by Joan Smith
"You are pretty cool,” Edna said. “Nothing to worry about indeed, with one hundred barrels of brandy stashed in the revenue officer's own warehouse."
"My name is not inscribed on them, Edna,” I reminded her. “Only on Stamford's heart, carved in stone, you see. The worst that can happen is that we lose them—we are not caught red-handed at least."
"You will be when you try to move them. When will you do it?"
"As soon as he budges from that apartment, if he ever does. Only after dark, of course. It must be done in the dark. Phillips went halfway to Ipswich this morning, to have an excuse to be on the road tonight, coming back. He'll hold the wagons outside of town, down the road a bit. The men will have to carry the barrels that far."
"There he goes now!” she exclaimed, grabbing my arm in her excitement. “He is crossing the street! He's coming here! No, he goes toward the tavern. He must be having his mount saddled up. He would not do so only to come here. He must be going out—down the road."
"Thank God for small mercies. Jem's brother will shadow him, and let us know where he goes. I must learn if he has been into the warehouse too."
We were greatly surprised to see him stop off at the little cottage that housed Crites. He could not be asking for help—that was not in character. While we stood watching, Crites came out the door with him, nodding and smiling, and looking mighty pleased about something. They spoke together a few moments, then Wicklow turned his horse down the road, and Crites just stood there in the street, looking after him, but with his chest puffed out in gratification. He held in his fingers what looked very much like a telescope.
I wished I had one myself that day. I would not risk any conversation with Wicklow, but Crites was always voluble. I decided Edna and I would take a little walk, to fill our lungs with fresh air, before ostensibly turning in for the night. We threw on our pelisses and bonnets with little regard for appearance, to be sure to waylay him before he disappeared.
"The evenings are still chilly, are they not, Officer?” I asked in a friendly way.
"Very chilly indeed,” he agreed, with a smile a foot wide. Had I commented on the sudden warmth, I expect he would have agreed with equal relish. A close examination of his smiling countenance told me he had just heard some good news, for the telescope hung loosely at his side, forgotten. No news could be so good to a revenue officer as news of a seizure, unless it would be the capture of the chief smuggler.
As this was my first conversation with him since news of my troublesome engagement had leaked out, he had to congratulate me, and to my surprise, he went on to utter all manner of commendation on Wicklow. “A fine gentleman,” he praised. “Wide awake on all suits."
"You have changed your opinion of him since the last time we spoke,” I quizzed amiably.
"Ha ha, so I have. So I have indeed. An about-face, you might say, and yourself the same, ma'am, if I may be so bold. But he improves on longer acquaintance. Once it was learned who he was, it was only natural you should try ... that is ... so very eligible.” His comments petered out into silent embarrassment, with his teeth tucked into his lower lip.
"Yes,” I agreed. “Now where is that fiancé of mine off to? I saw him speak to you just now.” It was clear from Crites’ continued friendliness that the word spoken had nothing to do with myself being in any way involved in the business, even through Andrew. “He was to call on me this evening, but he seems to have forgotten."
"Business before pleasure, ma'am. There is big business afoot tonight, as I need hardly tell Sir Stamford's lady."
"Those infernal smugglers!” I nagged, like a jealous woman, peeved at whatever removed her lover from her side.
"It won't be much longer, ma'am,” he replied with a knowing nod, almost a smirk, I would call it. “Aye, things will be warmer before this night is over, if we know anything, eh?"
"What do you two dutiful officers know that the rest of us don't?” I asked with an arch smile.
"There can be no harm in telling you, Miss Anderson. We shall have Miss Sage under irons before the night is out."
The flesh crept on my scalp. Had I not been wearing a bonnet, I am sure my hair would have stood out six inches from my head. I had to try for a name—try to discover whom they took for Miss Sage. In my distraction, I hit on the one name Stamford had mentioned more than once. “Surely it is not—Porson?” I asked, in a strange, hollow voice.
