Instead he sold everything on as bulk to a fellow smuggler in Faversham, with the excuse he was being hounded by the Revenue and he needed to shift it quick. Such a bonus was gratefully received from a contact who had more trouble than his coastal contemporaries. Faversham lay at the end of a long tidal creek which led to the Thames Estuary, one which a couple of local Revenue men could keep watch on with much more ease than eight miles of open beach, so any running of cargo was ten times more perilous.
The price received went to his men, on the very good grounds that they would not be shy when he suggested what was to come next: another scheme he wished to execute. Any minor concern that his identity, or that of the men he led, had been rumbled was laid to rest when he heard John Hawker was out and about seeking information in the taverns of Deal.
It tickled him to hear how careful he was being in his enquiries, which confirmed not only that Tulkington was in the dark, but he did not want the fact of his losses, as well as how they had been purloined, to get out. To do so might encourage others to have a try.
Not being hounded allowed him the time to rein in his errant son. Harry had been brought home to Worth and right now he was locked in a room, pleading for drink which was not forthcoming. No one was allowed in except his father who, perhaps for the first time in his life, had decided to harden his too-soft heart.
There was another reason to lock him up at home; with what he was engaged in, he could not have his son as a loose cannon running around and vulnerable. Spafford was not fool enough to think Tulkington would never make the connection between him and depredations on his goods. What better way to take revenge than a drunk easy to lay hands on?
‘It’s for your own good, Harry. Now eat these vittles I’ve brought you and reckon your torments be over in a few weeks. Think on it, boy, to be able to look on the world with a clear eye.’
This was responded to with a stream of spittle-filled blasphemy, which Spafford père took in an outwardly stoic fashion. It was only outside the relocked door he allowed himself any expression of how wounding it was to hear. Even then, that required to be tempered, in case he was under observation; the leader of a band of hard bargains could not be seen to be weak.
Behind his back there were those who would have cheerfully seen to Harry Spafford permanently, sober or drunk, given he was inclined to treat them as of no account. Not even his father talked to them as the brat did, as useless ignorant sods, knowing he could do so only because his blood provided protection. Then there was Daisy Trotter, who had been like an uncle to Harry since birth; what he thought was never clear and none were prepared to risk a word misplaced when he was around.
Not openly discussed was that Daisy had his own problem, one he shared only with Spafford.
‘Why would a body be asking about you?’
‘Is it me, Dan, or some wench called Daisy being sought?’
Spafford was tempted to make a joke about there being little difference since they were both likely to be whores, but held back; there were things not even he could say to Trotter in safety.
‘Has to be a wench, or whoever it is would be a calling in at Basil the Bulgar’s house. Not like to find much anywhere else.’
‘An’ not much there, if he’s not of the brotherhood.’
Daisy was not one to frequent taverns, indeed he drank little and visited Deal rarely, so Dan Spafford was curious as to how this worry had come about. His honest ear, if he was not by his side, was to be found in the Molly-house just along from Portobello Court in Middle Street. There, if what Spafford had been told was true – he had never crossed the threshold of the place himself – ships coming into the Downs to anchor brought with them a steady supply of comely lads, some of the right persuasion, others seeking a way to fund their drinking by selling their bodies.
It had to be supposed that Daisy consorted with the latter type, for he was no portrait with his wheezy, skinny frame and cheerless manner, and nor was he humorous company. If his money was not spent on drink, there was only one place it could be going, but that too was not a question to be asked. Let him go his own way and no harm done, as long as he was there when needed, which he ever was.
‘Happen we could put a couple of feelers out there to find out, just in case.’
‘If you like,’ Spafford responded, thinking it daft. His mind was more on the questions John Hawker was asking. ‘But not for long: we’ve another tickle to carry out.’
‘We’ll have to mask up this time, lads, like proper highwaymen, for we will be out in the light of day.’
