Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  At the bottom, by a small pile of books and a medicinal bottle, lay the instruments bequeathed to him, never used since the surgeon/barber who’d been his master, and to whom he’d acted as an assistant, had come home from the Americas. The surrender of the British Army at Yorktown had put paid to any hope of holding on to the thirteen colonies and, with the 3rd Regiment of Foot no longer engaged in fighting, he’d returned home to East Kent, bringing Zachary with him.

  As he took out the instruments, he sought to recall the procedure, worried a lack of memory might cause him to act imprudently. Still kneeling, he clasped his hands together and mouthed a prayer, asking God to guide his hand. The instruments were then laid out on the floor beside the cot, the most important being the retractors, with which he would be required to find and, if it was safe to do so, remove the ball he suspected was embedded in flesh.

  Before acting, he crossed to the hearth to fetch the pot of hot water earlier placed there to boil. He also fetched the needle and thread commonly used these days to mend his clothing, also previously made ready for use. A final look to an invisible sky for more divine assistance was made before he commenced his task. Taking up a probe, he pushed gently into the wound, a cloth whipped from the pot and squeezed to dampness being used to wipe clear the increasing flow of blood. The insertion caused severe pain, which could not be in doubt; the body jerked in spasm and a low moan escaped through compressed lips, which had to be ignored.

  Speed was better than care and his first task was to get out the ball and, if his effort lacked subtlety or finesse, the swiftness, once he took up and employed the retractors, was commendable. Luckily the ball had not penetrated too deeply, surely due to the amount of clothing it had had to pass through before striking flesh. As he pushed, he felt the ends come up against bone, so he sought to close them, his heart lifting when they refused.

  The extraction was made with scant grace but, on exit, there was a round ball, from a musket by its size, clasped in the grip. This was cheering, but blood was still flowing, which made his next task so much harder: he used tweezers to extract, once located, the bits of what he suspected were shirt linen, a task he now recalled he should have carried out first. To keep on for too long was as dangerous as the thought some might remain; blood was being lost too quickly, so a clamp was applied to close the wound.

  This had been his task in the past, be it on a horse or a human, to hold it while the surgeon stitched the flesh. It was obvious one man alone could not accomplish both, so he held on, to sit for a good hour in deep prayer, interrupted by regular glances to see if the bleeding had ceased. When it stopped, he went to work with the needle to join flesh to flesh in a pattern which was far from perfect; the wound, if it did heal and if the victim survived, would form an ugly scar.

  Once completed and with his patient comatose, Zachary left to go about his daily tasks of pruning and paring, with the additional need to take the man’s horse, which he reckoned a fine animal, to the field of pasture where he kept his donkey, leaving the pair to sniff each other out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It had been a trying night for John Hawker, even if being up till dawn was a far from uncommon experience given smuggling, of necessity, had to be carried out in the hours of darkness. To oversee such operations induced tension certainly, but they were meat to his soul, for the element of risk, or rather the need to negate it and safely land a cargo, fed something in his being. What he had just been about carried hazards, no doubt, but they were not of the kind to bring satisfaction, even when successfully completed.

  He’d got his charges, both his own men and those they’d taken prisoner, back to the slaughterhouse-cum-tannery he ran on behalf of Henry Tulkington, to place Spafford and his gang in parts of the building they’d only very recently vacated. This was the second time their activities had landed them as captives, all because his employer had not seen the wisdom of capping their depredations with the right remedy on the first transgression.

  Not really a man for introspection, Hawker could not avoid rumination now, given he had no one with whom he could share the thoughts which troubled him. This was not a factor to induce concern; he’d been a self-contained entity, man and boy. The notion of sharing problems was anathema: such required trust and that was not an emotion to even be considered when his early years had been so full of betrayals.

  Now he was brooding, alone, in his office above the slaughterhouse, halfway through a strong pot of coffee being kept warm on the stove, the remains of a breakfast brought in from the nearest tavern congealing by his side. The place was coming alive below his feet, if this could be considered the right expression for the sound of lowing cattle. They were being led to the pens they would occupy, prior to being stunned, slain, butchered and salted, before being packed in barrels, noisily knocked up by the cooper.

