by Jan Needle
After about two hours, when the shore was clearer in the falling light, and Behar and Tilley extremely bored and frisky, William consulted with the boatswain’s mate and decided they should be allowed below, ostensibly to see if they could flush out any more lurking hands. Eaton went with them though, and Bentley made it very clear they should avoid the cabin, and the corpse, under every circumstance. The merchant captain, watching the three men disappearing, asked stiffly for permission to view the dead officer himself, a request Will could see no way of refusing. He would not let the seamen leave the deck, however, and took a large pistol into his hand to emphasise the point. These men, who were huddled into any lee that they could find, sat stoically in silence. The oddity overcame him yet again. A British ship, a British crew, and him a British officer. To them, it must appear they had been overwhelmed by an enemy. He was alone beside the helmsman, and pondering, when he saw a sail he thought he recognised, making up for them, hard on the wind. No certainty, but he would bet on it: the free trade lugger.
Wishing for a glass, he moved unhurriedly towards the larboard rail. Most of the ships on that side were moving parallel with the Kentish coast, with a few beating up towards him to gain the open sea. As Katharine neared the Thames mouth she was getting into heavy traffic, but in that direction little could be made out against the glare of the westering sun reflecting from the surface. The lugger, though, as she beat closer, he was certain was the one. Black hull, high topsides, her two big lugsails making her look almost over-canvased. William considered the cargo still scattered about the deck. It was unfinished business, surely. She had been interrupted by the Press, the Press had gone, so she was coming back to get the rest.
Watching her, he realised he was ambivalent in what he felt. She was a beauty of a boat, extremely fast and weatherly, and he remembered Jesse Broad’s strictures on the trade as harming no one in any great essential. The rich needed their brandy, the poor their gin, and everyone should pay less for tobacco and for tea. Even in his own house he knew they bought illicit goods, and in truth the trade had led to little violence he knew of in their locality, despite what chap-book men and village gossip sometimes said. The lugger went about, her men dipping the yards fast and handily, and he wondered what would happen as she got nearer. His duty must be to await them, to entice them if possible to come on board, and arrest them for the service, although he had no warrant on his person. This made him smile. Himself, Eaton, two men with sticks. Against a lugger crew of half a dozen, maybe more, plus the Katharines, who might welcome some revenge. It occurred to him that he should call his people up to consider a defence, and that right quickly. Maybe check one of the vessel’s swivel guns for firing, at the very least.
At that moment the red hair of Eaton emerged from a scuttle, in a commotion. Will assumed that they had found more seamen down below, but the boatswain’s mate was shouting over his shoulder and two men were shouting back — Behar and Tilley, who had found and taken drink, he feared. But as they made the level of the deck Behar — not drunk by any means — saw something away to starboard in the dying sunlight, shielded his eyes, then gave a whoop.
“To weather there! It’s the cutter! Now we can get off from this, at last!”
Will moved back to the starboard side to get a better sight, and saw clearly what he had missed, as a cloud cut down the glare for him. The cutter, under sail, was racing down on them just off the wind, much closer than the free trader he had been studying. As she came bowling down he saw Sam Holt was at the tiller with, apparently, only one other man on board, small and huddled at the bow. Baines, he’d know that rat-look anywhere, already.
Eaton, beside him, nodded to the lee.
“Them free trade men, sir. Did you see? Will they run on board of us, dost think? Tom!” he then snapped. “Take a line in off the cutter. Oh, handsome, handsome, sir!”
Sam, who did not hear the praise, no doubt deserved it. He had run the small boat at them perpendicularly then shot the tiller up, let fly, and brought her stern to wind along the big ship’s side. As she had lost her way, he’d unjammed the halliard from its pin, lowering the mainsail fast into the boat where Baines — to avoid a split head — had grabbed the yard and doused the canvas. Sam then skipped forward across the thwarts and threw a coiled bow-line up to the waist of Katharine, where Tilley caught it like an angel and turned it on a pin. Down came the flapping headsail, and Holt was up the side like a monkey. Baines, useless and unwanted, fended off.
