that Lane, Crisp had risked all and barely had enough to buy a new sword and knot.

 

“Oh Mull! I almost forgot.”

 

Crisp was just shutting the door and ducking his head into the wind and rain.

 

“I have another mission for you. Perhaps more rewarding than your latest action with an enemy.”

 

Crispin approached the desk and stood at attention.

 

“Relax boy. You have shown that you have metal and can control yourself in a taxing situation. I would have promoted you for gallantry for your deeds at the Dragoon but it would have been a bit much with four of the rascals escaping, what?” Old Barley began to pace with his hands behind his back. “And if Major Patterson, and Captains Lyon and Nash had succeeded where you failed then I should have been forced to reward them as well.”

 

Crisp could not see how the escape of the other four had been his fault. Blanchard was leading up to something.

 

“The mission I have in mind for you is secret but should confer military preferment if you are successful. A promotion, in case you need that spelled out. I know you Scots are a more blunt and simple folk.”  Beverly reached down and picked up a piece of paper from his desk. He continued, “I have here a letter commissioning- to the rank of Lieutenant- for Ensign Mull, granted for services rendered and gallantry befitting the British standard of courage in defense of the Crown.” Blanchard’s eyes narrowed and he bored into Crispin’s eyes trying to see his mind. “I am also going to assign Privates Spooner, Lear and Lane to this mission and the man who you tell me is most deserving will receive a promotion from my own hand to the rank of Corporal and the others will get a guinea each for their efforts. If you fail Ensign you will bring ruin upon the Regiment and yourself.” Beverly failed to mention that he was the one who would be most ruined.

 

Old Barley began to explain that there was a woman at his home who was a spy and a threat to the Crown, that she sang a siren song and anyone who listened to her lies was likely to end up dashed on the rocks of a broken future. He told Crispin that she had been lured to his ancestral home under false pretenses and that she must now be dealt with. She went by the name of Peggy Fairchild, which was undoubtedly a fiction. She was most likely a French courtesan carrying out a mission of intrigue intended to bring embarrassment on certain persons highly placed in his Majesty’s government. He further told Crisp that it would be up to him and his detail of men to nullify her---with all which that implied. When one’s father dealt in snatched bodies, the truth or rather the lack of it was nearly as transparent as the skin of a corpse dug fresh from the grave. In other words Crisp was not buying the French courtesan tale and suspected that Old Barley had been dipping his quill in an inkpot other than Madame’s.

 

 

                                      Chapter Two

                                   ~A Dash to The Sea~

 

Blanchard Hall was well removed from Hart, being nearly twenty miles distant to the south. Crispin rode Old Barley’s remount, a slick little chestnut gelding, while Lane, Lear and Spooner walked. The trip took three days and the detail stopped every night at a hedge Inn. Private Lear went mildly lame from bad shoe leather and had to limp the last six miles or so leaning on a stick.

low, squat, stone manor house appeared to be about three hundred years old and lacked any redeeming architectural appointments. The landscape was nonexistent, unless one counted the sole large oak in front and the three or four high, suckered stumps that stuck up like rancid teeth. The barns, orchards and gardens were to the rear and looked mundane and utilitarian.

 

Old Barley had suggested a straightforward course of action--Take the infernal woman well away from the house, allowing no one to see you and silence her. None of this was according with Crispin’s new ideal of an officer and a gentleman. Old Barley was full of suggestions and short on efforts, or so Crisp had begun to suspect. Crisp approached the front door of the many-roomed manse. Lear sneaked around back, as much as one can sneak on sore feet and when there is absolutely no shrubbery and it is broad daylight.

 

Lane was in the barn talking with the coachman about harnessing up the team. Spooner stayed with Crispin and checked his flint and priming. Old Barley Blanchard had insisted that the detail be fully armed and ready to attack or defend. Crispin laid his hand on his small sword hilt and lifted the bronze doorknocker.