  The lowing had a soothing quality, so different from the squealing of pigs facing the same fate. It was as if the bovines had no inkling of what was to come, while the porkers knew instinctively or could smell death. Right at this moment he felt closer to the latter than any herd of cows. He wanted to make as much noise regarding his own fears but was concerned it would be futile.

  ‘You’ve buggered this up good and proper,’ was applied to a mental image of Henry Tulkington.

  Talking to himself induced no feeling of eccentricity. If he would never admit to being lonely and would have smashed in the head of anyone who suggested such a thing to be the case, he was, in truth, isolated by one if not both of his employments. No one loves a tax collector, unless they can bribe him to ease their burden, something best never to raise with John Hawker. That aside, there were a multitude of folk who had reason to be cautious of a man known for violence as well as one who revelled in his reputation. Better to be feared than loved was a saying he had heard ascribed to some famous cove from ancient Rome. It was one which suited him well.

  The words just uttered brought on a welcome and rare feeling of denigration; normally he kept his opinion of Henry Tulkington and his ways well buttoned up, for to allow them free rein was to lose control of where they might lead. At the base of this was the sure knowledge his present employer was not half the man his father had been, and recent events underlined the fact.

  ‘Soon as Spafford laid hands on our goods, you should have slit the sod’s gullet, or let me do it for you. That’s how you clap a stopper on thieving.’

  Dan Spafford had done it twice, stolen smuggled cargo and sold it for his own gain and, Hawker suspected, for the added spice of tweaking Tulkington’s nose. Unlike his willowy and weak-chested son, Acton Tulkington might not have left such a task of chastisement to John Hawker or anyone else. He was man enough, if need be, to do the deed himself.

  The sound of footsteps on the wooden risers had Hawker set aside such disturbing thoughts, lest they show in some way to whom he suspected must be coming. Few ascended to his office without first issuing a warning shout, to ensure it was allowed. Sure enough, the silk-edged tricorne hat appeared, adorning the visitor’s head. When the whole of his being emerged, it was, as usual, well protected with a heavy coat and muffler.

  Also familiar was the look, which ever needled John Hawker on his employer’s arrival: one of condescension, as if even to be in this place, full of the smell of blood and tanning, was a dent to his dignity. As ever, there was a plate of rosemary by the coffee pot, being warmed to alleviate the troubling odours.

  ‘I trust all went well, John.’

  ‘As well as could be managed, with Dan Spafford screaming like a trapped fox.’

  It was not necessary to add he’d been silenced by a thud from Hawker’s pistol butt; Henry Tulkington would not wish to know. For the man administering the blow, if the bugger expired, it was no more than he deserved.

  ‘Is he still …?’ The uncompleted enquiry was delivered over a shoulder; as usual his first act had been to remove his gloves and warm his hands over the stove.

  ‘Breathing? Far as I know
.’ The sigh this produced obliged Hawker to add, ‘I’d be told the minute he was not, which would scarce serve us ill.’

  ‘The problem is serious, is it not?’ All because you’re too lily-livered to act right remained unspoken, as Hawker acknowledged Tulkington’s conclusion. ‘I still have doubts as to your proposed remedy.’

  Turning to look at Hawker, his demeanour serious, he added an obvious point. ‘In one sense the situation has not altered. To dispose of so many people, especially when one is as well-known as Spafford and the rest are Deal men, cannot be done without engendering dangerous rumours.’

  ‘I say it can, if it’s done right, and we’ve got to cover for Daisy Trotter being dead regardless. If they just disappear and one of the Spafford luggers is gone with them, it will be supposed they’ve either been had up over the water while loading, or sunk on the way there or back, which has happened to enough folk afore.’

  ‘How simple you make it sound. And I note you make no mention of Harry Spafford.’