“Ho, Will!” hailed Samuel, as he came across the deck. “You’re not the only man can handle small boats, see! Mr Kaye says — By God, man, that’s surely him, I was not sure from down there in the cutter. You’ve seen the lugger?”
“Have they seen you, sir, that’s the question,” said Eaton, rather forwardly. “I fear they’re coming for a fight with us.”
“They won’t have done is my guess,” Will said. “We hardly did, the sun is well aglare from their position. Where is Biter? If she is near enough she could try her with a cannon.”
“Hah!” went Sam. “Not that near, even if our man could shoot! Even if our captain was — “ He caught Eaton’s eager face, and changed that statement to a laugh. He gestured out across the starboard bow. “See those two pinks? Shoreside of them but coming down for us. We struck lucky with a Baltic timberman, and I set off with Baines to try a little schooner — drew a blank — then down to pick you up and save Gunning some time. This old sow’s close in, they can drop the bower and wait for a pilot, can’t they? Where is the captain? That poor old walking ghost.”
When he heard that Bentley had let him go below, Sam was concerned. Will said stiffly that it was out of courtesy, to see the dead unfortunate, and he considered it unlikely they would be fired on with secreted muskets or attacked by sword. Eaton and the other two had made a search, but come across no hidden men at all. He thought, he added, that they should prepare a hot reception in case the lugger could be lulled to come and grapple them.
Sam was not put out by his touchiness, and strode down to leeward to check the free trade man. The lugger had not seen his cutter — unless they were happy to make a fight of it with an unknown quantity of Navy men, which was unlikely — and one more short board would bring them up to the Katharine. He turned back to Bentley with a wide and friendly grin.
“God knows what Slack Dickie would make of it if we did go back with a band of smugglers for the hold,” he said. “But he can hardly argue, can he, as it clearly is our duty! Eaton! I take it you and those ruffians are pleased to die for His Britannic Majesty!”
The words were not completely out before a flat, hard report cut over them, and rendered them absurd. None of the men knew what had happened, then a blue cloud swirled along the ship’s lee side, bringing the friendly stench of gunpowder.
“Oh bastardy!” yelled Sam, raising two clenched hands to heaven — but Bentley was charging for the aft companionway, with Behar close behind. The great cabin was filled with smoke, and at the quarter light stood Captain McEwan, staring out beside the swivel gun that he had fired as a warning. Behar leapt at him and knocked him down before William could prevent it, and would have kicked him in the head had not the midshipman gone mad with anger.
“No!” he shouted. “No, sir! Get back on deck this instant! Back!”
The young man’s corpse was covered by a blanket, while the old captain lay and watched, quite unafraid. Then up above they heard a pistol shot, and Behar leapt for the door and disappeared.
“You may kill me if you wish,” said the captain, dully. “Or arrest me. I do not mind.”
“Oh, to hell! To hell!” said Will, almost desperate. “Just do not fire any more. Your word of honour!” And left without expecting a reply.
On deck, things were happening at breakneck speed. Eaton had leapt into the lower rigging with a pistol in his hand, presumably the one they’d heard below. He was waving it at the lugger as if in threat, and on her deck, at half a cable’s length, men were e
njoying this immensely, waving and jeering as at a baiting show. John Behar was balanced on the weather bulwarks, ready to jump or scramble down into the cutter, while Tom Tilley was tearing at the painter, which he’d belayed at the pin-rail a short while before. Sam was running to the weather, shouting for Eaton to join them or be left behind. He saw Will with obvious relief.
“Good man! Come quick! How is the old chap, have you spiked his guns? If we’re quick we’ll have them! We’ll lay the swine on board!”
In short order they were in the boat and gone. Tilley dropped down last, with the painter, then it was fend off until they cleared the stern, up sails and away. Downwind of them the lugger had squared off, not intending, it appeared, to stay and fight. Will eyed the cutter’s mainsail critically, telling Josh Baines to ease the sheet. Tilley had set the mizzen, on a long bumkin over the stern, and Behar was at the foresheet. They were going well, but he feared not well enough.
