Mersey Dark Read online

  Mersey

  Dark

  The Templeton Novels - Book One

  By

  Michael

  Whitehead

  Also by Michael Whitehead

  Legion of the Undead – series

  Book one – Legion of the Undead

  Book Two – Rise and Fall

  Book Three – Ruin and Rebirth

  And

  Seas of Blood

  All people and events in this work are fictional, any resemblance to people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced without the written consent of the author.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Michael Whitehead 2019

  Love and thanks to everyone who helped me bring this book to life. My wife Michelle, and my mum Sue, who are always first to read my work, give me advice and encouragement. My dad George, who always has time to help - no matter how unusual my request.

  David and Natasha, thank you and good luck in your new life.

  Prologue

  Saint Helena 1826

  Clouds passed over the moon, darkening the estate as the slave was dragged before his master. Many of the men around him carried torches, and a bonfire was banked up high, adding a new layer of ash to the scorched circle on the scrub grass lawn. Outside the flickering orange light, the night was black.

  He did not cry out as he was thrown to the ground. His hands were tied behind his back and his face scraped against the packed earth. A small trickle of blood caught the torch light, blackening the corner of one eye. The look he gave the men who stood over him was defiant and proud.

  “Where was he when you found him?” The master asked.

  Sir Thomas Richmond was a portly man, accustomed to fine dining and little in the way of exercise. Given a fair fight the man on the ground could have bested him in a heartbeat, which was entirely the reason that Sir Thomas did not fight fair. He had the might of The East India Company behind him and that was a force strong enough to mean he never had to fight again.

  This man was his property, at least until Alexander Walker, the governor of Saint Helena, finally got his way and forced the emancipation of brutes like this. That day would see Sir Thomas Richmond show these abolitionists what he thought of them. They would not tell him what he could and could not do with his own property.

  The plantation grew the best coffee outside of the Americas and it had made the Richmonds wealthy beyond measure. Still, it was a sorry state of affairs when the rights of heathens were put before those of the British aristocracy.

  “He was down by the dry river bed, Sir Thomas,” James Whitchurch, the estate overseer, answered. He looked nervous and rightly so, he was responsible for the security and punishment of the slaves, especially runaways. The man on the ground had run before and should have been under close watch, still he had been allowed to escape a second time. His back was striped as punishment for his first offence, the white scars plainly visible even in this low light. Evidently that had not been lesson enough.

  “What exactly do you suggest we do with him, Mr. Whitchurch?” Sir Thomas asked, giving the man the chance to recover some of his former standing, both with the men and himself.

  “Twenty lashes, Sir Thomas. That is the normal punishment for a second offence.” John Whitchurch sounded confident as he passed judgement.

  “Not for a second offence of absconding, Mr. Whitchurch,” Sir Thomas answered. He looked about him, at the gathered men who held their torches high. He was fully aware that parliament would soon be bringing nights like this to an end. The apologists and weaklings were running scared, unwilling or unable to fight back against the local populations that had risen up against the ownership of slaves.

  “I’m sorry, Sir Thomas. I will have to defer to your good self. What would you like us to do with the man?” Whitchurch said, his subservience making the hairs on the back of Sir Thomas’s neck rise.

  The estate owner looked down at the man on the ground, he still wore a defiant expression. Really, thought Sir Thomas, these men were treated far too well. Did he not give them enough food for two meals a day? He allowed them to live as married couples, even allowing them to breed. The last part had of course been more than a little self-serving. Men with families did not run away and the children could be put to work as soon as they could walk and pick crops.

  “What is your name?” Sir Thomas asked, speaking to the slave directly, not something he usually chose to do.

  The man answered with a name that sounded so foreign to Sir Thomas’s ear that he didn’t even try to understand it, instead he turned back to Whitchurch for an answer.

  “We gave him the name David, sir.”

  “David? Very well, a biblical name at least,” he said turning back to the man on the ground. “Tell me David, why did you try to run away tonight?”

  David’s chin actually rose a little as he looked his master in the eye. Far from being frightened by this situation, he seemed to be drawing strength from the chance to show his distain.

  “I run, because I run,” David said from his place at the feet of his captors.

  Mr. Whitchurch stepped forward and swiped a backhanded blow across the slave’s cheek.

  “Call the master, sir,” he said, then stepped back to allow Sir Thomas room.

  “Really? You just decided to run away, knowing you would almost certainly be caught and brought back for punishment?”

  David stared back at Sir Thomas, his mouth tightening into a thin line of defiance.

  “Very well,” sighed Sir Thomas. “Throw him on the fire.”

  The defiant look disappeared off David’s face the moment the words were out of his master’s mouth. They were replaced by fear and panic, the exact look Sir Thomas had hoped to see there from the beginning.

  “My child is sick, Sir! My child is sick!” the slave shouted as he struggled on the ground, trying to free himself from the clutches of four of the estate men. Sir Thomas waited, letting the tussle go on long enough that David was close to the flames. The slave put up a good fight, showing what years of work in the fields could do for a man’s physique. The estate worker who held one of his arms was forced to let go, allowing David the chance to scramble back a little of the distance they had managed to pull him toward the fire.

