Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  “Famous in London, perhaps,” said I, ”but not in all of England.”

  And so at her invitation we stood with Marie-Hélène at the taffrail and told her all that we knew of John Bilbo, and of his gambling den, which was established from the proceeds of his long career as a privateer, et cetera. She found it difficult to make the distinction between privateer and pirate (as many do), and I settled it to my satisfaction by explaining that a privateer was a sort of legal pirate. Hearing that, she laughed sweetly and said, ”Oh la! You English!”

  For her part, she told us all about herself, as well, and the more she told, the better Clarissa and I understood her evident indifference to her husband’s fate. She was offered to him by her father simply to seal the agreement made between them: the Casales family as suppliers and Sir Simon as the English buyer.

  “You were a mere pawn!” cried Clarissa in shocked sympathy.

  “Exactement! You play échecs?”

  ”Chess? Why, yes I do.” Then, leaning forward and speaking confidentially: ”Did he treat you badly?”

  “He did not treat me at all. He was so busy with his assassinations and the hunting of the poor fox that he has no time to be my husband. He is a stranger to me, a stranger who is my father’s partner. The only pleasure I have from this is that I am the capitaine of the little ship that goes back and forth to Deal. I learn all about this from my brothers and my uncle.”

  On and on they talked. I was as much intrigued and entertained by Marie-Hélène as was Clarissa. Nevertheless, I could not but wonder what would become of her when we reached London. As I listened, my eyes wandered across the deck, and I saw Mr. Bilbo deep in serious conversation with Sir John. Could it be regarding the fate of Marie-Hélène? As I considered this, I saw that further preparations were being made for our return to London. The swivel gun on the foredeck was lifted from its mount and taken away to be stored. One by one, the six guns either side the gun deck were pulled back from their gun ports, secured, and hid beneath the canvas. The prisoners were brought up two at a time from the hold by Mr. Bailey and Mr. Patley. (Mr. Perkins had remained behind in Deal, so as to help Constable Trotter, now recovered, to police the streets of the town.)

  As Clarissa prattled on to her, I happened to catch Marie-Hélène’s eyes as she looked down at the assembly of prisoners. For the first time since we had begun talking, she seemed unsure of herself, perhaps even afrighted. And it helped little when Mr. Bilbo appeared upon the poop deck and asked Marie-Hélène to accompany him. For the first time in her presence he did not smile. Once they had gone, Clarissa and I looked fearfully at each other, half-expecting her to appear on the main deck with the other prisoners. I saw Sir Simon look round him, no doubt for her, yet she was nowhere about. We saw no more of her then.

  As we passed Tower Wharf, a Royal Navy longboat joined us, escorting us to a place opposite the Wapping dry-dock. There, we dropped anchor and it pulled alongside; a ladder was tossed down to it. The transfer of the prisoners to the shore began. And once begun, all was accomplished in a few short trips. That done, the rest of us descended the rope ladder—not easy for Molly and Clarissa—and were taken to the little wharf to the side of the dry-dock. By the time we arrived, the prisoners were gone, conveyed to Newgate in two large, barred wagons, specially made to transport large numbers of prisoners.

  I watched the watermen make preparations to tow La Belle Voyageuse into dry-dock, but only for a moment or two, for Sir John called me over to him and instructed me to go out upon Wapping Dock and see if it were possible to find a hackney coach to carry the six of us back to Number 4 Bow Street. I had not far to look, for there, pulled over to the side of Wapping Dock, was a coach-and-four that had by then become quite familiar to me—that of William Murray, the Earl of Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice. It seemed that he desired to see Sir John at the latter’s earliest possible convenience. He had sent his coach to ensure his compliance. There seemed in that an implicit threat.

  “But how can you be so sure that Sir Simon killed this fellow—what was his name?—Sarton, yes, Sarton. How do you know that?”

  “I didn’t say he pulled the trigger. I said he ordered Mr. Sarton killed.”

