Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  “I am, sir. I’m here at the other end of the table, a bit below the salt.”

  “Where you belong! I had not heard you say a word for a bit, Mr. Bilbo, and I wondered perhaps you’d slipped out without my knowing of it.”

  “Little chance of that, Sir John, so long as there’s a bit of that roast beef left.” Mr. Bilbo then laughed heartily at his own joke.

  “Then let us, one and all, drink to him, ladies and gentlemen, for without him, his sloop, his cannon, and his seamanship, most of us would not be here at all. We had heard rumors of Black Jack Bilbo, of his shady past. Stories were told that he was a pirate, and others that he was a privateer, yet on one point they did all seem to agree—that he was a fine commander and a great seaman. Well, that was demonstrated in the waters just off Goodwin Sands two nights back. He is a grand fellow and a great one on whom I knew we all could depend. He is a friend and will ever be—I give you, Mr. John Bilbo.”

  “Hear, hear,” was heard from Mr. Perkins, and a scattering of applause came from his fellows. They held up empty glasses. I grabbed a bottle from the sideboard and rushed to provide remedy.

  “And now,” said Sir John, ”we come to Jeremy Proctor.”

  He caught me offguard. I had not by then recovered my place at the table. I could not do so at that moment, and so I simply stood rooted by the sideboard with what I’m sure must have been a look of surprise upon my face. I knew not what to expect.

  “Oftentimes,” he continued, ”Jeremy is denied his due. This, I believe, is because I have come to think of him as a son. If he were my son, I should think of him as satisfactory in every way, yet I would still deny him his due. This is unfair of me, I know, yet it is how I myself was brought up. My father was a military man, and he was always sure that whatever was good could be made better. I entered the Royal Navy as a midshipman and found that the same rule applied. And so I, the prisoner of my past, have tended to treat Jeremy as I was treated. And in this instance—I might say, in these two instances—he deserves better than that. In the battle at the crossroads, at considerable risk to himself, he protected our sharpshooter, Mr. Patley—”

  ”Saved my life, he did!” Mr. Parley called out, interrupting.

  “So I understand,” Sir John agreed. ”And the next night on Goodwin Sands, when Mr. Bilbo’s successful attack upon the smuggling vessel had ended the resistance of those on shore, their leader, Sir Simon, thought to escape, undetected and unidentified. It was Jeremy detected his escape and identified him to me as the leader. I sent him to capture him, not realizing that I could have been sending him to his death. Yet he acquitted himself just as well in that instance as he had earlier, catching Sir Simon and, braving a shot aimed point-blank at him, overcoming the smuggler chief. So let us drink also to Jeremy Proctor, who did wonderfully well, though I suppose he could have done better—yet I can’t, for the life of me, think how.”

  Having spoken thusly, he extended his glass in the ceremonial gesture toward me, then brought it back and sipped from it whilst those at table mimicked the gesture. For my part, I burned with embarrassment; my eyes filled with tears. Will Patley led a round of applause. Somehow I found my way back to my chair and sat, quite overcome, yet forcing a smile.

  “Now then,” said Sir John, ”have I slighted any? Is there one, or even two, here this evening whose part in this has not been recognized?”

  There were calls from Mr. Crawly and Mr. Fowler, repeating Clarissa’s name.

  Then did Molly Sarton make her voice heard above the rest: ”Just like a man to fail to give a female rightful credit. Yes indeed, Clarissa!—the girl who served you your dinner. Does that count for so little?”

  “Not at all, not at all!” cried Sir John. ”Let it be known to one and all that I am second to none in my appreciation of that young lady and well she knows that, or so she should. Let me make amends by offering this toast:

  “Gentlemen, I give you Mistress Clarissa Roundtree. Let it be known that she is much in her own right—secretary to Lady Fielding, poet, a writer of romances yet to be written, and incarnate proof that women are, in ways yet uncounted, equal, if not superior, to men. Her contribution to the victories we celebrate here may not be material, nonetheless it was real enough and can be measured. Her insatiable curiosity set her wandering about Sir Simon’s estate, making discoveries of perfume, wine, and a corpse that kept alive my suspicions of him. Thus, her misadventures provided the impulse which drove forward my investigation. Also consider her influence upon Jeremy …”

  At that there were a few chuckles heard from that corner of the table where sat the three London constables. Sir John ignored them.