 

The door swung open and a young woman in a rather expensive looking green satin gown, trimmed in lemon velvet, stood before Crispin. She smelled like a lavender pomander and her red-brown hair was piled in a fetching manner. Crispin Mull’s experience with women was rather limited. Never having known a member of the fairer sex conjugally, Crispin was a bit over-awed. His sole experience in matters of amour had been limited to an abbreviated grope of the bosom of the sister of a country friend from near Paisley. The young lady, only fifteen at the time (two years Crisp’s senior), had been more than willing and seemed to show rather a bit more experience than was common. Unfortunately for Crisp, her father seemed to regard the virginity of his daughter as one of her more compelling selling points for potential suitors. He loudly and bluntly told Crispin that if he should lay hands upon her again, her breast would be the last thing Crisp would see in this mortal world before he found himself face to face with a firey demon. Crisp was quite sure that the girl’s father was a far greater threat than burning demons sticking red-hot pokers in his eyes. Presbyterians, it seemed to Crispin, relied a good deal on brimstone, pokers, pitchforks, and whippings to drive home a point. Crispin had steered wide of women for the last four years, but every Samson has his Delilah.

 

“Mistress Fairchild, I presume?” asked Crisp in as official a voice as he could muster. Major Patterson had been a suitable role model for the pomposity, arrogance and hence the proper bearing of an officer.

 

“I am that person, Ensign, and how may I help you? One also presumes you are here on official business of the Colonel’s Regiment,” said the twentyish, beauty.

 

“Indeed. Colonel Blanchard requires you to accompany me immediately. You are to pack your things forthwith and mount the coach. We will take you to Whitehaven and your passage will be booked for France.” Crispin was all for keeping up the pretense that she was a French spy. Sadly, no one had bothered to let pretty Peggy in on the whole spy ruse, and thus she was quite puzzled by the offer. Crispin straightened up and attempted to appear as old as possible, which is quite difficult when one only has to shave every other day.

 

She leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “Is the Colonel going to join me in France? I presume this is a secret mission Ensign.” She continued in a more petulant tone. “Hasn’t Beverly had enough of that harpy wife? Couldn’t he just join me here himself?”

 

Crispin stepped forward, forcing the young woman back into the entry hall.   A maidservant peeked around a corner, trying not very hard to remain unseen. Clearly Old Barley had communicated with the staff as he said he would and ordered them to assist the Ensign and stay out of the way. Once inside, Spooner closed the door and stood with his firelock diagonally across his chest blocking the path back out.

 

“Mistress Fairchild, my Private here will escort you to your chamber and see to carrying your things once they are packed. I’m sorry we don’t have time for any more questions,” said Crispin, cutting short her query and leaving her gape-mouthed. Spooner strode forward and took her by the elbow, herding her toward the stairway at the far end of the parquet-floored entry hall. Crisp tried hard not to be overly impressed by the wealth in evidence throughout the house. He did not want to appear the country bumpkin.

 

Peg Fairchild was naive upon occasion and mostly unlettered. She had never read Cicero--most women had not--nor even some of the more popular new novels.  Yet she was no gibbering idiot either. Peggy realized quite quickly that she was not going to see her beloved and exploitable Sir Beverly Blanchard. The Private’s grip on her elbow was firm almost to the point of painful and the simple message it sent was--if you resist I’ll break your arm. Peggy briefly thought about seducing the Private and soliciting his assistance in making her escape. Was escape even necessary? Surely Beverly was only banishing her until such time as he could safely bring her back without Madame Blanchard’s knowledge. Beverly would never hurt her, of that she was sure. Old Barley had professed his love to her every time they had made physical union and here was where Peg’s naivete showed itself. She truly believed that Beverly’s profession of love was genuine and that someday he would cast off Madame Blanchard and take Peg for more than a romp. She naively dreamed of becoming Lady Margaret Blanchard.

