Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  “Well, now,” said Mr. Eccles in that same sharp tone which recalled itself immediately to me, ”I did not say that exactly—no, I did not.”

  “And what did you say, sir?”

  “I believe I said that sad as it may be to hear of a life cut short as Mr. Sarton’s was, the town is no worse off for it. He was of little worth as a magistrate.”

  “I think it remarkable you should have said that, Mr. Eccles, for Sir Simon Grenville said much the same thing only yesterday. Tell me, sir, have you discussed this matter with Sir Simon?”

  “I may have,” said Mr. Eccles in a manner that could only be called hesitant. Then, in a more emphatic fashion: ”Well, yes I have—and what of it? Only yesterevening I dined with him and we discussed these matters thoroughly. He told me of your intemperate remarks at graveside. Naturally, I hope you succeed in your declared intention to find the murderer of Mr. Sarton, and as for your wish to wipe out the smuggling trade here in Deal, of course I’m for you there, too, though I doubt you’ll succeed. But let us be practical. Whether you do or don’t succeed, eventually you will leave here, Sir John, and return to London. Then it will fall to the leading citizens of Deal to choose a successor to the late Mr. Sarton. And when that time comes, there can be one and only one choice to be made for the office of magistrate.”

  “And what choice is that?” asked Sir John.

  “Why, Sir Simon himself, of course. He is the greatest landholder in this part of Kent. He can claim near a thousand acres. There are few in the county who have more.”

  “You feel that this qualifies him as a magistrate?”

  “Indeed I do. How much law, after all, must a magistrate know? With all due respect, Sir John, I believe you would admit that the answer to that would have to be …” Mr. Eccles paused for effect. ”Not a great deal.”

  “I daresay you’re right there,” said Sir John with an amused chuckle. ”But do you feel that justice is best served when the rich sit in judgment upon the poor?”

  “Why not? God has shown that he favors the rich by giving wealth to them. Why should he not also favor them with wisdom?”

  “There are, I know, some who feel as you do in such matters.”

  “Let me tell you, Sir Simon would have been magistrate here in Deal had not Lord Mansfield butted into the town’s affairs. It had all been arranged.”

  “How interesting.”

  “Then came a letter from Sir Simon’s friend, Lord Mansfield, asking his aid in securing that same appointment for a young fellow barely out of university. Of course he had no choice but—”

  At just that moment, reader, came the not-too-distant sound of a bugle. The King’s Carabineers were now quite near. Had Sir John heard the call? Of course he had. The shadow of a smile flickered across his face. As for Mr. Eccles, however, there could be not the slightest doubt that he had heard it clear. He leapt up from his chair and looked first at Sir John and then at me, as if one of us two had been the source of that unexpected tooting.

  “What was that?” he demanded. ”What was that sound?”

  “Why, I be damned if it did not sound like a trumpet, sir. Now, who would be playing a trumpet here in Deal in the middle of the day? Have you any idea, Jeremy?”

  “None at all, Sir John.” That seemed an appropriate answer under the circumstances.

  “But forgive me, lad,” said he to me. ”What was your purpose in knocking upon the door? As I recall, I sent you off on an errand, did I not?” (He knew very well on what errand he had sent me.)

  “Ah yes, you did sir. You said you had business with a Mr. Crawly and sent me off to fetch him.”

  “And have you done as I asked?”

  “I have, sir. Mr. Crawly awaits outside.”

  “Well done,” said Sir John, rising from his chair. ”Let us go and meet with Mr. Crawly, shall we? I’m sure Mr. Eccles and I have concluded our talk, have we not, sir?”

  “If that is your view, sir, then I daresay we have finished,” said Eccles in a manner rather sullen. ”I would not take up more of your valuable time.”

  Sir John, who had learned the room with no difficulty, squeezed round the desk and made it across the room to the door. There I offered him my arm, and we two waited that Mr. Eccles might exit before us. In truth, he had little choice.

  At the door to the street Clarissa awaited us, quite beside herself with excitement.

  “You’ve no idea what’s out there,” said she to one and all. ”You’d not get it right with a hundred guesses.”

  Sir John put a forefinger to his lips, asking for silence. Clarissa assented with a nod. Mr. Eccles, having heard thus much, sprang to the door and, unwilling to wait, threw it open and gasped at what he saw.