  “Wait,” Sir Thomas said, almost lazily.

  The men who were now fighting with David, stopped and turned toward their employer. David continued to struggle, close enough to the flames that sweat was standing out on his face and bare chest.

  “What is wrong with your, son?” the estate owner asked.

  “He has a fever, sir. I was going to get help.”

  “Why did you not ask for the estate doctor to see him?”

  “Sir it is not part of my beliefs, I wanted the doctor in the village to see him. ”David said, trying to step toward his master but being pulled back to stand near the fire.

  “Against your beliefs? Have you not been attending the Sunday school? You should have been baptised by now, are you not a Christian?” Sir Thomas could feel the anger rising in him. These savages and their blasphemous religions were enough to make the blood boil.

  He turned to the gathered men who were standing and watching as if this was fine entertainment. The nearest was a young man of about twenty with the pitted face of a smallpox survivor.

  “Go and fetch this man’s son. In fact, fetch his wife and any other children as well.”

  “Sir Thomas, David’s wife died when his son was born and he only has one child,” Whitchurch interrupted.

  “Very well, bring the boy to me,” Sir Thomas said, losing patience.

  Four men ran off into the darkness, carrying their torches. The slave
quarters were not a place men liked to go alone, even in the day time. At night it was tantamount to suicide. A knife in the dark, and a man could disappear. On a night like tonight, with the master’s men combing the estate, the quarters would be rife with rumour and intrigue.

  After a few moments they came back carrying the prone figure of a twelve year old boy. He was naked from the waist up, as was his father. A sheen of sweat coated his body and face despite the cool evening air, and as he was carried into the circle of men a low moan escaped him.

  “So you tell me that you don’t want Doctor Venables to tend to your son, David? You would rather risk being caught running away?” Sir Thomas asked, looking down at the boy from a distance.

  “Sir, the doctor in the village has tended to my family for years. He knows the spirits that would sicken my son, he can keep him safe,” David answered.

  “Spirits? I’m sick of hearing such nonsense. Frankly I’m astounded that you have risked punishment to let this witch doctor see your son.”

  “Sir, I would risk death to save my son,” David said. Sir Thomas stamped his foot in fury at the man’s words. He turned from the fire and walked a few paces into the darkness, trying to gather his thoughts. Finally he turned back to the gathered men, his face red with anger.

  “Very well. If that is what you wish, then I will give you a choice. I will send your son to the local doctor, for as long as it takes for him to get well. Or you can choose to have him treated here by Doctor Venables.”

  David looked up at Sir Thomas, trying to see if his master were playing with him. The English man smiled back down at him and David realised that his hopes were nothing to this man.

  “If you choose to have your son treated here, I will instruct my men to administer twenty lashes as your punishment for running. If you choose to send the boy to your magic man, I will have you put to death.”

  There was a round of muttering and one or two of the men laughed at the proposition. Their employer had been clever, giving this slave an impossible choice. They looked at David, his dark skin looking darker against the flames.

  David raised his head and smiled at the master, “Send my son to the village.”

  The men around the fire gasped in unison as David said the words. They turned as one toward the Sir Thomas, to see what he would do next. The estate owner shook his head in wonder at the man in front of him. He was so sure of his beliefs, in the face of the Christian God, that he was willing to lay down his own life in order to have his son seen by this savage doctor.

  “Very well, fetch a branding iron and prepare this man to be executed. Have a rope thrown over the tree,” Sir Thomas said. He waited while men ran to the stables for an iron and others ran to the house for the rope.

  One of the men placed the brand in the fire. It had the symbol of the estate on it and Sir Thomas waited while the iron glowed first dull orange and then red. He nodded to the man who lifted the glowing metal out of the flames with a heavy blacksmith’s gauntlet. David began to struggle as the man approached his son with the iron.

  “Sir, what are you doing?” he almost shouted.

  “Well I can’t let the child out into the village without my proof of ownership, can I?” Sir Thomas asked, smiling.

  David began to struggle in the grip of the men who held him. He thrashed about, trying to free himself. Then when he had been forced onto his knees, he watched in mute horror as the iron was pressed into the flesh of his son’s chest.

  There was a sizzling sound as the boy’s sweat and blood quenched the heat of the fire. An instant later the boy woke from this fevered dreams and began to scream. The man holding him was forced to tighten his grip and the boy tried to wriggle away from his tormentors. Livid and raw the crest of the Richmond family stood out on his skin.

  “Take him to the village, make sure he is seen by this heathen doctor, much good it will do him,” Sir Thomas said to the man who held the boy.

  David watched his son carried into the darkness, impotence and rage burning inside him. He could hear him crying out as the men took him by the shoulders and shoved him to his feet. They did not let him walk to the rope that waited for him. They dragged him, cutting his feet and knees. He did not feel the pain, his son would be safe, if this man kept his word.

