Taking Liberties (30 page)

She bit her lip in order not to cry with gratitude. ‘Damn the war,' she said. ‘You keep yourself safe now.'

‘All war is damned,' he said, ‘but America will win this one.'

While he and his men transferred contraband from
La Petite Margot
to the tunnel in the Pomeroy's well that ran upwards to an underground room, Makepeace, Sanders and Mrs Hallewell cleared up, watched by Zack and Mr Spettigue.

‘What will you do now, Mrs Hallewell?' Spettigue asked her.

‘I don't rightly know, sir. I want to get back to my little cottage with the children, I never liked inn life, not even as a girl. I'd sell 'un, but who'd buy ut like 'tis? Nobody in the village do want the work yet ut's got to stay in safe hands, as you well know.'

Spettigue glanced at Makepeace. ‘I was going to suggest you keep the licence, ma'am, and take in paying guests.'

‘Oh no, Mr Spettigue, I couldn't cope with 'un—'

‘
Working
paying guests,' Makepeace said. ‘Just for a while, to see how we all get on.'

‘You, Mrs Hedley?'

‘Me, Mrs Hallewell.'

Mrs Hallewell smiled for the first time that day. ‘Reckon I could manage that,' she said.

 
The return journey from Babbs Cove to Plymouth was made through a countryside replete with golden evening sunshine and, on Makepeace's part, a feeling of achievement and therefore happiness. She had approved of and been approved by Babbs Cove. Arrangements were in place and a letter was on its way to Andra.

At his house, Mr Spettigue left her and she was driven on, more contented than she had been in weeks.

It was dark by the time the coach pulled up outside the Prince George; men were playing bowls outside it by the light of flares, watched by customers sitting on the benches under the trees.

Beasley had been waiting for her and when she glimpsed his face, she said: ‘What is it?'

‘Don't unhitch the horses, Peter,' he told Sanders. ‘Let 'em drink and then come upstairs, we've got to go out again.'

‘What is it?'

‘Upstairs.'

Philippa was waiting for them in her bedroom, her face as pale as Beasley's.

‘What
is
it?'

‘Josh. He's going to escape tonight.'

‘Josh,' she repeated. ‘Tonight.'

‘Yes. Jesus, I thought you'd never get back in time. We need the coach.'

Philippa thrust a piece of wood towards her mother. ‘He gave us this. Well, John bought it. There was hardly a chance to talk to him. That militiaman, the horrible one, he was there and—'

Makepeace held up a hand. ‘When is all this happening?'

‘Tonight, I tell you. Half after eleven.'

‘What's the time now?'

‘Nearly ten.'

She took off her cloak and sat down on the bed, then made them sit down as well. ‘Tell me.'

The two of them had attended the Sunday market as arranged. Josh was in his usual place next door to the cider stall and so had been Makepeace's
bête noire
, the militiaman. They had been extra careful because, they said, this time the militiaman had been more vigilant than usual.

‘He was watching Josh all the time, wasn't he, John?'

Beasley nodded. ‘Didn't take his eyes off him.'

‘He may have been waiting for you to turn up, Mama, but he definitely suspected something.'

So they had wandered through the market for an hour before approaching Josh and even then Beasley had done so alone, in case the militiaman remembered seeing Philippa with her mother. ‘And the moment I went up to him, Josh slipped that onto the stall.'

That
was another wooden picture of an inn, this time only vaguely reminiscent of the Roaring Meg, the same background of sea but a different shape, a flatter roof with only one chimney, and the building outlined as if by a halo.

Beasley went on: ‘Josh said: “Buy this, sir, and you can sit and look at it tonight.” And he said “tonight” again and wanted to tell me something else but at that moment the militia bastard leaned over and took it out of my hand and insulted Josh, asking why he kept painting trash like that.'

‘Did he actually say he was making a break for it?' Time, like Beasley, was running on and she'd still no idea from what part of Millbay's extensive perimeter Josh would make his escape. So far she'd heard nothing to convince her that he
would
make it.

