Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  ”I’d say it proves your point beyond argument,” said I, laughing. ”Now why didn’t you—”

  I never quite finished that sentence, for behind us a great roar sounded, then above, a moment later, came a great whirring noise.

  “Duck!” shouted Mr. Perkins, and duck we did. A good thing, too, for the great shower of sand that fell upon the four prisoners and two constables did miss us altogether.

  “Better run for it, gents,” yelled Mr. Perkins. ”That ain’t a musket they’re shooting at us!”

  “What is it, then?”

  “A cannon, and that was a cannonball landed just to the north of us.”

  Hard as it was to find proper footing on that sandy bluff, the entire party managed, nevertheless, to make their way to the top of it in impressively short time. The horses, too, alive to the sense of panic in the men, heaved their way up through the sand in great, bounding leaps, racing them to the summit.

  Once up and over the crest, prisoners and captors stood, resting as if out of range, wheezing and coughing. But Mr. Perkins would have none of that.

  “Better move it on, gents,” he urged them. ”Next time might come closer.”

  There was no next time, as it happened—not on that night, in any case. The cutter fired but once, perhaps more in pique than with a true intention to destroy: the prisoners were, after all, their own people. One of them was greatly disturbed by these events. The oarsman whose pistol had misfired seemed to be praying in the Romish style, blessing himself repeatedly. But listening carefully to him (he was quite near us), I found that it was not Latin but French he spoke, and that those were not prayers but curses he raised to heaven.

  A surgeon had to be roused to remove the bullet from the wounded prisoner’s shoulder. Mr. Perkins was sent by the senior constable to fetch him. I volunteered to accompany my friend, for there was yet much I wished to know. There had been little opportunity to talk while on our way to the Good King George. The constables had unwisely marched the procession through Alfred Square, perhaps eager to show off what they had accomplished in their night’s work. While they received all the attention they might have wished, even then it seemed to me to be attention of the wrong sort. At our first appearance in the square, the patrons had poured out of the Turk’s Head and the other inns, alehouses, and dives to jeer at the luckless captives. The prisoners were greeted with laughter, hoots, and cries of derision. The tenor of these calls seemed to be that the mighty had fallen, that they were finally to get what they deserved. Oddly, it had not occurred to me until then that there might be more than one party in the smuggling trade there in Deal; there might be two, three, or even more; and all might be in mortal competition, each with the other. And why not? The robber gangs of London were in such a state, were they not? Upon one fabled occasion, two gangs had fought a pitched battle in Bedford Street over the question of which of them ”owned” a certain territory below Holbourn and above the Strand.

  The crowd from Alfred Square had followed us down Middle Street, creating noise and confusion all the way to the house at Number 18. We—Mr. Perkins and I—were much annoyed by these who trooped after us, most of them drunk, all of them ill-behaved. Yet far more than we, the horses we led resented their presence—and the mare, led by Mr. Perkins, most of all. She pranced and danced, so that she was difficult even for him to hold. And at one point, she planted her front hooves and kicked back with her rear. Yet she made no contact with man nor woman, which was just as well, for Mr. Perkins had told me that he had known of people who were crippled for life from the kick of a horse.

  Mr. Sarton, no doubt troubled by the noise of the crowd, seemed to take a specially long time to unlock the door; he had insisted upon hearing from both his constables before showing his face. When he did, I saw Sir John to his rear, listening closely to all that was said.

  And what had been said? Mr. Trotter, the senior constable, stepped forward and gave to Mr. Sarton a full report, including the number captured and the number escaped, and the fact that one of the prisoners had suffered a gunshot wound.

  “Well then,” Mr. Sarton had said, ”you must get a surgeon to treat it.”

  “Soon as we’ve got them put away at the inn, I’ll send off for Mr. Parker.”

  “Yes, the inn,” Mr. Sarton had said in dismay. ”Ah, for a proper jail, eh, Mr. Trotter?”

  “Aye, sir. Quite right, sir.”