“I doubt we’ll catch them, Sam,” he said. “They cannot care much for what they’ve left on board the Katharine now they’ve seen how few we are.”
“The fact we’re here is what will count, I guess,” said Sam. “If the Biter left us she won’t be far away is how they’ll see it. Indeed, they’re right, for is that not the tub herself? Look, there to starboard. No, there.”
Bentley saw her, although pretty far away. However, she was on a course towards them, which for the luggermen would be enough. To tackle Navy men would be to risk a halter anyway; to take on a fullarmed tender would be self-destruction.
“What, then?” asked Will. “Do we abandon our free traders and head for Kaye? He will not thank us if we run ashore merely to get our heads broke, will he? More serious, she is showing us her heels, and when she hits the shore she’ll disappear like that” — he clicked his thumb and finger with a snap. “The tide must be not far from bottom.
We don’t know these runs and creeks and swashes, do we?”
Surprisingly, red-haired Eaton, on the tiller, gave a nod.
“I do, sirs,” he said. “This is where I come from, int it? She’ll run out of water in twenty minutes will that lugger, ’cept in the main channels. I bet I know where she’s headed for.”
The sun was going down and it would soon be dark. The wind was falling with the light and the sea had flattened out considerably. Biter; not above a mile or two away, would not come up with them, so Kaye could not complain. Most likely, having seen where they were headed, he would anchor off and wait for them. A soft elation rose in William. Small boat, warm air, good breeze, and fun ahead. If the luggermen thought they were pursuing her, they could never guess they had a pilot. When darkness fell they could be on them like shadows.
The midshipmen exchanged a smile. Ahead, the land was flat and featureless, a swathe of gleaming mud with grass beyond it, a few low trees, some clumps of houses. Up the creeklets there would be landing points, and villages, and inns, while Kaye and reinforcements would never be far off if they had to cut and run. However, Will considered, if Eaton thought it feasible, and him a native of the area, it could not be too dangerous an undertaking, else why suggest it? Eaton, from his expression as he surveyed the land, was rather keen to get there and begin.
It took another hour to come to land, by which time it was dark. Not completely, for the clouds had mainly rolled away and the moon, though on the wane, was good. They had seen the lugger go down a long but narrow water that ended, Eaton said, at an old ramshackle shed among the coarse marsh grass, where she would dry out in half an hour so the men could carry the Katharine s goods ashore. He directed them down another, smaller creek — they having dropped the sails and masts some time before — where they found a small lagoon to tie up in, with a hundred feet of shallow mud to wade through till they hit the hard. They left “the Rat” — Josh Baines — to mind the boat and keep her floating by whatever means, in case they had to pull out in a hurry.
To the surprise of Will and Samuel, there was a small town not far away — they saw its outskirts as Eaton led them along the marshy tracks he said would take them to the smugglers’ landing den. Tom Tilley and Behar looked hungrily towards the outlined buildings, asking if there were taverns they could get a glass at, and showing unafraid when Samuel faced them down. As they got nearer to the shore again all talking died away, and they found themselves an elder clump from which to spy the men who toiled from the building to the lugger and back. Within five minutes they had counted eleven.
“Well, here’s a bastard,” Sam whispered, cheerily. “That’s two to one and extra, and only three of us with guns. Thank God John Behar can use a cutlass and Tom’s a giant! I say we pen them in their shelter and let off a shot or two, to make them think we are an army of dragoons. Then Will or me can cover them while you boys tie’em up. What say you, Mr Eaton?”
“I say let’s give it up,” muttered Tilley, through his twisted mouth. “Get to an alehouse and drown out the world. What difference?”
The cunning look on Behar’s face got more pronounced, but Will, without a thought, had taken out his pistol. He checked the pan. The boatswain’s mate shook his head.
“No shots, sir.” A slight grin creased his face. “Whether its to fear the traders or Behar and Tilley here it would be the end. They go armed for a certainty, and we’re much too near the village. One report would be enough if we’re unlucky. They’re all in it, hereabout, and they’re always on the watch. Not only menfolk; the maidens, wives, the children, all. If we can’t pen them in without a shot, I say we’d best forget it.”
