Smuggler's Moon (33 page)

“Yes sir.” Yet Mr. Perkins delayed leaving. ”I wish you could see that moon up there tonight, Sir John—so big and round, so bright. It’s what we used to call, in the old days, a smuggler’s moon.”

“Well,” said Sir John, ”let us hope that after tonight they will call it a ‘magistrate’s moon.’”

Then, chuckling softly, Mr. Perkins did leave us, moving swiftly as he had come. Sir John turned in my direction.

“What do you suppose, Jeremy? Shall we triumph this night?”

”We would not be here if we were not sure of it, sir,” said I.

“True, but our lads are outnumbered.”

“So were we last night, yet we surprised them and took them proper.”

“I like your spirit, lad.”

Sir John’s plan, which he had earlier revealed to all, was simple as could be. As soon as the owlers were down on the beach, we would take positions along the high ground above, behind a natural rampart of sand. Once the boats from the smugglers’ ship, a cutter, had landed and were in process of discharging their cargo, the smugglers would make easy targets for us above. It is true that we were outnumbered, though not by so very many. It was true, too, that in any absolute sense the Carabineers were untried in battle, for according to Mr. Patley their duties in Jamaica had been largely ceremonial, but they had been well drilled and presumably knew how to handle their weapons.

Though I had half expected to load for Mr. Patley, as I had the night before atop the hackney coach, I was not at all surprised when Sir John requested that I remain with him. I knew that he felt I should be protected from possible harm both because of my age and my unofficial status; he may have praised my performance to Clarissa, yet he felt in general that I was too young to be involved in shooting circumstances; he used me only reluctantly.

So here we sat, Sir John and I, behind this low wall of sand, simply awaiting the arrival of a boat or boats from the ship. Though it was out well beyond the sandbar, a good half a mile away from the waterline, I could nevertheless make out its general outline in the bright moonlight. And I could certainly see a boat heading for the beach down that stream which cut through the sands. Yes, and there was another boat behind it, as well.

“There are two boats coming, sir,” said I.

”Well, we shall wait till both are ashore and unloading has begun.” ”Yes sir.”

“But keep me notified.”

That I promised to do and kept a careful eye upon the boat which led the way to shore. It was larger than that which had landed on our first meeting with the smugglers. This one, rowed by four men, would carry a considerable cargo of goods. I saw, too, that the one behind it was of the same size and design. It would not take many trips back to the mother-ship to empty her hold completely.

I looked left and right and saw—again in that bright moonlight—that all within sight were ready and a bit tense with waiting. I noticed something else: all of the constables were to my right, placed each to the next at a distance of thirty feet or a little less. To my left were six of the Carabineers, placed at the same rough distance, each to the next. Mr. Benjamin Bailey, captain of the Bow Street Runners, had assigned us our separate positions. He, of all people, must know what he was about, I told myself. Still, would it not have been better if the constables—and Sir John and I—had been mixed in among the untried Carabineers? All except myself were steady, confident men who might well stiffen the nerves of those off to my left, should resistance from below become unexpectedly fierce. Ah well, ‘twas not up to me to decide such matters.

“The first boat has landed, Sir John.”

“They’ve pulled it up on the beach, have they?”

“Yes sir—and now the second boat is in. They’re pulling it alongside the first.”

“They’re unloading them?”

“Just begun.”

“Well then,” said he, ”it is no doubt time to notify them of our presence.”

He raised himself up on his knees (for he would not dare to stand and offer those below so fine a target) and cleared
his throat. Then did he present his speech of the night before, repeating it near word for word. It was, of course, an appeal to surrender, yet it ended with a threat: ”If you resist or try to flee, you will be shot dead.”

There was wild laughter below. Yet they were not so disorganized as the drunken caravan guards of the night before. Immediately they sought the protection of the wagons. There must have been near twenty—nay, more—who scattered behind them in less than a minute. A man on horseback, whom I had taken previously to be the leader, rode from one to the next, shouting encouragement to his men. He dismounted behind the third wagon and sent his horse galloping, riderless, out toward the darkness at the north end of the beach (where, unbeknownst to them, Lieutenant Tabor and six of his troopers waited to ride down upon them). All that took place more or less simultaneous, but what soon became evident from all this hurly-burly and running about was that the owlers were determined to make a fight of it.