Beasley expired. ‘He couldn't, could he? That fellow was listening to every word.'

‘So you bought the picture.'

‘The bastard let me buy it in the end—and kept the money.'

‘Did Josh say anything else?'

‘He said I was to pay particular attention to the seagulls, he thought he'd drawn the path of their flight particularly well.'

Makepeace looked at the picture again. Two seagulls were depicted flying away from the chimney. They were nice seagulls, but she couldn't see anything special about them. She was having trouble throwing off her contentment at the day's achievements and was unreceptive to an excitement for which she could see little cause. Beasley and Philippa had lathered themselves into nervousness, Beasley particularly, through their imaginations.

‘And that's all?' she asked.

‘We came away then and—'

‘But
I
was going to get Josh out.' She wasn't ready for it, preparations would have to be made, Spettigue alerted—Josh would have to wait for her.

Beasley was getting angry. ‘How? How were you going to? We haven't access to the prison itself. That boy can't pick and choose his time, he's got to take an opportunity when it presents—and that's tonight.'

‘How do you know?'

Philippa gave a push at the painting. ‘Look, Mama. It's a map. Josh has drawn us a map. This outline is the road that runs round the prison, it's exact, we walked it afterwards, didn't we, John?'

‘Don't ask me, ask your mother, she knows everything.' He roused himself from a sulk. ‘Listen, Missus, that house he's drawn is the same shape as Millbay Prison, it's even in proportion. The only difference is the chimney. The perimeter wall is rectangular and smooth, it doesn't have a protuberance anywhere. The chimney on the picture marks the point where Josh will make his exit over the wall or through it or under it or whatever he's going to do.'

He fell back on the bed, exhausted by explanation, then sat up. ‘We've been studying the painting all afternoon and Philippa worked all this out; she's a clever girl, our Pippy.'

‘We went to the place indicated by the chimney, Mama. It is ideally suited. There's a copse on the other side of the road from the prison and beyond the copse is a cart track that connects with the road further down. We can wait there with the coach.'

Oh no, we can't, Makepeace thought. Whatever happened tonight, Philippa was not going to be involved in it. Aloud, she asked: ‘How do you know the time?'

‘Look at the bloody picture, woman.'

She looked closer. The inn had a sign outside it showing a clock face, tiny letters at the bottom of the sign read: ‘The Clock' as if that was the name of the inn. The hands of the clock stood at half past eleven.

A knock on the door announced the arrival of Sanders. Beasley and Philippa began their tale over again. Listening to it a second time, Makepeace began to give it credence.

She interrupted only once. ‘
Them?
Why do you say we will be waiting for
them?
'

‘Two seagulls, Mama,' Philippa said, calmly. ‘Josh never does anything without a reason. There'll be two of them making the escape.'

What an extraordinary child she is; she flounders me.

Makepeace took in a breath. ‘You are not coming, Pippy.'

‘I am.'

‘You've been in more than enough danger this year, I am not taking you into more.' She saw the girl's resentment at being denied an adventure which, after all, she'd had the wit to decipher. I am being overbearing, she thought, but I can't help it—I will not risk her again. ‘Where is Dell?'

‘We told her to go to bed. Pip didn't want to involve her in this.'

One blessing.

She turned to Sanders, the only one among the four of them who could drive a coach. ‘Peter, if anything goes wrong . . . I'll take responsibility, say you didn't know my intention, but it's right you should know it may be dangerous.'

‘All right, Missus.' She had given him no option; he wasn't best pleased, she could see. But neither am I, she thought.

That left Beasley. ‘I want you to stay with Philippa,' she said. ‘If it does go wrong, there must be somebody who can call on lawyers, tell Oliver, whatever needs doing.'

He protested, blustering, but he was relieved, bless him; so brave in his principles, so afraid of physical risk.

She hated this; she liked matters planned, details worked out, not rushing unprepared into she-didn't-know-what. Food, Josh would need food. No time for any to be sent up. Clothes, he'd need clothes, maybe bandages . . .

