It was impossible to think in those terms without wondering again what her late husband would think of such fancies. Would Stephen approve? Surely he would not have wanted her to remain a widow after he was gone? Betsey was utterly certain that was not her wish, for she missed not just Stephen but the whole gamut of the married estate: the companionship, the need to run her own house, even the shared silliness and, if it made her blush to think on it, the intimacy of the bedchamber.
Henry was right about her being a desirable catch, but wrong about Edward, as she now allowed herself to think of him. It had been very evident in the Caribbean how different he was and how she had reacted to his presence. Of any number of suitors who had made plain their feelings, some surely genuine, many obviously not, the only one to induce any kind of emotion in her breast had not long left her side.
Was the feeling real, was it the first stirrings of true affection? Honesty forced her to admit she was unsure.
Henry Tulkington was a man of business and not singular in his interests. He had any number of matters that took up his time and attention, determined, as he was, to present to the world, like his father before him, a facade of wealth, success and respectability. Many of his activities could be carried out openly, either at Cottington Court or in various places in the surrounding towns, but the enterprise that made him the most in terms of money had to be clandestine.
The slaughterhouse-cum-tannery, which he owned, just outside the north-west end of Deal, was not a place to excite visitors or invite folk of quality to reside nearby, so it was surrounded by mean dwellings and even they gave it as wide a berth as they could. Still, being poor, they could not avoid the stench of either rotting offal, a river of congealing blood, or the drying hides of leather. It provided a location for Henry Tulkington to do business without it being observed or overheard.
As ever, it was noisy with the sound of cattle and pigs, never more so than when the latter were having their throats cut, which had to be done not long after arrival, given the creatures were barred from the town unless they came for immediate butchering. Tulkington hated it too, abhorring the sight of so much blood and, as ever, he hurried to John Hawker’s second-storey workplace, where on any day, hot or cold, there was a tray of herbs above the stove, the scent of which fought the noxious odours from below.
‘You’re content with the arrangements?’
Hawker, being a man of few words, merely nodded at what was an oft-asked question, habitual rather than essential, regarding a coming shipment. This attitude was repeated when Tulkington queried the transport that would later take the contraband to where it could either be sold or collected by customers regularly supplied. Hawker apart, those seeing to the landing would not know those locations; goods, once brought ashore and stored, were distributed by men who never saw the carrying vessel.
‘And the master’s payment?’
Hawker held up an oilskin pouch heavy with coin, this as Tulkington eased closer to the stove, backing to it in order to enjoy the heat on his thighs, confirming he had done what he could to prevent problems. Tulkington dealt with those, locally, who were tasked to enforce the law, people who never saw any reason to expend effort to interdict smuggling: the magistrates, Justices of the Peace, members of the town council and even some of the local clergy, which included Moyle, who enjoyed fulminating against wrongdoing from the pulpit to the same level he enjoyed drinking untaxed brandy.
Outsiders reckoned places such as Deal were so steeped in crime that every hand, from the lowest to the highest, was stained: the truth was less stark, but no less damning. Every soul in the town knew what went on and would, in conversation and with outright hypocrisy, condemn it heartily. This they did before either spending their illegitimate proceeds or, in the higher reaches on the social scale, contracting for delivery of their own illicit and revenue-free supplies.
An occasional head might be raised, Temperance Societies or Baptists seeking to curtail smuggling as well as drinking by prayer and the threat of providing information. This was a good way to have your meeting house torched by an angry mob of the local boat fraternity, who would claim, with an apparently clear conscience, to depend on the trade to provide for everyday food and shelter.
Corcoran, the fellow employed to superintend the activities of the Kent Preventatives, had a near-Herculean task and was poorly rewarded for his efforts by the sinecure holder who, in theory, was supposed to carry out the work. Corcoran did not operate on the coast, but had his station inland, from where he could oversee the work of those patrolling the Thames Estuary, the east coast centred on Dover, added to the southern area of his responsibilities, which ran through Folkestone all the way to the Romney Marshes, with active smuggling taking place along the whole coast, not that he ever had the bodies required to be truly effective.
