A Stormy Night - Chapter 1

The Admiral Blackamoor was the only light for miles around. The
gales blew fierce that November night and every outside lantern was
victim to the pummelling of the wind or the lashes of the rain. In such
a place, so starved of warmth and as black as tar, The Admiral
Blackamoor was the nearest to refuge that the traveller would find that
night.

As he bounced from wall to wall, lurching back and forth like a man
already drunk on The Admiral's rum, all other doors remained firmly
shuttered. He gathered his scarf closer around his face to keep out the
elements, but this was as effective as trying to place a
pocket-handkerchief over a maelstrom.

He squinted through the rain with deep eyes, like two deadly dark
whirlpools. He saw the light of the tavern about three hundred paces
ahead, and made out the swinging sign above the door. The Admiral
remained as implacable and stern as ever, perhaps preoccupied with
preparing a cat'o'nine-tails for the drunken curs inside the rum-den
that bore his name.

The traveller pushed forward in a final effort; final after a long
journey from the last coastal town to this, but no more final than the
next step, a packet bound for the Indies perhaps or some other foreign
land where his sort were ten-a-penny.

The door was made of heavy oak, with a stout black latch to either keep
the unwelcome out or the welcome in. The traveller was the former for a
few moments, as the gale beat at his head until he felt dizzy with the
pain. But suddenly the watching Admiral seemed to yield, and the door
swung open as the traveller brought the force of the gale in with
him.

The inside of The Admiral was the very opposite of the world the
traveller had just been so rudely delivered from. Outside was a black
abyss, whilst inside was a bright enclosed space; outside the traveller
was beaten by the wind and rain while inside he was immediately
smothered in a sulphurous yellow blanket of smokey warmth.

However, similarities were also clear, for this place held the most
broken and stained driftwood dredged from the depths of the sea. And
just as outside was hostile and barren of life, so the traveller
quickly realised inside was hostile and barren of any basic
goodness.

As the wind had flung him through the door, he had stumbled over the
stone steps and fell to his knees in the middle of the room. There he
lay, dripping and breathless, as if in supplication to the patriarchal
tavern-keeper.

The fellow looked around him, his deep eyes squinting again as he
adjusted to the bright lamplight. Scattered around the wooden benches
were clutches of huddled figures, bundles of brine-soaked rags scowling
through month-old whiskers.

Before his interruption, they had been in conversation or cheating at
some simple card game. But the arrival of this intruder (and his
equally unwelcome companion, the gale) disrupted this feeble harmony,
harmony only in that the inhabitants were not breaking furniture over
each other's skulls.

Twenty-two eyes (or twenty-one, at least, as one eye had been lost at
sea and replaced with a dull wooden marble) all turned on the new
curiosity, scanning him in the same way as you would if considering how
best to gut a particular fish. Several hands went to belts, revealing
an instant desire to want to fill the fresh wonder with grapeshot. Even
the tavern-keeper, supposed bastion of hospitality and welcome, began
to edge towards his knarled black cudgel.

The traveller brought himself slowly up, dragging in great lungfuls of
greasy, fumey air. He instantly regretted each one, as if the very
agent which filled his lungs with life was slowly poisoning and burning
his organs like a bitter contagion.

Without once removing his eyes from the cudgel or the tavern-keeper, he
pulled himself up to his full height, raising his hands as he did so.
The scarf fell away from the front of his face, revealing a dark,
storm-worn face, cracked like the side of a sun-parched galleon.

His gaze remained inscrutable, and the longer his purpose was unclear
the closer hands crept towards weapons. No noise was made in the
tavern, save for the staccato breaths of the traveller and the rattle
of the window-panes threatening further invasion.

"Hold there stranger! What business do you seek here?"

The tavern-keeper had broken the silence, barking out his question like
a sentry-keeper. He was now making no pretence of hospitality, though
to look at him it was unlikely that he ever had. He was an obese hulk
of a man, with a flabby head that would look more seemly seen with an
apple wedged in its mouth. His eyes looked to have been pressed into
the head like two currants, tiny and tucked away behind rolls of
fat.

