About the Author
Nathan Dylan Goodwin was born and raised in Hastings, East Sussex. Schooled in the town, he then completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Radio, Film and Television Studies, followed by a Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University. A member of the Society of Authors, he has completed a number of successful local history books about Hastings, as well as other works of fiction in this series; other interests include reading, photography, running, skiing, travelling and, of course, genealogy. He is a member of the Guild of One-Name Studies and the Society of Genealogists, as well as being a member of the Sussex Family History Group, the Norfolk Family History Society, the Kent Family History Society and the Hastings and Rother Family History Society. He lives in Kent with his husband, son and dog.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
nonfiction:
Hastings at War 1939-1945
Hastings Wartime Memories and Photographs
Hastings & St Leonards Through Time
Around Battle Through Time
fiction:
(The Forensic Genealogist series)
Hiding the Past
The Lost Ancestor
The Orange Lilies – A Morton Farrier novella
The America Ground
The Spyglass File
The Missing Man – A Morton Farrier novella
The Suffragette’s Secret – A Morton Farrier short story
The Wicked Trade
The Wicked Trade
by
Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Copyright © Nathan Dylan Goodwin 2018
Nathan Dylan Goodwin has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This story is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Where the names of real people have been used, they appear only as the author imagined them to be.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author. This story is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding, cover or other format, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design: Patrick Dengate
www.patrickdengate.com
To Clair, Ciaran,
Poppy, Noah, Milo & Luna
Author’s Note
Inscription
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Historical Information
Acknowledgements
Further Information
Author’s Note
This novel is set against the backdrop of a real moment and period in history: smuggling on the Kent and Sussex border in England in the 1820s.
Many real locations, characters and events have been used in this book. It is, however, largely a work of fiction.
As with one of my previous novels, The America Ground, this book revives some wonderful regional dialect, which is sadly now almost completely out of use.
Inscription
Sacred
to the memory of
RICHARD MORGAN
First-Rate Quartermaster of HMS Ramillies, who was unfortunately killed in the execution of his duties on the Blockade Service, 30th July, 1826
Aged 34 years
Left surviving Mary his wife
Stay, Reader, stay, incline your ear
to know who this is buried here.
A husband dear, a brother kind
a friend to all the well-inclined.
In doing duty he hath gained
the threat of some malicious men;
but those who serve their God and King
care not for men or worldly things.
His death was sudden, but we trust
in Jesus’ arms he’s now at rest.
No more in this vain world will he be toss’d
though many friends are left to mourn his loss.
Headstone in St Martin’s Church, Dover, Kent
Prologue
7th July 1963, the Bell Inn, Hythe, Kent
‘You ready for a drink, yet?’
Paul Major was standing awkwardly in the open fireplace, sweating profusely. He paused, the club hammer in his right hand ready to strike the back of the bolster chisel. Turning, he saw the grinning face of Ian Austen, the landlord of the pub in which he was working, peering under the horizontal beam of the inglenook fireplace.
‘Drink?’ he repeated.
‘Is it too early for a beer?’ Paul asked, setting the tools down on the pile of old bricks by his feet.
Ian took a glance at his watch. ‘Is nine o’clock in the morning too early for you?’
‘Na—that’d be great,’ he grinned, running his shirt sleeve across his gritty, damp forehead.
‘Is it going okay?’
Paul looked at the partially demolished wall beside him. ‘Yeah, fine—the mortar between the bricks is like breadcrumbs—they’re practically falling out by themselves.’
‘So, not long until it’s down, then?’ Ian asked hopefully.
‘Well, I don’t think it will be ready for lunchtime like I said it would, actually.’
Ian groaned. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, I expected to find a single course of bricks running up the middle of the chimney, dividing the two fireplaces, which would have taken a couple of hours to knock down and another couple to clear up.’
‘But..?’ Ian pre-empted.
Paul sniffed. ‘There are two courses of bricks, not one.’
‘So, double the work-time, then?’ Ian mumbled.
‘Possibly more. It’s a weird one—the two courses have got about a foot’s gap between them with a brick lid on the top—completely sealed up, it was.’
Ian frowned. ‘Is that normal when one open fireplace has been divided into two?’
‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘Well, just do your best and I’ll have to hope we don’t get a rush of customers coming in for lunch. I had a coachload of pensioners from Gravesend arrive unannounced yesterday.’
