Jack Frake (17 page)

“There was no one at Tallant last night, Mr. Leith,” said Pannell. “We rode up and down the shore for miles in each direction, but all we found is what we always find, the usual leavings.”

“It were Tallant, that’s all I heard,” pouted Leith.

“Well, it
is
tiresome, isn’t it?” Pannell squinted at the man. “Next time we meet, please omit news of rendezvous. I can collect these tidbits from other places. Employ your imagination, Mr. Leith, before I am tempted to employ mine.” He rose, said “Good day to you, sir,” and left the Sea Siren.

Isham Leith sat quietly for a long time, thinking, and trying to remember something he had overheard one of the patrons of his own inn say and which might be important to Pannell. Or something he had seen.

A large form appeared at the edge of his vision. “Is something wrong with the ale, Mr. Leith?”

Leith glanced up. It was Hiram Trott, who studied him with a supercilious look. “What?”

“Something wrong with the ale? You and Mr. Pannell didn’t hardly touch it.”

“Nothin’s wrong with it!” Leith lifted his tankard and took a long draught from it.

Trott glanced at the front door. “You and that Revenue chap friends?”

“No!” said Leith. His mind fumbled for an explanation. “He’s makin’ trouble for me over my new place that ain’t even finished yet, that’s all! Says he might take my license away, because he stopped at my other place last week and had some wrong beef for breakfast. Says it made him ill for two days.”

“Tsk, tsk,” replied Trott. “Unfortunate. That’s
never
happened here.” He paused. “And then he goes and treats you to an ale for all the misery you gave him! Forgiving man, I’d say.”

“Awh, he’s just a cockalorum, that’s why! Likes to see a bigger man squirm! If he weren’t a King’s man, I’d show ’im his place!”

“Hmmm,” replied Trott, his hands busy with his apron, “I’m sure you would. He wasn’t a miser when he boarded here a while back. Always generous with his money. But then it weren’t his money he was spending, was it? Moved his custom to the Saucy Maiden down the street. Sorry to see him go. Could keep a keen eye on him then.” Trott smiled vaguely at Leith. “Well, enjoy your ale, Mr. Leith. Is there anything else I can get for you? A serving of beef, perhaps? Local product, mind you, none of that stringy Smithfield hoof you had the misfortune of serving Mr. Pannell.”

Leith glared at the innkeeper. “I ain’t got the appetite, Trott. Oomph off.”

“Very well,” sighed Trott. He picked up Pannell’s untouched tankard and left.

Leith blinked, and turned to glance once at Trott’s retreating back. An odd feeling told him that he was close to remembering something he could give to Pannell. Something he had seen.

E
ARLY ONE CHILLY, MID
-O
CTOBER EVENING
R
EDMAGNE RETURNED FROM A
visit to Marvel and went directly to Skelly’s chamber. Skelly himself had the day before returned from a journey to Guernsey with a new stock of contraband, was busy scheduling deliveries to merchants, grocers and other tradesmen. Redmagne lay two newspapers on his friend’s desk, side by side, and pointed to the items he had circled in pencil. The man put his pipe aside, adjusted his spectacles and read them. An exquisite French porcelain clock ticked away the minutes. Skelly smiled after reading one of the items, and frowned when he finished the second. Then he sat back and pushed the papers away. “Call a meeting,” he said. “The men should know.”

“Is everyone here?” asked Redmagne.

“Most everyone,” said Skelly. “Mr. Claxon is out gathering some final information.”

The meeting was held in the dining hall. Redmagne chaired it. Skelly sat near Redmagne at the head of the table and let him speak. It was some hours after the evening meal, but Skelly instructed Elmo Tuck and Jack Frake to serve the men tankards of their favorite brews from the battery of casks and ankers that lined one wall. The smoky hall was alive with half a dozen conversations. Jack Frake stood near the spit and the kettles with Elmo Tuck and waited.

Redmagne rapped the table-top with the butt of his pistol. The men
ceased their talk and turned to him. He held up a newspaper, a copy of the
London Evening Auditor
. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I returned not two hours ago after purchasing this publication — ”

“Did you purchase it
before
or
after
calling on Dolly Fletcher?” asked one of the men. The whole hall laughed. Skelly grinned. Dolly Fletcher was the daughter of the mayor of Marvel, a staunch Whig and a spokesman for the “fair-traders” of the town. The affair between his daughter and the outlaw was known to almost everyone in the market town but the father, who thought that the charming man who sometimes sat down to tea with him was Brice Chandler, the son of a prosperous Bristol distiller.