  “Could he have accomplished the feats which I have described, without her womanly inspiration?”

  There was laughter all round the table at that. It rose in volume and pitch as Sir John bellowed forth:

  “Surely not!” He raised his glass to Clarissa and drank, as did the rest.

  Then, reader, as if I were not sufficiently chagrined by all this merrymaking at my expense, Clarissa, who sat next to me, leaned over and planted a hearty buss upon my cheek. Then did the table go quite mad with foolish laughter. Alas, even I, in spite of myself, did join in; it would have taken a more sober-sided individual than I to have resisted.

  In all, though we were at table well over an hour more, Sir John’s toasts to one and all there at dinner provided the climax to a jolly evening. We were perhaps a bit rowdy, yet harmlessly so. And there was to the occasion also something a bit melancholy, for I believe that all who were there realized that in spite of the abundant good feeling, this would almost certainly be the only time we would all sit together at the same table. For those of us who knew the late magistrate—and for Molly most of all—there was the added disappointment that Albert Sarton was not present to celebrate the fruition of his work in Deal.

  With those melancholy circumstances no doubt in mind, Clarissa began a conversation with Mr. Fowler which had a most surprising result. He sat, as I believe I have already mentioned, across the table from us. And the hum of talk around us was such that she was obliged to speak up a bit in order to be heard. Yet all the rest were so absorbed in their own conversations that none but I paid them much attention. I know not if I can quote them exact, yet I shall try, knowing full well that any mistakes I make will certainly be corrected.

  I recall that she waited till Mr. Fowler had concluded with Mr. Dickens on his right when Clarissa called out to him and gained his attention.

  “Mr. Fowler,” said she, ”I wonder if you would clear up a few things for me.”

  “I’d be happy to try, Miss Clarissa,” said he.

  “That last walk I took round the estate …”

  “Ah, I was thinkin’ you might get to that sometime this evening. What is it you want to know?”

  “Well, a number of things, really. For instance, I believe I fainted whilst out alone in the night, though I’m sure I was grabbed from behind.”

  “You was grabbed from behind, true enough, by a guard put out to keep all away from the chalk mine.”

  “And did I faint, or was I somehow sent into an unconscious state?”

  “Both, I fear. You fainted, p’rhaps from the shock of bein’ grabbed so rough. But then they, not knowing what to do with you since they was aware you was with Sir John, put a sponge to you which put you to sleep till I was sent for and came.”

  “What was in the sponge that kept me asleep so long?”

  “It was a potion, so to speak, of all the worst, such as squeezed mandrake root, opium—if you know what that is—and the whole of it soaked in wine. It kept you sleeping for the better part of an hour whilst I was sought out and summoned. They’d no idea of the plan of the house and must have wakened half the household staff before finding me.”

  Clarissa giggled, something she didn’t often do. ”It must have taken you half that time to get out of that silly ghost costume and get the paint from your face.”

  He
looked at her oddly. ”Pardon? I remembers you had something to say about the ghost, but I put it all to that potion you’d been given.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said she. ”I assure you that I saw you dressed up as the ghost in that silly last-century costume. I know it was you.”

  “Miss Clarissa,” said he. ”I assure you it were not.”

  “But he looked like you,” she protested. ”Quite like you.”

  “Be that as it might …” But then did he hesitate. ”P’rhaps I should confess to you something of my family’s history. You see, Sir Simon and I share the same great-grandfather. I carry the family face better than he does. You remarked upon it once yourself.”

  “A bar sinister!” She fairly shouted it. Heads turned, and Mr. Fowler looked away as if to deny his part in this conversation. Clarissa, on her side, clapped her hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes in shame. To me she muttered, ”When will I ever learn?”

