Rebel City awaiting publishers approval so ready to take pre-orders at £16 post free.

Here is an extract to wet your appetite

Chapter 1

Benjamin Augustus Pascoe

All are gone now, even his dear Leone. Bulloch his friend not so long ago was buried in Toxteth Park Cemetery, on his gravestone written ‘An American by Birth, an Englishman by Choice.’ Yet his mind drifts from the point. For here his aim is to lie all before you how Benjamin Augustus Pascoe came to make a fortune. Were his means dubious, even devious? It is a question that has weighed heavy on his conscience. Thus his actions are in the dock, you will be his judge and jury. Our story begins on the schooner Hannah Leigh three days out of Fowey in Cornwall with a cargo of China Clay.

    In June of the year eighteen hundred and sixty-one scanning across the starboard bow the brown eyes of Benjamin Pascoe took in the miles of docks, the forest of masts and spars and beyond the spires of Liverpool giving him a sense of wonder and apprehension. Once before he had seen the great naval port of Plymouth in which the lines of warships lining the Tamar River had looked majestic. However the crowded quays of Liverpool with ships from every corner of the globe were like another world, altogether different and exciting.

   ‘There it is the city of Liverpool’ said Henry Kitto, master of the Hannah Leigh stood beside Ben, ‘a cesspool of humanity and no mistake. Yet full of opportunity for them that can grab it, like these tug captains taking me for a fortune’ he waved his pipe in the general direction of the tug.

   Up ahead the steam tug Tiger was towing the Hannah Leigh belching out black smoke from her coal fired boilers, making three knots against the tide of the brown Mersey River, taking them back toward Liverpool. Having already towed the ship to Runcorn where the 200 tons of china clay had been unloaded into barges that then took the cargo along canals to the Potteries. There they had moved faster even fully loaded but with the aid of the tide.

   The Hannah Leigh would dock for the night in Liverpool then take the morning tide and sail to Holyhead to pick up a cargo of Welsh coal to take back to Cornwall, which they would unload at Downgate Quay in Looe. There Kittow hoped to pick up a cargo of minerals to take to Portugal.

   ‘Now’ said Henry Kitto ‘I’ll give you an introduction to Matthew Maguire, runs a detective agency just to give you a start. What he doesn’t know about this Sodom and Gomorrah they call Liverpool is not worth knowing. Known him ever since he arrested my first Mate years ago for being drunk and disorderly, when he was on the Liverpool police force.’

   ‘Ben you should not think ill of your father he was a good man just no head for business’ continued Kitto in the master’s cabin where they had gone to pick up Ben’s bag. ‘Here take this’ he continued, handing Ben a purse.

   ‘What is this sir?’ said Ben feeling the coins inside.

   ‘Twenty guineas lad to give you a start.’

   ‘But I cannot sir.’

   ‘Yes you can and I don’t want it back, your father was a good friend to me. There is a good opportunity here mark my words with this war in America, invest it wisely.’

   Ben thought of his father lying not twelve months in his grave. There was no headstone to mark the grave for he could not afford one. When he could perhaps the inscription might read: Here lies John Pascoe a good man with no head for business. He had left Ben virtually destitute, after his death the ships chandlers business he had run in Looe was wound up owing much money, its sale had paid off most of the debts and a mortgage secured on the family home meant that had to be sold as well. Now he often wondered if his father’s heart attack at the age of forty-five had been brought on by the worry of his financial affairs and what might happen to Ben.

***

   ‘Well he is a strapping lad’ said Matthew Maguire looking Ben over. The Irishman ran his detective agency from Doran’s Lane off Lord Street not far from Lime Street station. Ben stood five foot ten inches tall, with long dark hair around a clean shaven angular face, some would say even handsome.               

   ‘And utterly trustworthy’ said Henry Kitto.

   ‘Can you read and write?’ said Maguire.

   ‘Of course sir’ Ben said rather indignantly.

   ‘I like that, a bit of spunk, alright’ said Maguire ‘we’ll give him a month’s trial Henry.’

