The Contraband Shore

by David Donachie

  ‘Shut up, weasel, or you’ll feel my fist.’

  Partly because of the struggling youth the brute holding his coat collar was put slightly off balance, which caused him to barge into Dutchy, who put out a hand to push back, the reaction a demand to get out of the way.

  ‘Don’t take kindly to that, friend – a “pardon my manner, mate”, would serve better.’

  In the instant of this taking place, several things registered: the crossing sweeper’s near-skeletal frame was nowhere to be seen, so he had made himself scarce. The fellow holding the collar was broad of shoulder and tall and his look was a black and threatening one, while to his rear, a pair of tough-looking coves had come to the doorway he had just exited and were eyeing Dutchy dangerously.

  ‘Help me, mister,’ was the near-tearful plea from the youth, now so close Dutchy could smell the drink on his breath. ‘He ain’t got no right to be laying a hand on me.’

  ‘Then it might be fittin’ for him to be let go,’ was Holland’s quiet response.

  Dutchy had let his ditty bag slip off his shoulder, but it was still in his hand and he felt it being tugged, which obliged him to look at who was doing the pulling. The stick of a crossing sweeper was behind him now, exerting a lot of pressure for one of his build, while his eyes had a look in them that was a warning to be cautious.

  ‘Happen I’ll take you to where you seek to go, matey,’ he said softly. ‘Best come away.’

  By the time Dutchy looked back, the assailant’s face was close to his and it was clear he had heard. ‘Best advice you’ll get, stranger, so heed it.’

  Holland was a scrapper of repute, but he was no fool; one-on-one he would have taken the challenge and backed himself. But with two others to take on as well, and no support, it would be a certain thrashing. He was, however, too proud to just back down without saying something.

  ‘Might be you should let the lad free. Don’t look right, does it, a fellow your size manhandling a slip like him, which you will see is common opinion if you care to look round about you.’

  The collar holder could not resist the sideways glances which told him a crowd had gathered, and by the looks on their faces disapproval was widespread. That changed swiftly as he glared; quite a few folk suddenly seemed to recall the errand they were on when the bargy erupted and slipped away. Others dropped their eyes, while Dutchy himself was being dragged clear by the hissing crossing sweeper.

  ‘Best out of it, best out of it.’

  The gap this opened up allowed John Hawker to drag his still pleading victim off; unbeknown to Dutchy, he was heading for the slaughterhouse, his two fellow toughs hard on his heels.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Name’s John Hawker and there ain’t a worse bastard in Deal, mark my word.’

  ‘And who’s he collared?’ Dutchy asked, as the sweeper took up his station at the crossing again, broom at the ready.

  ‘Harry Spafford is the lad’s name, an’ he’s a wrong ’un too but for a different purpose, him never bein’ sober and a disgrace to his name. What he’s doin’ being hauled along by Hawker God only knows, but there’ll be hell to pay when his pa and Daisy Trotter get to hear about it, for they’re blood foes.’

  ‘Well I thank you, my old dear, for your concern and your aid. Quebec House?’

  ‘Up the alley, t’other side, friend, once I see you across. Follow your right hand and look to your left. Name’s on the house lintel, folk say.’

  ‘I need more’n that since I ain’t got letters.’

  ‘Door’s painted blue, same as the captain’s coat. Can’t miss it.’

  Dutchy slung his ditty bag back onto his shoulder, quick to pick up a sense of disappointment, there being no copper forthcoming. ‘My poke is full of nothing but air as of now, friend, but I’ll seek you out for the price of wet when I see my captain.’

  It not being far, Dutchy was rapping on the dark-blue door to find a welcome behind it and not just from Joe Lascelles. Cocky Logan was there, as usual his thick Scottish tones hard to understand, especially after a bit of a gap, not moderated by years spent in England or at sea. So was Peddler Palmer, both of whom had plied oars under his direction. The warmest welcome came from Brazier himself, though it was not long before Dutchy asked him the reason for the gathering of old hands, with no ship in the offing.

  ‘You’d know if you’d seen me a few weeks past.’