  “There! You see? He wasn’t actually the direct cause of his death, was he? Perhaps there was some misunderstanding between Sir Simon and the fellow who actually did the deed. Perhaps he said, ‘Oh, I wish that man were dead,’ meaning it in a figurative way—not literally dead, you understand. And taking that as an order, the killer went out and shot the man dead. It could have happened just so—now, couldn’t it?”

  “Hardly. Sir Simon was present at the scene. He was literally but a few feet away when the magistrate was shot down. He could have stopped it with a word.”

  “But how do you know that?”

  “I know that because I have a witness.”

  Lord Mansfield had begun roaring the moment Sir John appeared before him. He was louder and more unbridled in his anger than I had ever seen him before—or for that matter, since. For his part, Sir John responded with remarkable restraint, knowing that if he were to speak as he was spoken to, then the interview would have collapsed into an intemperate duel of shouting and stomping.

  Though I had no suspicion of what awaited us when we boarded Lord Mansfield’s coach, I am nearly certain that Sir John did. That must have been why he insisted that the driver take us first to Bow Street that Clarissa and Molly might go to our living quarters there, and constables Bailey and Patley might continue from there to their rooms.

  Yet even Sir John must have been taken aback at the vehemence and lack of reason exhibited in the arguments put forth by the Lord Chief Justice. Had the latter heard such in Old Bailey, he would have dismissed them in an instant. Lord Mansfield must, in any case, have reconsidered his position to some extent, for he paused and remained silent for a bit, and when he began again, he spoke in a more controlled manner.

  “Who is this witness of yours?” he asked. ”Is he the man who did pull the trigger?”

  “By no means,” said Sir John. ”That man was killed when he offered fire during our first battle with the smugglers there on the road to London.”

  “Who then? Who was it? What part had he in this alleged assassination?”

  “Ah! Alleged, is it? Well, his name is Edward Potter, and he was as near to an innocent observer as one could have been. He simply held Sir Simon’s horse as he tapped upon the window to Mr. Sarton’s study and asked to be admitted that he might talk with him on a confidential matter. When the magistrate opened the door, rather than Sir Simon’s confidence, he was given a bullet in the head.”

  “Is that how it was done? Is that what your man Potter told you?”

  “That is as I earlier reasoned it,” said Sir John, ”and that is also what Potter told me.”

  “You led him so?”

  “Nothing of the kind. His testimony merely confirmed what I had supposed. I did not prompt him. I would not.”

  “And what did you promise him for this testimony so freely given?”

  “I promised him nothing. That is not my way. I hope that by now you know that of me. The most I have ever done is to tell a prospective witness that I would recommend leniency of some kind—transportation in capital crimes and a reduced sentence in the rest.”

  Sir John hesitated; he faltered a bit for the first time. ”In this case,” he continued, ”I … I did tell him that I would recommend a reduced sentence.”

  “And did you say that your recommendations are always followed?”

  “I did say that they have been, yes.”

  “Well, you may tell him for me that in his case your recommendation will not be honored. Let us see then just how readily he comes forward to testify against his former master. I am not bound by your recommendations, as I’m sure you know.”

  Sir John Fielding was silent for a long—oh, an interminably long—moment. But when he spoke again, his voice was strong and certain.

  “You
will have my letter of resignation on your desk in the morning.”

  Lord Mansfield was evidently shocked. This was not the outcome he had foreseen. ”If I do receive such a letter from you, I shall tear it up immediately,” he declared. ”Let me put it plain: I shall not accept your resignation under any circumstances.”

  “Then you must put Sir Simon Grenville to trial and allow my witness to testify against him if he so chooses. My recommendation for leniency will stand. I shall let Potter know that it may not be honored. You cannot, in other words, have both Sir Simon and me. You must choose between us.”

  “Must you vex me so, sir?” Lord Mansfield fair wailed forth his response.

  “Yes, I must,” said Sir John forthrightly, ”for if our positions were reversed, you would do the same.”

