Free The Gathering Storm by Peter Smalley

Hayter.'
    'Before you say anything further, Mr Mappin, I must
ask you a question. How did you know of my interview
with Captain Sprigg?'
    'I have been trying to get into touch with you for some
little time, Mr Hayter. I had thought that in your present
circumstances you might wish to make yourself available
to John Company, and so I made enquiries, and requests,
and your name duly appeared.'
    'D'y'mean you bribed various persons in that company
to forward my name to you? Clerks, and the like?'
    'Bribery is too harsh a word, I believe, for what was
done.'
    'You think so? Well, no matter. My name came to you,
and you found me at Bedford Street. And here I am, now.'
    'Indeed. And thank you again for your attendance.'
    'Why did you wish to see me? And why here, at the
Admiralty? Are you employed here, Mr Mappin?' All with
a sea officer's directness.
    'Am I? Nay, I am not. I work in another sphere.'
    'Then why—'
    Quickly, over him: 'If you will indulge me, Lieutenant,
I think I will come to my point quicker if you will allow
me to ask the questions, without interruption.'
    'Interruption?' Astonished.
    'I wish to ascertain something at once. You seek employment?'
    'As I think you know, else you would not have mentioned
Captain Sprigg.'
    'And if employment were offered to you – in another
quarter?'
    'Do you mean – the Royal Navy?' Puzzled.
    A brief impatient half-smile. 'No no, not the Royal Navy,
Mr Hayter. We are talking, as I thought you had grasped
by now, of the Secret Service Fund.'
    'Good heaven, why should I wish to join that?'
    'Because you are a lieutenant on half-pay, with no other
offers of employment.'
    'But that is damn' nonsense. When I got your letter I
was about to meet Captain Sprigg, who would certainly
have offered me the mate's berth in his ship. Who will
offer it to me tomorrow, when I go to see him then.'
    'No. He will not.' Confidently.
    'What the devil d'y'mean?'
    'He has been asked to fill the position elsewhere.'
    'Asked!' Outraged. 'Asked by whom!'
    'By me, sir.'
    'Well, God damn your bloody impertinence!' Rising.
    'Perhaps we are impertinent, at the Fund.' Mildly. 'We
are certainly underhand, and often criminal in our methods.
We do not care how we obtain information, nor where. We
do not give warning how nor where we may strike. Those
who make mischief against us, in dark places, will certainly
live to regret it – if they are not dead.'
    'And you want me to join you?' In wondering contempt,
staring at him.
    'We do a great many things behind, that can never be
acknowledged. We are devious, merciless, and determined
to prevail.' His tone more emphatic. 'But we are not vicious,
nor corrupt, nor malevolent men. We are at heart, and in
fact, loyal servants of His Majesty the king. As are you.'
    'Don't compare yourself to me, sir! I am a sea officer,
and everything I do must be above-board, sheeted home
true and answered for, upon my oath!'
    'You shot a man, did not you, in your last command?
That was in pain, and could not live?'
    'By God! You know that! And you dare to throw it in
my face?' James drew his sword with a ringing hiss, and
put it to Mr Mappin's throat. 'You miserable bloody wretch!
Why shouldn't I run you through?'
    'I can think of two reasons. No doubt there are others,
if I put my mind to finding them.' All with extraordinary
self-possession, not a hair out of his place on his head, nor
a wrinkle anywhere on his coat. 'First, I should be killed.
Second, you would certainly hang, and thus we would both
be dead. Not an happy end to our conversation. Hey?'
    James looked at the fellow a long moment, and then
lowered his sword.
    'You take very grave risks, Mr Mappin.'
    'I am paid to. Risk is intrinsic to my work.'
    'Paid? You undertake your work from that motive?'
    'As would you, at least in part – should you join us. A
man must live, and pay his tailor.'
    James put up his sword, turned away from the desk and
chairs, and stood quietly, his head bent. Presently, turning
to Mr Mappin