  The explanation got narrowed eyes. ‘Happen what I was told about this place was true. There was violence on the street afore I got here.’

  ‘You can tell me of that later. There are rooms in the attic; get yourself berthed and then Joe can knock up a feed.’

  ‘Saving your presence, I have a debt to pay to a crossing sweeper.’ Now it was Dutchy’s turn to explain. ‘Might not’ve got clear with him hauling me back. Said the fellow I was eyeing was a real bad sod. Happen I might look out for him and catch him on his own.’

  ‘How will you find him?’

  ‘Folk know where the bully types hang out, an’ besides, all I has to do is ask for him. Sweeper named him as a John Hawker.’

  ‘Christ in heaven, I came across the bugger on my way here too and that near came to blows.’

  ‘A name to mark, then.’

  The look in Dutchy’s eye left Brazier in no doubt about what Hawker might be marked for.

  The man they were discussing had not been out looking for Harry Spafford: he had been on the hunt for a clue as to who had stolen seventy pounds of tobacco near the village of Martin, due to be delivered to a long-time buyer from Maidstone, who would not be happy for a wasted journey to East Kent. This time there was scant discretion; he had lost his rag and was intent on letting it be known he was mad enough to do murder, even if he would not say why.

  His search had taken him to an upstairs room of a near-derelict house where the man who owned the building had a drinking den, which sold only smuggled brandy and locally distilled gin of ferocious strength. It was thus the haunt of the dregs of Deal, addicted urchins included, and perhaps someone with a clue to impart and so fuddled as to let slip a clue Hawker could use, for the villainy had to be local.

  The notion of a gang coming from far off to steal the loaded cart made no sense, and Hawker did not need Henry Tulkington to tell him that; the horses and cart, which had taken the goods away, could only travel so far before fresh beasts were needed and he had searched. His ride round the locality had taken in several coaching inns and paddocks like that of Vincent Flaherty, all to no avail.

  While he was hauling a protesting but unsteady Harry Spafford past St George’s Church, the boy’s father was ducking in and out of the taverns in Middle Street, with black-eyed and swollen-nosed Daisy in tow, looking for the same body with the intention of dragging Harry back and once more locking him up.

  Having done his favourite watering and whoring hole, the Hope and Anchor, Dan Spafford had proceeded to the Ship Inn, another alehouse, only to draw another blank. They were caught when just exiting to be told that John Hawker not only had his son but had collared him with no gentility. Given his place at the slaughterhouse was no mystery and that was the direction in which they had been seen to be going, it took no genius to work out where Harry would be now.

  ‘Why we stopped, Dan?’ Daisy required, in a voice made nasal by Harry’s head butt. ‘We’s got to get Harry back.’

  ‘I’m thinkin’, that’s why. Ask yourself what Hawker would want with my boy, when he’s never laid a hand on him afore an’ he could’ve done at any time. It be because he ain’t daft. He knows not to touch Harry, an’ he must have been tempted, ’cause it means I’d have to sort him regardless of hazard.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He must know it’s us robbing Tulkington and, even if it’s guessing, it won’t be for long. I wanted Harry to come with us yesterday, don’t you recall? Told him about what we was going to flitch and how.’

  ‘If Hawker lays a hand on him he won’t hold out without lettin’ on.’


  It was a gloomy Daniel Spafford who reached the obvious conclusion. ‘Strikes me from what we heard, it’s too late for that. Best get back to Worth and set up our defences.’

  ‘What about a rescue?’

  ‘To be thought on, Daisy. But first we must know what we face.’

  Knowing that Spafford was the culprit, Hawker was tempted to go after him right away, yet caution told him to wait for Tulkington’s return. That accepted, he could derive some pleasure from playing on the imagination of his captive. There was no better place to do that than a slaughterhouse, especially given the rumours of what the man who ran it was capable of.

  A wreck anyway, Harry Spafford had little forbearance when it came to his possible fate; the sight of cattle and pigs being slaughtered, with the blood and gore spraying everywhere, plus the attendant squealing, worked wonders on his wildest nightmare. He could see parts of his being, mixed in a sealed barrel of butchered and salted pork, being served up boiled in some far-off place as food for a ship’s crew.