  So it was that Mr. Perkins, as the junior of the Deal constables, came to be chosen to search out and bring the surgeon, Mr. Parker, to the Good King George. They could have chosen better. Though Mr. Perkins was given an address and rough directions, he had not been in the town of Deal for a dozen years or more. He found the place much changed. And I, of course, could be of little assistance, for I was but a visitor.

  The address he had been given was one in St. George’s Road. Yet in giving directions, Mr. Trotter carelessly pointed us south instead of north, starting us off in the wrong direction. Thus we began wandering about the town, looking for Mr. Parker’s surgery precisely where it was not.

  Mr. Perkins was quite exasperated by the time we had searched near half an hour and found naught nor no one to

  show us the way. It was by now far too late to find anyone on the street in that part of town.

  “Now, this is damned annoying, Jeremy, old chum,” said he. ”I listened careful to him. I could practically repeat what he told us word for word.”

  “Little good it would do,” said I, ”for he clearly misinformed us. You don’t suppose he did it a-purpose, do you?”

  “No, not a bit of it. I fear it’s just that our Constable Trotter an’t too bright.”

  “We must have walked up and down every street this side of Deal.” I sighed and sought to think of something which might engage him more than my comments upon our fruitless search. Surely there was something I might ask to divert him. Then I remembered the question which had been paramount in my mind when we began this bootless enterprise.

  “Mr. Perkins, I’ve a matter at which I’ve wondered ever since you jumped up and ran down that hill of sand and began yelling and shouting at the smugglers down at the water.”

  “Well and good,” said he. ”What is it had you wondering?”

  “Why did you do it, first of all?”

  He chuckled. ”Why indeed,” said he. ”1 daresay you remember my grumbles and my protest to Sir John that the plan they had devised might work, but that we had not enough men to be sure that it would work.”

  “I remember. And you did then say you might do a bit of improvising when the time came.”

  “So I did. And what did you think of the show I put on?”

  “It was quite … quite … impressive. Not something I’ll be likely to forget. How ever did you think of doing that?”

  “Back when I was fighting in what they called Pontiac’s War—’twasn’t but an uprising, really, but it had its frights—they’d send us out on picket duty to guard the en-campment. That made for some pretty wild nights because the Chippewas had a practice of sneaking up close as they could, then jumping up and yelling the awfullest war cries, then running at our picket line and throwing one of their hatchets at the handiest target, then disappearing from sight. They didn’t do all that much damage, but they sure scared the devil out of us.”

  “So you were trying to scare them?”

  “No, more than that. I was trying to catch their attention and keep it. Y’see, those boats on the shore gave our fellows good cover to hide under, but it’s damn difficult to get out from under them. See what I mean? I gave them time to get out from under by getting the attention of the owlers, creating a diversion, y’might say.”

  “You certainly did hold them,” said I. ”They stared at you like you were an Indian yourself, just suddenly come to life in Kent.”

  He laughed at that. ”Yeah, they did, didn’t they?”

  At least I had succeeded in raising his spirits a bit. ”Did the two constables have anything to s
ay about that?” I asked.

  “No, but between them they gave me some mighty queer looks.” Again, he laughed, but suddenly he stopped. Clearly, something had occurred to him. ”Jeremy,” said he, ”do you remember the name of that church at the other end of High Street?”

  “Well … no, I fear I didn’t give it proper attention.”

  “Nor did I, but … could it have been St. George’s?”

  “Certainly it could, and St. George’s Road would likely be found near it,” I suggested.

  “We can only hope.”

  It took us no time to find our way to the church and thus to St. George’s Road. Waking the surgeon, however, was quite another matter. It seemed to take minutes of beating upon the door and calling out his name before his head appeared, thrust out of an upper-story window. There were then more minutes until he appeared dressed, after a fashion, with his bag of tools in hand. As we three walked along swiftly to the inn, we found little to say. The only sound was that of our footsteps upon the cobblestones and the menacing rattle and clank of saws and knives inside the surgeon’s bag.

