Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part Three: 1826-1831

The Men of Enterprise

Chapter Three

Mace Tandy opened his door with one hand, while shrugging the other into the sleeve of a greatcoat; and he yelled with joyous relief at the sight of the visitor on the dark landing.

"Tom! Mrs. Gribble said you'd been half killed, the blood-thirsty old crone! I'll tell her to her face -"

"Do you fancy letting me in?"

"What? Hell, yes - come and sit down, mate. I've just got home myself, only stayed for a bite. I was off out again to look for you. Is that arm broken?"

"No, I damaged my shoulder a bit."

"Mrs. Gribble....I'll gag her with her best blue garters."

Mrs. Gribble was the wife of the baker. Mace's landlord. She was plump and rosy and by no means a crone. For five years, in between his other pursuits and conquests, Mace had wooed her with unlikely compliments and astonishing insults, all of which made her laugh. If he knew the colour of her garters, he had been studying the washing line.

Tom walked slowly to sit on the nearest chair. Mace's two rooms with their shabby furniture, cluttered surfaces and pervading smell of new bread still felt more like home that Tom's Southampton lodgings.

"Orange walls?" he asked doubtfully, looking around.

"Subtle amber. Whitewash carrot juice and rose-hip syrup."

"Breeding fruit-flies, then, are you?"

"Life is colour, mate. Colour is life." Mace threw his greatcoat on the table, narrowly missing a chunk of cheese. The lamplight quivered. A wooden vase rocked perilously, and dead rose petals wafted to the floor. "Black for mourning," he added. "White for shrouds."

"Also sails. Also the name of your employer."

"The best exceptions make the world go round."

"Only in a perfect world."

Mace laughed, and retrieved a bottle of geneva from beside the couch. "God, it's good to see you! Talking of perfect worlds, what about this morning? The big cutters, the first ever Gold Cup. White gave us an hour off. Power to the innovators, eh? Glory to the brave!"

"For ever and ever, amen," Tom shifted to ease his back, and got a vicious reaction from his injured shoulder.

"Ouch," said Mace. "Stay the night."

"I was going to ask. Medina sailed without me."

"Must have seen you coming. The ghost of Hamlet's father."

"Tandy the diplomat."

"So what's the story from the horse's mouth?"

Tom gave him a brief and wearily flippant version of the incident. Mace's imagination seemed to be filling in the details. He winced and poured Tom a full glass of geneva, saying with tolerance, "Those half-witted brats, I'll skin them alive. What's Falcon like, below decks? Sumptuous, I'll bet."

Tom said neutrally. "Why didn't you tell me they were mine?"

Mace froze, then groaned and ran a distracted hand through his hair. "Damn it, Jess made me promise. I never felt so bad about anything. How did you find out? Not from the twins?"

Tom was not unwilling to confide in Mace. The young man listened in frowning stillness, sitting backwards on a chair to face Tom across the table, with arms folded on the chair-back and chin resting on his knuckles.

At last he said, "Jess would have sent the twins away to school, if she didn't know how miserable they'd be, cooped up inland. And if she didn't need Wickham's money do do it. Still, she's been considering farming them out to a childless couple. She must think they'd be better off with their father, now they know who he is."

"Then why didn't she tell me months ago - years ago? None of it makes sense. How can she go on loving that bastard Wickham?"

"You bloody fool," said Mace. Then, seeing Tom about to respond angrily, he leapt up with a muttered, "Hellfire!" and pushed the chair noisily under the table. "Time to break a promise. You're right - one imperfect world, one imperfect brother, Jess expects too damned much."

"What promise?"

Mace studied the ceiling, heels slightly off the floor, lanky frame stretched upward, hands clasped behind his head. After a couple of seconds he relaxed with a sigh, the decision made. He pulled out the chair and slumped on to it, reaching for his glass.

"I do know," he said, "what happened between you and Jess at West Mills, - just the outcome, not the details, so don't turn volcanic. She was angry, bitter, let down. I, er.....thought she was a bit hard on you, to be honest."

"None of your business, of course."

Mace grimaced. "Tandys sick together. You used to be like one of us - more than Obadiah. You should be glad Jess had someone to turn to, and trust. I'm on your side as much as hers. What bloody more do you want?"

A feather bed, Tom thought, would be nice. It had been a long day. He could feel his temper fraying like an old rope sawing on the edge of a pier, even though he knew Mace was in the right.

He took a gulp of geneva. "Sorry, mate. No excuses."