There was always a shortage in the number of men covering Deal, but another method existed to ensure the activities at a certain location stood at a very low risk of interruption. That task fell to Hawker and he now outlined how the local Revenue would be diverted on this occasion. The method was simple, for they were not overeager, hardly surprising given their miserable stipend, but obliged to stir occasionally in order to justify it.
The strategy was to grant to them an occasional morsel of success. Deal Beach was a community and one in which everyone sought to know the business of everyone else. Thus gossip was rife, albeit never allowed to take place in the presence of anyone not recognised: a strange face stuck out and brought about immediate suspicion, given the Revenue had over the years tried to slip in spies.
Competition for employment was rampant, given there were too many boats and too little trade in porterage, while jealousies, as well as long-standing family feuds, abounded. This led to loose tongues, if the ears listening were held to be safe, and Hawker was seen as very sound indeed, as well as a fellow it could be profitable to be in with, so he picked up hints of what was being planned.
Thus he could alert the Revenue and give them the occasional smuggling sprat, which would both ensure they were busy and, if Tulkington’s men were in a period of being active, divert them away from the landing of any cargo Hawker was charged to oversee. Not that they were always presented with an easy success; that was too risky. He often chose to tell the owner of any lugger set for a Channel dash they were on to him. This left them either in the wrong place or on the wrong night to intercept, while mightily enhancing the standing of Hawker.
‘They should be chasing their arses when we’re busy. I’ve told them a tale ’bout three hundred pounds of tea coming in by the Albion, but it will really land above Sandown Castle. They might see a rate of moving lanterns, but will be too late to put a stopper on it.’
Tulkington stated himself to be fully satisfied regarding weather and the arrangements, only to then change the subject, to get lifted eyebrows from a fellow not much given to showing his thinking.
‘I have to own to a problem, John. My foolish sister has become enamoured of an adventurer fellow, a naval officer, and I reckon his pursuit of her should be discouraged.’
‘An’ how far does this being discouraged go?’
There was meaning in that, which had to be cogitated upon. Hawker’s reputation served both him and Tulkington well and it was not just for taking anyone needing to be seen to out in a boat. He was the man who ran the slaughterhouse and tannery, very happy with what the more lurid minds gossiped about. Rumour had it there were bodies who had gone through the slaughterhouse doors whole, to either emerge in pieces or not at all. Even more terrifying was the thought of human parts being salted and mixed in with barrels full of pork.
‘A warning only, perhaps,’ Tulkington said finally. ‘That failing, who knows.’
‘Best tell me, Mr Tulkington.’ Which he did, to get a doubtful response. ‘Navy is tricky, bound to stand out.’
‘He’s not attached to the Downs Squadron, but a visitor newly arrived, a rogue of a captain come with the express desire
of seducing Elisabeth and getting his hands on her possessions.’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘Your height, black hair and I’d say a swarthy complexion, a haughty manner too. He was at my house today and, I have to admit to you, the fellow is lucky to have got away unscathed. The way he addressed me was enough to have him depart bleeding and bruised but I could not act as I would have wished in the article of chastisement, with my sister and aunt in the house.’
Tulkington was now looking at the stove and warming his hands, back turned, which allowed John Hawker to smile without being observed, for if the sister was the excuse, it would be her brother who felt insulted. That would warrant a beating and it was not the first time; it did not do to show disrespect to Henry Tulkington, for he took it ill.
Traders in the town knew to their cost what happened if they tried to dun the owner of Cottington Court; even a lawyer who sought to bring a suit against him was physically so discouraged as to drop it. Then there was his near neighbour, a farmer called Colpoys, who had got into a trifling boundary dispute, only to wake one morning in a ditch, bloody and battered.