  Upon our arrival, Mr. Perkins gave a stout single knock upon the door of the inn. He might have beat longer and louder upon it, but it was hardly necessary, for the door unexpectedly flew open. There was only silence from inside. Mr. Perkins and I exchanged looks of concern. He drew his pistol as I did mine; Mr. Parker, the surgeon, shrank back.

  Then, as near together as was possible, we leapt into the darkened taproom, diving to the floor on opposite sides of the door. Then did we wait tensely for some sign of what we might expect. It soon came. The long barrel of a fowling piece pushed its way over the bar and seemed to be pointed in my direction. Or was it? Perhaps it was simply aimed at the open door. I wanted to move, but I was fearful that if I did so, I would certainly make plain my location.

  “All right,” came a voice from behind the bar, one husky with fright, ”I know where you are, so you better just get on out of here. I don’t know why you come back, but if I pull this trigger, you’ll be sorry you did.”

  “It’s me, Oliver Perkins,” came the response. ”I’m stayin’ here at the inn. You know me, don’t you?”

  Silence; then: ”Well, maybe I do. What room you in?”

  “Number six on the second floor. It’s kind of an attic. Only one other room up there.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s right.”

  “And I just started on as a constable here in Deal.”

  “Oh, I guess I did hear that.” Then, reluctantly, he said, ”All right, get up and come ahead slow.”

  Tucking away his pistol, Mr. Perkins rose with exaggeratedly deliberate movements. He came forward with his hand open, showing that he had no weapon.

  ”I was sent out to fetch a surgeon,” said he.

  “That’s good. We’ve need of one.”

  “You mean for the wounded prisoner?”

  “Oh no, he’s gone with the rest of them.”

  The innkeeper raised himself and placed the great, long fowling piece upon the bar. At the same time, I holstered my pistol and got up from the floor.

  “Wait a bit,” said the innkeeper to me, ”who’re you?”

  “Never you mind that,” said Mr. Perkins. ”What’s this about ‘gone with the rest of them’? Mr. Parker, come ahead. He says there’s need of you.”

  The surgeon put his head timorously through the doorway and, seeing there was no danger, entered cautiously.

  Mr. Perkins turned back to the man behind the bar. ”Now, tell me what happened.”

  “Well, they just crashed in here so fast. I thought they was you two returning with the surgeon. They held a gun to my head and threatened me. I didn’t have any choice at all. I had to tell them what room the prisoners were in. No choice at all.”

  By the time the innkeeper had exonerated himself of all blame in the matter, Mr. Perkins was running for the stairs and pulling the surgeon after him. I followed, and the innkeeper, grabbing up his fowling piece, trailed along behind.

  The scene which greeted me on the next floor was surely one of the most dismaying that ever I have viewed. Mr. Trotter, the senior constable, knelt by the other constable (I blush to say I never learned his name), supporting him at the shoulders, thus providing what comfort he could. If not dead already, the poor fellow on the floor would soon be gone: he had a great gaping hole in his chest which certainly could not be mended. Constable Trotter, far from unscathed, held his free arm at such an awkward angle that it was evident that he had taken a bullet there, one that had probably broken his arm, as well. There was a good deal of blood upon the floor, yet it was not easy to tell from which of the constables it had come; perhaps from both. The surgeon gave his attention to Mr. Trotter. When the senior constable sought to persuade Mr. Parker to treat the other first, he seemed unable to speak above a whisper—probably weakened from loss of blood. In response to Mr. Trotter’s urging, the surgeon simply shook his head: his meaning was clear—the man was beyond saving. He said something over his shoulder to Mr. Perkins, who passed the order on to the innkeeper:

  “Get us a bottle of gin, and be quick. We’ve got to get this man drunk right away.”

  The innkeeper ran downstairs, apparently eager to do as he had been told.

  “We must have him in a bed if I’m to get that pistol ball out and his arm properly set,” said Mr. Parker. ”You, lad,” said he to me, ”grab his feet. I’ll lift him beneath his arms, and you, constable, hold his arm steady, but be careful with it. I’m sure it’s broken above the elbow.”