‘Sorry,’ Paul muttered, picking up the club hammer and bolster chisel. Turning to the side, he began hammering out another row of old bricks. The wall, now being just below head heig
ht, allowed him to peer inside the enclosure. Through the fine cloud of brick dust choking the air, Paul caught a glimpse of something. Material? A bag, perhaps? He pushed his head further into the cavity and squinted, but the conspiracy of darkness and grimy air prevented further clarity. Stepping out of the fireplace, he began to rummage in his tool-bag.
‘Here you go, mate,’ Ian said, returning with a pint of beer.
‘Oh, lovely—cheers,’ Paul said, reaching for the cold glass and taking a long glug. ‘Nope—definitely not too early for that! I was just looking for a torch—looks like there might be something between the walls.’
‘Tell me it was glistening and golden,’ Ian quipped.
‘Afraid not,’ Paul answered, returning to his tool-bag. ‘More like a bunch of old rags.’ He found the torch—not a particularly powerful one, but it would do. He took another swig of beer, set it down on the nearest table then ventured back inside the fireplace.
‘Well?’ Ian asked.
‘Give me half a chance!’ Paul returned, angling himself so that he could get both his head and hand inside the cavity. He switched on the torch. The muted yellow light pushed through the granular air, settling on a rounded grey object. It took a moment for his brain to decipher what he was seeing. ‘Oh, Christ!’
‘What is it?’ Ian demanded.
Paul shifted the beam of light to another similar object, protruding from the material that he had seen earlier—clothes. Specifically, two uniforms. Containing two skeletons. ‘I think you need to phone the police.’
Chapter One
11th February 1821, Romney Marsh, Kent
It was shortly after two o’clock in the morning at Camber, on the westerly edge of Romney Marsh on the Kent and Sussex border, that the receding tide brushed the hull of the nameless galley for the final time, releasing it to the wet shingle beach. The boat—ten oars, thirty feet in length and painted stark white—could scarcely be seen on this cold, moonless night. Beside the galley queued the last dregs of the men, whose original number had been nigh on two hundred. The men had been quarried for their bestial strength from the surrounding countryside and who, upon reaching the boat, would be saddled up with two one-hundred-pound barrels of smuggled brandy. The line of men trudged back up the beach between two long flanks of batmen armed with clubs, flails and pistols, before pushing on into the dark and desolate marshes beyond.
Next, it was the turn of Samuel Banister. He moved closer to the boat and looked up at the blackened face of their leader, Cephas Quested, but the darkness retained his features.
‘Ready?’ Cephas barked, his breath heavy with liquor. Without waiting for a response, he passed the rope straps, which held two half-anker barrels, over Samuel’s head. The barrels thumped hard onto his chest and back, thrusting the air from his lungs. ‘Off!’
Samuel side-stepped away from the boat, struggling to catch his breath. He moved as quickly as he could up the beach, but the waterlogged shingle sucked his boots down with each stride. This, his third night of smuggling—if the other two were to be equalled—was going to be long, arduous and punishing. But he had little choice; he was twenty-two years old with a pregnant wife and young boy at home. One evening of running contraband earnt him eight shillings—almost one week’s labour on old Banks’s farm.
‘Move on, will ya!’ the tubman behind him snarled, elbowing sharply past.
Samuel’s grunted, breathy response was lost to the sound of a pistol firing noisily into the air above them. Then, chaos. Every man on that beach knew the implication of the gunfire: it was a beckoning call from the blockade officers for help. The tubmen in front of Samuel suddenly quickened their pace up the beach, whilst the batmen protecting them readied their blunderbusses and muskets with guttural, opprobrious roars.
‘Hold! In the name of the King; hold, I say!’ a voice shouted from nearby.
Samuel paused for the briefest of moments and turned to await Quested’s orders. His muscles tightened as he glimpsed movement in the sea behind the galley; a boat full of blockade men was already sailing towards the shore.
An indistinguishable command was bellowed from the galley and the batmen on either side of Samuel began angling their weapons in the general direction from which the pistol had been fired. Seconds later, a sharp volley of muskets and shot cracked open the air, firing onto the position of the blockade men.
A cacophony of shouting from all around him competed with the resonance of gunfire.
Ducking down as much as the barrels strapped to him would allow, Samuel pushed harder up the sloping beach, cursing the shifting, enveloping stones under his feet. Behind him, the two lines of batmen began to fold into one rear-guard, the torrent from their weapons continuing to pound the blockade men’s position.