This overfed man wore a greasy apron, smeared with escaped remnants of
some foul meal that he had recently indulged in. The apron was tied
around his waist with a grubby knot of rope, making him appear like a
saggy rotten sack of manure.

He now wielded his thick cudgel, tapping its studded end upon the edge
of the bar. He seemed to have been supping away the profits gradually
through the evening, as he swayed slightly and his tiny eyes had a dull
glaze about them.

"Are you deaf and dumb, intruder? I asked what business you seek
here?"

The spectators of the scene sensed an incident in the offing and turned
to watch, with those further out moving closer to get a clear view of
proceedings. They all continued to stroke their shooting pieces and
knives, and whispers began to flit around the room like shadowy bats:
"Who is he?", "What does he want?", "Old Sarley don't lose too many
challenges"

"By the Devil, you'll answer me! State your affairs here or I'll strike
your head from your shoulders!"

Still the stranger remained implacable, rooted to the spot, his hands
still raised and his eyes still watching Old Sarley and his staff of
office.

The tavern keeper's hands were trembling, gripping the club ever
tighter, his pudgy knuckles draining of colour ever quicker. The cudgel
shook, making taps on the bar counter beginning as a gentle rapping but
then rising to a fierce drilling.

"Speak stranger, while your mouth still moves without the taste of your
own blood in it"

The drilling ceased, as Old Sarley considered his next move. This was
an unfamiliar situation for him, as most people succumbed to the
barking and the tapping. However, Old Sarley already suspected this
steely stranger did not represent most people. A careful approach was
required.

"I'm lifting up the hatch now, stranger, and I'm going to be coming
closer. I may be interested in your business, and if your skull is
cracked, I shan't know it, which won't help either of us. So I'll count
to five as I come closer, giving you a very generous five chances to
speak your purpose. After five I'm afraid you'll be taking your secret
to the grave?"

The whispering bats began to fly around once more: "He'll give in now,
Old Sarley's rattlin' him up good", "He's gotta say something, or he's
a dead man", "Old Sarley's never been this far before?"

Old Sarley began the count.

"One"

He took a measured pace forward, and stopped. He sized up the stranger;
the stranger had a good foot in height advantage and probably the
better reach. Old Sarley had short, stubby arms, matted with thick hair
and scored in several areas by cutlass marks.

"Two"

Another step. Old Sarley's eyes scanned the stranger's clothing: his
thick long overcoat was shapeless and could contain any number of
weapons - a pair of flintlocks tucked in a belt, or a rapier sheathed
out of sight. His coat was buttoned up tight though, so Old Sarley had
nothing to fear there. He indulged in a black, broken smile.

"Three"

Old Sarley stepped yet closer, and noticed the pockets on the overcoat;
were they bulging with handguns or daggers, or was it just a lump from
underneath? He dropped the smile and swallowed hard.

"Four"

As he got still closer, Old Sarley's attention now focussed entirely on
the stranger's face. He was beginning to dislike this situation -
no-one ever pushed him this far, and it was getting to the point of no
return. The simple locals round here gave in at the merest threat, and
other strangers had always felt the weight of alienation against them.
Usually the locals moved in, and Old Sarley then had less to do. But
this time no-one else had moved, and just whispered in huddles. Old
Sarley stared hard at the stranger's face, examining every feature, and
trying to read their intent. But he could no more read this face than
read the pages of a London news bill.

"Five"

Still the stranger remained silent and motionless, as if he were in a
trance. Old Sarley was close enough now to look deep into those dark
eyes, and seemed dragged to their centre like a lumbering ship pulled
into a whirlpool. Perhaps here he might understand this man, read his
purpose and really see who he was, and assuage all his own worries and
fears about the ineffable events unfolding here on this stormy November
night.

