‘If Hawker was going back to Deal, he would not have had his mount unsaddled, so he’s staying the night and returning come morning. All day, you tell me, his men have been indoors with no lookouts posted.’ A slow nod. ‘So, I think we can assume there’ll be none at night either.’
‘And if he wakes up on the morrow and his horses are gone?’
‘Not just the horses, Dutchy, I want to steal the bodies too.’
‘There’s some who’d say yon musket ball ain’t done much for your brains, your honour.’
‘I’m not surprised the dead have been carted away from Cottington, but why bring them to where they are now? Why not bury them?’
‘Don’t make sense to me, right enough.’
‘Nor to me, Dutchy, but there’s a reason and, even if it’s a mystery, they’re something they want to hang on to. So I say let’s pinch them, because I reckon, and don’t go asking me why, it will cause trouble, not just for Hawker but for Tulkington.’
Dutchy looked at Peddler. ‘What do you reckon on this?’
‘I’m game for a look-see. That be when to decide.’
‘Be best you stay here, Capt’n.’
‘Never. All I’ll be doing is leading a horse. Zachary, we need to ask you for a lantern and some flints.’
‘Would you wish, sir, I come with you?’
‘No. It is all very well for us to court danger, but not you.’
‘Then you go with my prayers.’
‘Keep sayin’ ’em,’ was Peddler’s heartfelt plea, Dutchy concurring.
Food was served and eaten in silence, each man with his own thoughts until the time came to depart, Brazier donning his uniform coat, which being dark blue was perfect for night work. This he did after he and the others had examined the neat hole, high on the shoulder, producing a sobering thought. Six inches lower and who knew how much damage it would have done?
Once outdoors they could see the moon as a creamy orb, which at the time of year rose slowly over the French coast, turning pure white as it cleared the dust of its low trajectory. The starlight around it was rendered faint by its orb, though the rest of the sky was carpeted with pinpoints, some twinkling, others not, a sight to make Zachary cross himself as he saw the three men move away. For to him it represented the presence of God. Edward Brazier saw a celestial map by which he had often navigated.
Moon and stars created enough light to move, albeit with care, an excess needed if the tree canopy closed overhead. Yet even then, a landscape bathed by light usually showed the way to proceed. There was no talking and neither was there an audible reaction to the pain Brazier was feeling. Once out on the open marsh it could have been daylight, which had the worry of their being seen, though with a sighing wind there was little danger of being heard.
‘We can’t go walking past the door, Capt’n,’ Dutchy whispered when the farmhouse, no more than a black silhouette with bits of leaking light, was in sight. ‘Slightest sound and we’ll be staring at a musket.’
‘I’ll fix on Ursa Minor, which will allow us a detour.’
The arc of the constellation, with the Pole Star the brightest, stayed visible as they moved, their way also rendered possible by human-made paths through trees. It took time to cover the progress needed, but Brazier wasn’t worried about time. They had one job to do and all the hours of darkness in which to accomplish it. One false choice of path took them to the wrong place, but by backtracking and moving to the north, it brought them to the point where Peddler had first spotted the barns. The farmhouse roof was silhouetted against the starlit sky.
‘Best stay here while I see what’s what.’
Peddler got no argument or any hint Brazier was narked at being told what to do: Peddler was the right man for the task. He was like a black ghost as he slid away, with Brazier realising, with the clear sky and much time gone already, there was bound to be a substantial overnight dew, so dawn would show a human track through the grass, never mind three, plus, if what he wanted came to pass, a trio of laden horses.
Was it a problem to be dealt with or a good reason to abandon what they were about? This had to be examined − he could not allow his determination to get at Tulkington to dictate how they would proceed. The answer was to use more of the tree cover on the return, indeed to wait, once they’d gone some distance, till the sky was grey enough to allow them so see their way. Then they could pick a route which would leave no trace at all, lest, and this was unlikely, one of Hawker’s ruffians was an experienced tracker.
