The Devil's Company

CHAPTER TWELVE

RIOR TO DRESSING FOR MY EVENING OUT, I WALKED FROM MY rooms to my uncle’s house on Broad Court. I had been remiss in my duties as a nephew since my involvement with events at Craven House—partly because I in no way wished to incur the ire of Cobb, and partly because I had been too busy to play the dutiful relative. Those were the reasons I told to myself, but if I am to be honest, I must admit to a further. I avoided my uncle because he seemed to me a living testament to my poor management of affairs. That his health declined could be laid upon no earthly doorstep, but that his finances declined I counted among my failings. To say I felt guilt would be to press the point, for I knew I had done nothing to lead to this end, but I nonetheless understood that I bore the responsibility—if not for his difficulties then at least for their resolution. If I had not yet devised a means of helping my uncle, that in no way diluted my desire to continue the pursuit.

When I arrived, I found that matters were far worse than I might have predicted. In the gloom of evening, a small gang of rough-looking fellows carried from out my uncle’s house a chest of drawers. Parked upon the street was a dray wagon attached to a pair of ragged horses that appeared themselves to be half dead from starvation and abuse. In the dray already were several chairs and a pair of end tables. A crowd had gathered to watch the pathetic procession, and the rough men were being followed by Mr. Franco, who barked at them to be careful and to avoid knocking the doorway in between bouts of cursing or naming the men rascals.

“What is this?” I hurried up the drive and placed a hand on Franco’s shoulder.

He must not have heard me for he spun around violently, and I believe, had the light been any poorer, he should have struck me and only later troubled himself to learn who had received the blow.

However, he did check his arm. Indeed, at the sight of me, his whole body appeared to grow limp. He shook his head and cast his eyes downward. “Creditors, Mr. Weaver. They’ve scented blood. I fear it may not be long before they descend upon your uncle like ravens. And they could not have come at a worse time, for your uncle—well, he does poorly.”

I turned at once to enter the house, paying no mind to a fellow attempting to balance a chair truly too large for a single man. I knocked him quite soundly but took no pleasure in his broad efforts to keep from tumbling.

Inside, the front rooms were well lit, no doubt to aid the creditor’s men. I rushed to the main stairs and up to the second floor, where my uncle kept his room. The door was only slightly opened, so I knocked and heard my aunt Sophia call for me to enter.

My uncle did indeed lie abed, but had this not been his house I should hardly have known him. He appeared to have aged a decade or more since I saw him last. His beard had taken on a new and deeper gray, and the hair on his uncovered head had grown far thinner and more dry. His eyes, open, were deep and reddened and heavily bagged, and I observed that each breath was a struggle for him.

“Have you sent for the physician?” I asked.

My aunt, who sat on the bed holding his hand, nodded. “He has come,” she said, in her heavily accented English.

She said no more, so I knew there was nothing more to say. Perhaps he despaired for my uncle; perhaps he did not know. When she showed no optimism for recovery, I could only presume there was none.

I came to the bed and sat upon the other side. “How fare you, sir?”

My uncle attempted a weak smile. “I do not do well,” he said. A rattling sound emerged from his chest, and his voice was heavy and labored. “However, I have walked this path before and, though dark and circuitous, I have ever found my way back.”

I looked to my aunt, who offered me a half nod, as if to say that he had suffered these attacks previously, but perhaps not so bad as this.

“I am full of remorse that this has happened,” I said, keeping my words vague. I hardly knew if he was aware of the outrage that transpired below.

“As to that,” my uncle managed, “it is of no moment. Minor setbacks. Soon all will be well once more.”

“I know it will,” I told my uncle.

I looked to the door and saw Mr. Franco hovering, as though he had something of urgency to discuss. I excused myself and stepped outside.

“The men are done,” he told me. “They’ve taken several pieces, but I fear that is the least of it. If word spreads, the creditors will show no mercy. Your uncle, sir, will lose his house. He will be forced to sell his importing concern, and in its current diminished state, he must sell it very cheap indeed.”

