by Jan Needle
There was no drummer on the Biter, no soldiers, no one at all to beat to quarters or instil a fearful discipline in the crew, while Jem Taylor, boatswain, had an altogether lighter touch than Bentley thought was necessary in that office. At first light, when he and Sam arose, there were men abroad but only two or three, and no smoke was issuing from Geoff Raper’s cookstove chimney. Will looked to Sam for a lead, but Sam only spread his hands, then stared downriver to the east, where the sun was rising in a red and livid sky streaked with thin woolly cloud. The rain was gone, but the wind was chill and gusty. As it hit the cordage it raised a throaty hum during the harder gusts; the Biter moved uneasily on her warps.
“Due west,” said Sam. “High water in six hours, so we’ll slip in four is my guess. In the Downs by soon enough, and meet our fate. And here on board? The snores of drunks, and ’tween decks a fug of fart-gas. Hurrah for the King’s Navee!”
“Aye, but will we meet it? Is Kaye on board yet, and won’t we be too late? He hinted yesterday he knew where and when we’d see some useful action. Won’t that have passed us by?”
Sam did not think so. More like, he thought, Lieutenant Kaye had had more intelligence from his spies, or had merely said they’d sail at midnight to keep his people up to snuff. By this time they had reached the rail, and there was the captain’s dandy skiff, bearing down on them.
“Likely he’ll tell us over breakfast,” Sam added, with a laugh. “Slack Dickie likes to share his information, don’t he?”
They did breakfast with Kaye — a surprise for William, who had forgotten such a thing could happen on this strange and sloppy ship — but he proved Sam’s jest in almost every point. He made no comment on the weather, when Sam ventured it would serve their purpose well, he was non-committal when Gunning poked his head in to ask how many of the boats should come on board before they slipped, and he showed emotion only when Black Bob dropped a dish of chops, then not enough to clout him as he clearly wished to. He looked wan and tired, as if he had been drinking nights away, or whoring like a common sailorman, or maybe doing both.
Gunning was not invited to the breakfast, which did seem strange, but Gunning clearly had a certain knowledge of the Biter’s plan. Out on the deck they heard the constant yell and clatter as the seamen readied her, and above their heads feet stamped from time to time. The company at table — the fourth man was the tortured “spy” — sat almost silent for the most of it, riven with embarrassment that passed only the captain by. Kaye ate with a dogged lack of enjoyment though, drinking from a pewter can of wine that Bob replenished frequently. The other three were offered but declined, taking their boldness from Sam Holt, who did not seem to fear to give offence. Will found himself casting back to other breakfasts, other meals, when streams of information would have been forthcoming. His Uncle Daniel would have told them the strategy in every detail, demanding comment and reaction, to be appreciated or dismissed. This man, if he had a strategy, kept it to himself as if his two executives did in no wise need to know, even in the barest outline. William found this despicable.
The “spy,” Lieutenant Kershaw (sick and hurt), did make one attempt for information. This was unexpected, but perhaps, thought Will, he had been briefed by Daniel Swift. Whatever else he was on board for, one task was to aid in pilotage and navigation if it were needed, with the proviso he should do it privily. But Kaye was having none of it at all.
Kershaw said, “Captain, if I could… on the trip downstream… These waters, to me, are — ”
Kaye, on the instant, snorted like a rutting pig, and dismissed the supernumerary with a scornful wave. His features, pasty and arrogant, turned to him then slid off, and he shouted to Black Bob to bring him bread.
Later, as they moved downriver in the fierce, cold breeze, Kaye took the windward quarterdeck like a proper man, and cast a sulky eye upon proceedings which, however, carried on with little thanks to him. Gunning, at the con, stood heavy and four-square in a great serge coat, with one of his own non-Navy men on the helm. His own men, likewise, were at the sheets and braces, dressed less heavily than their master but equally at their ease, as familiar as bargemen with the crowded narrow water they were slipping down. The traffic coming up was not so heavy, naturally, as most square-rigged vessels could not attempt it with the wind and tide both hard against them, but fore-and-afters were plentiful enough, the ebb not yet running full, to need avoiding action pretty regular. But Biter was not fully canvased, sailing staid and easy under topsails only, so there were no alarms.