  “Oooooh.” It was a strange sound, something between a moan and a growl. And when Lord Mansfield spoke, it was as if it were a great strain to speak above a whisper: ”If you but knew how close I was to his late father at Oxford—and after. Oh, for many years afterward. Why, I held Sir Simon as a baby. How can he be tried now for murder?” He stood, panting, clearing his throat repeatedly, then struggled to speak: ”Now go, please. I do not wish to be seen weeping.”

  Sir John nodded at me and groped for my arm. When he had found it, I led him out of the room, down the hall, and to the door. There the butler appeared and, saying nothing, swung open the door. Once outside, we set off in the direction of Southampton Street, where we might find a hackney waiting. And it was then yet a bit till Sir John spoke.

  “I do not envy Lord Mansfield,” said he then. ”By God, I do not.”

  I shall not dwell long upon the remaining events of that day. They included a visit to Newgate, then only the second time I had been inside that foul and frightening place; it had not improved since the first; and today it is worse still.

  There, after some difficulty in establishing his whereabouts in that overcrowded rat’s nest, Sir John held an interview with Edward Potter through the bars of the great holding cell wherein all from Deal, except Sir Simon, had been jailed. There is no privacy in Newgate, no place set aside for conversations between those awaiting trial and representatives of the law; and so, with Potter’s fellow prisoners crowding about, openly attempting to listen in, it was necessary for Sir John to speak in hints and generalities.

  Potter, an unpleasant-looking little fellow no older than I, was a stable boy from Sir Simon’s household staff. I had seen him about during those few days that we had stayed at the manor house but had formed no high opinion of his character or his intelligence. He had, Sir John later told me, come forward with what he described as ”something you want to know,” but had made it clear that it would only be made available if he were promised, quid pro quo, something in return. The deal was made in private. Thus, Sir John’s appearance was greeted by him with some alarm: he could only be bringing Potter bad news. When at last he came forward to the bars, he looked at the two of us with great suspicion in his eyes.

  “What you doin’ here?” he whispered to Sir John. ”What you want from me?”

  “Only your attention. You recall the recommendation I made in your behalf?”

  “‘Course I do. We made a deal.”

  “Well, I’ve come to tell you that my recommendation may be rejected. It’s unfortunate, but you deserve to know.”

  “That an’t fair,” said Potter, forgetting to whisper, ”not by half, it an’t. You said they always do what you tell them to.”

  Sir John sighed. ”I said they’ve always accepted my recommendation in the past. That is true. This is the first time in seventeen years there has been some doubt. But if you choose to, you may still …” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “Forget that! They’ll get naught from me. The deal is off. I’ll take what everyone else gets.”

  Having said that, he turned and pushed his way through the little crowd that had gathered round him. Two or three turned, frowning suspiciously, and watched him go.

  “Let us be out of here, Jeremy,” said Sir John, and fast as we could go with only one pair of eyes between us, we left Newgate behind.

  Returning to Number 4 Bow Street, Sir John gave a perfunctory greeting to Mr. Fuller and Mr. Baker, for it was that time when day turns into night, and the Bow Street Runners report one by one to go off upon their separate assignments. It was also that time, or near it, when supper was served in the kitchen above.

  We ascended the stairs and stepped into the kitchen. I believe that Sir John and I were both surprised to find Lady Fielding had returned, and even more surprised to find all three women (Lady Kate, Clarissa, and Molly) in the kitchen together—and not a word being said. I know not your experience, reader, but in mine, three women in a room together over a period of time nearly always find something to talk about. Yet into the kitchen we came, and there we did see Lady Kate in the middle of the room, her arms folded before her, a frown upon her forehead, and her lips pursed; Molly was bent over the stove, pulling from it five sizzling mutton chops; and Clarissa between them, looking unhappily from one to the other.

  Lady Fielding was the first to rouse. ”Jack! You’re back!”

  “Indeed I am,” said he. ”And I trust your mother is well, safely through her spell?”

  “Oh yes,” said she. Then, sotto voce into his ear: ”Who is this woman?”

  Then he, just as quiet: ”She is our new cook.”