  There was little more to say to Mr. Fowler. (I’m sure he thought she had said quite enough already.) And so, for a lengthy period of time she remained unusually quiet. Then, of a sudden, as if the thought had just struck her, she turned to me with an expression I might call stunned. Then did she say to me in a whisper: ”Good God, Jeremy, do you realize what this means? I’ve seen a ghost.”

  A good deal of the talk round the table that evening had far greater import. As an instance of this, Mr. Bilbo fell into discussion with Mr. Dickens and learned from the latter than an awkward situation had developed with the prisoners held in Deal Castle. They had to be moved to London at once, or his chief, Mr. Eccles, would discover their presence, listen to his old friend, Sir Simon Grenville, and set them all free. He was capable of such treachery. The difficulty was this: They had not transportation sufficient in Deal to move so many. Mr. Bilbo asked how many there were and was told that there were over forty, if they were to include the Frenchmen from the ship. ”Why not include them?” Mr. Bilbo was heard to say. ”I can take them all. We’ll lock them in the hold, and they’ll make good ballast.” His offer was then passed on to Sir John; he liked it so well that he asked if he and all the rest of the London-bound party might also come along. Nothing could have pleased the old privateer more.

  “I should make it clear,” said Sir John, ”that this will include our hostess, as well.”

  He spoke loudly so that all at table might hear, and in response, Molly Sarton gave a broad smile, which seemed to include both Clarissa and me.

  “Then you told him of her situation?” said I to Clarissa.

  “At the first opportunity,” said she.

  Speaking in the same loud voice, Sir John announced that Molly would, for a time, be serving as our new cook there at Number 4 Bow Street. ”She deserves better and will get it soon at one of the great houses, but this will give her a chance to find her way in London, and also in the meantime, to pass on her kitchen secrets to Clarissa.”

  TWELVE

  In which the judge

  quails, and I

  am embarrassed

  And so it seemed that all had been arranged. Two days later we left Deal. All but one of the prisoners were locked away in the hold; those who were not in irons were bound with rope and would, Mr. Bilbo assured us, cause no problems. The extra day gave Sir John a chance to dictate a letter to the Lord Chief Justice and explain the outcome of the events he had described in his earlier letter; he also requested that transportation be provided from the dry-dock to Newgate Gaol. The dry-dock in Wapping was specified because Mr. Bilbo announced that he would be claiming La Belle Voyageuse and towing it up the Thames to Wapping for repairs and sale. Clearly, he had no intention of losing the opportunity to benefit monetarily from his trip to Deal.

  The extra day taken by them before their departure also gave Molly Sarton time to put her affairs in order. She took along with her little more than the clothes on her back— and a frock or two in her portmanteau. Most of the furniture in the house in Middle Street had belonged to its former owner, Mr. Kemp. But there were keepsakes and a few pieces of her own which Molly stored in the cellar of Mrs. Keen’s tearoom. Though the two veterans of service in the Grenville household had a tearful parting, Molly was adamant that she had no desire to remain in Deal. In a way, I thought she was wrong in that, for even though the circumstances in which I had come to know the town were far from ideal, there was much about it I had come to like. Yet of course I had not endured there what she had.

  There was, as earlier indicated, one smuggler who had managed to avoid imprisonment with the rest in the hold of the Indian Princess, and that one alone was Marie-Hélène, the Lady Grenville. This was partly out of respect to her sex, of course, though for the most part, I think, it was because Black Jack Bilbo had taken a liking to her. He had provided her with a cabin (his own) and given her the freedom of the ship—with the exception of the hold, of course. She was not to talk to the prisoners through the grate or air holes, nor in any way attempt to communicate with them by letter, or by note, or by sign. These prohibitions seemed to bother her not in the least. She wandered about the vessel, speaking with whomever she would in accented English which set some laughing and charmed the rest. Clearly, Mr. Bilbo was one of those charmed. He managed to spend a good deal of time with her, in spite of the demands upon his attention as captain of the ship. And Clarissa pointed out that he always seemed to come away from such encounters with a smile upon his face.

  My chum, Jimmie Bunkins, acknowledged, with a sigh, the accuracy of her observation.