Giving continual instructions, she began throwing things into her valise, then thought how suspicious it would look to be seen carrying it to the coach, then decided that it wouldn't if Sanders carried it, as if she were going to stay overnight somewhere.

In the end, she said: ‘Oh, come on,' grabbed Sanders by the arm and rushed him out of the room, leaving Beasley and Philippa staring after them.

They had no trouble in finding Josh's ‘chimney', a thick little wood of beeches and bramble opposite the north wall of the prison and divided from it by a wide road that ran east and west.

Entering the cart track that went behind the copse was another matter. At this time of night the road was busy with traffic heading for Dock as officers and men who'd been roistering in Plymouth went back to their vessels.

‘We don't want to be seen going into the track,' Makepeace called to Sanders. As far as she could judge it led only to a farm and, in her inflamed state of mind, decided that a coach seen disappearing up it would attract suspicion.

Four times Sanders slowed his horses as they reached the track's entrance and four times she shouted at him to drive on because another coach, a carriage and, on the third occasion, a group of drunken sailors on foot, was either approaching or coming up behind them, an inconvenience that each time entailed Sanders having to drive nearly a quarter of a mile before finding a place with enough space to turn.

Eventually, Makepeace heard him say: ‘Gor dang it,' and direct his team into the track in full view of a pair of passing horsemen who stared at them.

It was dark behind the wood. The coach rocked as it encountered ruts, its lamps bouncing light off an overgrown hedge to the left and pale, graceful tree trunks on the right. The smell from beyond the hedge suggested the site of a pig farm but, if there was a house, its occupants had gone to bed.

‘Are we facing Plymouth?'

‘Yes, Missus.'

‘Can we get out to the road this way?'

They investigated, found that they could—the track formed an arc—and returned to the coach. ‘You stay here then, Peter. I'll go into the trees and watch the wall.'

He glanced at the ghostly beeches. ‘You don't want to be alone in there, Missus.'

‘Don't be ridiculous. Stay here and get ready to leave in a hurry.'

‘All right, Missus. Where'll we go?'

‘Babbs Cove.'

‘Horses are tired. They'll need a rest.'

‘They're resting, aren't they? What's the time?'

He fumbled in his coat and brought out a timepiece, holding it to the lamps. ‘Just after eleven.'

She set off into the copse and almost immediately had to come out again, ripping her skirts away from the brambles that made progress impossible. In any case, it was too dark in there to see her way. A vestige of moon enabled her to stumble along the track until she saw in front of her the dried mud of the road making a pale, wide ribbon with verges on either side. She stepped under a tree, peering through beech branches at the prison wall some twenty-five yards away.

The road was still busy and her view kept being blocked by traffic.

The wall was high; moonlight glinted on broken glass set into its top. Some way beyond it, she could just see the roofs of buildings like long boxes outlined by light that came from much further off, by the entrance gates. The boxes were in darkness. Did they shut the poor boys up without light?

The miasma of the prison's stink overpowered the freshness of earth and of the beech leaves among which she stood. Passing horses added a contribution to it, leaving a momentary and much more pleasant smell of their manure.

Two disembodied beams of light bobbed along the top of the wall, like marsh spirits, each coming from opposite directions. As they crossed, she heard an exchange of voices.

Guards. With lanterns. Guards were patrolling inside the perimeter. Did Josh know that? Shut up in his box, would he know that?

From the direction of Plymouth came the sound of church clocks striking the quarter past in counterpoint. She began to count. She'd reached three hundred when the lights appeared, bobbed and crossed again. Five minutes. The guards crossed that point every five minutes.

On this still night a breeze kept trembling the leaves she peered through. When she took her hand off the branch they stopped shaking.

The number of horsemen, coaches and carriages on the road began to decline; the good little Cinderellas of the Royal Navy had to be home by midnight. She watched a figure coming up the road from the Plymouth direction at stumbling run. Hurry up, you'll turn into a pumpkin. Then she saw it was John Beasley.