  Thus we managed, with a minimum of pain to Mr. Trotter, to move him through the open door and onto one of the two beds in the room wherein the prisoners had been held. Just about then, the innkeeper returned with the bottle of gin.

  “I could use a drink,” said Mr. Trotter in a choked, husky voice.

  “Take as much as you’re able. It’ll dull the pain.”

  The innkeeper pulled out the cork and passed the bottle to the constable. Trotter took it and drank a dram-sized gulp. He came up panting.

  “Go ahead, take another,” said Mr. Parker, and the constable obliged. And then to me and to the innkeeper: ”All right, you two, get out of here now. The one-armed constable will give me all the help I’ll need. Your name’s Perkins, is it not? Show them out, Constable Perkins.”

  Once sure that he would not be made a target, Mr. Parker felt in his element. He organized things well and gave orders in a crisp, authoritative manner that proved that at least he was now fully awake. I wondered if perhaps he had a naval background.

  Mr. Perkins herded us to the door and out into the hall.

  “See what you can do to get this poor fellow’s body out of the hall, would you?” said he to the innkeeper, indicating the dead constable. ”Put him up in my room, if you must.” And to me he whispered: ”Jeremy, find out what you can from him about what happened here. You’re going to have to make a report of some sort to Sir John and to Mr. Sarton.”

  And so as we temporarily disposed of the body in the hall and mopped up the blood from the floor and washed it down, I questioned my coworker in detail regarding what had happened. His answers, together with what Constable Trotter later told us, provide the basis for the account which I provide below.

  After Mr. Perkins and I had been let out to fetch the surgeon, Mr. Trotter returned to his place outside the room where the prisoners, still tied each to each, had in addition been secured to the bed. As he left the taproom, he advised the innkeeper that we would be returning soon with help for the wounded prisoner.

  Thus the innkeeper did not hesitate to open the door when a group of men appeared shortly after our departure, for he thought them to be we two come back with the surgeon and a surgeon’s helper. There were, in any case, four at the door when he threw it open to let them in. He did not notice until they swarmed upon him that all wore masks of one sort or another. A pistol was put to his head and cocked, as he had told, and he did indeed tell them where
they would find the prisoners and their guards. This brief interrogation was conducted in whispers, and though he recognized none because of the masks, two of the four had voices that he was sure he had heard before. (And another detail: the leader of the gang took them directly to the stairway to the floor above, though it was not immediately in sight; he clearly knew his way about the inn.) They forced the innkeeper to accompany them. When the two constables above became uneasy at the sound of so many footsteps in the taproom, they called down to him asking who was with him there; he answered them reassuringly, even told them that the surgeon had come to care for the prisoner. That last, reader, seemed inexcusable to me.

  Yet the two constables were sufficiently suspicious that, in spite of the innkeeper’s assurances, they had drawn their pistols and cocked them, expecting the worst—and the worst was what they got. As the masked party reached the top of the stairs, they immediately began shooting. The constables returned their fire. One, hit in the chest, fell immediately. Mr. Trotter shot off his two pistols and inflicted a wound on one of the attackers before he, too, fell wounded—though not mortally.

  After that, there was nothing nor no one to keep them from the prisoners. They threw open the door to the room, cut the bonds that held them, and made ready to go. Yet before they did, the leader of the masked band walked over to Constable Trotter in the hall and gave him a kick in his bleeding arm. He then said coldly, with an unmistakable threat in his voice: ”You may tell them all that we run the owling trade in Deal. There will be no more doubt of it when we finish tonight.”

  Not another word passed between them. Quick as they had come, they went, though it was later learned that they had reclaimed the cargo carried by the smugglers’ boat. The innkeeper promised that he would somehow find help, but once he was downstairs and behind the bar in the taproom, it seemed to him necessary to have a bit of rum to fortify himself for the journey. He was just finishing it, ready to pour another, when Mr. Perkins knocked once upon the door, and it swung open.