The jovial mood in which this was imparted would, Spafford hoped, calm any nerves. They knew as well as he did that John Hawker was asking about and one or two had been eyeballed by him, making no secret of how uncomfortable they had found it. He had been out in the cutter, with four men to row, the previous night, to sit silently off Leathercote Point and observe another Tulkington cargo come in, this time without interference.
He intended to sting and it would again be where his rival least expected it, but there was no boat to transport them this time. To get to where they needed to be, they must go on foot and in pairs and by different routes, so as not to attract attention. The notion he might take Harry along died in the reluctance of the object and, in truth, he was far from ready for action, if he could ever have been said to be so. His father thought he looked like death warmed up.
Harry was weak, and not just in the article of drink. He had grown up with his mother’s bonny looks, for Welsh Mary had the same corn-coloured hair and sapphire-blue eyes. But she had been a fiery creature, something her bairn had failed to inherit. He could not say that now about the likeness; dissipation had made the cheeks puffy and left bags under those blue eyes, and the lower lip – too often in a pout – seemed slack.
Mary had gone before her son was truly weaned; to where, both father and son had no idea, the former being left to raise him. He was sure he had done his best, though in the early years he had been on the Baltic run and away for long stretches, which left the boy in any hands that could be found.
Once he took up smuggling there was money, and so attempts were made to school the lad, the aim for him a less felonious future. It had failed, as had everything else tried. Harry had so exhausted the patience of the Canterbury schoolmaster he had been sent home, accused of laziness, whoring and drunkenness, that before he had even reached full maturity.
‘If he’s not to come, I need you to stay and look after him, Daisy. I don’t trust another and what I have in mind would scarce suit you anyway.’
That got a gap-toothed grin. ‘Happy to oblige, Dan: my back is still achy from hauling those casks in St Margaret’s Bay. You get along and leave Harry to me, an’ I’ll have a stew on the grate hook for when you return.’
Which Dan Spafford did, as well as the men he led, walking the roads around the villages with the same destination in mind: a wood on the edge of a wide track which ran from St Margaret’s village, across the road to Dover and on to Martin, up and past a mill at the top of the hill, where it split to run to various points on the map. The part of the track where they had gathered was not visible from the high ground on either side, the route dipping into a deep dell.
Dolphin, who had set out at first light, was where he should be, the cart in which he had travelled now up a track to a fallow field and backed into a small copse. The horses had been unhitched but were still in harness, taken further on to graze on long halters which would prevent them wandering. The rest of the band came in, Spafford included, to partake of the bread and cheese provided till one, who went by the name of Barky for his loud voice, was sent off up the lane to act as a lookout.
‘Are you so sure it’ll come, Dan?’ asked a weary-looking Dolphin.
‘The man we’re pricking is a creature of habit – has become so through too long being unchallenged.’
Barky was only to shout if he sensed danger, so his running figure was enough to alert them it was clear. Masks wer
e pulled up, hats pulled down as two pistols, preloaded and primed, were taken out from under canvas. The rumble of the cartwheels on the dry rutted road soon became audible, as well as the squeal of a lever brake applied to stop it running away on the steep downhill slope, which would pressure the backs of the horses.
As it came close to the bottom the carter cracked his traces to get up a bit of a pace, this to take the first part of the up slope, not that it lasted for long. The cart soon slowed to barely a walk, at which point Spafford, his face well hidden, stepped out to block the route.
‘Stand, fellow,’ he called, waving his pistol, ‘and haul on that there brake.’
There was a pause until he complied, to then sneer, ‘Someone’s had you for a dupe, mate. You won’t get much for a load of chalk.’
The rest of his men came out from the trees to surround their quarry, which had the carter demand who the hell they were.
‘Best get down, friend. For we knows what’s hidden under that chalk, and it ain’t somethin’ to sow on the fields.’
‘An’ if I say no to that?’
Dan Spafford smiled, seeking to convey the notion was foolish, until he realised it would not be seen. ‘Then I has to ask myself if I can give you time to say your prayers, afore I put a ball in your heart.’