  ‘He’s not one to be missed. Him you could dump by the roadside and it would be taken as just deserts.’

  Hawker was not the only one harbouring unspoken thoughts, and Henry’s pressing one was how inappropriately the man before him had behaved. He’d been too vocal in his pursuit of whoever had thieved their contraband, acting as if it was his own property, his behaviour utterly lacking any degree of subtlety. He’d dragged a drunken and pleading Harry Spafford, known to be a weakling, all the way to the slaughterhouse along the Lower Valley Road, the busiest thoroughfare in Deal.

  Questioning a terrified Harry had provided proof of what Spafford senior had been up to, which was a good thing. But too many folk had witnessed him being manhandled as well as where he’d been taken. Given the wastrel had been used to thwart Brazier’s intentions, he’d been out of sight of the locals ever since, either at Cottington Court or, for a brief spell, debauching himself in Chatham. Talk would have begun as soon as he was hauled away and could only have grown with his continued absence. This was among the thoughts upon which Henry had fretted before retiring for the night. He had returned to the same problems as soon he awoke, which continued both through being shaved, this followed by a silent breakfast in the company of his Aunt Sarah.

  There was little doubt a deed such as Hawker proposed could be carried out, but could what it would spark be controlled? Rumours would arise regarding the fate of Spafford and his gang. There was the nature of Deal and its surroundings, with a population ever eager to invent something, if no other wild tale was doing the rounds. What might be whispered long afterwards was not a cause for concern, as long as it could be contained in the immediate aftermath.

  ‘I ask you to consider what else we can do, Mr Tulkington?’

  The response was terse. ‘Don’t you think I’ve done that?’

  ‘You can’t fix up Dan Spafford without a sawbones and, as said already, it would have to be one you trust or can pay enough to stay quiet, which is for you to know. He might die under the knife as he should, but what happens with him recovered, about and with nowt to lose? He’s sure to gab about what happened with his boy and blame you.’

  Acknowledgement came out reluctantly, with Hawker quick to drive home what looked like agreement.

  ‘T’other sod has a flesh wound, which even I can manage to stitch, but it’s his tongue and those of his mates I can’t sew up. Walking free, I would not be trustin’ to any promises they made. A few pots of ale, or a whore’s head on a bolster and it would be bound to spill.’

  ‘What of your men?’

  It was typical of Henry Tulkington to leave out the crux of the question, just another example of him being so much more squeamish than his pa. Why not just come out and ask if they were up to doing murder, for he had obviously decided it must be so?

  ‘Might need a reward, but they’ll do as I bid. Any who look to be doubtful will join the Spaffords in the deep six.’

  ‘Can it be as simple as you say?’

  ‘I’ll grant it as a problem. Ground needs waterin’, word spread Spafford has gone on a crossing and will be looking for folk to buy his cargo. There’s a tale I can set in motion and it’ll be all over in no time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Couple of days would see it common gossip. After that is up you, but I’d say the sooner we see the disposing finished, the better.’

  ‘Then I must give my consent.’ Tulkington gave Hawker a look as he said it, which told his man, if he was agreeing to the deed, there was no enthusiasm.

  ‘Then I’ll set the rumours going this very day.’

  ‘We must turn to other matters.’

  ‘Next cargo’s due?’

  ‘Of course.’ The voice, hitherto far from firm, became strong now. ‘And this business you propose must not do anything to impede a safe landing.’

  If the forces of law and order moved in the English counties, it was not with haste. For the post of High Sheriff of Kent, it could well depend on the load under which the man in office was presently labouring. This took no account of the office being an annual Crown appointment, something which rendered variable the ability and enthusiasm for enquiry into felonious matters of those called upon to fill it, not generally held to be high.

  The latest incumbent, Mr John Cottin, was different to the normal run of placemen. New to his office and, having followed on from a set of indolent predecessors, he was determined to make his mark. In visible activity lay the opportunity to place his name on the lips of those in the county who could guarantee further career elevation, which might even extend to Whitehall.