I felt my face grow hot. “Damn them.”

“I am certain you do what you can,” he said. “Your uncle and aunt know it too.”

“I am meant to attend this cursed dinner tonight, but how can I go with my uncle so unwell?”

“If you must go, then you must,” Franco said. “With whom do you dine?”

“Ellershaw and some other men of the Company. I hardly know any more than that. I must send a note excusing myself. Cobb cannot expect me to be his plaything while my uncle lies so gravely ill.”

“Do not excuse yourself,” Franco said. “If by attending this dinner you bring yourself any closer to your goal, I am certain your uncle would far prefer you do that than spend the evening looking sad by his side. No, you must find the strength to attend to your duties. Your aunt and I will make certain your uncle has all he needs.”

“What did his physician say?”

“Only that he may recover, as he has in the past, or he may decline. This attack, he fears, may be worse than what we have seen before, but he cannot say what that means.”

We whispered together for a few more minutes, while I attempted to inform him of some of what had transpired in recent days at Craven House. I kept the discussion brief, in part because I wanted to return to my uncle, but also because I had not entirely recovered from the revelation that my most private conversations appeared to be available to Cobb. I only said that I had, at Cobb’s request, become employed by the East India Company, where I looked into any of a variety of internal turmoils. But, I said, as Mr. Cobb’s agenda remained opaque, I could hardly say if I grew closer to my end or not.

During this conversation, my aunt emerged from the bedroom with a look of some relief upon her face. “He is better,” she told me.

I entered and saw that, in the space of half an hour, he did appear remarkably changed. Though he still breathed with some difficulty, his face now had more color. He sat up, and his countenance was one of a normal man, not one about to leave this mortal realm.

“I am gladdened to see you so much improved,” I told him.

“As am I to be so,” he answered. “I am told you witnessed the unpleasantness below.”

“Yes,” I said. “Uncle, I cannot endure that this continues, yet I hardly know how to offer you relief other than by giving my full efforts to Cobb.”

“You must for all the world make him believe you do, but you must never cease looking for advantage.”

“I fear what happened today is but the beginning,” I said. “Can we afford to play games with this man?”

“Can we afford to let him turn you into his puppet?” he asked.

“Both of us,” my aunt said. “Both of us want you to fight him.”

“But so that he suspects nothing,” my uncle added.

I nodded. Heartened by his spirit, I told him I would do no less, and so I was determined, but I could not help but wonder how we would feel when my uncle was turned to a destitute man, homeless, broken, and without health. He was no fool and knew what bargain he made. I, however, was not certain I could endure it.

I SPENT WHAT TIME I could with my family, but at last I made to excuse myself, to return to my rooms, and change for the evening. Once I looked presentable, I hired a chair to take me across town and arrived with a satisfying promptness.

I could pretend to no surprise that Mr. Ellershaw’s house on New North Street, not far from the Conduit Fields, was a fine one—a director of the East India Company ought to have a fine house, after all—but I could not recall that I had ever been invited in the capacity of a guest to a finer, and I admit I felt an unexpected apprehension. I had no Indian calicoes to wear, so I put on my finest suit of black and gold silk, woven, I could not but reflect, in the cramped garrets of Spitalfields or the dark hall of a workhouse. And though I knew I wore upon my back the labor of the cheated and the oppressed, I could not but reflect that I cut a fine figure in these fine clothes. We are all of us Adam’s children, the saying goes, but silk makes the difference.

A polite if somewhat grave servant met me at the door and guided me inside and to a receiving room, where I was met shortly by Mr. Ellershaw, resplendent in his full-bottom wig and dressed in the height of imported finery. His waistcoat had quite obviously, even to my ignorant eyes, been woven in India, and was magnificent in its red and blue and black floral designs of indescribable intricacy.