Peddler did a mean owl-like hoot, the signal for him and Dutchy to move forward, never taking their eye off the outline of the farmhouse. They were unarmed, so the slightest sign of life and it was run and pray. The bulk of the barn rose up quickly, with Peddler’s disembodied voice whispering, he being invisible against the wooden wall. The door creaked as it was opened, a fact not recalled by Peddler, who cursed under his breath at the sound, but having come this far, stopping was not an option. Knowing the noise would come with movement, he hauled it open to shorten the time it could be a threat. It made the same scary sound when closed, a crack left open so they could be sure no one had been alerted.
A decent wait was called for before Brazier asked for the lantern to be lit, the sparking flints giving him flashes of three pairs of equine eyes, luckily not disturbed. Once the tallow had taken it was possible to see them in the flesh, Brazier approaching, with Dutchy standing off slightly, lantern held high. Noses were rubbed and muzzles touched, with one − the best and sleekest stallion, which had to be Hawker’s − taking a snap at a hastily removed hand. A glance at the walls showed various things to do with boats either leaning against the walls or hanging on hooks: oars and rowlocks, ropes and marked barrels, whatever within being too indistinct to pick out with any clarity.
‘Let’s get the pack animals rigged.’
The lantern now high on a hook and this being one of the tasks physically beyond him, Brazier went over to look at the barely visible bundles. He thought of posting himself as a lookout, but it would mean being outside, with the risk of opening and shutting the door, which would send out light, which would be spotted from the farmhouse. Hearing cursing, he went to help Peddler, struggling with the leather rigs.
‘Never had cause to doubt you on knots.’
‘And, I thank you, no barky is rigged in leather.’
Having been raised on a farm, Brazier knew what to do and softly instructed Peddler, turning to observe Dutchy either had the knowledge or had figured it out for himself. Next it came to saddling Hawker’s horse, which went without fuss, it being an animal accustomed to the ritual.
‘Why d’ye want the saddle, Capt’n?’ Dutchy enquired, as he tightened the girth.
‘Only because it will make Hawker spit when he finds it’s gone. Let’s get loading.’
The first packhorse was led over to the bundles, Dutchy and Peddler at foot and shoulders, each producing a retch in the throat as the stink rose up.
‘Worse’n bilge,’ Dutchy spat.
‘Not Cocky’s breath,’ was a gasp from Peddler, mixed with laughter.
Brazier held the horse’s head while the others lifted the first body across its back, needing to take a tight and painful grip as the animal reacted. Again he instructed Peddler on the tying of the pack straps, the animal lashed by its reins while the task was repeated. Hawker’s horse was not going to cooperate, dragging itself back from having a load on its back with such force Brazier, given the pain, couldn’t hold it. The task fell to Dutchy until it calmed down, no doubt because it had become used to the putrefaction. Once the last body was loaded, the lantern was killed and a single barn door, with its creaking screech, pulled slightly open, the still dark walls of the farmhouse examined closely.
‘One at a time, back to the trees. If a light shows or anybody appears, slap the horse hard and run. I reckon they’ll want the bodies more than us.’
Both doors creaked as they were opened wide, the animals slowly led out to b
e taken towards the trees, with their bulk between them and the risk of a musket ball. On the way out it had been far from smooth going, but it was much worse seeking a way through thicket-bound paths on the way back. Finally, they came back out on to the moon-blessed marshland and could move with reasonable speed.
‘Capt’n, you’ll forgive my enquiring, but have you thought on what we’re going to do with these buggers?’
Not wanting to say he had no idea, the answer was a bit inexact. ‘I think they’ll be safe enough for a while by Zachary’s pile of cow manure. The horses we’ll maybe set free, but for now let’s find a place to tie them off so we can rest until first light.’
‘Downwind, for the love of Christ,’ Dutchy insisted.