The midshipmen, once she had slipped and gone, went to the waist to oversee the Navy men getting ready for the fray ahead. This was not done by order from the captain either, but by custom and practice known to Holt, conveyed to Bentley. The contrast with Swift again struck as acute, for Kaye’s method appeared to be to take no active part in anything, whereas his uncle had controlled the smallest particle with a grip of iron. When this complete indifference led the “proper man” to go below Sam found it funny, but Will was less amused. According to his uncle, he was meant to bring Kaye up; a thought to conjure with indeed, but not, mayhap, to understand or to believe in.
The Navy seamen, all rated able, plus Jem Taylor and his mate Eaton, a ginger shockhead from northern Kent, seemed likewise to operate without the need for supervision from above. They had all been drunk the night before, had fought desultorily with Gunning’s crew, but all looked little worse for wear. They needed Sam to produce and turn the keys to the weapons store and powder room, and William to mark down in the ledger the pistols, muskets and cutlasses that were issued, but for nothing more. Taylor and Eaton then took them off, divided them, and set about checks and issues that went off with great efficiency. Before much time elapsed, Will fell to looking out across the estuarial lands and mudbanks of the lower Thames, a flat and boring landscape to his Hampshire eyes, whose villages and stunted townships struck him as chill and sad. The weather did not help, for it was blowing strongly from a sky increasing overcast, which churned the brown waters of the river into dingy whitecaps that piled up on the growing mudflats to make thick rolls and banks of coffee-coloured foam that broke and flew in dirty chunks to every harder gust. Nor was the grass a stark and lovely green like grass at home, but pale and yellowish, sparse near the water’s edge, and coarse. And out towards the sea, a long, low grey horizon, isles like Grain and Sheppey, more mud and a choppy vista of grey-brown water, its surface massed with coasting boats and fishermen, dotted with bigger ships anchored or snugged down to wait the tide and possibly a fairer wind.
“God,” he said to Samuel, “so many sail. It seems impossible we have to tear men off them to fill so few. It seems impossible we cannot just…”
“What? Range up alongside of them and ask for any spare? Good chance of that, they fight like tigers to prevent the loss of one drunk cripple. God knows why. Their lordships might not pay so good but the food’s a damn sight better and more of it, and we’ve got twenty men to hand a sail when they’ve got one or two.” His lips took an ironic turn. “Maybe it’s getting home to hearth and wife more than once in every two years or three, and shore furlough to drink and shag and other soft ideas like that!”
Almost without them noticing, Kershaw had drifted down on them, just forward of the quarterdeck at the weather rail. They had seen him earlier with the lieutenant — near but not with, for he was tentative and totally ignored — but no active movement in their direction had been discerned. Yet here he was, a yard from Samuel, and to add to their surprise, he spoke.
“The master sails her well,” he said, “and knows the river. I too have some little knowledge which I could impart, of buoys and markers and the shoals.” He looked at Bentley, not exactly boldly, but with an unexpected hardness in his eye. “I would hesitate to say so, but your uncle might expect it of me, sir.”
Before he answered, William considered. He was back at sea, the die was cast, and if he was to get along, it were better it was quickly. On Welfare he had begun to learn the rudimen
ts, and could take a noon sight as well as any other fourteen-year-old on board, although his theory was deplorable. But fourteen now was many years astern, and he had to learn, and cram, and pass for a lieutenant or his life would be unbearable. He had a vision of more men like Richard Kaye as his commanders, or worse, more men like his uncle. Yet Kershaw was his uncles placeman, and he despised him still. He should make use of him if possible, but it would be a wrench.
Sam Holt was not so nice, it seemed. He smiled easily at the sick and hurt lieutenant, and pointed to a withy on the larboard bow. It was divided at the top, a short branch and a long.
“I’ll listen, Mr Kershaw, and that right happily,” he said. “I’ve marked that Gunning goes sometimes to one side of these forked affairs, and sometimes the other. Are they showing middle ground, or do we not hit by luck? I asked him once but he just smirked at me.”