“Ah, this is a very important evening, Mr. Weaver. Of the utmost importance, you know. Mr. Samuel Thurmond is here tonight, a Member of Parliament for Cotswold. He has been one of the great champions of the wool interest, and it is our role to convince him to back our proposal in the House.”

“The repealing of the 1721 legislation?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

“And how shall we do that?”

“You need not worry on that score for the moment. You need only follow my lead, and all shall be well. Now, as you are the last guest to arrive, you must follow me to the sitting room. I trust you will do nothing to embarrass me before my guests?”

“I will attempt to acquit myself to your liking,” I assured him.

“Ah, good. Good.”

Mr. Ellershaw led me through a maze of closely wrought corridors and into an expansive parlor where a number of guests were sitting upon sofas and chairs, sipping at glasses of wine. The only person in the room I knew was Mr. Forester, who did remarkably well at paying me no mind.

I was quickly introduced to Mrs. Ellershaw, a beautiful woman at least twenty years younger than her husband, though no doubt at least in her middle thirties. “This is my new man, Weaver,” Ellershaw said. “He’s a Hebrew, you know.”

Mrs. Ellershaw had hair so pale it was nearly white, her skin was the color of porcelain, and her pale gray eyes were remarkably bright and lively. She took my hand and curtsied and told me she was delighted to meet me, but I could see that she was not. It took no great interpretive skills to see she was displeased by my presence.

Ellershaw appeared to have no recollection of having introduced me to Forester, and Forester showed no sign that he had previously met me. He too introduced his wife, but if Mr. Ellershaw held a winning ticket in the matrimonial lottery, Mr. Forester had drawn a blank. Though he was still a young man, and of a fine and manly appearance too, his wife was a great deal older than he was. Indeed, to call her elderly would not exaggerate matters. Her skin was leathery and hard, her muddy brown eyes sunken, her teeth yellowed and broken. And yet, unlike Mrs. Ellershaw, Mrs. Forester was of a jolly disposition. She told me she was glad to meet me and appeared to mean it.

I was then introduced to Mr. Thurmond and his good lady. The Member of Parliament himself was far older than Ellershaw, perhaps even a septuagenarian, and his movements were frail and uneasy. He walked heavily on his cane and shook slightly when he took my hand, but he appeared in no way lacking in his capacities. He made easy and intelligent conversation, and of all the men in the room it was he to whom I took the greatest liking. His wife, a handsome older woman dressed entirely in woolens, smiled kindly but said little.

Because the British dinner party cannot function without equity of the sexes, a fourth woman had to be presented to balance out my presence. To this end, Mr. Ellershaw had invited his sister, another older woman, who made it clear that she had been forced to abandon tickets to the opera in order to dine with us and was not at all happy about it.

I shan’t bombard my reader with the tedium of the dinner itself. It was hard enough for me to endure, and I therefore have no desire either to relive the event or force my reader into a sympathetic misery. Much of the talk, as is the usual for talk at these sorts of events, revolved around the theater or the popular amusements about town. I thought to participate in these exchanges, but I observed that every time I opened my mouth, Mrs. Ellershaw eyed me with such evident disgust that I found it more agreeable to remain mute.

“You may eat freely,” Ellershaw told me loudly, after he had helped himself to innumerable glasses of wine. “I have asked Cook not to present any pork. Weaver’s a Jew, you know,” he told the rest of the group.

“I daresay we do know,” answered Mr. Thurmond of the wool interest, “as you have noted that point several times. And while our Hebrew friends are certainly in the minority on this island, I hardly think them so rare that they must be remarked on in such a way.”

“Oh, but it is a remarkable thing for us. My wife does not think it proper to have Jews at the dinner table. Is that not right, my dear?”

I attempted to say something distracting, something that would change the subject away from this awkward business. Mr. Thurmond, however, decided that it was he who would rescue me. “Tell me,” he said, too loudly, so that his voice would crush the discomfort of Ellershaw’s comments, “Where is that charming daughter of yours, Mr. Ellershaw?”

