Smuggler's Moon (30 page)

The first wagon had come to a halt so close to our team-less hackney that we could hear its occupants discuss this
peculiar situation as they might a felled tree in their path or a flooded river.

“Here, now,” said the driver, who seemed the most sober of all, ”what’s this large thing blockin’ our way? Looks like a coach, so it does.”

“Where?”

“Let’s see.”

“Right up yonder it is.”

“I be damned if you an’t right. It does look like a coach for fair, don’t it?”

By then, all in the wagon were up from the wagon bed and looking at the hackney. One or two had bottles in hand, others pistols; some simply stood empty-handed and stared. There was general agreement among them that what stood before them, blocking their way, was a coach.

“But where’s the team of horses that brought it there? How did it get there?”

“And why did they leave it—that’s what I’d like to know.”

“Well, I’d like to know, too,” said the driver in a manner which seemed to be intended to put an end to such useless commentary. ”But one thing I’m certain about. A couple of you—or maybe it’ll take four—better climb down and move that thing because I can’t get around it on either side. Trees are too thick and close to the road. Just push it over into the ditch, which is where it ought to be anyways.”

The six or eight in the wagon set to arguing amongst themselves as to which of them were to push our hackney off the road. Having worked it out at last amongst themselves, the designated four clambered down from the wagon. Just at that moment a voice sounded forth deep and loud from among the trees; we recognized it in an instant as Sir John’s.

“I am Sir John Fielding. I hold an appointment as magistrate of Deal. I order you to lay down your arms and climb down from your wagons with your hands raised, for
you are all under arrest by my order. If you resist, or attempt to flee, you will be shot dead. This is your one and final order.”

The driver of the wagon jumped down immediately and threw his hands up into the air. The four, who were at that moment the most exposed, looked wildly about. The others stood rooted in the wagon.

“Who was it? The magistrate? I thought he was kilt.”

“Where’d that voice come from?”

“That copse of trees behind the coach.”

Having heard that, one of the four drew his pistol from his belt and fired blindly at the trees. Mr. Patley returned fire, and the shooter fell dead. Then did all seem to happen quite simultaneous.

Patley passed the musket he had just discharged to me and took up the other. I set about to load the empty gun. Those in the wagon began firing up at us with their pistols; all shots flew overhead, save one which hit the valise with a
thunk.
Patley fired again and another dropped. I passed him the weapon I had just loaded.

But then—most alarming—we heard scrambling below and realized that three of the original four were below attempting to scale the coach with the intention of murdering us. I grabbed my pistols whence I had stored them, rolled over to the edge of the coach roof, and came face to face with an ugly owler; his pistol was half up, yet before he could discharge it, I brought mine down upon his crown, barrel-first, knocking him senseless. His eyes rolled in his head; he fell to the ground, knocking another down beneath him. I fired down at the sprawl, unsure which I had hit, nor whether I had hit either. Then, with my second pistol in hand, I looked about for the remaining villain. I found him behind me at the far side of the coach roof with his knee up and a pistol in his hand. Taking care to aim, I fired my own at him, and he fell back out of sight; I heard a thump as he hit the ground.

Then was all suddenly, deafeningly silent. Only the restive horses stomped and whinnied.

I saw Mr. Patley rise slowly to his knees from behind our makeshift rampart, his musket at the ready. I followed him up and set about purposefully loading my pistols. Before me and below, there were four men with their hands upraised. In the open wagon I could see one stretched horizontal across the floor—dead or badly wounded—and another close by, certainly dead. I could not be certain about the three at the foot of the hackney; whether they were alive or dead I knew not but would soon discover.

Then did Sir John’s voice boom out once again: ”Gentlemen, please make your reports. Mr. Perkins?”

“Two prisoners, sir.”

“Mr. Bailey?”

“Two prisoners.”

“Mr. Patley?”

“Four prisoners and two dead. Three are not yet accounted for.”

“Jeremy? Are you all right?”

Before I could open my mouth to give assurances, Mr. Patley sang forth: ”Jeremy’s better than all right, Sir John. The lad’s a proper soldier.”