Even if he insisted upon discretion, Henry Tulkington liked it that folk were cautious of him and his name, as well as a reputation inherited from his sire. Both, as it was with contraband, were whispered about rather than openly stated. He was ever talking bold when, in truth, in the physical line, he was a true fraidy-cat. Anything of that nature thus fell to his factotum Hawker, who was happy to oblige, taking pleasure, as he did, in chastisement – and even more, if that was required.
Lack any aggressive ability he might, but Tulkington was still the man in charge, the brains who arranged everything Hawker was tasked to carry out, never ever to get his own hands dirty while the fellow he trusted to execute those responsibilities was more than content with the arrangement.
‘I have a notion I might have already seen this cove. If it’s the same bugger, he was at the Griffin’s Head two days’ past and he deserves a cudgel.’
‘Why would he be there?’ was the apprehensive enquiry.
‘Passing through, I reckon, not prying – and besides, if he were, it would not be in uniform.’
‘He is residing at the Three Kings, for it was to there my sister sent him a note.’
‘Sweet on him, is she?’ That got Hawker a look that told him that was none of his concern; his enquiry was unwelcome. ‘So a sound beating, happen.’
‘That will satisfy me.’
‘In your name?’
‘I don’t want my sister to know anything about it.’
‘You’re sure you don’t want him seen to proper?’
‘The Good Lord knows I’m tempted.’
Hawker could smile fully and openly then at that piece of hypocrisy; if Tulkington was a regular at St Saviour’s and St George’s, as well as generous when the plate came round, he was not one to obey any commandments.
‘I hope that a beating will send the message he is not welcome hereabouts – that and maybe the loss of his purse. If he does not desist … well.’
‘He’s bound to connect with you, Mr Tulkington. Just arrived he is, you say, and that means there likely ain’t nobody else he’s crossed.’
The Tulkington brow furrowed. ‘You said he deserved a cudgel. Why?’
‘Not one to take a hint, politely given. I was talking close and quiet with Trotter, regarding your meeting with Spafford, an’ he comes barging along to take a seat, without so much as a by your leave. I would have laid into him then, sword or no, if we had not been making the arrangements.’
‘So you have an antipathy of your own?’
‘While he has a face I know, as does Daisy Trotter.’
‘Then it would be a good idea to leave him with Trotter’s name as the one handing out the beating, not yours or mine.’
‘Clever that,’ Hawker replied with real feeling; the notion was typically cunning of Tulkington. ‘How soon?’
‘The weather is good and the sea reasonably calm, so we can expect the promised landing to come in on time. If it can be done before you go to meet the ship that would serve.’
‘Can’t say fer certain, Mr Tulkington. Sod has to be where we can get at him and it’ll not be much good, given your notion on Daisy, if I is spotted.’
There was truth in that. John Hawker was a too-well-known face in the town, being the man charged to collect taxes on behalf of the King’s Treasury, a well-rewarded government sinecure actually held and delegated by Henry Tulkington. As a cover for shifting contraband – the folk being taxed for legal vending were often the same people selling the superior products Hawker had to offer – it could not be bettered.
‘Then don’t get involved.’
Hawker nodded slowly. ‘Makes sense, even if it be a pity.’
CHAPTER TEN
Brazier came back to an invitation from Admiral Braddock asking him to dine the next day, and quickly accepted. With the aim of renting a house now decided upon, he turned his mind to the need for a servant. Of the several men who had acted in that capacity aboard HMS Diomede, Joe Lascelles stood highest in his estimation. The son of a slave he was rated free, this after the judgement of Lord Mansfield that no man in England could own the body of another. His father had been brought to England, with John in tow, by a West Indian customs official and slave trader, from whom he took his surname.
He had joined the navy as a volunteer to get away from, as he had it, a life like that of his sire, as a household servant albeit free, only to end up fulfilling that role in the great cabin of Brazier’s frigate. His one problem being in the West Indies was his inability to go ashore; it was too risky despite him carrying written proof of his free status. If he had ended up on a plantation, there would be scant chance of getting him back.