“He knows the bottom hereabouts,” Kershaw replied. “He knows the state of tide. That forked one’s not a middle ground, but it marks a channel that divides. Going downriver as we are, on a falling tide, it should be left to larboard, as he does. If he’s left ones like it on the other side I guess it’s been high water, or near the top of flood. Withies need special care, though. Without full knowledge, or a pilot, they can lead you hard aground. Now, see that buoy ahead? That is a safer mark, for it tells you which side to pass.”
He taught for near an hour, until the hands were piped to supper. He seemed to tire easy, though, and his exposition went rapidly awry after a certain point. He felt the cold quite oddly, too, for despite his heavy coat he began to shiver long before the younger men were aware of any small discomfort, his one eye watering. It was the end of summer and the breeze was brisk, but it was astern of them and from the western quarter, and hardly freezing. Soon he fell silent, then slunk away — or rather, drifted wraithlike, much as he had joined them earlier. He had quarters near them, a small berth partitioned off, and he collected some biscuit and a pan of coffee from the cook, more like a common seaman than a supernumerary, and went below with it. Lieutenant Kaye was still off the deck, though Gunning had not moved.
“Do we eat alone?” said Will. “Or is there a standing invite in the cabin? Odds, Sam, this is a pretty ship, indeed!”
“It is,” said Sam. “Of all the ships I’ve been in it’s the prettiest. I’ve been in ships where everything was done by calls and drums, and if you missed your dinner by a half a minute you could starve. In Biter if you had a mind you could move Geoff Raper over in the galley and cook your bacon any way you liked. Gunning, going down the river, eats normally at the con, and his best hands at their stations. The Navy men are fast below by now.”
“And us?”
“Well, no standing invite, that I promise you. I’ve sat at Kaye’s table five times or less in twice as many weeks. But Raper’s a good man, he’ll not forget us. Try patience, and enjoy the sunset. We’ll come to killick soon, I guess. Too many ships here to go blundering in the dark. We leave that to the free trade in these parts.”
However, although the sky was darkening, there was other work afoot than dropping hook. Holt and Bentley ate below, in what might have been the gunroom in a bigger ship, but returned on deck within a half an hour. They were beyond the Nore, and it must have been low water for there were high sandbanks visible in all directions. Activity was intense, as vessels that had been still moving brought to in droves to spend the darkness hours safely, but the Biter showed no signs of stopping. Lieutenant Kaye was on the quarterdeck, and he had evidently called Gunning up to him. They were looking off to larboard, across the exposed banks towards the north-east, where in the falling light they could discern some distant sails. They were far away, and would not approach the estuary too close at night, but it looked as if Kaye meant to go and meet one of them, at least. At that moment, indeed, he beckoned them across.
“Mr Holt,” he said, briskly. “We’re sailing through the night. I want the men stone sober and full ready, with all arms prepared and dry. I want the four-pounders set, two with roundshot, two with small. And I want every man on watch to keep a lookout. Tell Taylor and his mate I will not have her raised by Mr Gunning’s men!”
John Gunning’s big slack face formed an easy smile, then he turned back to the con. The wind was still hard from the west, and Biter was plunging into the backs of waves now she’d cleared the shelter of the land a piece. Where once she had been lightly canvased for congested waters, she now had just enough for offshore work. As darkness fell, Gunning would take more in, no doubt. You could not plunge through the coastal blackness like a blind racehorse.
“Aye aye sir,” said Samuel, smartly. “I see the free trade’s out in force, though. Might it not be fun to pick off one or two of them?” The height of insolence, to make suggestions to a captain unsolicited, but Holt pitched it as a joke, and Kaye harrumphed appreciation. The pair of them gazed off towards the north Kent shore, and William followed suit. While all around were dropping sail, even coasting boats and barges, he saw other vessels, under sail and oar, heading outward from the mudbanks and the beaches. Free trade was smuggling, where he came from, but what this signified he could not imagine.
“We’ll leave that to the scum who are paid for it,” Kaye replied. “Why should we help out the Customs? In any way, you drink brandy, don’t you? How much do you suppose you’d pay for it if we stuck our oar in there?”
Dismissed, the two of them went forward to set on the men. When they were barely out of earshot Sam chuckled.
“In any way,” he mimicked, “how much information do you suppose we’d get about incoming ships stuffed with prime seamen, homeward bound? We see through you, bold Mr Kaye, don’t doubt it!”