  “An’t it so,” said Bunkins with a troubled look. ”Seems these Frenchy blowens got a certain way with the cove. Been so as long as I knew him.”

  ”He’s certainly interested,” said I, meaning to imply with that a good deal more than mere interest.

  “I fear that if he were any more interested, we would never reach London,” Clarissa commented dryly.

  “Least this one’s got a proper cut to her jib and a pair of bollocks would do any man proud.” At that point he halted and looked uneasily at Clarissa. ”Beg yer pardon,” said he to her.

  She simply chuckled.

  “Look at her now,” said Bunkins, nodding across the deck at Lady Grenville. ”Looks right rum in that dress, don’t she?”

  “Mmmm, she should,” said Clarissa. ”Must’ve cost a pretty penny in Paris.”

  “Well,” said he, ”first time I seen her she wasn’t wearin’ no dress. She was wearin’ kickseys, same as any man. She had a cutlass in her hand, wavin’ it about, tryin’ to get her crew to fight the Anglais—that’s us—but they was all for givin’ up, hands up in the air, an’ that. But all this time she’s yellin’ at them, cursing them in French, like. And then she sees the cove jump on board, an’ he’s a-wavin’ his cutlass about, an’ without anybody tellin’ her, she knew he’s the captain, so she runs at him with her cutlass and would’ve kilt him right there had she the chance. The cove knew right enough she was a woman and didn’t want to fight her, but by God he must, or she would’ve sliced him dead. So they go at it, the two of them—hack-hack, klink-klink—but he’s just blockin’ her thrusts. And the queer thing was, all those aboard—all the Frenchies and all of us—just stopped everything to watch. It was the damndest, funniest thing you ever saw.”

  And there he stopped, as if he had brought the story to a proper end. This infuriated Clarissa, who had been hanging upon Bunkins’s each word.

  “Well, what happened?” said she through clenched teeth.

  ”Oh,” said he, ”well, sure enough, with all that hacking away at him, she did finally give him a nick on the arm, and the cove didn’t like that much, so he went after her for the first time, did a little trick I’ve seen him do before, and sent her cutlass flying, just like that.” And so saying, he snapped his fingers.

  “Just like that?” Clarissa echoed, sounding terribly disappointed. Then, cheering up a bit: ”But she did at least draw blood, did she not?”

  Bunkins gave her an odd look. ”Whos
e side are you on, anyways?”

  “Well … Mr. Bilbo’s, of course, but I’m always happy when a woman distinguishes herself. So she was the captain, was she?”

  “Oh, no doubt about that. It was her at the helm when they pulled anchor and turned into the wind. She thought that up. It surprised us, it did.”

  “Bravo, Marie-Hélène!” said Clarissa, and to me: ”I should like to meet her.”

  That certainly was not difficult. The Indian Princess was not a large vessel, and she wandered about the deck as restlessly as we two did. We soon began nodding at her as we passed, and she at us. She had lively eyes and seemed not the least fearful of her future; nor, for one who would in all probability soon be a widow, did she seem greatly distressed. I believe that I was as eager to meet her as was Clarissa.

  We had our opportunity in the morning when, having waited all night in the London roads that we might proceed up the Thames, the wind suddenly shifted and Mr. Bilbo left Marie-Hélène at the railing and went off to see the sails set and the anchor hauled. He left laughing, and she, staring after him, stood shaking her head, as if in surprise or bewilderment. We happened to be close by just as the ship began to move, with the smugglers’ cutter in tow; she waved us over to her. Then without preamble or introduction, she began to speak to us quite like we were all three the best of friends.

  “Do you know well thees man, Bilbo?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” said Clarissa with great assurance, though in truth I had known Black Jack far better and far longer.

  “Tell me then, is he famous in England?”

  “Famous?” said I, echoing her word, not quite understanding.

  “Do I say right? Fa-mous?”

  “Oh yes, it’s just that I’d never thought of him quite so.”

  “Tell me about him,” said she. ”I want to know all about him.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “Everything. He tell me little stories, funny stories, but not who he is, what he does. I think he must be famous in England. Such a man should be famous.”