Finally, the shingle levelled out and Samuel stopped to take breath. He turned to see that the blockade ship had landed on the beach and a group of a good dozen officers had poured forth onto the stones. The rear-guard of batmen desisted firing and began to run towards Samuel and the rest of the fleeing tubmen.
‘Move, you buffle-headed dunty,’ one of them bawled at Samuel.
Walland Marsh that lay before him had absorbed the rest of the tubmen into its bleak desolation. He needed to move fast, but the barrels of brandy were holding him back. If he ditched them now, he could certainly outrun the blockade officers, but without deliverance of the brandy he would receive no pay. With a renewed determination, Samuel pressed on. At last, the ground beneath him, firmed by sand, mud and sparse vegetation, resisted the heavy footfall of his boots and his progress increased.
The gunfire behind him had at last abated, but now he could not see which way to go. Searching the darkness for direction, Samuel caught sight of movement up ahead—another of the smugglers—and moved towards him. He ignored the deep aching in his chest and pushed on faster, drawing alongside the two men. One was Quested, his left arm around the waist of a limping tubman. Samuel could see from the man’s blood-drenched breeches that he had sustained an injury to his leg.
Quested glanced at Samuel. ‘We just need to be a-getting to Lydd. I got carts a-waiting at Scotney Court Farm.’
Samuel nodded. ‘How far?’
‘Four mile-odd,’ Quested answered breathlessly.
He couldn’t; there was no way Samuel could maintain this pace for a further four miles. Then he thought of Hester anxiously awaiting him at home, having pleaded with him not to get involved in the wicked trade, after losing two brothers to the gallows for the same crime. It was with every conscious effort that Samuel fought the desire to drop the barrels and run directly home.
Placing himself on the other side of the injured tubman, Samuel hoisted the man’s left arm over his shoulder.
‘The blockade will give up soonest,’ Quested said, as if intuiting Samuel’s doubts. He guided them to the edge of the field and paused, squinting into the darkness.
‘Please—be a-leaving me here,’ the man between Samuel and Quested begged.
‘Don’t be blethering on, man. Stay quiet.’
Samuel noticed Quested turn to look behind them and followed his gaze, wishing that there were even a hint of moonlight by which to see. Behind them, hulking shadows danced and shouted. Evidently, they were still being pursued. The flashing of a blunderbuss briefly illuminated the scene following them: not fifty yards away the batmen were beating a retreat towards them. Pursuing the batmen closely were now upwards of twenty blockade officers.
‘Dump the barrels,’ Quested instructed.
‘But…’ Samuel began.
‘Don’t be a-worrying, you be getting your dues. Sling them in the sewer and happen we’ll find them tomorrow.’
Samuel obeyed his leader and heaved the half-ankers over his head. Seeking one last look of assurance from Quested, he tossed them down into one of the many ditches which dissected the great Marsh, receiving a loud splash in response.
The commotion from behind them was drawing ever closer.
‘Le
t’s be a-getting out of here,’ Quested ordered.
Without turning, Samuel became aware that something was happening behind them; the men’s footfall had ceased. Seconds later, the muskets and blunderbusses were opening up once more; the batmen were stopping to provide cover for their withdrawal.
Two pistol shots fired in succession, immediately succeeded by two wolf-like cries piercing through the night sky, as two of the batmen were slaughtered.
The blockade men were close now.
Another shot rang out and Samuel felt the man beside him suddenly weaken. He slumped noiselessly to the ground, instantly devoid of life.
‘Run!’ Quested shouted.
Samuel, trying to ignore the fact that he was running dangerously close to the edge of the water-filled ditch, pushed his body until every muscle in his legs was screaming.
‘Over there!’ Quested yelled, pointing into the darkness.
Evidently, he could see something which Samuel could not.
They continued running, with the mêlée of conflict between batmen and blockade officers just yards away, until Quested suddenly thrust out his arm.
Samuel drew to a stop just in time; they had reached the terminus of the field, their escape route blocked by Pig’s Creek Sewer—another of the marsh’s notorious dykes.
Their game was up.
Samuel bent double, his body aching and his mind in chaos. Swamping his thoughts were images of Hester and his little boy, John. She had been right in her vehement opposition to his smuggling; now he would pay the price.
The retreating batmen were almost upon them.
‘Are you a-coming?’ a voice called from the pitch darkness of the opposite bank, just as a thin wooden plank fell propitiously over the watery divide.
‘Come on—whip-sticks,’ Quested said, pushing Samuel towards the makeshift bridge.
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 1