What marked him in Brazier’s mind was his unfailing good humour and saint-like patience, an attitude severely dented on the day they came across that Dutch slaver. It was the only time his captain, who described to him the things witnessed, had seen him shed a tear. Had the Lord Chancellor’s judgement not become law, John could have shared the fate of those being transported.
The slaver, it had transpired, was on course for the Dutch colony of St Maarten, but the conditions for Joe would have been the same, only he would have been forced to work in the fields of a British colonial possession, at the mercy of an overseer whose income was decided on a good crop yield. Brazier asked him once why he never complained. The response was simple: fate had been too kind.
His normal demeanour was a wide, white-teeth smile or a deep-throated laugh, easily invoked, which made him of inestimable value to a commander who, generally good-humoured himself, disliked having misery in his orbit. There were a couple of others to whom he sent letters, men who had acted as servants and whom he trusted, all with a promise to bear the cost of a reply, but he had high hopes that John would respond positively.
The temptation to ask Garlick for advice on the renting of a suitable house did not last; the man would look to personal advantage in the matter, either by seeking to profit from any transaction or finding him an abode designed to drive him back to the Three Kings.
It duly struck him the only person he could seek aid from was Vincent Flaherty, simply because he might know whom to ask, so, having had his dinner early, Bonnie was taken out again for a ride to the Irishman’s paddock.
‘That would be best asked of Saoirse, for sure, Edward. Not much going on in the town she don’t know about.’
Brazier, having sent Ben and his mount back to the stables once more, decided to call upon the lady prior to the start of the evening trade; it would be too busy later. So he made for the Old Playhouse determined to arrive before any torches were required to be lit, completely unaware that he was being followed. John Hawker had been well placed to see who entered and left the Three Kings and he had with him a couple of true hard bargains, men who would be guaranteed to avoid gentility in the task set for them.
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��Listen for the St George’s bells,’ was the instruction, as Brazier entered the doorway, for Hawker and these two were needed elsewhere in the hours of darkness. ‘If it counts past seven of the clock, we’ll have to let it slumber for tonight. An’ keep them cudgels out of sight.’
John Hawker had allowed cudgels only in case matters went awry and they were required to both defend themselves and get clear; this was to be a beating with fists, not one to maim or kill.
‘Wait till he’s down an’ out afore you go for his purse too.’
Brazier was welcomed by Saoirse Riorden, who remarked on his being in uniform and, with the tilt of her head and a droll look, how it was suited to him. This was taken to be the normal manner in which a tavern-cum-playhouse owner talked to a potential customer, especially one who appeared to have deep pockets. For the coming evening she was dressed in red velvet, which set off her hair and skin, making of the whole a warmer hue than the green in which he had seen her previously.
He followed her to a place in which they could converse, which turned out to be the very room she had entered with the fellow called Hawker. It was a small space lined with shelves groaning with bound ledgers, and a tiny desk with ink and quills. Following behind her, he could not but eye the grace with which she moved, as well as the gentle sway of her hips. Her air of confidence was attractive too, a trait very necessary given her occupation.
‘You’ll be looking for something grand, I suppose, to fit your wondrous prosperity?’
That got a questioning look, quickly responded to, only to be told his good fortune in the Caribbean was no secret.
‘Sure, it does not take much to find out about a new arrival in this place, especially one well found and with the rank you enjoy. If we are overrun with sailors, few are captains in the King’s Navy.’
Edward Brazier, a bit piqued, wondered where such knowledge came from; he also knew he would whistle for an answer if he enquired. A post captain would have been remarked upon at the Naval Yard as soon as he visited Braddock, while Garlick looked to be a stranger to discretion. Then there was his open generosity to Flaherty in the article of his wine bill. Whatever, it was out and there was nothing to be done about it.
The Contraband Shore Page 12