***

After that month Ben continued working for the Irishman Matthew Maguire, a middle aged detective who in earlier life had served in the Liverpool Police Force working his way through the ranks to Superintendent.  For weeks Ben’s duties included following people along the muddy shoddy environs of Dock Road. For it seemed to rain every day, the mud mixing with copious amounts of horse droppings. The docks ran for four miles and encompassed the port’s flourishing trade from ships berthed there from all over the world crammed into the docks under a forest of masts and spars, or on into the smoky pubs and bordellos of Paradise Street that serviced the sailors needs at a price.

   ‘Well done lad’ Maguire enthused as he read Ben’s report. ‘So no trip to Lairds today and he came on the usual train from Crosby where he lodges at the Liver Hotel.’ He leaned back in his chair his feet upon the desk. ‘Our client Mr Henry Wilding has a particular interest in any visits he makes to ship builders so keep a keen eye.’

   The Laird’s Maguire referred to were the Laird Brothers of Birkenhead, a shipbuilding dynasty. Started by William Laird in 1810 when he had been sent by his father to Liverpool to find a place for their rope-making business. He found Liverpool too expensive but across the Mersey was the small hamlet of Birkenhead where land prices were cheap. By the time Ben had come to the city Lairds had made a fortune as iron ships began to replace wood and steam replaced sails. They were also one of the few yards on the Mersey who could build ships to Royal Navy standards.

   It had not taken Ben long to find out Henry Wilding was the British born American Consul in Liverpool. For some days now his assignment had been to follow the Confederate Agent James Dunwoody Bulloch. Usually from when he arrived at Lime Street Station on the morning train from Crosby. Most times first he would take a ten minute walk to the offices of Fraser, Trenholm and Company at Rumford Place to all intents and purposes the Confederate States Bankers in Britain, or later about the shipyards. Ben felt it odd that it seemed to him Bulloch never tried to lose him. Yet what did he know then of the detective’s trade for all he knew he may very well have had his reasons not to lose him.

   Over time Ben found out Bulloch was born on his family’s plantation near Savannah Georgia, and that he worked closely with Charles K. Prioleau the head of Fraser, Trenholm in England 

   As Bulloch entered the door of the company as usual Ben checked the time on his pocket watch, and then pondered the unpleasant thought he might be in there all day. Still it had stopped raining and the sun was breaking through, the summer so far had been particularly wet. Ben’s thoughts turned to a cup of tea. He would give it half an hour. There was a tea shop around the corner from where, if sitting in the right chair, one could just about see Rumford Place. He fancied some crumpets for his breakfast and hoped the pretty young Irish waitress would be serving. In the sunshine his coat began to steam, when forty minutes had passed with no sign of Bulloch, Ben went to the tea shop.

   The Irish girl with the strawberry blonde hair was there and took Ben’s order with a shy smile. Her name was a mystery and he felt too awkward to ask. There were thousands of Irish in the city with thousands more pouring into the port every year, Protestants and Catholics who seemed to enjoy nothing more than fighting each other. Liverpool was a great melting pot of the races with ghettos of Chinese, Lascars from the sub continent and Africans. Even in these ghettos there were islands of great prosperity.  Fortunes were often made out of promiscuity. There were over two hundred pubs within Dock Road and its arteries to service the seamen with grog and ale. Yet poverty was rife. On every street corner and outside the pubs were groups of ragged bare foot children begging for a penny or trying to sell matches.

   Soon Ben’s tea and crumpets arrived, all he could do was murmur ‘thank you.’

   ‘Is it not good to see the mizzling rain clearing at last sir?’ she said.

   Ben just smiled at her trying to think of something to say but all too soon she moved away to serve another table. The crumpets were to his liking with lashings of golden butter.

   ‘Do you mind if I join you Mr Pascoe?’ came an American voice behind him.