  “Good God,” he cried aloud, ”they’re here! The Chancellor of the Exchequer granted my petition, after all!”

  He was so transported by the congregation of horses and men just outside the door that for a moment or two all he could do was stand there in the doorway, his hands clasped before him, and gloat loudly, ”They’re mine, they’re mine.”

  He did, in fact, speak so loudly that he attracted the attention of a group of soldiers nearby. One of them turned round and looked curiously at Mr. Eccles and Sir John. It was not, however, until he separated himself from the rest and started toward us that I saw that the man who approached was Lieutenant Tabor, who had played a role in the Dingendam matter. He gave a casual salute and proceeded to address Sir John.

  “We are perhaps a little later than expected, sir. For that I beg your pardon most sincerely, but we—”

  As this was said, Mr. Eccles began, subtly at first, to intrude himself into Lieutenant Tabor’s line of vision. By the time I did notice, he seemed truly to be attempting to elbow Sir John aside.

  “Young man … uh, lieutenant,” said he, ”I believe you’ve made a mistake. It’s me you wish to address, if I’m not mistaken. My name—as you will see if you check your orders—is George Eccles. I am the Chief Customs Officer for eastern Kent.”

  “Oh no, sir, I fear not, sir,” said Lieutenant Tabor. ”I know my orders well, and they direct me to Sir John Fielding at this house in Middle Street—Number Eighteen.”

  “But—”

  “And indeed I know Sir John well enough, for I assisted him in another matter quite recently, and so you see, sir, I have made no mistake.”

  “Now, don’t be impertinent, young man.”

  “I was not aware of any impertinence on my part, sir.”

  “But you should be aware that I submitted a request to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, no less, for just such a mounted contingent as this one here. And so it stands to reason, does it not, that this must be my mounted contingent? Don’t you understand? I need cavalry to chase the smugglers. I can only conclude that the orders you have been given were wrong. Mistaken. Misdirected.”

  All through this wrangle, during which Mr. Eccles grew increasingly strident in his representations, Sir John had listened with an amused smile upon his face, saying nothing. Yet during this last speech the smile faded. What seemed to offend was Eccles’s assertion that because the lieutenant’s orders were not as he would have them, then the orders must be wrong. This was simply too much for Sir John. It was, of a sudden, time to lodge a protest.

  “Enough!” said he with a great shout, which silenced all. ”Mr. Eccles, your argument is pure nonsense. You tell Lieutenant Tabor to forget his orders because they are not consonant with your desires. Well, that, sir, is nonsense and not near good enough. If you hope to have your way, then you must write to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, explain the situation, and get from him some written document that is endorsed by the Commander of the Tower which states that these particular troops are transferred to your command. Until you can present such, you are to trouble neither me, nor the lieutenant, nor any of his men further. Good day to you, sir.”

  Mr. Eccles did not respond to that, though it was not for want of trying. He stood rigid and red-faced, stut
tering and sputtering, unable to complete or even begin a sentence. Thus did he for a minute, or maybe even two, as Sir John waited most patiently. At last, however, Eccles surrendered to circumstance, turned, and beat a swift retreat down Middle Street. Looking after him, the lieutenant permitted himself a smile. From his men, however, who had listened carefully to all that was said, a few chuckles and snorts were heard.

  Sir John listened to Eccles’s footsteps fade, then did he call out to the assemblage: ”Mr. Crawly, will you please come forward?”

  And so did the driver of the hackney work his way through the assemblage of men and horses to greet Sir John most respectfully.

  “What will you, sir?” he asked. ”Where can I take you?”

  “Nowhere for now, though I do have a proper and important journey for you.”

  “From here to where?”

  “From here to the residence of Sir Simon Grenville. I want you to lead this small troop of mounted Carabineers up there that they may pitch their tents upon his front lawn and water their horses in the brook that runs through it.” He paused to think a moment. ”I did hear a brook up there on our approach to his door, did I not, Jeremy?”

  “You did, Sir John,” said I.

  “That should do nicely, don’t you think so, lieutenant?” ”Oh, well enough, I’m sure,” responded Lieutenant Tabor.

