Devil's Desire (25 page)

David Friday crossed the road and untethered his horse, where he had left it behind the rocks, and swiftly mounted. He headed down the road in the opposite direction from the coach that had swiftly traveled past only moments before, He rode along the road for several miles until he could see the curve of the coast jut abruptly outwards, forming a natural harbor with a deep ravine. A moorland stream flowed through it to empty into the sea leaving a rock-carved passage to the high cliffs above, and easy access to the road.

David dismounted and left his horse in the shelter of a group of pines and made his way quietly to the edge of the ravine, ―carefully lowering himself over the edge-his booted feet seeking footholds among the slippery rocks. Suddenly his foot slipped, and he lunged perilously forward, falling to the floor of the ravine. He landed on an outcropping of rock that formed a narrow ledge just wide enough to stop the descent that would have ended in his death.

He lay still, his breathing heavy, as he tried to regain his breath and listen for any sounds of voices raised in alarm, followed by searching footsteps .. But no sounds of panic reached him―only the rumble of the sea. David breathed a sigh of relief. They must still be at the mouth of the ravine unloading cargo.

The pounding of the waves masked the noise he'd caused by his fall, and the lookout-posted up on the road to watch for revenuers―would have been too far away to hear anything and give the sound of alarm.

David Friday looked about him from his vantage point. He could clearly see the little harbor, and the outline of the lugger anchored beyond the swell of the waves. A small boat was rowing ashore where a group of figures were standing in readiness on the sandy beach.

His ledge overlooked the path, directly beneath his perch. Yes, this was a perfect spot for observation. He settled himself more comfortably, in preparation for the loading to be completed and for them to begin their ascent up the path from the ravine to the road above. He felt no impatience with this job―for he wanted to catch this nest of smugglers. It wasn't so much the smugglers themselves he was after―men who risked their necks to sail across the Channel that was patrolled by His Majesty's Navy and Coast Guard; they were only the arms and legs of the operation. He wanted the head of the body―the man who sat safely on British soil, masterminding everything yet never dirtying his white, uncalloused palms―except with gold guineas.

Every major port, small fishing village, or hamlet, bad a gang of smugglers. From the Romney Marsh to as far north as York, smuggling was rampant. It seemed to be an accepted community activity. One could enjoy fine, French brandy after dinner at the Vicar's, or at a local tavern, and fragrant imported tea in the afternoon in an elegant and highly respected lady's drawing-room.

Taxes were high, shortages of every imported item were prevalent with the continuing of the war, and people had come to enjoy these luxuries-hesitant to give them up. He was not after these people, and their small horde of brandy, silk, tea and chocolate. The village fishermen and farmers who banded together once a month to row across the Channel and bring back a cache of black market goods engaged in small-time smuggling, and were relatively harm-less.

He was after the smuggler who brought in 'human cargo,' and dealt in goods on a grand scale―not a bolt of silk and several kegs of brandy, but a cargo of a thousand casks of brandy, and hundreds of pounds of Chinese tea, and a storeroom full of fine silks, velvets, and lace. A great profit was harvested from the sales of these contraband commodities to the fashionable shops on Bond Street and the gentlemen's clubs of St. James. But the highest profit was reaped for ferrying a passenger across the Channel from France to England The fare was indeed high for the man who wanted to enter England by night, his face unremembered by the silent crewmen, to disappear into the countryside, only to reappear 'in a crowded street in the heart of London.

David Friday wanted desperately the man who would betray his country by bringing in French spies. Napoleon had eyes and ears in London, thanks to the greed and avariciousness of these traitorous men who dared to call themselves Englishmen. They allowed the enemy to enter England to plot and deceive, and then helped him to sneak away with secret documents and information. But the traitor was far more deadly than the spy who was acting under orders from his country, and at least had a loyalty to it. The English dog who would bring in the enemy had no beliefs. He would act only for the gain and profit he would receive from his actions. He felt no love or loyalty to his country-only an allegiance to the craving for money.

An owl hooted, and within an instant, it was answered by four hoots from the top of the cliff. The lookout had signaled the all-clear, and shortly after the dark horses, loaded down with kegs and casks, and the sturdy wagons with their wide iron-made wheels―to keep the heavily-laden carts from sinking deep into the sandy beach―would begin to move toward the safety of their drops: hiding places in caves and barns, quiet - crypts in cemeteries, false-bottomed floors, and hidden closets in the walls of homes in the villages.