As best I could, I described this confused scene to Sir John as he nodded eagerly, taking it all in. He had but one question.

“Do you recognize the man on the horse?”

“No sir, I don’t,” said I. ”His hat’s pulled down, and his cape collar’s up. I can see naught of his face. And even if I could, he’s pretty far away.”

“Remember then how he was dressed,” said he. ”Keep an eye on him as things progress.”

“Yes sir.”

As he had the night before, Sir John gave to them the first shot—or shots, really, for they came in ragged succession—
pop-pop-pop
—so that it took near half a minute for the owlers to waste their bullets and wonder if they had had any effect. What was most plain from the shots which were fired was that they had not an inkling of where we were hid. Most of the shots—which were from pistols of no
great size—had hit the sand below us along the hill which led down to the beach. Still did Sir John withhold the order to fire. Soon I saw why. A minute passed, then more. Three or four heads popped up above the wagons and two exposed their whole bodies, stepping out from behind the tailgate of one of the wagons. One walked boldly from one wagon to view the hill above. There was uneasy laughter to be heard. Curiosity had made them incautious.

“Are they coming out yet?” Sir John asked in a whisper.

“They’re starting to do so.”

“Let us wait just a little longer.”

A full minute passed. I know that to be accurate, for I counted off each one of those sixty seconds. And during that time, more heads came up, and a growl of talk was heard amongst the owlers.

“Would you say now, Jeremy?”

“Yes sir. Now.”

“Fire!”

The volley from the nine muskets felled three, which I could plainly see. Yet I’m sure there were more—heads and shoulders, whole trunks, presented as targets which simply could not be missed. As many as a third of their number may have been hit by those first shots—and I told Sir John of it. Yet the survivors of that volley now knew our location, and balls from their pistols began digging holes in our barricade, spraying sand this way and that. Nevertheless, the effective range of a pistol is not very great, nor is it very accurate, and so, what they offered us was more in the nature of an annoyance than a danger.

The constables and the Carabineers then fired at will as targets presented themselves, but now, of course, targets presented themselves far more reluctantly than before. Heads were kept low; none ventured from behind the cover of the wagons. Would it continue so till morning? No. An indication that things were about to change came when, surprising us all, the flink pistol fired again and another
rocket was launched into the sky. When it exploded, it sent an even grander shower of fiery sparks out into the night. This was obviously a signal, yet a signal for what? After informing Sir John of this odd development, I waited for an answering rocket from the ship—but none came. What did it portend? Little good for us.

A goodly space of time passed before the rocket achieved the desired result. Indeed, I had quite forgotten it and was looking up the beach, wondering if Lieutenant Tabor and his men would ever join the fray—and if it would make any difference if they did. This I was pondering when, of a sudden, I heard a great boom, a whishing through the air, and a powerful thud not too far behind us. Good God, the smugglers’ cannon! I had quite forgot the cannonball that had been thrown our way but a week ago as we marched our prisoners up the hill.

Did I write ”the smugglers’ cannon” but a few lines past? It should have been writ ”the smugglers’ three cannon,” for if there be such a thing as a volley of cannon, we were then offered one from the ship. I was watching it closely (as close as the darkness permitted) when the side of it suddenly seemed to burst into flame. What I had seen, reader, were three good-sized cannon erupting simultaneous in powder and shot. Then came the great roar they made together, and the separate thuds—one which hit below and two directly on either side of our place behind the sand wall. If the pistol shots did little more than spray us with sand, the cannonballs fair drowned us in it. Sir John and I had it in our faces—our nostrils and mouths—so that we came up coughing and spitting out the gritty stuff. But Sir John quite amazed me, for it seemed that between coughs and spits, he was laughing! Not great guffaws, but mirthless chuckles of a sort that somehow said he was anticipating something quite jolly. It would have to be something very jolly indeed to make up for this.