"I see your fiancé has intimated something of the truth to you. Well, as you know anyway, there can be no harm in confirming it. Yes, it is that villain, Squire Porson. The gall of him, using your boat, the Seamew, for his work. The outside of enough. But if he thinks we do not know where he stabled the load, he is mistaken, and so he'll find out when he goes to retrieve it."
A cold dread that Wicklow had been into the warehouse came over me. I could not risk many more questions, but with Crites being a little slow, I must risk this one. “I hope he has not put it in my schoolhouse again!” I charged, hoping he would reply in full.
"Schoolhouse—no indeed! Even worse—a sacrilege I'd call it, to use...” Then at the crucial juncture, he stopped. It hardly mattered. It could not be construed as a sacrilege, surely, to place it anywhere but on church territory. Stamford had figured out or discovered we sometimes used the crypt, and as he had had no luck in looking elsewhere, he decided it was in the crypt again.
I had discovered what I had to know. Wicklow knew perfectly well it was not Porson who had put the brandy in the crypt—he knew it was an Anderson who was Miss Sage. What he did not know was which one, and of more importance, he did not know where the load was stored.
I complimented Crites on his telescope—I could hardly fail to, when it was being ostentatiously flailed about in a manner to bring it to my attention. Wicklow was the greatest fellow there ever was, for having thought of it, and thought the Board might reimburse him the price if he sent in his bill, explaining for what purpose it had been bought.
I finally got away, just peeping over my shoulder to see where Crites went. He had apparently been ordered to take up his guard at a later hour. He went back into his own cottage, using his telescope to look at his door knocker as he went, and fell flat on his face by stumbling over a cobblestone.
"I wonder why Wicklow gave him the name of Porson?” Edna wondered. “It looks as though he means to protect us."
"It looks to me as though he were afraid I might talk to Crites, and he did not wish me to discover anything of importance. Now I think of it, who but Porson and us would have access to the crypt?"
"Why would he tell Crites about the crypt if he was afraid he might talk to you?"
"He wants him to keep an eye on it. Maybe he even wants us to know he knows, to hasten us into moving it. Yes, that is what he is up to. It might have worked too, had the brandy been there."
Jem soon came to report Wicklow had been down the road, stopping to talk to various dragoons, in an excited manner, as though giving them instructions and a pep talk. Those instructions would surely be to surround the crypt in a large circle, and let my men enter, then catch them as they emerged. I gave the order for the men to slip quietly by one's and two's down to Owens’ warehouse and hide wherever they could find a dark spot close by, till they received the word to move.
"When will I give them the word? As soon as Phillips has the wagons standing by?” Jem asked.
"Yes, eleven, we told him. I hope he remembers to have a fresh team harnessed up. Those wagons must be well on their way to London before Wicklow figures out what has happened. But we shan't worry much about that. If Miss Sage has slipped through his fingers, he shan't waste much time chasing Phillips."
"That has been a blessing throughout, that he paid so little heed to Phillips. I'll be back to ye later then."
"No, Jem, I shall be there myself tonight. I'll stay at the rectory—go up to the bell tower and see the dragoons are in place before I go down to the wharf."
"There is no need to expose yourself so, miss.
Let me do it,” he pleaded. A true gentleman.
"It's our last job. My last chance for excitement. I want to be there."
"I'll take right good care of ye,” he promised. “I'll be looking for ye at Owens’ warehouse door. If ye don't see me, just meow like a cat, and the boys will pass the word I'm wanted."
"The boys—do they have any inkling who I am, Jem?"
"None in the world. A few of the brighter ones have caught on Andrew is closely watched, and what with the crypt being used and all, they might suspect him, but then they know pretty well how bookish he's always been too, and can't quite believe it. Some of ‘em think Porson, but he wouldn't treat us so generous as ye've always done. I've been called ‘miss’ myself a few times for that matter. They don't know what to think, and that's the way we want it, ain't it, miss?"
"Exactly."
By the time I had got up to the bell tower, darkness had fallen. I could see nothing of the men closing in around me, but with some little experience in the business myself, I knew well enough it was easy for a dark-coated person to move unseen on a moonless night. Certainly they were there, lurking behind trees, skulking behind bushes, straining their eyes for a sight of anyone moving, or a sound that hinted at company. They would become cramped, impatient, cold, as their vigil wore on.