“All good news then?”

“Not quite,” Mr. Perkins called out. ”There were four wagons. The last of them got turned round and took off down the road they came up.”

“We’ll leave them to the Carabineers,” said Sir John. ”They’ve contributed naught so far to this operation, save for their presumed presence down the hill. And if we find that cocky young lieutenant has let that wagon get through and escape, I shall twist his ear for him.”

Reader, I hasten to add that Sir John was speaking in jest.

TEN

In which the
decisive battle
is fought and won

M
r. Patley managed to embarrass me with his description of my part in the battle at the crossroads. ”Not only did he load for me,” said he to all, ”he guarded my arse like it was the King’s own. Kilt three of them, as I believe.” I’m glad to say that he was wrong about that: I killed no one, though I wounded two. This we discovered in our final accounting, as we herded the prisoners into the open wagon, hands tied behind their backs. Him I had shot last had to be lifted with care onto the floor of the wagon, nor could he be tied, as the others were; yet so weak was he from the shoulder wound I had given him that he could scarce move there in the wagon bed. It did not please me to look upon him thus—though he would have happily murdered us, had I but given him the chance.

Included in that group of prisoners loaded into the open wagon were two taken by the King’s Carabineers from that
fourth wagon which had turned about and run, thinking to flee whilst our attention was elsewhere. Yet just as Sir John had predicted, they were caught and brought back by Lieutenant Tabor and his men.

All were together now, and ready to travel. Mr. Perkins drove the open wagon, and constables Bailey and Patley sat at either end, guarding the prisoners. Three of Lieutenant Tabor’s troopers drove the remaining wagons, and we—Sir John and I—rode back to Deal in Mick Crawly’s hackney coach. We went in caravan, Mr. Crawly leading the way, obviously relieved that neither his coach, nor his horses, had suffered a scratch during the encounter. All this took time, of course. It was about two o’clock when we set out on our return journey. Knowing that it would be near an hour before we reached Deal, I thought to learn more from Sir John of what lay ahead. I had, for instance, no notion of where, precisely, we were headed. Nor did I know what next he might be contemplating. To these and other like questions I hoped to learn the answer, and I was bold enough to believe that because of my conduct under fire (as it were) I was entitled to them. Vain expectation!

Once we were underway, I put that first question to him in the manner of a helpful warning. ”I do hope, Sir John,” said I, ”that you do not intend to install all these prisoners at the inn. They would be easily rescued from there. Do, please, remember what happened when last prisoners were locked up there.”

“I am not likely to forget, Jeremy,” said he to me. ”And in answer to your question, no, I do not intend to install them there.”

“Well … where then?”

“That you will learn in due course. You acquitted yourself well on this night. You must be tired. Why not take a rest? That is what I intend.”

So saying, he folded his arms over his capacious belly,
leaned back in his corner of the seat, and made ready to doze.

“Am I to be the only one among us all who does not know where we are headed?” I asked in frustration.

“Oh, by no means,” said he, ”I’m sure our prisoners have no inkling of our destination.”

I could but sit in silence, musing upon the events of the night, rehearsing over and over again in my mind that minute (or hardly more) in which all the shots were fired and all the damage done. What I had seen and done in that time repeated dreamlike until at last, lulled by the rocking of the coach, I fell into a dreamless sleep. Whether or not Sir John truly slept during that time I cannot say.

Just as the movement of the coach had put me to sleep, its cessation roused me: the sudden loss of motion brought me up and out of my seat, blinking in the dark, attempting to see where we had stopped.

“Calm yourself, Jeremy,” urged Sir John. ”We have arrived. Now you’ll have the answer to the question that so plagued you.”

Indeed I did. The site beyond the window was lit well enough for me to see it exact—and I did truly recognize it, for I had been there only hours before. I was looking at the arched entry into Deal Castle just as the last of the smugglers’ wagons, filled with contraband goods, disappeared inside.

