A glance off to my left assured me that the King’s Carabineers were certainly not amused. The trooper nearest us seemed to have taken in quite as much sand as Sir John and I—and swallowed deeper; the poor fellow was retching to rid himself of the stuff. But the one beyond him worried me more. I saw fear writ upon his face plain as if indelibly in ink. The next barrage, which fell farther to the left though no nearer, put him into such a state that he threw down his weapon, turned, and ran. To what destination I cannot be certain, nor could he; his only thought, I’m sure, was to be away.
Meanwhile, however, the shooting continued. The constables, as well as two or three of the Carabineers, kept up a steady fire down upon the owlers. Yet the latter, assuming we would be driven away soon by the cannonballs raining down upon us, did not even bother to return fire with their pistols. Thus we had achieved a sort of lopsided draw. It would only turn in our favor if Lieutenant Tabor committed himself and his six mounted troopers to the fight. Why did he hold back?
There was but one other possibility, and that one seemed now so dim and distant, a mere phantasy, so that I—
The sound of booming cannon came from a distance, though not a great one, as great fountains of water erupted all round the smugglers’ cutter. That possibility for which I’d hoped had suddenly become a probability! Another barrage from the mystery ship, and it hove into view flashing flame. My wish had been granted, my hope fulfilled: Black Jack Bilbo had made a most dramatic entrance.
“Sir John,” said I, ”I believe it’s Mr. Bilbo come to save us.”
“You believe so, do you? Well, it had better be him and not some other pirate.”
There was a flurry of disordered activity aboard the smugglers’ ship.
Seamen raced about the deck, attempting to weigh anchor while at the same time others were attempting to get off one last shot from their cannon at us up on the hill. Rushed as they were, they aimed false and fired from the trough of a wave, utterly destroying one of the wagons on the beach and wounding, perhaps killing, a number of those who had sought cover behind it.
But now at least the ship was free, anchor aweigh, able to attempt an escape from a larger, potentially faster ship, one that had them outgunned (I later learned) thirteen cannon to seven. It wouldn’t be easy, though it might be possible. The captain of the smugglers’ ship tried a daring maneuver, tacking into a light wind and proceeding parallel to the sandbar. In such a way, he might just manage an escape.
But Mr. Bilbo was not to be so easily outdone. He, too, threw the Indian Princess into the wind, duplicating the same maneuver the smaller ship had performed with such swift grace. At the same time, his gun crews made ready to fire once again. When the two were parallel, side by side at a distance of no more than a hundred and fifty feet, Mr. Bilbo gave the order to fire and, well aimed, the cannon-balls burst through the rigging, bringing sails down and snapping the main mast. The smugglers’ ship was doomed.
An audible groan was heard from the owlers. They had left the shelter of the wagons and lined the beach in order to watch the action in the Channel waters. What were they to do? Must they surrender?
Mr. Bilbo’s Indian Princess was now alongside its half-destroyed victim, which floated dead in the water. Grappling hooks were thrown. Men leapt and swung across to the smaller ship. The rattle of small-arms fire swept across the water to us. It seemed now that all would be over in a few minutes’ time.
All this I had described to Sir John as it was happening. And at this point I had a surprise for him.
“You may not credit this, Sir John,” said I to him, ”but Lieutenant Tabor is now riding down upon the owlers to demand their surrender.”
“At last, eh?”
“Indeed, he—” I broke off sudden, for I had seen something that disturbed me. ”Sir, the man you told me to watch—the one who was on horseback—he seems to be getting away.”
And indeed he did! He had moved stealthily through the clustered owlers, seeking the darkness at the south end of the beach. He blended in well with the rest. He might well be gone before his absence was noted.
“Then after him, Jeremy,” said Sir John. ”Shoot him in the leg, if necessary, but you must not let him escape!”
That was all that I needed to hear. I was up and over our sand wall and running down the hill of sand so swiftly that it seemed for a moment or two that I must tumble heels over head to the bottom of it. I went fast as I could then, close behind him but aiming at a point ahead where our paths would intersect. He was in no wise capable of besting me in such a footrace. He must have known that, for when I was close, he suddenly stopped, threw back his cape, and drew a pistol. My momentum carried me all too near: He could hardly miss at such a space. What was I to do?
I ducked, scooped up a handful of sand, and threw it in his face just an instant before he fired. Yet in that instant, his hands—including the one which held the pistol—had gone up involuntarily to protect his eyes. The pistol shot sailed above my head.
Before he could recover and perhaps draw another pistol, I had wrestled him down to the sand and was fighting to keep him down. He, on the other hand, was trying with all his might to bring up the empty pistol and knock me unconscious with it. He was no match for me. I pinned his left arm with my right knee, then I used both hands to take the gun from him (easily done: the wrist is the weakest part of the arm). It was mine now to do with what I wished, and what I wished most was for this fellow to stop thrashing beneath me like some wild brute. I beat upon his head with the butt of it until he lost consciousness. At last I could know who he was.