"Pax, then. Jess went to Wickham, but she didn't love him then, and she doesn't now. She forgave you bloody years ago."

"She didn't pull any punches this morning."

"Hellfire - can't you see it yet? Last time you fell foul of a man with influence, it cost you your wife, your career, your home, and the friendship of your best mate. When you sailed for Guernsey in '22, Jessie sobbed her heart out in this room, thinking you needed her and she couldn't go to you. She's marry you tomorrow, you blind idiot, but Wickham would wait his chance and grind you into the dirt. He's virtually spelt it out to her, more than once."

Tom felt physically winded. Jessie still loved him, would be his wife tomorrow, if only....

"Mace," he said, his voice hoarse, "has Wickham ever threatened Jessie's life? Would she be in danger if she came back to me?"

"No. Not from the way Jess talks about him. He'd crack the opposition, namely you, and win her back with threats if all else failed." He regarded Tom with searching intensity. "She won't marry you. No matter what you say to her."

"What do you take me for?" Tom said softly; and even to his own ears his voice sounded dangerous. "You and Jess - do you think I'll let the woman I love sacrifice herself on Wickham's sodding altar? Just so that I can live in some fools' bloody paradise, with nothing to fear? My God, you must think I'm a craven bloody milksop if you've found it necessary to wrap me in cotton-wool ignorance for four years. I want a single-masted gig, Mace Tandy, about thirty feet overall length, and I want it in Cowes Roads tomorrow night by eleven o'clock."

Mace's initial gaping disbelief had been replaced by the beginnings of comprehension. An unholy light kindled in his dark eyes. He said with awe, "Consider it done."

"Jess and Wickham are invited to the Club dinner tomorrow evening, across the river in East Cowes. There'll be a firework display on this side of the river, on the Parade. I want the twins to see it with their Uncle Mace. Can you organise that?"

"Nothing easier. What happens then?"

Tom enlightened him, working it out as he went along.

"Long bloody odds," said Mace finally.

"Yes."

"You could be thrashed to a pulp....or worse."

"So could you, if we stand together."

"The difference being," said Mace, "that you're half pulped already."

"Bring on the violins."

Mace grinned wolfishly, and raised his glass. "Polish your hoots and settle your debts. Here's to a fair wind for Southampton.

Tom said nothing that night about the forthcoming interview with Lord Yarborough, nor about the proposed partnership. He did not feel equal to a lengthy and excitable discussion.

The spare bed was a lot less comfortable than he remembered. He had ample time to finalise plans for abductions and boatyards.

In the morning he brought Mace up-to-date on the latter, while trying to dredge up the energy to get out of bed. Mace, tousleheaded and unshaven, his shirt untucked, stood with a shoe in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other, stunned into rare immobility.

"You'd really do that?" he asked. "Invest your money in me?"

"Equal partners, equal contribution. Difference currency, that's all."

"What if I can't come up with the goods?"

"For Christ's sake, Mace, you've been aiming for a chance like this since you were old enough to lift a pencil. You've spent the last five years convincing us all that you're a genius."

Mace disconsolately dropped the shoe and rammed his foot into it. "Quite a cauldron brew, wasn't it? Hot air and hope, with a pinch of dedication. Hubble bubble. Serve to all comers. Induces faith in your friends, and indigestion in your enemies. The wizard had symptoms of both in childhood, and is now immune."

If there was one fact of life that Tom had thought proven beyond doubt, it had been Mace Tandy's invincible self-confidence.

A prone position was not idea for exerting authority. Tom inched his way to a sitting position and gradually swung his feet to the floor. He wore only a pair of under-trousers, and his right should was blue and purple and badly inflamed. Mace forgot his own troubles momentarily.

"I'll book those violins," he said.

The coming night seemed a long way off. "Finish dressing," Tom said. "Go to work. Don't say anything to White, except that you're invited aboard Falcon at twelve. Find the hull design you never showed him. I'll stay and do the figure-work this morning - we'll need to quote a competitive cost per ton. Be back here at eleven to wash and change. Maybe you'd lend me a clean shirt."

Mace said fiercely, "What happened to equal partners?"

Tom stood up, holding on to a chair. "D'you trust my judgement?"

"Does the Free Trade turn all its sons into bloody autocrats?"

"I say we can succeed. I know that you're talented enough to scale the heights. Believe it, partner! We're going to win."

Mace hesitated, then tore at the dry bread with his teeth; a gesture of bravado, half angry, "Mount Olympus," he said with his mouth full, "Here I come."