Compliance was slow, but eventually the carter climbed down to be replaced by Dolphin who, with help from his mates on the horse bridles, backed the cart up so it could turn into the field. Tulkington’s man was dragged along behind until, out of sight of the road, he was lashed to a tree, a blindfold put on as a precaution. The canvas covering the contraband was lifted carefully for, if it had been used to hide the load on Tulkington’s cart, it would serve the same purpose on Spafford’s, though it was enquired about as to why the load needed to be shifted at all. Why not steal the cart and the horses hauling it as well?
Daniel Spafford showed a patience to which his crew were unaccustomed as he explained. What was stolen would have to be disposed of and, while shifting illegal goods would be easy, a horse and cart could cause problems, for that would involve dealing with people not in the trade: folk who might blether.
‘No; we leave it here and the carter with it, to be found whenever. But a cart will be seen going through Martin as it should, and be remarked upon.’ He chuckled as he added, ‘Where it goes after that will be the mystery.’
Harry Spafford, sat back to the wall on his bed, showed little interest when the door to his locked room was opened to reveal Daisy Trotter, he carrying a tray on which sat a bowl of soup, with wedges of bread and cheese, as well as a pitcher of pressed apple. His interest perked up when he noticed that, unlike his father, Daisy had shut the door but failed to lock it and the key was still outside. This had the younger man lift his head and smile – one which, with his looks, even a bit ravaged as they were, had always been winsome.
‘So Pa’s off on his thieving?’
‘He told you?’
‘Asked if I wanted along, hoped I did.’ The plate and pitcher were placed on a table and Harry stood. ‘Never said where, though, or what he was after.’
‘As like as not you don’t care.’
Harry had come close to the table to hold out a hand. ‘Look at that, Daisy. Bet yours ain’t as steady.’
‘An’ the better you look for it, Harry, too. More akin to your old self.’
Daisy slightly recoiled as Harry’s hand gently stretched out to stroke his cheek. Renewed eye contact showed the blue eyes to be soft and with a hunger in them, which persisted as the gap between them closed, until the older man could feel the heat of his breath.
‘Gets lonely in here, Daisy; a body wants a bit of warmth.’ A hand was placed on Harry’s chest but there was little pressure in the push. ‘Don’t tell me you ain’t dreamt on it, Daisy, cause I’ve seen it in your look more’n once.’
‘Don’t mean owt. You’re Dan’s boy.’
There was a slightly desperate quality to the protest, one of a man caught in a white lie. He had known this lad from a bairn, watched him grow and felt longings he convinced himself were, if anything, maternal. If there had been temptations, they were ones to which he had never succumbed. Yet how many times, in the Molly-house, when a ship came in and a crew with it, had he sought out youths who looked like and had the colouring of Harry Spafford?
‘I could be your boy, Daisy, if you so desire.’ Daisy shook his head furiously, to see Harry smile and slowly wet his lips. ‘I was not shy of it when I was at school; candles snuffed and in a dark dormitory, there was pleasure a’ plenty.’
‘I’m not a schoolboy.’
‘Neither was the master,’ came the husky-voiced reply, ‘an’ I was one of his special boys.’
Daisy broke eye contact by dropping his gaze slightly, so the headbutt was a shock which did what Harry Spafford desired: it stunned Daisy Trotter enough to let him skip by and out the door, which was quickly slammed and locked. Inside, Trotter was hauling on the latch with one hand while trying to stop the flow from his nose with the other, his shouts of fury muffled by both blood and wood.
Not that they would have been heard; Harry Spafford had grabbed his coat and was heading out into the open, on his way to Deal at a rush, given he had no idea when his pa would return. He needed to be somewhere he could not be found well before that, and it would have to be a place where he could get the drink he so craved. Money he never thought of, for his credit was good. Everyone knew his sire, just as they knew Daniel Spafford would always meet his son’s bills.