Mrs. Ellershaw took on a high color, and Mr. Ellershaw coughed awkwardly into his fist. “Well, yes. As for that, she isn’t my daughter. Bridget came with my marriage to Mrs. Ellershaw. A rather fair bargain, I think. But the girl’s not about these days.”

There was clearly more information regarding the daughter, and none was forthcoming. Thurmond could not have appeared more mortified to have stumbled upon so delicate a topic. He had attempted to distract from an awkward moment but had only succeeded in making the moment worse. His wife, fortunately, launched into an encomium of the pheasant on our plates, and in the end that did the business well enough.

After the meal had been completed and the ladies retired to the next room, the true business of the evening was at hand. Now that we were men only, the conversation turned at once to the East India trade and the legislation against it.

“I must ask of you, Mr. Thurmond,” Ellershaw began, “that when Mr. Summers, a true patriot, introduces an act to repeal the 1721 legislation, as I believe he will do in the near future, you might consider lending your support to the effort.”

Thurmond let out a laugh. His old eyes sparkled. “Why, that piece of legislation was an enormous victory. Why should I ever countenance its repeal?”

“Because it is the right thing to do, sir.”

“Freedom of trade,” chimed in Mr. Forester.

“That’s just it,” Ellershaw said. “Freedom of trade is the thing. Perhaps you have read the numerous works penned by Mr. Davenant and Mr. Child on the theory of free trade and how it benefits all nations.”

“Both Davenant and Child were directly interested in the East India trade,” Thurmond pointed out, “and can hardly be considered impartial advocates.”

“Oh, come. Let’s not be petty. You shall see for yourself if this wretched legislation is allowed to stand. The trade in calicoes here may cost some small number their employment, but its absence will diminish the available livelihoods as well. I believe that the East India trade offers far more opportunity than it takes away. What of the dyers and patternmakers and tailors who will be out of work?”

“That is not the case, sir. These people will earn their living through dyeing and making patterns for and constructing suits made of silks and cottons and the like.”

“It is hardly the same thing,” Ellershaw said. “There can never be the same enthusiasm for those clothes. It is not necessity that drives the market, sir, but fashion. It has ever been our way at the Company to introduce new fashions every season. We bring in new patterns or cuts or colors, and we put them upon the backs of the fashionable, and we watch while the rest of the nation lines up to get the newest thing. Our stock, not the desire of the people, must drive commerce.”

“I assure you, fashions can and do exist in materials other than imported Indian textiles,” Thurmond said, with great satisfaction, “and I believe the very notion of fashion will survive your ability to manipulate it. Allow me to show you something I brought along, suspecting as I did that the conversation might take such a turn as this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a square of cloth about a foot in diameter. It was of a bluish base with yellow and red floral patterns upon it—remarkably handsome.

Forester took it from the old gentleman and looked it over, holding it in his hand. “An Indian calico. What of it?”

“It is no such thing!” Ellershaw barked. He snatched it out of Forester’s hands and held it for less than two seconds before his face twisted into a grimace. “Ha, you clever dog! Indian calico, you say, Mr. Forester? This is spun of American cotton, I’ll wager, by the coarseness of it, and printed here in London. I know every Indian print there ever was, and this is a London pattern if I’ve ever seen one. Mr. Forester is new to the India trade, for only an innocent could make such a silly mistake. Indian calico, indeed! What is your point, sir?” He returned the fabric to Thurmond.

The older gentleman appeared at least partially gratified. “Mr. Forester’s mistake is an understandable one, for the cloth is very like an Indian one.”

“That cotton is crude enough to rub the crust off a chimney sweep,” Ellershaw called out. “Forester is an ignorant pup, I say. He knows nothing of textiles, just business. No harm meant, Forester. I have the greatest respect, and so on and so forth, but even the most remarkable intellect may be a dunce when it comes to textiles.”

Forester had by now turned bright red with mortification, but he said nothing.