A glance off to my left assured me that the King’s Carabineers
were certainly not amused. The trooper nearest us seemed to have taken in quite as much sand as Sir John and I—and swallowed deeper; the poor fellow was retching to rid himself of the stuff. But the one beyond him worried me more. I saw fear writ upon his face plain as if indelibly in ink. The next barrage, which fell farther to the left though no nearer, put him into such a state that he threw down his weapon, turned, and ran. To what destination I cannot be certain, nor could he; his only thought, I’m sure, was to be away.

Meanwhile, however, the shooting continued. The constables, as well as two or three of the Carabineers, kept up a steady fire down upon the owlers. Yet the latter, assuming we would be driven away soon by the cannonballs raining down upon us, did not even bother to return fire with their pistols. Thus we had achieved a sort of lopsided draw. It would only turn in our favor if Lieutenant Tabor committed himself and his six mounted troopers to the fight. Why did he hold back?

There was but one other possibility, and that one seemed now so dim and distant, a mere phantasy, so that I—

The sound of booming cannon came from a distance, though not a great one, as great fountains of water erupted all round the smugglers’ cutter. That possibility for which I’d hoped had suddenly become a probability! Another barrage from the mystery ship, and it hove into view flashing flame. My wish had been granted, my hope fulfilled: Black Jack Bilbo had made a most dramatic entrance.

“Sir John,” said I, ”I believe it’s Mr. Bilbo come to save us.”

“You believe so, do you? Well, it had better be him and not some other pirate.”

There was a flurry of disordered activity aboard the smugglers’ ship.

Seamen raced about the deck, attempting to weigh anchor while at the same time others were attempting to get
off one last shot from their cannon at us up on the hill. Rushed as they were, they aimed false and fired from the trough of a wave, utterly destroying one of the wagons on the beach and wounding, perhaps killing, a number of those who had sought cover behind it.

But now at least the ship was free, anchor aweigh, able to attempt an escape from a larger, potentially faster ship, one that had them outgunned (I later learned) thirteen cannon to seven. It wouldn’t be easy, though it might be possible. The captain of the smugglers’ ship tried a daring maneuver, tacking into a light wind and proceeding parallel to the sandbar. In such a way, he might just manage an escape.

But Mr. Bilbo was not to be so easily outdone. He, too, threw the
Indian Princess
into the wind, duplicating the same maneuver the smaller ship had performed with such swift grace. At the same time, his gun crews made ready to fire once again. When the two were parallel, side by side at a distance of no more than a hundred and fifty feet, Mr. Bilbo gave the order to fire and, well aimed, the cannon-balls burst through the rigging, bringing sails down and snapping the main mast. The smugglers’ ship was doomed.

An audible groan was heard from the owlers. They had left the shelter of the wagons and lined the beach in order to watch the action in the Channel waters. What were they to do? Must they surrender?

Mr. Bilbo’s
Indian Princess
was now alongside its half-destroyed victim, which floated dead in the water. Grappling hooks were thrown. Men leapt and swung across to the smaller ship. The rattle of small-arms fire swept across the water to us. It seemed now that all would be over in a few minutes’ time.

All this I had described to Sir John as it was happening. And at this point I had a surprise for him.

“You may not credit this, Sir John,” said I to him, ”but
Lieutenant Tabor is now riding down upon the owlers to demand their surrender.”

“At last, eh?”

“Indeed, he—” I broke off sudden, for I had seen something that disturbed me. ”Sir, the man you told me to watch—the one who was on horseback—he seems to be getting away.”

And indeed he did! He had moved stealthily through the clustered owlers, seeking the darkness at the south end of the beach. He blended in well with the rest. He might well be gone before his absence was noted.

“Then after him, Jeremy,” said Sir John. ”Shoot him in the leg, if necessary, but you must not let him escape!”

That was all that I needed to hear. I was up and over our sand wall and running down the hill of sand so swiftly that it seemed for a moment or two that I must tumble heels over head to the bottom of it. I went fast as I could then, close behind him but aiming at a point ahead where our paths would intersect. He was in no wise capable of besting me in such a footrace. He must have known that, for when I was close, he suddenly stopped, threw back his cape, and drew a pistol. My momentum carried me all too near: He could hardly miss at such a space. What was I to do?