“Hah!” went Tom Tilley, and suddenly stood up, a great grey shape against the moon. As he lumbered forward, driven by his impatience or his thirst, they could see the last man of a line go into the wooden hut, with no one left outside. Sam leapt up to follow, casting a look of exhilaration back across his shoulder.
“Good man!” he hissed. “Will, Behar, Mr Eaton! Quick — we have them caught like rats in traps! But fast!”
They did go fast, but as they neared the hut a young lad who’d been on watch quitted his bush much faster. He swerved like a frightened dog, shouted once, and darted off into the reeds. Behar without a word went after him, his lanky frame crashing through the bushes, his heavy club balanced like a projectile set to be thrown. One of the smugglers appeared in the doorway, but before he could raise the blunderbuss full to his shoulder, the form of Tilley hit him like a ram. The gun went off with an enormous bang and flash, but when the rest of them reached the door Tilley was scrambling to his feet while clawing off the gunman’s clinging arms. Two more men leapt at him, while another two with pistols raised them to face off the intruders and a third scrambled through an opening in the rear wall to get into the night.
“Hold in the name of the King!” Sam shouted, levelling his pistol, and a gun in front of them threw a jet of smoke and fire at his face. Just behind him, William was aware that Shockhead Eaton had spun on his feet, assuming with a shock that he’d been hit. Sam had not and nor had he, and before the other man could fire, Tilley was interposed between them, with one of his assailants swinging through the air gripped by the upper arm in an enormous paw. What part of him hit the threatener they could not see, but his long horse-piece flipped above Tilley’s head into a corner.
“Tilley! Leave them be!” Will shouted. “They’re beaten, man. I have them in my sights!”
“Look out!” roared Holt and thrust him to one side, hard enough to knock him over. As he did so there was a flash and bang in front of Will, at the back window, and he heard a thud behind his head as the ball hit wood. On the instant Sam fired, then dragged his cutlass out while running for the door.
“Eaton should have cleared that up,” he said. “Cover them, Will, I’ll not be long.”
More a case of saving them, at that moment. Tilley had been breaking arms it seemed, for the hut was filled with screaming of an agonising kind. The blunderbuss attacker had definitely been done, his right arm was snapped and angled horribly. The other
s had been backed into a corner, one crouched over on his knees and keening, the others trying to shield their heads. Tilley had picked up a horse pistol by the barrel and was using it as a hammer. One of the victims had a smashed and bloody face.
“Christ man, stop!” shrieked William, but Tilley did not. Oh Christ, thought Will, I’ll have to kill him, too! He had seen this thing before, men blinded with their own rage, or power, or drunkenness of blood. Then the gun in Tilley’s hand discharged itself and he hopped backwards like a giant frog with a shout of astonished fright that was almost comical, spinning the hot barrel away from him as if it were alive. He had picked up the wrong one, for a club, and the ball had missed him by a miracle. Not that, in later times, it made him noticeably more devout.
Sam was in the doorway, in the smoke, but he’d missed the comic act. His face was anxious, tight.
“There are horsemen coming. Eaton’s disappeared, Behar ditto, and I missed the fellow out the back.”
“Eaton? But he’s shot.”
“He’s run. I didn’t have him for a coward, neither. Listen. What to do? We haven’t any time.”
“But who’s on horseback? It may be the militia.”
“Aye shit, and so it may!” It was Tom Tilley, apparently in anger. “Well I’m off, then! Shockhead said we’d get a drink, the bastard!”
In the time it took to reach the door, he’d gone. Will looked after him with an open mouth, amazed.
“Muzzle up,” said Sam, almost gently, touching Will’s firearm. “If you hit the floor, we’re both dead men.”
The free traders, in the hiatus, had seized the opportunity to edge apart. Even the bloody one had a sardonic face.
“You’d better shoot one,” Sam said, not meaning it, Will guessed. But no, thought Will, not in cold blood. I never, ever, will do that.
“Should we go?” he said.
Samuel shook his head. They could hear hooves drumming. They