  Not many would have acted on the matter disconcerting him now, even if zealous, given the distance. This involved travelling from Westerham to Deal, a journey of nearly eighty miles, with two changes of coach and an overnight stop, thus one not to be undertaken lightly. He’d been advised in writing of a serious crime, one he saw as an occasion in which a reputation might begin to be forged. Thus, unlike those who’d gone before him, he declined to accept assurances all proper procedures were being followed.

  A dead body had been found after riotous assembly and the burning out of a private house. The Deal coroner, duty-bound to advise him of the circumstances, had laid out the bare bones of the matter, saying the victim was unidentifiable, with too many potential miscreants to nail a culprit. He thought they could, as was the custom, handle it locally. John Cottin disagreed and wrote to tell them so.

  Thus, the Canterbury stagecoach, the third he’d been required to take on a two-day journey, deposited him at the Three Kings fronting Deal beach, where he had written to arrange accommodation. Here, as required by the summons also sent ahead, there should be waiting the local officials whom he required to answer to him: said coroner, two local magistrates and the official responsible for oversight of the town watchmen who were supposed to and had clearly failed to maintain law and order.

  ‘A room has been prepared for your use, Mr Cottin, and it be a signal honour you chose my humble establishment to go about your occasions, the honour of which will not go unremarked upon. The gentlemen you need to see are awaiting you.’

  This obsequious greeting was provided by the proprietor, a fellow named August Garlick according to the board above the entrance, a man utterly unsuited to the name under which he’d been baptised, given there was nothing either elevated or sunny about his disposition. With his long, pallid face, dominated by a purple imbiber’s nose and framed by excessive side whiskers, he had about him a manner which tended to induce a degree of caution. There was also a look in the watery eyes, added to a certain slight cant of the head, hinting at an untoward level of inquisitiveness.

  ‘You’ll find no better place to undertake your business than the Three Kings, sir. And should you want for anything, then August Garlick is here to provide it. I can say, without peradventure, no one knows the town as I do, for I make it my business to keep an ear to the ground.’

  The invitation that this should be foll
owed by enquiry was in the proprietor’s expression, one intended to imply he could be trusted to provide information not vouchsafed to mere mortals. John Cottin saw instead a probable busybody, who would be the fount of every rumour going, possibly more likely to distract from the truth than reveal anything useful. It was, however, politic not to close off any avenues of enquiry.

  ‘Rest assured I’ll bear it in mind, Mr Garlick. Now, if you would be so kind?’

  The hint being taken, Cottin was led up the stairs to a room overlooking the Deal Roads, the busy anchorage hemmed in and protected by the Goodwin Sands, packed with maritime activity. He was afforded a brief glimpse of what lay within its waters: vessels of all shapes and sizes, either recently returned from far-off destinations or preparing to weigh and set off for the same places, all fed by an endless stream of boats and hoys carrying the many articles they would need on their voyage.

  As he was shown in, four soberly suited men stood to greet him, none wearing a smile. They saw before them a fellow too slight for such a high-sounding title. He was young-looking even for his thirty-five years, sprightly in his step, with a clear, good-looking countenance, an open expression emanating from a steady brown-eyed gaze. Hat off, it revealed a full head of light-coloured hair, the greeting accompanying the act followed by a broad and disarming smile, which faded when not returned.

  Cottin reckoned he was about to be confronted by people seeking to test his mettle, just as he reckoned to know why. The nature of this place could be said to constitute common knowledge throughout the county; indeed, it probably extended to half the country, Deal being seen as exceptionally lawless, an opinion publicly endorsed by no less an authority than William Pitt, the King’s First Minister. Frustrated by the level of smuggling on the East Kent coast and the subsequent loss of revenue to the Exchequer, he’d brought in soldiers to burn every boat on the strand a mere three years’ past. Not that it had seemed to have much effect: craft were quickly replaced and the nefarious trade was held to be as lively as ever, with Cottin wondering if by his efforts he might effect change.