The Commodore's main cabin was built high in the stern, with a row of sash windows giving a breathtaking panorama of the bustling Solent. Sunlight followed shadow across the great mahogany desk as the anchored Falcon swung gently with the tide.

Standing a little away from the desk, Tom regarded his prospective partner as Mace leaned on the spread drawing and prodded with with an eager finger. "This is what makes the difference," Mace was saying, with an upward glance at the intent faces of Lord Yarborough and his two young sons. "See how the stern slopes back slightly to the waterline? That's what creates the streamlined shape which -"

"Yes, of course," said Charles, with a shining look at his younger brother. "It is bound to cut down water resistance - and the whole shape of the hull is much -"

"In every other respect," said Yarborough, frowning, "there's a definite resemblance to the lines of the new Vigilant commissioned for the Revenue Service two years ago."

"Yes, my lord." Mace stood up straight. "She was built at White's, as you know. I threw in a few ideas - not many were used, and I don't think now they deserved to be. But I've tried to learn from Vigilant's success as a fast cutter - and her disadvantages."

Yarborough studied him narrowly, and Tom's stomach fluttered with nerves. He could not help wondering whether Mace in his best attire looked too theatrical to be taken seriously, with his russet tail-coat, pink waistcoat and blue glass cravat pin.

"I have heard of no disadvantages," said Yarborough mildly.

"Vigilant is clinker-built, with the planks of the hull over-lapping and -"

"I am, in point of face, aware of the definition."

Mace swallowed, and glanced at Tom. It was obvious that his voice had failed, along with his confidence.

"Mr. Tandy believes," said Tom, "that a carvel-built hull, being smooth, would make better speed through the water. I skippered Captain Hicks' lugger Marshlight for nearly five years. She was carvel-built, and as nifty a vessel as any in those days. I agree wholeheartedly with Mr. Tandy."

The Commodore stroked his whiskers. He looked directly at his elder son. "You've heard what Messrs Elderfield and Tandy have to say, Charles."

"It does make sense, Pap -"

"Everyone who is anyone has a flyer nowadays -"

"Yes, yes. Spare me the rest." Yarborough sent Tom a twinkling look. "I've heard of nothing else but flyers since luncheon yesterday. For my part, I must confess that a cost of fifteen pounds per ton - though I have not enquired yet for other estimates - still sounds a trifle excessive. This vessel," he added, thumping an affectionate fist on the panelled bulkhead, "was contracted for ten shillings less."

"Falcon's construction costs were fixed two years ago, my lord," said Tom. "This summer, even second-hand yachts are fetching more than eleven pounds a ton."

Charles Pelham cleared his throat, and said nervously, "I, er.... have asked for two other estimates, Papa. The lowest was fifteen pounds and five shillings."

Tom said quickly. "Wherever you enquire, my lord, I doubt that you'll find our price can be undercut by any competitor."

Yarborough nodded slowly. "Your timber will be supplied by Monsieur Vaillant of Lymington, you say?"

"Yes, M'sieur Vaillant and I are old friends. I know that he'll offer a good price. That's how I can afford to drop as low as fifteen pounds."

"Capital, Capital," Yarborough rubbed his hands, and beamed at Tom and Mace. "I may have misled you. I have made a few preliminary enquiries since yesterday. I suggest that we meet again, gentlemen, when you have leased a yard, made your intentions clear to Mr. White and Mr. Ward, and worked your notice. We will then draw up a contract. In the meantime we are bound by a gentlemen's agreement, the single proviso being that the yacht must be completed in time for next year's season. Shall we look to a Mayday launching=party?"

Tom and Mace were not slow to accept the terms. They were invited to celebrate their first commission with another free lunch aboard Falcon; and it was only later, as a hired boatmen rowed them back to Fountain Quay, that Tom's sense of euphoria began to die a little.

Seated next to him in the stern, Mace said, his eyes sparkling with elation and good wine, doubts temporarily abandoned, "This is it, then. The start of a new era. Hah!" He leaned back, stretching his arms up as though to reach literally for the sun. "Sweet existence! Sweetest day!"

"Pray to God and Lady Luck," said Tom, not quite in jest, "that we live to see sweet tomorrow."

Part 3, The Men of Enterprise, Chapter 4

Click here to
download SEO Elite!
the Search Engine
Optimiser
we would recommend

Discover this Incredible Secret System To Making Money Online Within 10 Days!