Brazier would not have cared: all he wanted was relief. He was in real pain and worried the fear Zachary had voiced, that his stitches would work loose, could have come to pass. Even using only his good hand, the tugging involved in making progress was agony, which had to be borne silently; he could not have his companions concerned by it.
Finding somewhere to hitch in the dark proved too difficult, so they merely sank down and held onto the reins, wrapped round a hand, with grass tall enough for the horses to munch on, which at least kept them passive enough to allow for Dutchy and Peddler a snooze, while he, who would struggle to sleep, kept watch. The moon was well to the south-west now but still high enough to illuminate the landscape and, if Brazier closed his eyes, which he did often, he could imagine himself at sea, albeit there was no swell, nor the creaking of timber and rigging.
Would he ever be granted another ship and get back to sea? William Pitt had as good as told him it would be challenging, he being in bad odour at court, this due to the spat he’d had in the West Indies with Prince William. They called him the ‘Sailor Prince’, which had a jolly ring to it. The reality was a spoilt martinet who treated his inferiors with disdain, or at least those prepared to question his more dubious commands. Those who fawned on his royal rank were favoured.
William also drank too much, becoming over free with what he saw as dalliance. Others, husbands especially, observing their wives being subjected to vulgar and overt attempts at seduction, saw it as salacious as well as uncouth, their wives naming it scandalous. One planter had to be dissuaded from calling the Prince out, which would have been a fine imbroglio for those like Edward Brazier, set to watch over him, especially if William had been wounded or, the Lord forgive, killed.
But the real nub was his behaviour as a captain, he being choleric by nature as well as embedded in his privilege. His Premier, the man attached to the ship by the Admiralty to ensure the royal sibling, not the most competent of seaman, did nothing stupid, had been roundly and publicly abused by his commanding officer when querying a plainly incorrect instruction. Lieutenant Schomberg had, as was his right, demanded a court martial to clear his name and it fell to the senior captain on station to adjudicate and, on the evidence, Brazier had been left with no choice but to find for Schomberg. The rights and wrongs of his decision were not relevant, but he’d dented the pride of King George’s son and His Majesty was far from pleased, a fact the monarch had seemingly made known to their lordships of the Admiralty.
Which might pale beside an accusation he’d had a hand in the murder of Admiral Hassall, for he had no doubt of it being a crime, even if he was innocent of the actual deed. Justified? How could any man deny the killing of a treacherous criminal, who’d stolen from his own subordinates, was unjustified? The worry was his own legitimate fury, loudly expressed, on uncovering what Hassall was up to. Had it been used as a spur to act by others?
He could see their faces now in his mind’s eye as, having only just anchored off Kingston, they’d come out to gather in his cabin to tell him the news, the eager young faces of the masters and commanders to whom he was now the senior officer. He knew, without being told, the reported death was not natural, but he could not pick out a culprit. Nor would anyone else, which left him seeing it as a collective act, one he took steps to ensure could not be properly investigated.
‘You have a rare ability, Edward Brazier, to drop yourself in the steep tub.’
‘What’d ye say, your honour?’
‘Time to get going, Peddler, sky’s showing a bit of grey.’
‘We should run out the guns,’ Dutchy joked.
‘Believe me, Dutchy, if I had them I would. And I’d use them too.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The expression ‘hit the roof’ was one common enough, but the thatch above Hawker’s head would have seen him through to the open sky, given the level of his fury. The main person to suffer was the poor sod who’d gone to fetch the horses, he being treated as if the whole thing was his fault alone. It didn’t last: every one of the men Hawker led was roundly abused and, since he went into exact detail of what had occurred with a carrying shout, those locked up in the room, which once accommodated Harry Spafford, were given full knowledge of what had happened.
Listening at the door up till now had been frustrating, with only rare snatches of conversation loud enough to be clearly overheard and none of it suggesting what was to become of them. This Hawker outburst brought forth smiles but also a fear: in danger already, they might pay the price for what had been spirited away. It was Dolphin Morgan, obviously not as dense as he was held to be, who pointed out the use of the word three when shouting about bodies, which allowed it to dawn on his mates what he’d figured out: Dan Spafford was no more.