David was lying flat, his chest pressed against the rocky ledge, as the pack train moved slowly up the path. He heard smothered curses, as feet slipped and arms were scraped against the rough cliff wall, along the narrow and uneven path.

David watched carefully as the men and beasts trundled by. His eyes were searching for a lone figure in an all-concealing cape and hat. But the men were all dressed similarly in smocks and rough, woolen coats. He knew most of these men from his previous observations. Most were hard-working men from the village. The others were hired men from other parts-vicious and dangerous, with loaded pistols tucked under their wide belts. He could see no new faces. His vigil tonight had been in vain. It was only for cargo, this run―no extra man that would separate from the rest to make his way alone in the night, or return to sea with the unloaded boat.

He waited until the smugglers had got to the road and were well on their way down it before climbing back up the face of the cliff to the top. He mounted and rode off toward the moors, across the road and away from the smugglers' train. He had no need to follow them, for he knew where they would cache the goods. He had watched them seven times in the past as they'd unloaded the ship and prepared the horses, then slowly and quietly moved through the narrow lanes to various drops. But the major part of the load was separated from the rest―this was destined for London, and stored away. in a deviously conceived cache―an innocent-appearing summer house. David had watched astounded as cargo after cargo had been unloaded and carried into the small pagoda-like structure―only to disappear. He had searched it in vain after the smugglers left, but found no evidence that contraband had been concealed there. He knew there was a secret panel that must conceal a hidden cave or passage, but he had been unable to find it, despite his thorough searches. It seemed inconceivable that this small structure could hide a cache of contraband―yet it did. The cave probably connected by a subterranean passage to―the home of the mastermind―for the summer house stood back from the cliffs, and there was no natural harbor for ships to anchor in. Nor had he found a coastal sea cave in his traversing of the area. So that left one place―Blackmore Hall.

Squire Blackmore was the man he wanted. A man so insidious as to force the villagers and farmers to smuggle for him by enclosure of their lands, and the village common, leaving them no place to raise food or livestock. He closed down the tin mines, putting countless numbers out of work. The village was under his control and with the fishing poor―few men returned with full nets―rather than starve, they smuggled for him.

Yes, David Friday wanted Squire Blackmore. He would enjoy seeing the walls of Blackmore Hall come tumbling down about the Squire's head. But then he thought of two misty gray eyes looking trustingly up into his face. How could he destroy Louisa Blackmore's world? She was such an innocent―completely unaware of her father's nefarious villainy. David had never before met such a demure and lovely young woman. She was still a young girl, actually, for she could not be more than sixteen or seventeen.

He would not allow her to become besmirched by this affair. He must protect her in some way. But how could he? It was his job―his duty―to catch, and arrest her father as a traitor. How could she feel anything but shame and degradation when that happened―and what would she then feel towards the man who had brought about her father's down-fail? Hatred? Disgust? What a tangle he was involved in, he thought in despair, as he sighted the small moorland hut directly ahead.

David glanced over his shoulder to ascertain that he had not been followed, even though he had taken a circuitous route. He was taking no chances of being discovered. He dismounted, and knocked twice on the door before entering the hut.

It was a small hut with one room, and lighted by a flickering lantern that threw a dim light over the crude furnishings and the solitary man sitting at the rough wooden table in the center of the room.

"Good evening, Sir," David saluted smartly. "Hardly a good evening, Lieutenant," the man answered disgustedly, pulling his coat tighter about his broad shoulders. Only his bushy, iron-gray brows and deep-set eyes were visible from behind the high collar. "Come and sit down, Lieutenant, and relax. You look rather dishevelled. Run into any trouble?" he asked sharply.

"No, Sir, I just missed my step over the edge of a cliff," David explained with a rueful smile lurking in his eyes.

The other man looked startled and then Smiled. "I'd hate to lose you, my boy―still got your sea legs? Feel like I'm walking at an angle myself."

"I don't believe I shall ever be able to walk normally again. Still feel the deck beneath my feet."