“As Mr. Forester has observed,” Thurmond said, “American cotton can be spun with increasing skill to resemble Indian imports. This example may not deceive an aficionado such as yourself, but it may well fool the average lady in search of a gown. Even if it should not, new inventions are made all the time, and soon enough it will be impossible to tell the Indian from the American. Our native linens are being made with lighter threads, more like Indian fabrics, and wool and linen can be combined with great skill. Mr. Forester’s mistake is an easy one to understand. The days of Indian imports are near over anyhow.”

“I defy your argument. Mr. Forester may not be able to tell American cotton from his own shite, but there’s not a lady of fashion or a clothes-loving beau on the island that would have been so fooled.”

“As I say, perhaps not yet but soon.”

“And what is to motivate these inventions?” Ellershaw demanded. “If people cannot have their India cloth, then the textile workers have no reason to improve their goods, for they own the market. It is the competition, you know, that will drive them.”

“But they can’t compete with these Indian workers, men and women who live as slaves, earning pennies per day at most. Even if we could produce textiles here in every way indistinguishable from the Indian, they would cost far more because we must pay our laborers more.”

“The laborers must learn to do with less,” Forester suggested.

“Fie, Mr. Forester, fie. Men must eat and sleep and dress themselves. We cannot ask them to make do with less because the Moguls of the Indies can demand that of their people. It is for that reason that we need the legislation. Is it not the government’s role to step in and solve such problems?”

“It ought not to be,” Ellershaw said. “I have spent my life in the trade, and if there is anything I have learned it is that government is not the solution to our problems. Rather, sir, government is the problem. A freely trading society in which the man of business is not taxed or burdened or hindered is the only truly free society imaginable.”

“What freedom is this?” Thurmond demanded. “Sir, I know of your freedoms. I know that the East India Company controls more than one workhouse, and you conspire to have silk weavers arrested and put to work there, spinning without wages. And you, through your influence, have encouraged the growth of silk laborer colonies outside the metropolis, where wages are lower.”

“What of it?” Ellershaw demanded.

“Do you think the world blind to your schemes? Why, I have even heard that there are agents of the Company among the silk workers. The men poor laborers often trust to look out for their advantage look out instead for the advantage of their oppressors. You contrive to lower the wages of silk workers so that silk working is no longer viable. You plan for the future, I see, to make silk so hard to come by at home that people will clamor once more for Indian imports.”

I thought of Devout Hale’s man, taken by the constable and thrown in the workhouse. Now it appeared he had been caught in a trap set by the East India Company with the goal of crushing the competition. And what chance did Hale and his men have? They were but people who had to live and eat and support their families. The Company had stood for a hundred years and would surely be standing a hundred years hence. It seemed to me that mortals did battle with gods.

Thurmond—who had, perhaps, made too free with his wine-continued to berate Ellershaw. “You do what you like, you harm whom you like, and yet you call yourselves the Honorable Company? Better to call yourselves the Devil’s Company, if you are to put a true face on it. You imprison and break spirits and seek to contain all trade for yourself, and yet you speak of freedom. What freedom is this?”

“The only freedom imaginable, sir. A republic of commerce that spans the globe, in which we may buy and sell without regard to tariffs or duties. That is the natural evolution of things, and I shall fight to bring it about.”

Thurmond gurgled doubtfully into his goblet. “A world controlled by those who care only for acquisition and profit must be a world of terrors indeed. Companies concern themselves only with how much money they can make. Governments at least look after the well-being of all—the poor, the unfortunate, and even the laborers, whose work must be cultivated, not exploited.”

“You are a mighty fine man to speak of the laborers,” Forester chimed in. “You own, sir, a vast estate in which the raising of sheep is your principal source of revenue. Is it not for your own benefit, your own investment in the wool trade, rather than the good of the laborers, that you seek to curtail the business of importation?”