I jerked off his hat, unbuttoned his cape collar, and pulled it down. Who then was revealed? Why none but Sir Simon Grenville, Baronet.
ELEVEN
In which the victors
celebrate their victory
and toast the future
It seemed that only I was surprised to discover that the man I had picked out as leader of this band of smugglers turned out to be Sir Simon. Certainly I thought he had acted peculiarly from the very beginning. There were so many unexplained mysteries surrounding that house of his that I should have simply guessed that he was the malefactor and kept an eye open for clews and evidence which would support such a supposition. As Sir John might have said to me (though he did not), I had no theory of the case. Why was I so reluctant to suspect Sir Simon? Clarissa did, right enough, as she soon revealed to me. And Molly Sarton was certain that the great landowner meant no good to her or her husband right from the start—and she had known him best and longest. I can only say for myself—not so much in my defense as in explanation—that at that time in my life I was a bit too respectful of tides and of those who displayed the outward signs of wealth. It is a fault which I have since overcome (or pray God I have).
It was Sir John, of course, who explained it all to me, tying together the bits we had learned and seen along the way so that they told a continuous story. This took place after Sir John, as acting magistrate, had devoted a whole day to a single session of the magistrate’s court, which was held for convenience in Deal Castle. All who had been placed under arrest during those two successive nights (with the exception of those subjects of France who were held whilst their status was negotiated) were bound over for trial in London. This was a considerable number, and hearing each man’s statement, managing the paperwork, et cetera, took a considerable amount of time. I could not remember Sir John ever working as hard or as long as he did that day. Yet the dinner prepared for him by Molly Sarton did rouse him from his torpor, and rather than retire immediately thereafter, he chose to sit for a bit in the little room off the hall which Mr. Sarton had called his study. It was there that I approached him. And it was there that I heard his account of events which led up to the battle on Goodwin Sands and began well before our arrival in Deal.
“It all goes back,” said he to me, ”to his second marriage. As I understand from Molly Sarton, the death of the first Lady Grenville came of pneumonia following
the coldest and the wettest winter they’ve known here in Kent in many a year. There was one child, a boy named Robert, who boards year-round at the Cathedral school in Canterbury. Somehow, the first Lady Grenville had exercised some restraint over her husband whilst she was alive. Now that she was gone, he was free to pursue a course he had considered, even planned, for years. Not content with the rents he gathered each year from his thousand acres, he wished to take part in the most lucrative trade of all in this region, which is, of course, smuggling. He intended to enter at a high level and organize all under his direction. He would turn a simple trade into an industry.
“How would he go about this? First of all, by marriage. He arranged a match with the daughter of one of France’s oldest families—in the smuggling trade. Marie-Hélène’s family, the Casaleses, had contacts among wine-growers, weavers, lace-makers, tobacco-traders, all of those suppliers of goods which the aristocracy, and the merely prosperous, felt they could not live without. The Casaleses also owned vessels with which they might move their goods across the Channel. It seemed quite like a perfect arrangement—and it might have been, had he not wished to take the matter even further.
“Was there any safe way to engage in the smuggling trade? To be safe—that is, from detection and prosecution? Why yes, if he were the magistrate of Deal, then he would certainly be safe. The only difficulty there was that Deal had a magistrate, old Mr. Kemp, and he could not be persuaded to step down. And so, Sir Simon had him murdered. You know how it was done, Jeremy: Sir Simon appeared at the magistrate’s window in the middle of the night, persuaded him to open the door that they might talk, and had him shot down before his very eyes. However, just as he was preparing himself for the job, the Lord Chief Justice, a friend of his father’s to whom he owed more than one favor, asked Sir Simon if he would use his influence to seat young Albert Sarton as magistrate in Deal. He did not feel that he could deny Lord Mansfield; and after all, he could no doubt use one so young as Sarton to achieve his own ends—or so he thought. We know a good deal of this from Mr. Eccles, of course, whose friendship he had cultivated; the rest is reasonable speculation.
“There was one more obstacle to his domination of the smuggling trade, and that was the small gangs in and about this part of the Kent shore. If he could not persuade them to join him and accept his direction, then he would have to eliminate them. This process began with the hiring of one gang, which he housed right there upon his estate, and with the apprehension of another, the single occasion whereon he was able to ‘use’ Mr. Sarton. He made some successful runs from France—or rather his wife had done so, for it was she who oversaw the delivery of the goods to England—and a proper sailor she is, or so I’ve been told. In any case, there were smuggled goods of all sorts stored in a chalk mine on the Grenville estate. One night, one of the roughest of the gangs came in stealth to the estate, murdered the guard who had been posted at the mine, and escaped with a wagonload of goods to dispose of in London. They should have stayed in London, for when they returned, he had them killed.