But all he saw was his own face reflected back. He felt repulsed by
this and felt the gorge rise from his stomach. He wanted to smash these
tiny reflecting glasses, which revealed the ugliness of himself and his
actions. His grip tightened yet further on the cudgel and he swung it
back behind his head.

"I've come for something"

The gravel-harsh voice of the stranger broke the tension like the
smashing of a steam gasket. Old Sarley checked himself quarter swing
and tore the muscles across his shoulders like calfskin bands. He
yelped out in pain, much to the amusement of the assembled throng, who
had always secretly yearned for someone to knock down Old Sarley a peg
or dozen.

"Eh?"

Old Sarley tried to pass off his yelp as a question, quickly following
up with more questions.

"What? What are you looking for? Why here?"

Old Sarley gabbled out his words at a faster rate, relieved not to be
mopping up blood and ichor from the stone floors of his tavern.

"Get me a quart of brandy and warm water, and then shut up, you
prattling hog"

Old Sarley choked with indignation and the now warmed assembly let out
a roar of laughter. Old Sarley reached for his club again, but with
some considerable agility the stranger struck down hard at the chubby
hand - a reasonable enough target for any person. This had the double
result of sending the club skidding far across the floor and drawing
blood from Old Sarley's hand.

"Brandy, then silence. I want you to listen well, my fat friend - I
want you all to listen"

The stranger shot round a glance that seemed to pierce every man's
chest like a frozen crossbow bolt. Each man looked shocked but
motionless, as if killed stone dead by the bolt and pinned to the
seat.

Old Sarley stared once again at the stranger, in a hope to unravel a
tale that the stranger had started through his words. But again, there
was nothing there to see, but his own image. Was it trembling? No, he
reassured himself, it was the stranger's eyes that were shaking. Old
Sarley dropped his gaze and went behind his bar to prepare the
stranger's refreshment.

Suddenly there came a shuffling from one corner, a dark recess set in
the far side of the room. All eyes turned to it, but none were as quick
as the stranger's, who tried to identify any possible danger there. A
thin, slight frame emerged, a pale boy no older than fifteen or
sixteen. The stranger saw that there was no staring match to be had
here; the boy's eyes were dull and opaque, reminding the stranger of a
freshly caught gudgeon on the slab. The boy was going blind, but saw
well enough to pick up a barstool.

The boy shuffled forward, dragging the stool behind him like the
carcass of a dead animal. He reached the stranger and stopped about a
foot in front of him. The boy looked at the stranger, his eyes
struggling to create an image of the man in front of him. Then he
frowned, prompting a couple of whispers to fly up again.

"What's the lad doing?"

"He'll be broken up like a strip of sea bark!"

The boy's gaze dropped to the floor, and now he tried to focus on the
tatty rags of cloth bound around his feet. He stammered a single
sentence:

"Here?here?here's a place for you to re-re-rest, sir"

He let go of the stool, and shuffled back to his corner and the refuge
of his darkness. The stranger looked at the stool, then at the boy's
corner. He frowned maybe in confusion: was he perhaps touched by this
small act of kindness in such a dark and cheerless place? He dug deep
in his pocket, and the audience held their breath for the hundredth
time that evening. He pulled his hand out, and several weaker souls
closed their eyes; maybe the boy did, no-one could tell, and besides he
was unlikely to see anything anyway.

But no-one needed to worry, as the traveller pulled out a few coins.
Were they gold, a few wondered? They certainly glinted keenly in the
light. They obviously glinted in the eyes of Old Sarley too, however
tiny they were. For here he piped up, as if to take control of the
situation once again:

"Five shilling for yer brandy"

The stranger swung his gaze round from the boy's corner to Old Sarley
behind the bar. This startled the tavern-keeper, who juggled with the
water pitcher and just about managed to hold it on the bar top. The
stranger gave a derisive snort and shot a look to Old Sarley that could
wring out a man's heart like a sea-sponge. He then cast these few coins
towards the boy's corner. None of them seemed to hit him, as they
clattered noisily on the stone flags, until finally resting in silence
some moments later.