  “Though I must ask you to remain here with me, whilst I explain to you our situation here. You may join your men later. And you, Mr. Crawly—”

  “Yes sir?”

  ”I would have you return here once you have the Carabineers situated in Sir Simon’s great dooryard, for we shall have further need of you, the lieutenant and I. We three have plans to make.”

  “Well and good, sir,” said Mr. Crawly. ”I have but one question for you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Does Sir Simon know that these army gents will be staying with him as his guests?”

  Sir John smiled. ”In all truth, he does not. Still, as the biggest landholder in these parts, he should not be surprised if, from time to time, he has official guests drop in. If he protests vigorously, just tell him that Lord Mansfield sent these troops down to help Sir John Fielding in the discharge of his duties. You may pass that word on to the troops.”

  This time I was privy to the plan as it was made. I sat and listened to Sir John outline it. I bent over the map with them as Mr. Crawly chose the best place for a roadblock. I heard Lieutenant Tabor’s comments on the difficulty of following a train of wagons undetected. In short, I saw that as I had suspected, this was very likely the plan that Sir John had worked through with Dick Dickens late into the night before. How Dickens had come by the information upon which it was based I had no idea.

  My suspicion that he was co-author and prime mover of the plan was confirmed when, at the end of the afternoon session, Sir John dictated to me a memorandum, giving all details, which was to be delivered into the hands of Dick Dickens only. Thus had I an opportunity to enter Deal Castle, which I had wished to do ever since first I spied it.

  It was to my mind no proper castle at all, for it had neither turrets nor towers. It did, however, have a moat with a bridge across it which could be raised to make unwanted entry impossible. The bridge was down, as one might have expected, and I strode across it in a manner more confident than I felt. At the arched entrance I was challenged and halted by a soldier dressed in odds and ends—or one who was more likely a member of some local militia detailed to guard the castle against unauthorized visitors; he was, in any case, a man with a musket, and I thought it unwise to disobey him. I stopped, as ordered, and gave my name to him and told him whom I wished to visit. This information was passed on to another just inside the castle who ran off to deliver it to the proper place and person. I had no choice but to wait. Upon his return, he invited me to follow him and thus did serve as my guide through the narrow corridors and descending stairs which led ultimately to the office of the Customs Service.

  “Why not wait for me?” said I to my guide. ”I cannot suppose this will keep me here long.” He was years younger than I, and appeared sickly. I saw no cause for him to tramp the stairs unneedful.

  He nodded and took a place by the door which he had pointed out to me. I knocked upon it, and it was opened by Dick Dickens himself. Saying not a word, he beckoned me inside and closed the heavy oaken door after us.

  “You know all about this?” he asked as I passed him the letter from Sir John.

  “I do now,” said I. ”I was present while the details of the plan were fixed, and I took in dictation the letter you now hold in your hand.”

  “And do you think it will work?”

  I was somewhat surprised by the question. What should it matter to him what I thought? Perhaps he was as unsure as I.

  “I think it may if the information we’ve been given is correct; if the men in the wagons do not greatly outnumber us; and if Mick Crawly does not betray us.” I said nothing of my uncertainty about Dickens himself.

  At that he laughed. ”You need not worry about Mick,” said he, ”nor about the quality of the information. I stand firmly behind both.”

  He then took but a moment to read quickly over the letter; then did he surprise me again by handing it back to me.

  “You do not wish to keep it?”

  “No, I have the contents firmly in mind. Better that you have the letter. It would not do to have it found here or on my person.”

  And so I took it and buried it deep in my pocket. Then did I bow my goodbye to him. I was out the door and, with the aid of my guide, out the castle in not much more than a minute.

  We rocked easily in the interior of the hackney coach as the horses proceeded up the hill at a walk. There were five of us. Apart from Sir John and myself, I counted the three constables who had come down from London—Messrs. Perkins, Patley, and Bailey. Earlier in the evening they had made the rounds in Deal, giving special attention to Alfred Square, hoping to give the impression that there was naught different about this night. Now all had gathered together, mounted into the hackney, and rode in silence up through the highlands to the place Mr. Crawly had judged the best to stop the train of wagons on their way to London.