His commander laughed― hearty laugh that crinkled his eyes into slits, the myriad lines etching the corners that blended into one crease. He was deeply tanned, his face aged from the sea and weather. He looked at the young man sitting across from him with piercing eyes-eyes that were accustomed to looking far into the distance for land, or the flag of another ship.

"I gather, since you are back so early, that our
friend
did not show up?"

"Right, Sir. It was just a load of brandy and other goods. No sign of any strangers," David answered dejectedly.

"Well, one will show eventually―or our
friend
will decide to travel across the Channel himself. Either way we shall be prepared. And it is absolutely vital now, more than ever, that we apprehend them. I have received news from London that certain top secret information has been leaked, and certain documents are missing. It is of the utmost importance that we recover this information and put an end to this spy ring," he said in a deadly voice.

"But how could they have gotten hold of such information?"

"We've been fortunate to catch the traitor in the Ministry―an Under-Secretary of small import, yet high up enough to come within contact of important information. He will stand trial. His usefulness is at an end―to all concerned. However we have kept it quiet so as not to panic our quarry. We do not want them to flee and take that information with them something Napoleon would sell his soul to obtain, if indeed he has not
already
sold his soul to the Devil."

"Do we know who has that information?" David asked, a muscle twitching beside his eye. "Is it Blackmore?"
          

"No, so far the good Squire has only transported French spies to and from England, along with his other smuggling. He has not dirtied his hands with the actual spying itself," David's superior said with disgust. "Although he might as well have. Giving good English gold for his contraband is the same as putting it in Napoleon's pocket."

"Who is the spy?"

"We were fortunate to get a full confession out of the ex-Under-Secretary. Odd how little courage these spies have when faced with an actual enemy in front of them. They work best in the dark when they can sneak away like a snivelling dog," he spoke sneeringly, distaste curling his lip. "We were informed that he passed the information to a Frenchman posing as an émigré, and is at present a guest of our country. In reality, he is one of Napoleons top agents. His name is D' Aubergere, and claims to be a Count or something to give him access into society. He is now a guest of the good Squire," he added, looking meaningfully at· David "You realize what that means?"

"Yes. Our Frenchmen will undoubtedly be awaiting his friend from across the Channel, so he can pass on the information and receive new orders. Or he will personally take the information to Napoleon, to receive full recognition for his daring." David pounded his fist on the hard wood fable angrily. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go in there and arrest him."

"We can't do that, unfortunately. It would give me great pleasure, believe me. However, I doubt whether he has the evidence on his person―it will be well concealed. And we've no proof―except for a frightened traitor's confession that D'Aubergere does indeed have it. Even if we should arrest him, the documents would be in Blackmore Hall. These French are a wily lot―he will have hidden it safely away. Can you imagine the Squire not making use of that? Another spy would be dispatched to retrieve it―at quite a price I should imagine, if I read the Squire correctly. And I am sure he will know the worth of what he holds."

His commander stared thoughtfully at the flickering light as David sat dejectedly, feeling helpless to act.

"No, we must move with caution. They do not know that the hounds have caught scent of the fox," the older man added with a gleam in his eyes. "They feel secure in their cloak of deception.
As
far as they are concerned they have nothing to fear, and they would not take the risk of causing speculation now, by acting rashly and taking risks. They will play it safe―not chancing discovery. The Count will either wait for a contact, or travel over to France with the information himself. I suspect it might be the latter. Ego has been the downfall of many a man―and this Frenchman is no exception. However, with something as important as this packet . . . well, I am afraid they might send for a French war ship to pick him up. They would not risk being picked up by the Coast Guard with something of such vital importance. So we must wait,
as
D' Aubergere waits. And under no circumstance can D' Aubergere be allowed to pass on the documents. We will give him enough rope to get them out of concealment and then he will hang himself as we catch him red-handed, along with Blackmore and his smugglers. Although, I'm sure the good Squire will deny all knowledge of D'Aubergere's clandestine activities―claiming he has been duped, and most foully deceived, but we will get him yet," he promised ominously, "for it will be hard to explain why a cache of contraband is hidden in his summer house. Thanks to you we know about this smuggling operation. Just luck you picked up this lead while you were in France. Now, more than ever it is fortunate we know about Blackmore. I think we shall crack this ring yet"