“I shall never tell,” remarked Redmagne pleasantly. “The honor of his lordship the mayor may be irreparably impugned.” He laughed again with the men, then continued. “I hold here news of significant literary import,” he said. “Our letter was
printed
.”

The men exclaimed in surprise and delight. Weeks ago, Redmagne and the men had vigorously debated the issue of whether “God Save the King” or “Rule, Britannia” should be the country’s anthem. Redmagne managed to persuade the gang, first by argument, then, accompanying himself with a lute — for Redmagne could and often did sing and entertain the gang in the evenings — by performing each of the anthems, that the one was more appropriate than the other. He then composed a letter, made several copies of it, and posted it to a number of London newspapers.

The men clamored for Redmagne to read it. He folded the paper and read: “Sir: On the occasion of the late invasion of this country by the Young Pretender, and before the folly of attempting to revive a long-expired throne, buttressed by nothing but vanity and vaporous French support, was forcefully taught the Pretender at Culloden, the correspondent was disconcerted to hear ‘God Save the King’ sung with fervor, first by the cast and audience at Covent Garden last year (where he was privileged to be entertained by another of Mr. Handel’s splendid oratorios), then elsewhere throughout the nation. Far be it from the correspondent to discourage patriotism, but he was under the impression that Mr. James Thomson’s brisk, stirring ‘Rule, Britannia’ had the distinction of being our anthem, and not the nutmeggishly sweet musical apotheosis of a sovereign. We may be so bold as to further point out that the words of one anthem oppose those of the other. ‘Confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks,’ is quite a distinct sentiment from ‘Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame,’ and ‘Britons will never be slaves.’ It is more than idle tea-table conjecture which
compels this correspondent to ask: By what politics, or by what tricks, shall Britons
not
be slaves, and at the same time
not
disturb the precious repose of the sovereign? We must own that Parliament does well enough a job of ‘scattering’ the liberties of Britons without the King’s help! We would do well, in fact, to adopt instead an anthem for Parliament, with which that nest of ‘haughty tyrants’ could then smugly convene and adjourn its proceedings, and which would of necessity include the words, ‘Confound their liberties, belittle their miseries’.”

The men laughed and cheered when they heard the words of Skelly’s pledge parodied in the letter.

Redmagne grinned, and continued. “While we confess that the lyrics of ‘Rule, Britannia’ ever more seem to be about a nation we hardly recognize, they and their melody are still to be preferred over the servile, fawning well-wishing to a sovereign who is as insensible to our state of liberty as we Britons are to the polish of his shoe buckles or the luster of his chamber pot. If Britons are to be free, they should reconsider the import of each anthem, and choose either a psalm of supplication, or a celebration of pride. Your most devoted servant,
Skellicus
.”

Again the men cheered, and Redmagne handed the newspaper to one of the gang members to pass around. Skelly smiled and asked Tuck to serve the men another round of drinks. His visage was pleasant, but Jack Frake noted a glimmer of sadness in it.

“‘Skellicus’! Everybody knows who that’s supposed to be! Can you imagine the volume of hot correspondence ignited by that letter?” asked Chester Plume, the bookkeeper. “Why, the publisher might even be called to apologize in the Commons!”

“For printing someone else’s letter?” asked William Ayre, the former cattle drover. He was only a few years older than Richard Claxon, and was the gang-member still confused by the number and identity of Fredericks involved in the War of the Austrian Succession.

“They’ll think the publisher wrote it,” explained Plume. “They’ll do that, you know, just to stir up talk, and get up circulation and sales, and pretend others wrote it.”

Henry Naughton, Skelly’s pilot, rose and proposed a toast to Redmagne. “You never know when or where the Skelly gang will strike next!” he laughed. “At sea, on land, or on the front page!”