“It is true that I earn my income from wool, but I do not see why I should be condemned for doing so. My lands bring in wealth, yes, but they also bring employment and substance to those who live on my lands, those who work the wool we produce, those who sell the products. There is a great chain of benefit that rises from natively produced goods. Imports, while they may benefit the few and indulge the tastes of the fashionable, do not contribute to the greater good.”

“The wealth of the nation is the greater good, sir, the only greater good. And when the merchants and industrious men of the nation are wealthy, then those blessings will disseminate to all who live in the land. That is but truth, sir, and a simple one at that.”

“I fear we will go round and round for an age and yet never convince our friend. Far better we understand that he has his position as we have ours,” Forester proposed, “and we must live with one another accordingly.”

“Yes, yes, very diplomatic, Mr. Forester, but diplomacy will get us nowhere, and it is, in my opinion, a sign of weakness. Still, I know your efforts are well intended. Spirit of friendship and all that.”

“Indeed, and now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I am afraid I must depart rather early tonight.” Forester rose from his chair.

“Somewhere more important to be, sir?” Ellershaw demanded, his voice not as unkind as his words. Still, there was no mistaking that he spoke with all the malice of a crouching predator.

“No, no, nothing of the kind. My wife mentioned to me that she was feeling unwell earlier, and I perceived she wished to depart early.”

“Feeling unwell? Are you speaking against the food I’ve served?”

“Not at all. We have been delighted by your hospitality, but she has suffered from a bit of a chest cold of late, and I believe it may be returning.”

“Hardly surprising, woman of her age. Marry younger, not older. That would have been my advice to you, Forester; had you asked, it could have done you some good. Yes, yes, I know your father made you marry that crone for her money, but you might have made a greater impression upon him had you refused to listen to his foul advice.”

Seeing that Forester was too stunned to speak, Thurmond volunteered himself to throw some water on the fire of Ellershaw’s discourse. “I see not what difference age makes to that happy estate, so long as it is a compatible match.”

Forester said nothing, but the expression on his face evidenced that the match was by no means compatible.

Ellershaw chose to ignore this intervention. “Sit, Forester. There is still much to discuss.”

“I should prefer not to,” he said.

“And I tell you to sit.” He turned to Thurmond. “The boy thinks to take my place at Craven House, you know. He must learn when it becomes a man to stay and when it becomes him to leave.”

Thurmond could not much like the growing thickness of the air. He rose himself. “I believe I shall take leave as well.”

“What is this, a mutiny? All hands on deck!” his host cried.

“It is late, and I am an old man,” Thurmond said. “We shall leave you to your quiet.”

“I require no quiet. Both of you sit that I may further entertain you.”

“You are too kind. Nevertheless,” Thurmond answered with a forced smile, most certainly having enjoyed more than his fill of Ellershaw’s company, “I have had a long day, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps I have been unclear,” Ellershaw said. “I must insist you not leave. We have not yet concluded our business.”

Thurmond, who now stood by his chair, turned to study his host. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may not leave. Do you think I invite a pugilist Jew to dine with us because of his charming conversation and great learning? Don’t be a blockhead. Weaver, be so good as to see that Mr. Thurmond returns to his chair.”

“I must protest, Mr. Ellershaw,” Forester said, “but I cannot think this is right.”

Ellershaw slammed his hand upon the table. “No one,” he roared, “asked what you think!” And then, as though a candle had been snuffed, his rage was gone; he went on with much gentleness. “There is much for you to learn, and I would fain teach it to you. Thurmond, I promise you, goes nowhere, and I think you should sit.”

Forester obeyed.

Ellershaw turned to me. “Weaver, see that Mr. Thurmond puts his arse in his chair.”

I saw that once again Mr. Ellershaw expected me to be his ruffian, and once again I wished no part of it. Nevertheless, I also understood that this was not like the incident in the warehouse. Refusing to follow his commands would not be met with a nod and a wink. No, this time I would have to buy time and see just how far this brute intended to push matters. Certainly, I told myself, he must understand that a man unwilling to beat a warehouse guardian will not be pushed to strike an elderly Parliamentarian. That was my hope.