  ”But—”

  He interrupted: ”Come upstairs, and we shall discuss the matter between us.”

  And so they went, he leading the way and she following. The door to their bedroom closed behind them. The three of us then breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief.

  “I was afraid something like this would happen,” said Molly.

  “Well, I tried to explain all to her,” said Clarissa.

  “I know, I know,” said Molly. ”That was when I went off to Covent Garden to buy for dinner. I skipped right out, thinking it best if you and the lady had a bit of time together so that you might make things clear.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said I, waving my hand dismissively (in a gesture I had copied from Sir John), ”all will be made right. You’ll see.”

  “Well, what would you think,” said Molly, ”if you found a strange woman in your kitchen?”

  “From what she said, it wasn’t so much that,” said Clarissa, ”as not being consulted, not having any say in the matter.”

  “I can understand that,” said I.

  “So can I,” said Clarissa.

  “Oh dear,” said Molly.

  Voices were raised behind the door to their room above. Clarissa set the table rather hurriedly, and Molly put out the food. I waited—but not for long. It seemed but a moment or two until they returned. Happily, Lady Fielding went straight to Molly and offered her hand.

  “Please forgive me for my failure to welcome you,” said she. ”It was simply surprise which made me forget momentarily to tell you that we are very happy to have you in our household.” With that, she looked round and smiled modestly. ”Well then, shall we eat?”

  We four took our usual places at the kitchen table, leaving Annie’s old chair to Molly Sarton, who seemed to be waiting for the rest of us to begin. Lady Fielding cut into the mutton chop and took a bite. Her face brightened immediately.

  “This is really quite wonderful,” said she. ”How did you manage?”

  With that, Clarissa and I exchanged relieved glances. A crisis, it seemed, had been averted—or at least delayed.

  Quite early the next morning, when I was the only one up and about, Mr. Baker came up the stairs and informed me that a message had come from Newgate for Sir John. He asked me to summon him. Answering my knock, Sir John appeared in his nightshirt, and not bothering to dress further, went down directly to Mr. Baker and received the news that Edward Potter had been murdered during the night, his throat cut, his body cold and rigid when it was discovered during the early morning. All those
in the big holding cell naturally proclaimed their innocence and insisted they had neither seen nor heard anything of a suspicious nature during the night. Having listened carefully to Mr. Baker, Sir John thanked him and sent him on his way. Then did he turn to me with a most woeful look upon his face.

  “You know what this means, Jeremy, do you not?”

  “That there will be no murder trial—is that not so?”

  “Exactly so.” He sighed. ”Potter might have been put upon the witness stand and badgered into telling what he had seen in spite of his intentions to keep silent. But now, with no witness at all …”

  “There would be no point in bringing Sir Simon to trial for murder.”

  “My certainty of his guilt counts for nothing. Well, I shall have a letter for you to take down as soon as I am dressed.”

  “A letter to whom?” I asked.

  “To the Lord Chief Justice.”

  ”Surely not your letter of resignation?” I was for a moment truly alarmed.

  “No, that would serve no good purpose. I shall simply inform him of this event and make a few comments upon it.”

  Yet the letter, as dictated by him and taken down by me, was a good deal more than what he described. I should like to have had a copy of that letter so that I might present it here verbatim, for it was a good example of how Sir John’s mind worked. He began by informing Lord Mansfield of Potter’s death and assuring him that there could be no doubt that he had been murdered, since his throat had been cut. Why had he been murdered? The most likely reason, Sir John suggested, was that Sir Simon had ordered it, sent word down from his private cell that Potter, poor specimen that he was, nevertheless constituted a danger to him as a witness to the crime he most certainly had committed. If Lord Mansfield believed that because Sir Simon and the smuggler crew were in separate cells, some distance apart, such communication would be impossible, then he had no practical notion of just how corrupt was the guard force there in Newgate Gaol. A proper bribe would bring a prisoner anything he desired. Notes delivered within the prison were the least of it; a guard might well oblige with murder, if murder were required and if the sum paid were sufficient.