Was Wicklow there with them? Of course he was. He would no more miss the final act than I meant to do myself. Did he have any regrets, I wondered. I would have a million later, but excitement pushed them to the rear of my mind, in abeyance.
Edna nearly had a heart attack when she saw me in Andrew's trousers and my mask, but I would not be talked out of going. Tonight was too important to me. I left the house by the cellar door, as it is far removed from the crypt, and the shrubbery at its sides offers good concealment. I had made sure all lights were extinguished within. I crouched low, to prevent any shadows against the whitewashed house, a trick I picked up from Jem. I avoided the main street, taking the loop up behind, into the less desirable real estate of Salford. The less desirable was not so much less desirable as it had used to be. The homes of my people in particular sported a few signs of increased affluence, a coat of paint here, new shutters there. Surely it could not be morally bad to have helped them? I reached the warehouse, where no meowing was necessary for Jem to find me. He was waiting.
"We're all set,” he said. Heartening words! “Phillips is down the road with fresh teams, and there's no sign of the officers."
The warehouse door was opened, the men filed in in pairs, soon to emerge, each with his two barrels of brandy, one in front of him, one on his back, making them resemble some strange, misshapen animals from mythology. We had twenty-five men; each had to make two trips with two barrels. This took some little time, for the tranter's wagons were at the edge of town. The half hour Jem and I waited for their return dragged by on broken wings. We followed them partway down the road, to see they were safely en route, then slipped back to the warehouse, to crouch in the shadows, our ears perked for any sound. We peered up the dock toward the main street, out to sea, in all directions.
The cold black air seemed impregnated with danger. Every soughing wind, every tree that snapped its branches, every bit of twig or loose paper stirring in the breeze, every lap and ripple of the ocean held some menace. My own nerves, I confess, were at the breaking point, but through it all, Jem was unperturbed, his main concern being to wonder how long we would have to wait before the enterprise could be reactivated. His guileless chatter was all that kept me sane.
After an eternity, the men were back, again easing their way into the warehouse, while I counted them, trying to discern from their outlines which of my men I was looking at. They all looked very much alike, mere shadows in the night. Lady was rather excited by it all, but her muzzle kept her silent. After counting them in, I began counting them out. I was at number nine when a whistle pierced the air.
It struck my heart to ice. I clutched at Jem's sleeve, while the unworthy thought flashed into my head that I should run for home, for I did not believe that we had been seen. It was a fleeting thought only, but an unworthy one. The instinct to survival is more pronounced in women than in men, I believe. Certainly Jem made no move to desert the scene.
"A raid,” he said, an edge of panic sharpening his usually calm speech. “We're caught dead this time. Make a dash for it, miss. I'll handle things here.” His instinct, you see, was not to run, to save himself, but to protect me. I began to see I had no right to the trousers I was wearing.
What generosity, what chivalry—I can still not think of a word kind enough to describe that advice that came spontaneously from Jemmie Hessler, a street urchin still in his teens. How many of those who call themselves gentlemen with the more usual connotation of the word would have done the same? It must be for such as Jem the phrase Nature's Gentleman was coined. He made me thoroughly ashamed of myself, I can tell you.
But there was no time for philosophizing, with dozens of men flashing out at us, coming from all directions, except from the sea. Every tree, every bush, every corner of fence and it seemed nearly every pebble and stone of the road concealed a dragoon, some of them wearing the rough outfits of laborers or fishermen.
They descended on us like a pack of wolves, to devour my band. There was some scuffling, a few blows exchanged, but as the dragoons carried guns, flight was the saner course for my boys to follow. Those of them who were lucky or swift enough to flee did so. Poor old Jed Foster, who is really too old for the game, but who needs the money, was captured.