Unable to find a better course, I rose to my feet and stood between Mr. Thurmond and the door. I folded my arms and attempted to look stoically strong.

“What is this, sir?” Thurmond demanded with a stammer. “You cannot keep me against my will.”

“I’m afraid I can, sir. What might you do to stop me?”

“I can go to the magistrate, and you may be assured that I will do so if you do not let me depart this instant.”

“The magistrate.” Ellershaw let out a laugh. “Forester, he speaks of magistrates. That is a good joke. Indeed, you must first be permitted to leave for you to speak to the magistrate. But presuming I were to let you leave—say you were to make it out of my house without suffering from an apoplexy or fatal seizure, which no one would question in a man of your years—who would believe such a preposterous tale? And to whom do you think the magistrate owes greater fealty, sir? The East India Company, which rewards magistrates for sending silk weavers to workhouses, or you? Magistrate indeed.”

Ellershaw rose to his feet and approached his guest, who had grown pale and trembling. His eyes darted back and forth and his lips moved as though mumbling a prayer, though I did not think he actually formed any words.

“I’ve asked you to sit,” Ellershaw said, and he gave the old man a mighty push in his chest.

“Sir!” Forester barked.

Thurmond fell backward into his chair, knocking his head against the wooden back. I changed my position to get a better look at his face, and I observed that his eyes had gone red and moist and his lips continued to tremble. Then, mastering his emotions, he turned to Forester. “Do not trouble yourself. We shall be done with this indignity soon enough.”

Ellershaw returned to his seat and met Thurmond’s eye. “Let me speak plainly to you. This session of Parliament will see a repeal of the 1721 legislation. You will support the repeal. If you speak in favor of rescinding the act, if you become a spokesman for the freedom of trade, we will carry the day.”

“And if I choose otherwise?” Thurmond managed.

“There is a man in your county, sir, a Mr. Nathan Tanner. Perhaps you know his name. I am assured he will win the election if something should happen to you, sir, and I can promise you that he will, despite all appearances, take the Company’s side in things. We would much rather have you speak for us, I won’t deny it, but we will take Tanner if we must.”

“But I cannot,” he said, spittle flying from his mouth as he blurted out the words. “I have built my life, my career, on protecting the wool interest. I shall be ruined, made a mockery.”

“No one will believe such a shift in positions,” Forester offered.

Ellershaw ignored the younger man. “You need not worry, Thurmond, about ruin or about what people believe. If you serve the Company, the Company will most assuredly serve you. Should your inclination be to remain in Parliament, we will find a place for you. If you have had a sufficient taste of public service—and, after all your years, certainly no one could find fault in that sentiment—we will find a very lucrative place for you in the Company—perhaps, if your enthusiasm be warm enough, even for your son as well. Yes, young Mr. Thurmond, I am told, is having a rather difficult time finding a place in life. A bit too fond of the bottle, they say. Surely he would like to inherit his father’s sinecure with the East India Company some day. I cannot but think that would put a father’s mind at ease.”

“I cannot believe I am hearing this,” Thurmond said. “I cannot believe that you would stoop to force and threats of violence.”

“I admire your zeal, sir,” Forester tried, “but surely this is too much.”

“Shut your mouth, Forester,” Ellershaw said, “or you shall find yourself in that most uncomfortable chair next. Weaver shall not have a tenth of the disgust for using you as I may ask him to use Thurmond.”

I was grateful that none looked upon me and no answer was asked of me.

“Believe what you wish,” Ellershaw went on. “It is laid out before you, is it not? And you must understand there is a profound moral difference between the use of force for liberation and the use of force for conquest. I use force against you now to help to free the British merchant, lest he remain a slave forever to the tyranny of petty regulation.”

“You must be quite mad,” Thurmond managed.