“That was on that single night when so much blood was spilled. In addition to the three whom you found, there was Mr. Sarton, whom we can now be certain was murdered in the same way his predecessor had been, and the constable who was guarding the captives taken down there on the beach. The three on the beach were killed as an example to all the rest of the smugglers in the region of Deal; thereafter he would have had no difficulty enlisting the remainder. Mr. Sarton was murdered because he had proven himself altogether too independent and had had the temerity to order an operation which intercepted a specially ordered shipment of perfume; Sir Simon took it as an insult, too, that Lady Grenville had, in the course of the operation, herself been shot at. You do recall, don’t you, Jeremy, that Mr. Perkins said he believed that one of the two passengers in the boat which escaped was wearing skirts? He was quite right. She was—though I understand that she does not always do so. And ah yes, the poor fellow, who was killed at the inn guarding the prisoners, and his mate, who was badly wounded—just another demonstration by Sir Simon of his power: his men were rescued and their captors shot down. This was meant as a lesson to all. And all the rest of the story I’m sure you know as well as I—indeed, perhaps better.”
“Better? Oh, I doubt that, sir,” said I.
“But you took an active part in those events, played your role well, and there is nothing like the participant’s knowledge,” said he rather plaintively. ”But perhaps you have some questions …”
“Oh, I have many.”
“Well,” said he with a sigh, ”I’m not sure that I’ll be able to answer many. Why not ask me two or three that plague you most?”
“All right,” said I. ”When did you first suspect Sir Simon?”
“Almost from the very first. He could not satisfactorily account for his sudden change—nay, reversal—of opinion with regard to Mr. Sarton. He was completely for him, then of a sudden, he was completely against him.”
“Was Mr. Eccles his collaborator, or simply his dupe?”
“From all I can ascertain—and believe me, I have tried—Eccles was simply his dupe.”
“I noted,” said I, ”that Sir Simon was bound over to be tried for the murder of Albert Sarton, with a lesser charge of smuggling. Can murder be proven?”
“Oh, it can be proven. I have a witness.” I would then have pressed him for the answers to more such questions, but with a wave of his hand he silenced me. ”Let that be all,” said he. ”The answers to the rest you may have tomorrow night.”
“What then?”
“Molly has asked us to what she, in her way, calls a victory feast. Let it be called whatever she wishes. It will be a proper celebration, and the celebrants will be those, like you, who took an active part in the doings of the last couple of nights.”
It was indeed so. With the exception of Lieutenant Tabor and his men, all who had played some part were present. And why were they not? I put the question later to Sir John, and he explained that he felt the lieutenant had not taken a sufficiently active role on either night to merit an invitation; and those of the Carabineers who had contributed could not be invited whilst their officer was excluded.
It was a proper English feast, prepared by Molly Sarton and served up by Clarissa. Which is to say, there were potatoes and carrots for all who wanted them, but the centerpiece of the meal was a joint of beef roasted quite perfect and offered with pudding and dripping. A modest menu, to be sure, but what it lacked in courses, it made up for in quantity. There was God’s own plenty there for all to eat, and enough good claret so that all might leave the table tipsy if they so chose.
Though in the beginning a fair quiet reigned at the table, as we filled our stomachs and drank our fair share of wine, tongues loosened and talk began to flow round the table.
Sir John, who sat at the head as Molly had insisted, rose and toasted our hostess and cook. Then did he raise his glass to one after another at the table, speaking of each and describing his contribution to the outcome of our signal victories.
He raised his glass, first of all, to him who sat across from Clarissa and me: ”To Will Fowler,” said Sir John, ”who, for no reasons of personal gain, but rather to maintain the good name of the Grenville family, kept Mr. Dickens apprised of the illegal activities of Sir Simon. Specifically did he tell us of the movement of the smugglers’ caravan to London and of the landing on the next night at Goodwin Sands.”
All drank to Mr. Fowler as I picked up a bottle of claret and raced round the table, filling glasses.
“To Mr. Richard Dickens who, having found his way to the right side of the law, discovered a way to remain active in his chosen profession, even though kept in a state of involuntary retirement by one we need not name here. To wit, he formed a model intelligence network and used it to aid Mr. Sarton—God rest his soul—and me. ‘Twas he who passed on the information regarding the caravan and the landing and assisted me in the planning of the two operations which
resulted.”
The table drank to Mr. Dickens. One or two signaled to me that their glasses were empty. I filled them.
“To Mick Crawly, hackney coach driver extraordinary, who took our little force up the hill to the crossroads where the first battle was fought. He did this at some risk to himself and to his fine team of horses. And he generously permitted us to make use of his coach to block the road to London. It might have suffered considerable damage, yet miraculously it did not.”
I wondered that I myself might well be tipsy once all the toasts had been drunk; there were ten besides Sir John at the table, after all.
“To Oliver Perkins, Benjamin Bailey, and Will Patley, three trusty members of my London constabulary, the Bow Street Runners. They came here to Deal without condition and proved invaluable each time they were called upon. I owe so much to them and their fellows, I know that I shall not begin to be able to repay the debt, except with my deepest thanks.”
Here Sir John paused as we drank. His forehead then wrinkled in a frown.
“John Bilbo,” he called out. ”Are you here, Mr. Bilbo?”
Smuggler's Moon Page 26
