“Oh, come now!” Ralston snapped, his irritation showing. “That last bunch will scarce endure a year or two in the cane fields.” He slapped his narrow thigh impatiently with the crop. “You must have some new ones. And of course you understand that healthy women and older children are not without their worth in the Caribbean.” His thin-featured face frowned ominously. “My master will berate me heavily if I do not show him better than those for his money.”
“But—gov’na!” Mister Hicks cried and sweated more, if that were possible. “ ’Ere are simply—”
A commotion outside the room interrupted, and the heavy door from the main gaol was pushed open. A guard thrust through, tugging at a long length of chain attached to a man who was weighted with as many iron links and shackles as he could carry. Another guard walked behind, also bearing a lengthy chain attached to the prisoner who showed recent signs of abuse. A swollen eyelid and a thick, bloody lip distorted his face. The short stride of his anklets caused him to stumble, and, for his clumsiness, he received a jabbing blow to the ribs. A grunt of pain issued from the bruised mouth but little else. The two guards were about to lead the prisoner through to the outside yard when Ralston, a fine judge of flesh, put out a hand to stop them.
“Go no further!” His eyes gleamed at Hicks. “You clever swine, you. You’ve held out on me for a higher price.”
Ralston moved closer to better survey the prisoner and after a moment turned sharply to the gaoler.
“Let’s not dally, man. I need him. Get straight to the price. What are you asking?”
“But, gov’na!” Poor Hicks was almost apoplectic. “I would na sell—I mean I can’t—’E’s to the gallows on the morrow and right now bound to the common cell to join the others to be hanged.”
Slapping the long, black riding crop Ralston stared at Hicks for a long time. Finally he paused and drew himself up, folding his arms. His shadowed eyes were like a hawk’s fixed on a plump rabbit.
“Now, Hicks—”
The fat man jumped with the sound of his voice.
“I know you and some of the—ah—wonders you have worked in the past. A tidy sum for a young one like that, there is.”
The gaoler trembled and seemed about to drop to his knees. “But—I can’t. The bloke’s a murderer, condemned to ’ang, ’e is. Why, I must certify the very—and ’ere’s ’is name—” The words stuck in Hicks’s throat.
“I care naught for his name. Let him be called by a new one.”
At that, a sly look came into the gaoler’s eyes, and Ralston did not waste a moment.
“Come, man, buck up.” His voice grew wheedling. “Use your head. Who’s to know? Why, it could mean as much as”—he shrugged and almost whispered in Hicks’s ear—“why, two hundred pounds in your pocket, a tuppence for the guards here, and none the wiser.”
Hicks’s greed began to gleam in his small eyes. “Aye,” he murmured softly, half to himself. “ ’Ere’s even a body, an ol’ man what’s been here for years—forgotten—died in his cell las’ night. Why, it just might come off. Aye!”
He leered at Ralston, speaking low where none would hear. “Two ’undred pounds? For the likes o’ ’im?”
“Aye, man.” Ralston nodded. “He’s young and strong. ’Twill only be a few days before we sail, but you must keep him hidden. Will there be kin to claim him?” At Hicks’s nod Ralston continued. “Then give them the other body tomorrow in a closed coffin with the magistrate’s seal upon it so they dare not open it. I’ll pick him up with the rest of the men the day before we sail.”
Ralston marked Hicks with his penetrating stare.
“I shall expect the man to be carefully handled to let the best of our bargain stand. Do you understand?”
An energetic nod, setting the rolls around Hicks’s neck aquiver with an undulating motion, asserted the fact that he well understood.
The business finished, Ralston made his way back to the landau, half smiling as he mentally tallied: two hundred to Hicks, and Trahern would go a good fifteen hundred for a man such as that, thirteen hundred for himself. He smirked in satisfaction and drew on his gloves. He began to hum a tuneless ditty as he leaned back in the seat and enjoyed the ride back to the townhouse.
IT WAS THE TWENTY-FOURTH of November when Pitney made his way to Tyburn. He had little liking for a hanging, and he felt in dire need of something to fortify his wits. With this in mind he entered a dramshop and loudly called for a pitcher of ale to see him through. The hanging matches always drew a big crowd, and the tavern was alive with those who waited for them to begin. Choosing the only seat available, Pitney settled himself beside a small, wiry, red-haired Scotsman of an age about twoscore. The man was already well sodden with gin and gave him a lame smile. Pitney had not intended to indulge in words, but as the Scotsman was clearly sorrowed by some great tragedy, Pitney sat and mutely nodded while the other spilled out the tale of his life. Some moments later Pitney rose to his feet with a sudden oath and grabbing up his tricorn, left the establishment without further ado and charged off on his way to the gallows. The crowd was thick, and more than once Pitney came close to overturning a whole cluster of people who seemed inclined to bar his way. His elbows sent some flying, and he pushed near to where the guards were unloading the prisoners from the cart. He saw none he recognized as Ruark Beauchamp. One of the gaoler’s men passed, and Pitney grabbed the front of his coat, demanding:
“Where is the colonial, Ruark Beauchamp? Was he not to hang today?”
“Let go o’ me, ye bloody toad! Be off wit’ ye. I got business o’ me own.”
With one thick, brawny hand, he snatched the guard close until the two men stared nose to nose.
“Where is Ruark Beauchamp?” Pitney roared. “Or would ye be wantin’ yer head on backwards?”
The guard’s eyes bugged, and he loudly gulped. “ ’E’s dead, ’e is. They took him out in the van an’ ’anged him at dawn, afore the crowds gathered.”
Pitney shook the man until his teeth rattled. “Are you sure?”
“Aye!” the guard croaked. “Hicks brought him back in a box. ’E’s all sealed up fer ’is kin. Let go!”
Slowly the heavy hands loosened, and the man slithered to his feet in relief. Incensed, Pitney ground a white-knuckled fist into his beefy palm and snarled a curse. He spun on his heels and returned with the same rapid pace to the dramshop, flinging the door open with a thundering whack. His narrowed gray eyes carefully searched the room, but no sign of the Scotsman remained.
It was a long ride back to Newgate, and Pitney enjoyed it even less than he had earlier surmised. Receiving the same story of Ruark’s death from Hicks, he could do naught but accept the closed coffin with the name Ruark Beauchamp burned on its top. John Craddock helped him place the box into a horse-drawn cart, and Pitney journeyed to a small, deserted byre on the outskirts of London. There, securing the doors behind him, he began his work. He dragged a heavier, more ornate casket to the cart and placed it near the one from the prison.
It was much later when Pitney tapped with a chisel, marring the threads of the bolts so the lid of the ornate casket might not be loosened without considerable effort. Its contents were well protected against whatever eyes might pry. As Pitney worked, a strange smile flitted across his face, coming and going like the fleeting flight of a miller moth around a candle.