A knock came upon the door at the far side of the coach. I slid across the seat and threw it open. There stood Dick Dickens, appearing far more eager and energetic than I felt at that moment.

“Sir John!” said he in an enthusiastic manner which well matched his bright appearance.

“Is it you, Mr. Dickens?” responded Sir John.

“It is, sir, and I see that all went as you wished.”

“Not quite all, there were two dead and two wounded among the smugglers, and I would not have wished that.
But in the main, I would say that our operation was a success. But tell me, are you ready for us?”

“Just as I said when last we talked. I can supply storage space for the goods in the wagons. And Deal Castle, like any such, has a place for prisoners.”

“A proper dungeon, eh?” asked Sir John. ”You needn’t keep them in comfort.”

“They’ll find little of it here.”

“Good. I want them good and miserable when I come to question them. But what about the problem of the wagons and the horses? Have you solved that?”

“Yes, I’m sure we have. Once we get the wagons unloaded, I’ll have four of my men take them out to a farm outside of town. The owner is someone I trust, and he’s agreed to store the wagons as long as necessary and feed the horses with his own as well.”

“Can you get them out there before daylight? All this must be done in secret, just as I’ve said. I’ll need about twenty-four hours.”

“Oh yes. Believe me, sir, it is also in my interest that all this be kept utterly quiet. If George Eccles should get wind of this …”

“We’re in complete agreement then,” said Sir John, offering his hand. ”Look for me back here sometime toward noon.”

Mr. Dickens clasped it with his own and gave it a firm shake.

“Till then, sir,” said he.

With that, he shut the coach door, and with a word to Mick Crawly, he sent us off to Middle Street.

“Do you trust him?” I asked Sir John, putting it to him bluntly.

“Yes, I do,” said he. ”He has proven himself many times over. You see, Jeremy, he used this long period of inactivity to put into operation a truly formidable intelligence system. He can tell you whoever in Deal is involved in the
smuggling trade—and to what extent. If I were asked—and I may be—who should have George Eccles job, I would say it should be Dick Dickens.”

“This in spite of his criminal past?”

“People change, Jeremy. Oliver Perkins changed, as you well know. And I have heard from him that Mr. Dickens’s story is even more dramatic than his own.”

“Oh?” said I—ever the skeptic at that time of my life.

“And how was that?”

“Well, it seems that whilst he was in Newgate, awaiting trial for violation of the excise laws—that is, for smuggling—he managed to write a letter and get it smuggled out and delivered.”

“That was bold of him,” said I.

“Far bolder than you think, for the letter was written and delivered to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. And boldest of all was its content, for in the letter, Dickens set about criticizing the mode of policing our coasts against smuggling. Not only did he tell him what was wrong, he took it upon himself to tell the Chancellor how it might be put right. The remarkable thing was that what Dickens put forth was all quite practical and helpful. He went so far as to suggest that there were other matters he would communicate,
if given the chance.
”

I laughed aloud at that, so taken was I by the fellow’s audacity.

“He was, in effect, asking for a pardon,” said I.

“It would seem so, wouldn’t it? In any case, he got it—though not immediately. First the Chancellor of the Exchequer wanted to look him over. He had Dickens brought to him, and he found that he liked a number of things about him—his cheek, first of all; though more than that, he liked his direct, plainspoken manner; and lastly, he liked his youth, for when all this took place, Dick Dickens was but a few years older than you are now. So he made an arrangement with the Lord Chief Justice—not Lord Mansfield, but
his predecessor—and had him released into his custody. No pardon was necessary, for Dickens had not yet been tried, though the result was the same. He enlisted him in the Customs Service, put many of his suggestions into practice, then promptly forgot about him. Dickens rose in the service, was given positions of trust and command, and finally was made Customs Officer for Deal. George Eccles secured his post through preferment at about the same time, and almost immediately the two fell into conflict. Eccles tied Dickens’s hands, just as he did the rest of his officers up and down the coast. And so, unable to operate on his own, Dickens put together a formidable intelligence network. He had made this known to Albert Sarton, and the two were beginning to work together when I made my entrance.”