  ‘Mind, it’s as like to be condemned,’ was Hawker’s gleeful opinion, when he drove home the notion. ‘Not even a South Sea cannibal would let a Spafford pass his lips.’

  ‘Happen we should ship him out whole, John,’ suggested Marker, one of the gang. ‘Let them roast the bugger on a spit.’

  ‘Scoopin’ out the head is said to be special for the chieftains,’ was another notion, soon topped by the preference such elevated folk had for roasted prick and gonads, cut fresh and still bleeding.

  Prey to such terrors, it was made very much worse by his being once more deprived of drink. So when Hawker questioned Harry Spafford, he was gifted not only with disclosure of what the father was about, but also a high degree of embellishment, which came from a devious mind able to paint a picture of a war in the making. Having been a resident at Worth since his father took to smuggling, Harry had been witness to all the frustrations and possible solutions to his inferior standing in the trade.

  So, to save himself, he set out to convince Tulkington’s right-hand man that no landing from now on would be safe, no round-the-county transport either. He even invented a special chest of money, which had been created over years, to fund the long-planned schemes designed to bring down Tulkington and all who worked for him.

  It was really the quite innocent mention of Billy Pitt that sparked another train of thought in Hawker. With Tulkington still absent he had no one to talk with, so was left to gnaw on the possibilities of what information he had, which included the knowledge that Edward Brazier had paid a visit to Walmer Castle and had been within those walls for a long time.

  To a fellow not short of an imagination it was easy to sniff a connection between the two, which placed this naval interloper suddenly come to Deal and seeking to get close to the Tulkington family in a very different light. What if the pursuit of the sister was just a ploy?

  In amongst the precautions he took, Hawker ensured the slaughterhouse was well guarded by armed gang members, all denied their normal pursuits till matters became clearer. He already knew Brazier was no longer alone, while the description of those who had joined him and were now resident at Quebec House did nothing to ease his worries.

  Even a gin-addicted child, scraping an existence in a seaport with no shortage of the type, could observe and describe the type who could not only fight, but had the air of those who would take pleasure in it. Brazier had also been observed visiting an armourer, who was open to an enquiring Hawker about what had been purchased – four brace of pistols and a set of naval hangers – while his spies reported the navy man, who had, since his beating, openly carried his sword, now never went anywhere without he had two of his people with him.

  There was one thing Hawker could do, without the need to clear it with Henry Tulkington. Not much happened in Deal about which he did not know and that applied to the question being posed around the taverns by Vincent Flaherty. The idea of letting slip to some nosy Irishman keen to buy drinks, through another body, the identity of Daisy Trotter and where he could be found counted as a good idea.

  If he knew it to be more of a wild hope than a real possibility, the notion on which he drew comfort was appealing. What if the two, Spafford and Brazier, could be put to a bout in which they would cancel each other out? But again, that would have to wait on Tulkington.

  Anticipating the need to go to Cottington Court often, sometimes as a proper visitor, at others, he hoped, for more clandestine meetings with Betsey, Brazier reckoned it necessary to get his trio of tars mounted so they could accompany him. Till they arrived he had been very cautious when out and about, avoiding situations in which he could once more be attacked, sometimes feeling foolish for the precaution, to then wonder once more at the name Daisy and what the enmity could portend, for Flaherty had finally come through with some information on the name.

  One stark fact was obvious: if there was a threat and he was constantly taking the same road, it could be remarked upon, while there were parts of the route where being isolated was easy; if he needed his men at his back in Deal, he could also require them out in the county.

  Riding a horse was not a notion that was taken to with unbridled glee by all. Dutchy Holland was fine, though happier on a donkey than a pony. Cocky Logan took to a passive mare eventually, but despite the teaching of Vincent Flaherty it seemed impossible to keep Peddler Palmer in a saddle for any length of time.

  ‘Happy on a yard, your honour, to reef and pound canvas, even in a gale of wind,’ Peddler insisted. ‘But I ain’t made for horseflesh.’