‘Means we’re buggered, whatever happens,’ was one opinion. ‘Without Dan we’ll whistle for a crust.’
‘Worse than what you say, mate, happen,’ was Dolphin’s gloomy response. ‘Killin’ has taken place. Who’s to say where it will rest?’
The voice had moderated enough now to become indistinct, partly because John Hawker had realised several obvious facts, the first being he was as much at fault as anyone. The second was really worrying. This could not be kept from Henry Tulkington. But it was the third which was the most concerning. The only person he could think of with a reason to steal three dead bodies, the horses included, as well as own the means to carry them off, had to be Brazier. The sod was not only still alive, but in a fit state to bring off such a sting.
‘What do we do now, John?’
This question brought Hawker back to the present. It was posed by Marker, who it could be said acted as a bit of a leader, he being well trusted. But the same query was in every face and there was no doubt what was being asked. Do we see off the rest of the Spafford gang now or better still, set them free and damn quick? If the name Brazier would mean nothing to them, somebody had done the dirty. This pointed towards what they were about being known where it should not be.
‘We stay as we are,’ came after a degree of consideration.
He was not going to say it was down to his employer, but it was the case. No great wit was required to see how disposal had now become too risky. There was no knowing what Brazier would do, or how he would use what he had, but there was one certainty: it would not be to anyone’s advantage but his own.
‘I need to get moving, so you lot stay here and for the love of Christ, post lookouts.’
There was no choice but to walk, the pistol he would carry tucked into his belt. He would have it primed and made ready for use, with wary eyes searching ahead on the road. If three bodies could be lifted, so could he. Hawker could not avoid running over and over in his mind not only what he was going to have to explain but how it had come about, for which he would also have to produce a reason. Somehow, he, or even the whole party two nights’ past, had been followed, which failed to explain how Brazier had known about the barn.
‘You lot, get your muskets and spread out noisy all around.’ The look of confusion had him shout as loud as he had previously. ‘We’re being watched, which means whoever is doing it will be out there now, so go and flush the bastard.’
‘Do we shoot?’
‘To wing, Marker, nothing mor
e. I need someone to tell me where to find a certain party.’
Hawker stood in the doorway while his orders were carried out, praying whoever was doing the spying would have to show themselves by trying to get away. Frustration grew as nothing happened, until a shout took him down the track to a large oak tree and the crushed grass at the back. When he got back to the farmhouse door, seething, he went to take a look at the barn, both doors wide open. There, in more trampled grass, lay the route Brazier and whoever had been with him had taken. At least he could send some of his lads to track it into the woods, which would allow him to say to Henry Tulkington the matter had a chance of being resolved.
It was an exhausted Edward Brazier who led his men, in full daylight, back to Zachary Colton’s smallholding. Already up and about his daily tasks, he put them aside to come and wonder at what was loaded on the horses. Close up, the drawn face of his patient told him how trying a night it had been, but this was not his first voiced concern.
‘These poor souls deserve a Christian burial.’
Brazier was tempted to disagree: Zachary knew nothing of the lives these men had led or the crimes to which they were a party, only to then realise he would probably have forgiven their sins.
‘All in good time. Let’s get them off the horses and laid in a place where the smell does not offend. Also, the horses need to be fed and watered.’
‘Us too,’ said Peddler, with true feeling.
If he got a grin it soon disappeared: it was back to the horses and what had been asked. ‘For which I lack the means, sir.’
‘I supposed as much. Can I suggest I give you some money and you go to where you can buy feed?’
‘And my work?’
‘I can only ask you to set it aside for the day.’
‘And what of you, sir?’ The direction of his look left no doubt to what he was referring. ‘It may be best if I take a look.’
Blood Will Out Page 18