  As the rope was dropped around his neck he turned to Sir Thomas and smiled. As his hands were tied, David prayed to the spirits to keep his son safe. As the men pulled on the rope and the breath was torn from his lungs, David’s last thought was of his son.

  Chapter One

  Liverpool 1856

  Rain splashed up off the street and ran into the gutters, already dark with dirt. The warehouse roof thundered with the noise of the deluge. Across the street, the doors of the Turners Vaults public house were barely closed behind someone running for shelter, before they were opened again by the next rain soaked patron. The last light of the Spring day was stolen and lamps were lit in reverence to the weather. Above the sound of the storm an unseen musician pounded out a tune on a piano, while a small choir of voices sang along.

  Detective Constable Nelson Tanner watched the street empty from his place deep in the shadows of the alleyway across from the pub. The Turners Vaults was not where his main attention lay, however.

  Adjoining the Vaults a second public house was in the process of being built. It was in fact, almost ready to be opened. Only a few carpenters and other tradesmen were still outfitting the interior. Tanner had watched those tradesmen leave moments ago with the collars of their donkey jackets turned up against the storm. They had been relieved by a night watchman and it was that man who Tanner had been waiting to see.

  A stream of rainwater escaped the gutter above his head, causing him to step toward the entrance of the alleyway. A low chuckle escaped him as he wiped water from his eyes and crouched deeper into the shadows.

  His mind was drawn back to the day he had been called into the station office. The Sergeant was a man called Philips. He was almost as wide as he was tall, and never without a mug of tea in his hand. He had asked PC Tanner if he wanted to train to be one of the new detectives on the Liverpool Constabulary. Tanner hadn’t even been sure what a detective did. He had been on the force for three years, at that point, and had heard of the new rank of detective but hadn’t really understood what the job entailed.

  Sergeant Philips had explained that he would work in plain clothes, using new techniques to tackle crimes that the normal street bobbies didn’t have the time or resources to solve. He said, he had picked Tanner because he was a bright lad who could think on his feet. He also mentioned that the usual street patrols did not apply to detectives.

  The last part had sealed the deal - the idea of not having to walk the streets in all weathers, cuffing kids who stole the food that their parents couldn’t afford to buy them or nicking the odd pickpocket.

  Now fifteen years later, soaked to the skin and getting wetter, Tanner laughed at how naive he had been. At least the uniformed men got to duck inside a shop or house every now and again. He had been crouched in this alleyway for the best part of three hours, doing what detectives did best, waiting.

  The sign of new pub read “Baltic Fleet”. It swayed with the wind that drove the rain across the River Mersey. Beneath the sign a chink of light showed as the door of the almost finished pub opened briefly and three figures slipped inside.

  Tanner smiled to himself. He had been certain that he had come to the right place the moment he had heard that Mickey Flynn was the night watchman at the Baltic Fleet. The Flynn family were as low as any in Liverpool. They had come over from Ireland almost ten years ago and their brand of theft and thuggery had spread almost as quickly as the women in the family produced babies.

  Almost everyone in Liverpool had heard the name Flynn, except the owners of the Baltic Fleet it seemed. Setting on Mickey Flynn, the youngest of seven brothers, as a night watchman was as foolish as leaving the doors open and a lamp lit. Actually Tanner thought, it might be
more foolish because a passing thief might not have a large family to help them with the heavy lifting.

  A fourth man brought a flat-bedded cart round the side of the pub and the door was propped open. The street was all but empty, and the odd passer-by might not notice anything was amiss, unless they noticed that the men were carrying building materials onto the cart, not off it.

  Tanner slipped out of the alleyway and round the back of the Turners Vaults, so that he might come to the door of the Baltic fleet from the blind side. Rain splashed up his already sodden trousers as his feet found puddles. As he passed the door of the packed pub, the pianist started into “Maggie May” and the singing got louder.

  The half-light of the evening was fading to true dark, and Tanner had no trouble finding a shadow behind a stack of crates as he reached the rear of the pub. He paused and watched the Flynn boys struggle to load lead piping and lengths of timber onto the back of the cart.

  The horse, a shaggy looking mare with dark eyes and a white mane, stood stolidly despite the rain that battered at her flanks. A figure stood on the near side of the cart, holding her tack and keeping a distracted eye out for trouble.

  Tanner waited until all the other lads were inside and slipped his fingers through a set of brass knuckledusters in the pocket of his overcoat. He stepped up behind the Flynn brother who held the horse, his footsteps masked by the steadily falling rain. He tapped the unfortunate thief on the shoulder and when he turned around, laid him out cold with a punch that had been measured and tested by twenty years on the force.

  The limp form of Harry Flynn dropped to the wet street with a dull thud and Tanner ducked down the side of the cart. Mickey and one of his brothers came back to the cart carrying what looked like a section of the bar top. They placed it in the cart but neither of them noticed the absence of their look-out.