A rattling noise then came from across the bar; from Old Sarley's
teetering tin tray which he was carrying over, balancing a dusty green
bottle, a half-sized stone jug and a battered and dented tin tankard.
The bottle was marked 'Brandy', but for any casual observer watching
the devious look of the host, it could be supposed to contain
poison.

Old Sarley set down the tray on the corner of one of the benches, took
a few steps back, and began fretfully wiping his hands upon his greasy
apron. It was unclear whether this action was making his hands drier
and cleaner or greasier and filthier.

The stranger pulled up the stool to the bench, and took up the bottle.
He uncorked it, and sniffed. His eyes shot across to Old Sarley who
feebly tried to deflect the glance onto the stone floor, where it would
be hopefully dashed to pieces.

"Most welcome. Will you not join me in a warming draught?"

Old Sarley may have partially deflected the gaze, but had no shield for
this verbal salvo. Instead he seemed to choke upon it as it drove
itself down his throat.

"Me??On, er?not for me?I've had plenty to fill me this night?no, no,
none for me?"

The stranger smiled again, holding the bottle up to the light as if
handling a vintage claret, rather than a cheap gut-rot only drunk by
sailors because of their dulled sense of taste.

"I'm starting to be irritated by the constant need to repeat myself.
However, you are obviously a simple fool, so I will be tolerant, but
only once more. I said, will you not join me in a warming
draught?"

Old Sarley managed to block his mouth against this attack, but it
seemed to grasp his whole head and rattle it violently, as he was
seized by a violent fit of nodding. His flabby chops flew up and down
like a stuck pig scrambling under a fence. A moment or two later, Old
Sarley returned from behind the bar, rattling a tin mug of his own. The
stranger laughed at this, but not a warm laugh; it was the laugh
afforded by those watching unfortunate events, used towards a plank
walker or a hardened convict gibbering at the feet of the
gallows.

The stranger dug again in his pocket, again a collective breath was
held and Old Sarley closed his eyes, his tin cup still rattling in
front of him. The next sound was the clink, clink of coins in the
mug.

"There are your five shillings, but there was no need to come begging
for it! Have yourself a good fill of brandy to wash down your new
riches!"

With that he half-filled the cup with the bottle's contents. Old Sarley
reached for the jug of water, but the stranger held it firm.

"No no sir, enjoy the taste unadulterated!"

Old Sarley dug his fingers into his mug and scrabbled about for his
coins. He sploshed the liquid over the sides and the stranger seized
his hand.

"Certainly do not poison it with your filthy hams!"

He yanked the fingers from the mug and the coins flew out and along the
floor.

"Now, taste your wares. An honest serving man like yourself deserves
it, after all"

He pushed the cup to Old Sarley's rubber lips. Old Sarley stared for a
moment, lips pursed, but as he saw the stranger raise the other hand,
he began to sip at the liquor.

"Come come, do not act as if on ceremony. Take a good mouthful, fill
those ample pouches!"

Old Sarley took a larger mouthful, puffing out his face. He paused for
a few seconds, as if planning his next move, perhaps to spray it into
the stranger's face and assail him by surprise. He thought the better
of it, and swallowed hard, and soon the mouthful had gone.

The stranger watched him carefully for a few seconds.

"Good, that's the way. Now, let me drink to your excellent health, and
also, if I may, to the successful conclusion of my visit here"

The stranger combined brandy and warm water, then gradually took the
mixture down. He savoured each drop, as if he were recently returned
parched from a desert expedition. He had come from the wetness outside,
to be sure, but not a drop of that was drinkable. After several
draughts, the stranger smacked his lips and turned back to the
assembled throng.

"And now, gentlemen, to my business here. I have come to take back some
property of mine, valuable property. Let me tell you now how it came to
be here, and then maybe one of you will be able to tell me where it
is".