  ‘Best leave him to guard your house, Edward,’ was the Irishman’s opinion. ‘If you’re in any danger and need to go beyond a walk, your Peddler will be grounded in a trice.’

  Brazier was obliged to ask a question of Flaherty that troubled him once the lessons were complete. ‘Why have folk who refused to talk to you of this Daisy become so keen to let on now?’

  ‘You’ll need a saint’s intercession for that, for it was not brought on by my buying of ale. Nor was it more than a name and a place: a man for all love who resides in the village of Worth, which is not much more than a couple of miles beyond Cottington Court.’

  ‘D’ye still reckon Saoirse knows more than she’s been prepared to say?’

  ‘It would stand as no more than a guess, but yes.’

  ‘Happen I should talk to my landlord,’ Brazier said, after a meaningful pause, which got a knowing look from a man now well aware of the reasons that going to the Playhouse was a risk. ‘Never fear, Vincent, I will write and ask her to visit me with the excuse of a need for repairs.’

  The lone shaver slumped against the wall of the Naval Yard was too much of a fixture, in terms of type, to excite much in the way of curiosity, except perhaps to wonder if he was older than he looked, for he gave the impression of being stunted when seen to rise and walk off, as he did having seen Saoirse Riorden call at Quebec House.

  ‘First I must introduce you to the members of my old crew.’

  ‘Is this to be a social call, as well as business, then?’

  ‘I admit to a false proposition in my note, Saoirse.’ The statement, even if the response was silent, was not well received. ‘I need to ask you about a certain party whose name and whereabouts are now known to me, the person – a man indeed – who goes by the tag of Daisy.’

  A short pause in the face of a female scowl was followed by an attempt at a witticism. ‘I assume it’s not his given name, which would be too cruel.’ No reaction and certainly not a joyful one. ‘But I have ordered tea to be prepared and hope you will consent to join me.’

  ‘I’m minded to pass up on the tea.’

  ‘You know it was the name mentioned by those who beat me?’

  ‘I recall.’

  ‘While our good friend Vincent assures me not much happens in the town of which you’re not aware. Indeed, I am tempted to ask how my suit at Cottington is faring, given you may know more than me.’

  ‘You nev
er enquired before, you left that to Vincent, so why now?’

  ‘Because the identity is no longer a secret.’

  Joe Lascelles entered with a tray bearing a pot and china crockery for two, as usual with a wide grin on his face, one Edward Brazier reckoned to be able to melt all hearts. Even Joe had to moderate his look in the face of the lady now sat in the parlour; stony was an understatement. Afraid she would up and depart, Brazier sought to keep her pinned by social obligation.

  ‘Joe, ask our good fellows to come and be introduced.’

  ‘With a brace of pistols apiece, no doubt,’ was the acerbic comment, as Joe left the room.

  ‘There are as many mills for rumours in this place as flour,’ was the slightly terse response. ‘And what you have said tells me Vincent is correct. Not much happens in Deal about which you do not know, so I’m wondering what you can tell me about this fellow.’

  ‘You’re sure I would want to tell you anything?’

  ‘Tea,’ seemed a feeble response, and it was replicated in a cup that showed the leaves had yet to fully infuse. ‘Or should I say coloured hot water.’

  That she laughed cheered him and, not having heard it before, he was taken with the level of her pealing musicality. The effect on what had been till now a stern countenance was equally remarkable.

  ‘Pour it back in the pot, Edward, and let it sit a while.’

  The door opened again to admit three very obvious Jack tars, unmistakeably so in the manner of their dress and pigtails; Dutchy’s curly-haired head was closer to the low ceiling than the others, dwarfing the Jock, Cocky Logan. Mid-size Peddler showed a dropped jaw in the face of an evident beauty and could not avoid the habit of scratching his crown. It was amusing to see them – all hard as nails and afraid of no man – adopt a posture more common to a shy schoolboy, which could only be put down to the setting. Had they not been bareheaded, he was sure they would have doffed the different articles they wore on their heads.