William did not though, nor could he sort out the implications. But the leading boats from shoreward were ranging alongside the biggest of the anchored ships, and quite clearly anything unloaded to be shipped ashore would be contraband, for the Customs boats were not in evidence this far downriver, nor were the merchants’ lighters that were paid to do the job.
“What, are they smugglers?” he said. “I thought they worked across to France or the Low Countries. It is rather blatant, is it not? What do they deal in?”
“Around here? Why, anything that turns to cash. Prisoners from the Medway hulks or Sheerness, sometimes. Then spices from the Orient or the Carib, sugar, tea, fine silks, playing cards, gin from the Dutch, French brandy, wine. They do long hauls if they have to, but this work is easier, as you may see. Just row or sail out from Seasalter or the foreland beaches, and barter it from overside. Most simple!”
“And can we really not prevent them? Or take them for the Press? It can be done, for I have… they have no special privilege, do they, smugglers?”
They were at a hatchway, and this talk had to stop. From the con John Gunning was ordering his men to brace the yards round, as the helmsman hauled his wind. The Biter heeled on the new slant, and the breeze struck colder from the larboard beam, laced with lumps of spray. What light was left was draining fast, and the North Sea lay ahead of them.
“I’d hang them all, not press them,” Samuel said, “but it is not our job. You heard the captain — we must leave it to what he terms the Customs scum. On some ships it is not unheard of to put the hammer on them, but on this one… Ahoy there! Mr Taylor! Hands below! Rouse out on deck there, lively! There is work to do!”
He turned to William with a wry look.
“There are reasons we don’t understand, friend, are there not?” he added. “Not just slackness, neither. Reasons well beyond. Now — let me introduce you to our four-pounders. Unless the moon breaks through, this night will be as dark as pitch. And they are mighty dangerous little things.”
FIFTEEN
It was a farmer’s boy who found the corpse of Warren, and it took some days to filter back to Sir Peter Maybold, who had set the searchers on. Before he had been called to Langham Lodge the Surveyor General had been aware he had a mystery on his hands, but afte
r his luncheon with Sir Arthur his minions had come to know with no uncertainty that two men were missing, two important men, two men who must be found. The Customs services in Hampshire and West Sussex, in Portsmouth, Poole, Southampton and the Wight, were galvanised as they had rarely been before, and their networks of informers pitched to a level of extreme activity, with bright gold as stimulus.
The first, and basic, information came in very quickly. Two men of mystery had been noted first at Liphook, then near Horndean, then had been sighted in an Emsworth tavern, on the Sussex border. The collector at Portchester, Adam Price, was told by his best spy that the men were smugglers, who had been travelling the area recruiting oarsmen for a pair of fast galleys being built near Lymington that could cross the Channel into Normandy in eight hours flat, outrunning all pursuit. At Hamble it was a certainty that they were French, but speaking English just like Sussex men, and were seeking passage home for them and eighty others (or eight, or thirty-five), or were setting up a free trade operation and wanted English partners. The Isle of Wight collector, Will Slaughter, had firm reports that they were agents of the Paris government, attempting to recruit pilots from the smuggling fraternity for a proposed invasion force. All reports agreed, though, that some time before, the men had disappeared, shipped out, gone back from whence they came. All reports, similarly, were bare of any names. They had been seen all over, it appeared. But were known by nobody.
In his offices at the Customs House, Sir Peter had studied this intelligence, and felt his choler rise. Although he had ruled it inadmissible for the collectors and their people to let out any hint that the missing men were Customs officers, he guessed that that was known, and was the reason for the silence and their deaths. No — he caught himself at that thought — not necessarily their deaths. They had been gone some weeks, but… but what? Sir Peter sat back, and held his paunch, which was uncomfortable from last night’s meat and drinking. He had no idea as to who would have found out Charles Warren and Charles Yorke’s true professions, or why, once they had done so, they would have spirited them away so utterly completely. Customs officers got killed from time to time, that was the danger of the job, accepted. But dead bodies lay around, and rotted, and got rooted out by dogs — or, more usually, weren’t hidden to begin with. Where was the benefit, indeed, in killing these two? If they’d found something that deserved it — and Warren was the man to find things out, no argument to that — well then, what was it that deserved their disappearance?