 

Crisp handed Peg up into the carriage and climbed in behind her. Lear rode the back like a footman while Spooner rode at the coachman’s side and Lane rode rearguard on the Colonel’s horse. With three days behind them they had but five ahead to make Peggy disappear and to send the coach on to the camp of the 58^th. The coachman, young Bob Tofts, was informed that he was to say nothing of the event and was to tell Madame Blanchard that the delay was caused by a necessary repair to the coach’s front axle which had broken on the way to fetch herself and Sally Anne. The repair had taken three days and then the remainder of the trip had taken several more. In reality Bob had been given five shillings and told not to spare the horses. With the four soldiers guarding it, the coach was impervious to attack by the rapidly fading threat of highwaymen and the team was in fine shape. Bob drove them with an expert hand. Over deeply rutted roads and narrow arched bridges the coach flew, slewing sideways in the turns and sometimes even rocking up onto the outside wheels. Run into a lather and then walked out and lightly watered at stations, they made the run from Blanchard Hall to Whitehaven in a little over two days giving him a night and part of a day to rest the team before they dashed the final stretch for Hart and the Regiment. The team had suffered coming through the Cumbrian Lake District but young Bob had eased up in time and spared them from foundering.

 

Crispin’s instructions were explicit. Get rid of the infernal woman. It was not in young Crispin’s character to willingly execute innocent women. That was more the purview of Trepan, Patrick Peter Lane and the like. The lad hadn’t felt even a moment’s remorse at the death of Shep Wells. As undeserving an individual as Crispin had ever seen, this was largely because Crispin had never seen the denizens of the dark and festering world of London’s waterfront and back alleys. Crisp began to believe that he had taken deliberate aim. Ensign Mull was beginning to associate himself with that superior class of human beings---nobility, the gentry, and officers.

 

Of course Crispin’s ignorance could never have allowed him to see that poor Shep had been the sole source of income for a family with six members under the crown’s lock and key. Shep had come from a long and ancient line of thieves and hightobys. His father, three of his brothers, an uncle, and a cousin had been rounded up. The Wellses had attempted the theftdom of a brewery. While the gang had successfully broken and robbed the strong box, they had attempted to make good their escape in a rickety ale wagon laden with full casks. They absurdly reasoned that they would have ale enough for everyone for a matter of weeks and that mayhap they might even be able to sell it in the black market. Tragically the spavined beer wagon was too cumbersome and slow and the Wellses were too far gone in their cups to make good the retreat when the constabulary caught up with them. Shep alone had the good sense to remain mostly sober. As the torch and rider bearing horses had borne down on the wagon, Shep had leapt overboard into a wickedly thorny briar patch. After their capture and a brief trial, they began their long and damning sentence. Shep had visited often and became their only provider. Crispin’s act of manslaughter had ensured that the Wellses would live out their rather pitiful lives on gruel and water with one blanket each, never again seeing the light of day or toasting a cup of ale.  In Crisp’s mind Shep had signed his own death warrant the day he decided to act with Lane and rob the Black Dragoon, even though it was partly to Crispin's benefit.

 

Peggy Fairchild however was another story. The harmless and attractive lass was not the public menace that Crispin had suspected Shep was. In actuality Shep had hardly risen above a public nuisance. Peg’s nearness throughout the race to Whitehaven had been a sore reminder to Crispin of his own maleness. It seemed that at every turn Peggy would allow the coach to throw her into his arms even when they were careening in the opposite direction. Peggy had poured out her heart to Crisp, telling him a complete fiction. She explained how she was the orphaned, b*****d daughter of a member of the House of Lords and that she had been shunned by her wealthy but heartless father and was raised by a prelate from Somerset, and so on ad infinitum. Crispin of course chose to believe the pleasant fiction over Old Barley’s story of the French courtesan cum spy. In truth Crispin knew that both were lies but he preferred to accept the young lady’s story for now as long as it meant she would continue to throw herself into his waiting arms.

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