It was dark by the time the cart got back to Worth, to be taken into a barn where it could be hidden from sight, the men who had come with it drifting into the house, their leader the last.
‘Where’s Daisy?’
That got negative mumbles, shakes of the head, some shrugs and a couple of moans about there being nothing to eat. Dan Spafford went looking and that took him to Harry’s room, where he found his oldest friend with a bloodstained shirt, a broken nose, the makings of two black eyes and an unconvincing explanation.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Henry Tulkington, being utterly unaware of the latest ravages on his enterprise, was sat in the Lincoln’s Inn chambers of his half-uncle. To an outside observer it would have been remarked there was nothing of a similarity between the pair. Dirley Tulkington was twenty-five years Henry’s senior and of an age to have a full head of flowing silver hair and, given he wore a wig for his legal duties, glad to go without it when not in court. His fleshy jowls showed the need to be regularly shaved: not stubble on a man too fastidious to allow such a thing, but a discernible late-day shadow which continued on and down to the double folds of loose skin under his chin.
In discussing their trade, Dirley was ever alert to what was in the wind in Whitehall especially William Pitt’s efforts at reform, which took in not just that of the nation’s finances but his attempts to make more efficient the whole business of government. A weather eye had to be kept on how it would impact on their business. At this very moment Pitt was pressing the fellow who held the office of Master of Posts to sell his position to the government, using the threat of legislation to force him to accept the price of eighty thousand pounds.
‘Insult, of course,’ Dirley intoned. ‘It’s worth twice that in profit. But it will have to be accepted. Even the Whigs support the Tories on that particular matter.’
‘Are they then willing to have their private correspondence read by Pitt’s spies?’
‘He’s promised measures against intrusion.’ This was said in such a way as to indicate it was not a thing to be relied upon. ‘But we will be required to act, for a time, as if there are none.’
Henry nodded slowly, aware of what the older man was implying. Until they knew the post was sound in government hands, all their communications would have to be by private messenger. The other matter on which Pitt was pressing rated as more important. He desperately wanted to reform the Revenue Service, which was scoffed at by the older Tulki
ngton.
‘He’ll whistle to get any changes to the Revenue sinecures. Damn silly thing to fiddle with in the first place, given it can only be bought out at an enormous price. He can scarce afford it and bring down the public debt at the same time.’
‘He is passionate about it, Uncle,’ Henry said, with grim sincerity, ‘and judging by the way he has behaved in Deal, one cannot doubt it. It would serve if Lord North tossed him out of Walmer Castle.’
‘Put your mind at rest, Henry. If he gets too high-handed on that front it will bring down his administration. He might be able to browbeat the Master of Posts, who has little political support, but here he will be dealing with parliamentarians who draw valuable remunerations and they will not stand still to have their purses washed out.’
It was one of the great advantages to the smuggling fraternity that the person given the office and perquisites of the Revenue, by custom a method of securing political allegiance, was never the one to carry out the duties. Such gifts of income without exertion were the mainstay of all governments, Pitt’s included, even if he was known to deplore the practice. It was also the kind of gift that the sovereign valued highly, a way to ensure that which King George wanted to get through parliament was supported.
The lucky placeman, in the case of the Revenue, would then employ at a much lower cost the actual bodies to carry out the work. Of course, there was a great difference between the stipend that such sinecures brought in and that which was expended on those carrying out the duties, which did nothing for application and in many cases caused it to be seriously hampered.
The man who held the office for Kent, called the Riding Officer of Customs, had been in possession of the position since before the present George ascended the throne. Elderly now, he was not a fellow to ever mount a horse – indeed he had to be aided into his carriage. He was also a person well known to Dirley Tulkington, they dining and gambling at the same St James’s clubs. Henry’s uncle had always been able to assure himself and his nephew of two things about the Riding Officer: his inability to win at cards and, as a consequence, the man’s parsimony in the matter of both wages and allowances for his people.
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