   It made Ben near choke on a piece of crumpet as James Dunwoody Bulloch sat down opposite him. A stout man of about five foot eight, two inches shorter than Ben, Bulloch had the fashionable mutton chops whiskers but a clean shaven chin and a dignified erect bearing. Ben felt a little duped having been distracted by ordering the food and by the charms of the waitress. It dawned on him someone in Rumford Place must have been watching him.

   ‘Do not choke on my account’ said Bulloch ‘those muffins look mighty fine’ he signalled to the waitress. ‘Sally could I have the same as my young friend here?’

   Bulloch glanced around the tea room. Only two other tables were occupied both by women who appeared deep in conversation. He pulled his seat closer to the table and spoke while looking out of the window. ‘Much warmer for you in here rather than skulking about outside, I take it you are new to this game as indeed we all are?’

   ‘How do you know my name?’ said Ben.

   Bulloch’s smile lit up his face. ‘Oh! I have had a few weeks to settle in and years as a sailor travelling to know sea ports the world over. From your accent I take it you are not from Liverpool?’

   Bulloch had the knack of not answering Ben’s question but shifted the ground by asking his own. Yet Ben had no secrets. ‘I’m from the West Country Sir, the county of Cornwall.’

   ‘Have you any vested interest in our war across the Atlantic?’ said Bulloch.

   Another question, what is he up to Ben thought but he would play along.

   The tea and crumpets Bulloch had ordered arrived and he tucked in with glee.

   ‘As to your war’ Ben said when he had finished his crumpets ‘I know little about it, other than what I read in the papers, some say it has its roots in slavery, others not.’

   ‘It is the rights of the States I fight for and the North cannot tolerate even one state leaving the Union. Unfortunately the men with extreme views have got power in the North.’ Bulloch wiped his lips with his napkin. ‘Say those muffins were good. So you have no preference for either side, perhaps you are motivated by money?’

   ‘I, I’ stammered Ben aghast at his question.

   Bulloch held up a hand. ‘There is no dishonour in that. What does Maguire pay you?’

   ‘A pound a week’ said Ben straight away thinking he should have said two.

   ‘Good wages, what would you say if I were to offer you two pounds?’

   ‘For what?’  said Ben.

   ‘To work for me Mr Pascoe’ looking over the rim of his cup as he was about to take a drink waiting for Ben’s reaction.

   ‘If I were to leave Maguire and work for you I would be a marked man of little use.’

   ‘Who said anything about you leaving Maguire?’ smiled Bulloch.

   It dawned on Ben what Bulloch wanted. ‘You want me to be a spy?’

   ‘Isn’t that what you are now? Instead you will be a double spy, a double agent.’

   ‘A dangerous assignment’ said Ben yet he felt there was a certain appeal in the proposition.

   ‘It will not be without danger true but think, you will be paid by both sides.’

   ‘What would I have to do?’

   ‘Report on the people at the Maguire agency, what they know, what they do, I expect rather like you do for Maguire now. From time to time you may be required to feed things to him that I will supply.’

   ‘How would I report to you?’

   ‘Leave a written report here with Sally, if it is urgent you can drop it at Allerton Hall, the home of Mr Charles Prioleau. Try to avoid dropping anything at my office. You know Mr Prioleau?’

   ‘Yes I know Mr Prioleau by sight’ indeed he was often at the office and more so his young wife Mary Elizabeth, Ben admitted to thinking about her a lot, a beautiful creature. She had looked at him once when she had left the offices at Rumford Place or had looked right through him, as if he did not exist.

   Bulloch slid two sovereigns across the table. ‘Will you do it Mr Pascoe?’

   Ben’s eyes were drawn down to the coins with the head of Queen Victoria on them. ‘Yes I will’ he said and reached for the sovereigns.

   Bulloch stayed his hand with his for a moment. ‘One word of warning do not try and double cross me sir.’ He then allowed Ben to pick up the coins. He motioned to Sally. ‘I will pay for Mr Pascoe’s fare this morning; from time to time he may have a letter for me.’

   Sally nodded and smiled at Ben.