Jemmie and I recognized him at the same time. Without a word, Jem dashed out from our hiding spot, brandishing a homemade weapon he carries, to wit, a fist-sized stone held in a sock. He knocked the dragoon on the side of the head, urging Jed to run. It was a futile gesture. Another man grabbed Jed, and Jemmie too fell into the clutches of the dragoons. Captain Lawson it was who got his arms behind his back in a cruel grasp. He was half again as big as Jemmie, and I think he was possessed of a hitherto unsuspected streak of cruelty as well, for I heard Jem let out a squeal like a stuck pig. The man was twisting his arms, breaking them for all I knew.
Throwing caution to the winds, I was out with a weapon of my own, a hastily grabbed branch it was, which broke in two pieces as soon as I laid it across Lawson's shoulders. It was rotted clear through, snapped like a straw, without even inflicting any pain on that brute. But it had at least diverted Lawson's attack. Jem slithered out of his clutches and knocked him a blow on the side of the head with his homemade weapon. I nearly giggled, it reminded me so very much of the picture of David and Goliath in my old Sunday school Bible.
More dragoons were coming toward us. I looked about for another weapon. I never could understand the fascination of war for men, but in that instant, some inkling of it dawned on me. This was wretched, fearsome, desperate work, but it was the most exciting moment of my life. I saw what looked like a whip on the ground, and reached over to pick it up, to find it was no more than a broken branch of a bush, but it had some lash in it. Better than nothing, I decided, whipping it through the air to test it.
I just turned around to select my quarry, when I was grabbed from behind in a strong pair of arms. Twisting my head over my shoulder to see who had seized me, I looked into Sir Stamford Wicklow's face, smiling with infinite satisfaction there in the darkness, his white teeth flashing. He looked to me like the devil incarnate. It was a diabolical smile.
"At last we meet, Miss Sage,” he said, in a gloating voice. He lifted a hand to pull off my mask. With only one hand holding me, I wrenched free and took a run. I did not get far, just around the corner of the warehouse. He caught me by the coattails and threw me against the wall, pinioning my shoulders against the tin wall with both hands. It gave an inch under the weight, making a hollow thump of a sound. He was breathing hard with the exertion. One would not think huffing and puffing could sound jubilant, but his anticipatory smile lent that hue to the sounds coming from his mouth. His right hand
came up and jerked my mask aside.
I watched, breathing very hard myself, gasping in fact, while his face—fell. I always thought that a very strange, unlikely expression, as though one's face slid off his head, but I know the true meaning of it now. His cheeks, his lower lip descended visibly, just seemed to drop, while his eyes swelled in disbelief. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, then swallowed convulsively, looking about ten years old, and totally bewildered. “What the devil are you doing here?"
An answer was beyond me, and surely unnecessary. He didn't know till that minute—had never suspected me at all! His shock at seeing me was too genuine, too great to make it possible. He was swift to piece the clues together, however. I watched as the knowledge descended on him. Shock gave way to rapid considering, to knowing, while I stood, pinned to the tin wall of the warehouse by his strong hands, by his accusing eyes. Helpless.
"You! It was you all the time,” he said in a voice that was still incredulous, higher-pitched than his normal voice. Not loud, but high.
Still speech was beyond me. I could only look, while my poor world fell apart. My enterprise, my gentlemen and my own particular gentleman—all torn from me at one stroke.
"Why?" It was a pained howl, almost an animal sound. “Why did it have to be you?” What a strange way to put it. I had thought he would say why did you do it? It sounded almost as though he were blaming Fate, rather than myself.
"You know why I did it,” I said, in a shaking whisper. It was all I could manage.
"Get that mask back on!” he ordered, suddenly jerking to attention. In a state of total confusion, I did as he told me. Then he took my arm, very roughly, and pulled me along to the side door of Owens’ store, along through the dark passageway to it, without another word. He thrust me inside, where it was very dark. We were at the shoe department. Without any illumination, he dragged me across the shop, to that section where Miss Simpson used to come to be measured for belts. Fumbling in the darkness, he pulled some rope from a shelf and bound my arms tightly behind my back. I was too overcome to inquire what he was doing, and why. “Sit down,” he commanded.