  As Sir John had explained earlier that evening: ”Smuggling goods from France—or anywhere else—can only be successful if you get the smuggled goods up to the market. And the best market is not down here in eastern Kent but in London. Whatever has been landed here must be brought up there for the job to be completed. We may either try to cut off the traffic as it is put ashore, or on the road leading to London. We have information of a large shipment—at least three wagons full—to be brought north. The shipment will be made up of the usual luxury goods—wine and brandy from France, and perfume, as well; tobacco from Turkey; and even fine linen and lace from Flanders. If we can stop the shipment, then we can deal a telling blow to the smuggling trade here—not perhaps the deathblow I would like, but one that will certainly wound.”

  And so it was to be a roadblock, one set up at some back-country crossroads of Mick Crawly’s choosing. The idea was to halt them whilst the King’s Carabineers rode up from their rear to cut off a possible retreat. How did we know the owlers’ train of wagons would go up this particular road? And how could we be sure that they would not leave till after midnight? These were essential questions, of course. Yet they were questions I could not answer; nor was I even certain that Sir John could. In short, this seemed to me to be a good enough plan yet one based upon information of questionable worth—a sound structure built upon an uncertain foundation. I had hinted as much to Sir John upon my return from Deal Castle, yet I drew no response from him—no, none at all.

  It should be evident from what I have written thus far that I was uneasy and somewhat agitated regarding that which lay ahead. What I felt was not so much fear as it was a heightening of the emotions, a quickening of the pulse, as I prepared myself for battle—or so I told myself. In any case, the slow pace o
f the horses pulling the hackney in no wise matched the racing of my heart. Oh, how I wished Mr. Crawly would drive the horses faster! Yet he had said as we began our journey that it would be best to go slowly, so as not to attract attention so late at night. All that was understood and agreed upon, yet now that we were beyond the town, must they plod as old plow horses? Unbeknownst to me and unintended, my left foot had been tapping at a quick, steady pace upon the floor of the coach. Indeed I knew not how long it had done so, for it seemed to have a will and a mind of its own. I was only made aware when Sir John placed his hand upon my knee until my foot was still, then put a finger to his lips, asking for silence. The three constables were quiet as could be. Mr. Perkins and Mr. Bailey, who sat across from us, rode along, bouncing and jostling with the movement of the coach. Their eyes were shut so that I supposed them to be nodding with sleep. But could they be praying?

  At last we did reach the crossroads which Mr. Crawly had designated as the most likely spot to halt the owlers’ caravan. I had to admit that it was well chosen. There, two country roads merged into a single high road which led northward to London. We climbed down from the coach, taking with us the musketry and cutlery which had been on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. In addition, each of us, except Sir John, wore a brace of pistols and carried powder and shot enough for a sustained battle. Once the coach was positioned well across the London road, Mr. Crawly, aided by Mr. Perkins, unhitched the team of horses and led them behind a copse of trees, to give them fair protection when the bullets began flying. Mr. Crawly and Sir John would remain there with them. Mr. Bailey took a place in good cover about three or four rods down the road where the owlers were expected to appear. Mr. Perkins took another on the other side of the same road about three rods beyond that. That left Mr. Patley and I to establish our position upon the roof of the coach. In a way, we were quite exposed. Because of that, we prepared a barricade there atop the coach—Sir John’s portmanteau and my valise, each stuffed with bits and pieces of heavy clothing. In addition, there were two cloth bags filled to bursting with sand; these had been supplied by Mr. Crawly. We were to lie behind them. Constable Patley was to do the shooting with the two guns we held between us, and I the loading. I had practiced it in a prone position with him until I managed to do it (an accomplishment in itself, it seemed to me) in about half a minute. Try as I might, I seemed unable to manage it any faster. One of these weapons was his alone—a musket with a rifled barrel, with which, according to Mr. Bailey and others, Patley could hit a target a hundred rods distant. It took a bit of doing for us to establish ourselves, and for that matter, we two were the last to settle into position, but eventually we were also ready. We had planned for a three-wagon train. Mr. Patley and I would be responsible for the first of them, Mr. Bailey for the second, and Mr. Perkins for the third; if there were a fourth or even a fifth, it would be the responsibility of the King’s Carabineers. We felt we were ready for them.