Ellershaw shook his head. “Not mad, I promise you. I have honed my skills under the sun of the Indies, that is all. I learned much from the leaders of the East, and I know that decisive victory is achieved in different ways in different cases. I am not content, sir, to attempt to influence you and then hope for the best. I have made my case. You understand my intent and my willingness to do what is necessary. Now you must begin to work. You surely know that the Company has many ears in Parliament. If I do not hear, and hear soon, that you are beginning to discuss a repeal of the act in a favorable light, you will receive a visit from Mr. Weaver, who shall show none of the restraint he exercises here tonight.”

Thurmond shook his head. “I will not brook such threats.”

“You have no choice.” Ellershaw rose from his chair and walked over to the fire, from which he removed a poker, now glowing red and hot. “Are you familiar with the particulars in which King Edward the Second met his end?”

Thurmond stared and said nothing.

“A burning poker was inserted into his intestines by means of his anus. Of course you know; the world knows. But do you know why it was done thus? The world generally believes it was seen as fitting punishment for his sodomitical inclination, so conceived by the wits of his day, and I do not doubt that his assassins appreciated the irony of so fatal a buggery. But the truth, sir, is that he was killed thus because it left no marks upon his body. If the poker is small enough and carefully inserted, there will be no signs upon the man to indicate how he died. Now, you and I know that the death of a king must be fully inquired into, but the death of a decrepit wretch like yourself—why, who should think twice on the matter?”

Forester now rose. “Sir, I can endure no more of this.”

Ellershaw shrugged. “Leave if you like.”

Forester looked at Thurmond and then at Ellershaw. He made no effort to look upon me. Eyes down, in the perfect manner of a coward, he accepted Ellershaw’s invitation and went out of the room.

Ellershaw returned the poker to the fire and walked back to the table. He poured a glass of wine for Mr. Thurmond and then one for himself. Taking his seat, he raised the glass. “To our new partnership, sir.”

Thurmond did not move.

“Drink the toast,” Ellershaw said. “It would be the prudent thing to do.”

Perhaps it was this gesture of kindness, no matter how grotesque, but something seemed to have shifted. Thurmond reached out for his glass and, refraining from raising it in a toast, he pressed it to his lips and drank greedily.

I must admit I felt some grave disappointment in his cowardice. Yes, he was an old man and scared, but how I wished he had summoned the courage to defy Mr. Ellershaw, to bring the matter to a head. I would refuse to harm the fellow, and perhaps that would have broken the ties between me and this brute.

“Now,” Ellershaw said, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, “I believe our business is done here. You mentioned something of wanting to depart. You may now do so.”

Recognizing a cue when I heard one, I returned to my seat and, somehow managing to keep my arm steady, drank greedily from my own glass.

Thurmond pushed himself to his feet, and was surprisingly steady. I expected a man of his age, so shocked as he must have been, to tremble prodigiously, but he appeared only mildly confused. He placed a hand upon the doorknob, looked back at Ellershaw, who waved him away with a flick of the wrist, and then he was gone.

I turned to Ellershaw, hoping for—I hardly know what—some sort of shame, I suppose. Instead I received a smile. “That went rather well, I think.”

I said nothing. I attempted to have a look of no particular meaning upon my face.

“You judge my actions, do you, Weaver? A man of action like you? A hero of the pitched battle?”

“I do not know that the threats you have employed are in your own best interests,” I managed.

“Not my best interests?” he answered with a sneer. “You are my club to wield, sir, not my master that I must answer to you. The Court of Proprietors meeting is upon me soon enough, and my enemies will attempt to destroy me. They have something planned. I know they do, and if I don’t affect some change in the nature of things, I shall be quite ruined at Craven House. What is that against the rectum of an old man?”

Here was a question I felt best to consider of a rhetorical nature.

He nodded his head a single time, acknowledging my silence as accord. “Now off with you. I presume you can discover your own way out. And do take the back way, Weaver. I suspect my guests have had quite enough of you for one night.”