When the toast was completed, Redmagne held up a copy of another newspaper, the
Marvel Weekly Mercury
. His expression became serious.
The men knew that he had some sobering news to convey. He tapped the upheld paper with a finger. “On page one here you will see this large advertisement, in between the modest advertisement for Hutt’s Bookstore in Falmouth — the first in any of the West Counties, I should point out — and the barely readable one for the return of six cows missing from Mr. Moore’s pasture. It is the desire of His Majesty that the gentleman to my right” — he folded the newspaper and read from it “… surrender his person within forty days of the publication of this proclamation in the official
Gazette
, or within forty days of the publication of this proclamation in a public place in the vicinity of the subject’s depredations, for the purpose of attainting said offender of numerous capital and civil felonies. He shall forfeit his life for the same offenses should he surrender, or is apprehended, after the expiration of the term of this proclamation. Further, any person who either harbors or aids said offender after the expiration of said term, and is himself not found guilty of other felonies, capital or civil, shall be transported for seven years… ” He lowered the newspaper, and said, “That concludes the
billet-doux
from our sovereign.” Then he handed it to the man nearest him. “Please read it and pass it along, Mr. Greene, so that each of you may see with your own eyes.”

“You mean he’s asking Mr. Skelly to turn hisself in just to be turned off?” asked William Ayre.

“Yes, Mr. Ayre, that is precisely the import of the advertisement — which, I might add, was pressed upon Mr. Carveth, the publisher of the
Mercury
, over his strenuous objections, and did not, of course, require the usual one shilling stamp tax for advertisements.”

“But we already knew that,” remarked another gang-member. “There’s only three of us here who wouldn’t be hanged: Jack, Elmo and Mr. Claxon.”

“Oh, they’d be hanged,” said another. “Or they’d get such a sentence that they’d wish they was hanged.”

“It is a somewhat redundant but nonetheless sinister proclamation,” explained Redmagne. “However, the Gazetting Act was passed by Parliament, and, while it circumscribes what few legal protections we may have in the law courts, it carries the full force of law. Trust Mr. Pannell and his magistrates to speedily employ it. If apprehended, we will be long dead before some brave lawyer champions the charge that this perfidious act is unconstitutional.” Redmagne paused. “A copy of this proclamation has been posted by the bailiff on the doors of St. Brea’s in Gwynnford. Skelly asked that you be advised of the development.” He paused. “We are damned
men now, every one of us.”

His statement was answered with silence. The men knew it.

Skelly rose and addressed his men. “But — we will not grow desperate, will we? We will not stoop to the level of the Hawkhurst gang, and become brutes who taunt and torture the Revenue’s informers and lackeys. We will be moved by love of liberty, not by raw, insensible malice.”

The men said nothing.

“Well, gentlemen: will we? Or will we shame our likely captors with our dignity and the rightness of our cause?”

“Not without a fight,” growled Charles Ambrose, the former sergeant. Other men at the table echoed his protest.

“No,” agreed Skelly, “surely not without a fight! But neither with malice.” He laughed. “
We
are not common criminals,” he exclaimed. “It is the King and the Customs Board and Henoch Pannell who are the
desperate
men! They cannot bribe Britons to betray us, they cannot think hard enough to outwit us, and when the wind blows just a little foul and when the waves threaten to wet their woolens, they
will not
risk a bead of sweat to pursue us! So they prostitute the courts and the law to ensure our deaths. We shall not dignify these knaves with powerful hate, but spurn them with our contempt!”

This time it was Redmagne’s turn to propose a toast. He asked the men to rise and take up their tankards. “We, the condemned, salute Skelly, ourselves and our liberties!”

“Aye,” answered Charles Ambrose. “We
should
salute ourselves. No one else will.”

* * *

Two weeks later, in early November, Jack Frake came down from his watch on the hill above the caves to report the change. The soft evening rain had turned to snow and he beat his hat against his leg to shake off the drops. He went straight to Redmagne’s chamber to report the change in watch.

Redmagne, seated at his own desk, smiled strangely at him. He did not reply to the boy’s report, but said, instead, “It is finished.”

“What is?” asked Jack Frake.

Redmagne picked up a pile of paper from his desk and dropped it again. “
Hyperborea
.”

It was a novel based on the Greek myth of a race that worshipped Apollo and lived in a land of sunshine and plenty beyond the north wind, and related the adventures of Drury Trantham, the captain of a shipwrecked merchantman. It was Redmagne’s life’s work, begun after he joined the Skelly gang. It made him ashamed that he had ever written satires. In it he was trying something new in the novels of the period, a plot derived from the actions of the protagonists. He had often, in between smuggling runs, secluded himself in his chamber in the caves for days at a time to work on it, coming out only for meals.