“Good afternoon,” began the traveller. “You are the landlord of the Waterman Inn, I take it?”
“I be,” growled a husky voice, reluctantly. “But if y’r honour be lookin’ for a bed for the night, I don’t take nobody in ‘ere. ‘The Three Fishers’ in the village is the place for that, clean and comfortable, and the good wife a rare cook, so they say.”
“I am obliged to you,” replied the visitor dryly. “But I don’t propose to entrust my person to a village inn, whatever its reputation. I am come here to meet an acquaintance of mine—and of yours, as I understand.”
The landlord’s glance sharpened, but his hold on the door did not relax.
“If that be so,” he said, slowly, “‘appen there’ll be a word by which I may know y’r honour.”
The gentleman nodded, and a shower of raindrops dripped from his hat.
“The word,” he answered briefly in a low tone, “is Horatio.”
The man’s brow cleared. He opened the door wider to admit his visitor.
“If y’r honour’ll ‘ave the goodness to follow me,” he invited.
The stranger stepped inside. The passage was gloomy in the fading November light, and exuded a smell compounded of stale liquor and cooking. He wrinkled his nose fastidiously. The burly red-headed man closed the door behind them and shot the bolts.
“You do not appear to do much trade,” remarked his visitor.
“Nobbut a few villagers and sometimes a servant or so from the big house,” replied mine host, casually. “I gen’ally opens up a bit later on, like.”
“One wonders how you contrive to make a living,” said the gentleman dryly.
“I manage,” was the short reply, as the man turned to lead the way down the passage.
They passed an open door on the left hand side of the passage which revealed a dingy taproom with sawdust-strewn floor. On the right hand side were two doors, both of which were closed. The visitor guessed that the first of these would lead to a small coffee-room, perhaps seldom in use in this strange hostelry. At the second, the landlord paused, and tapped softly before entering.
“Come in,” invited a low voice.
The landlord stood aside, to allow the visitor to precede him into the room.
“Good God! Peter!”
The man who had risen from his chair directed a warning glance at the speaker.
“Captain Jackson, at your service, m’lord.”
His bow was short, curt, yet curiously graceful. The tones of his voice were overlaid by a faint Devon burr.
The older man returned his salutation with an apologetic smile.
“Of course. I beg your pardon. I trust I am not too tardy? The journey was rough and dirty.”
“Be seated, sir.”
Captain Jackson waved his hand towards a comfortable looking chair close to the cheerful log fire. In contrast to the rest of the inn, this room appeared sufficiently cosy. Its walls were panelled in dark oak, and it was simply but attractively furnished as a parlour. He turned to the red-headed landlord.
“A bottle of the best, Nobby—and no interruptions afterwards. Understand?”
“As you say, Cap’n,” rumbled the landlord, and departed on his errand.
“‘Pon my soul, you take me aback!” said the visitor, apologetically. “Every time I see you, it strikes me afresh. Good God, it’s incredible!”
“Then I beg you will strive to conceal your amazement, sir. Up to a point, the good Nobby and myself work together; but I must warn you that he is not privy to all my secrets.”
“In the name of Heaven, who is?” asked the other, drawing closer to the fire and spreading his numbed fingers to the blaze.
“Only one other besides yourself—at least, so I trust,” was the wry answer.
“I doubt if even I am aware of the whole! You’ve come a long way since that day three years since—do you recall it?”
Captain Jackson came over and stood with his back to the fire. He stared reflectively ahead of him, his grey eyes less keen than was their wont.
“Perfectly,” he answered, slowly.
“You were foxed, and it was only three o’clock in the afternoon,” said the visitor reminiscently. “They said you had been half seas over in drink for days, and you only in your twenty-second year! Your parents—”
He broke off, and considered the younger man. A shadow passed across the Captain’s usually alert face.
“They were disturbed,” finished the speaker.
Captain Jackson nodded.
“Too much leisure, and insufficient occupation. Well, you found me a cure for that, my lord.”
The other man stirred uneasily in his seat.
“I had no notion of your going in so deep, Peter.”
“It will be better if you forget that name, sir. I and my confederates do not deal in names,” warned the younger man. “Yes, well, I had only half a notion of it myself. Would you believe it, during that first six months I used to be most abominably seasick?”
“You would not be the first sailor to suffer from that malady. Nelson himself, so they say—”
A discreet tap sounded on the door. Captain Jackson placed a warning finger upon his lips, and stepped softly to open it. On seeing no one but the landlord standing outside, his manner relaxed.
“I’ll take that, Nobby. Do you leave this gentleman and myself undisturbed for a while.”
He relieved the landlord of the tray which he carried, and shut the door.
“Now, sir. I think you’ll find that what I have here is almost worth a journey from London.”
The tray held a bottle of wine and two glasses. Captain Jackson set it down upon a small oak table, and uncorking the wine, poured it, and handed a glass to his guest.
“What shall be our toast, my lord?”
“Your health, my boy. It requires constant pledging. At all times you are in grave danger.”
The other shrugged.
“There are worse evils. Let us rather drink to victory over our enemies.”
My lord raised his glass.
“To victory, then—and to those, like yourself, who are helping to make it possible.”
He drank, then thoughtfully surveyed the wine in his glass.
“You are right, P—Captain Jackson. This liquor is indeed something out of the common way. Is it—?”
“Some of my contraband? You have conjectured aright. This never paid duty at any port, my lord.”
“Then do not tell me of it,” remonstrated the other. “As a member of His Majesty’s Government, I ought not to be drinking contraband.”
Captain Jackson laughed. “By all means leave it, my lord, since you feel so strongly.”
The other man registered his horror at such an unlikely course of action, and, for a few moments, the two drank in silence, savouring the excellence of the wine. At last, the Captain set down his glass with an air of finality.
“And now, sir, to business,” he said. “I have something here which I fancy would interest the Prime Minister himself.”
He produced what appeared to be a coin from a concealed pocket, and handed it to his guest. My lord took it, carefully scrutinizing the small object.
It was a medallion engraved on both sides, and bearing an inscription. On the one side was an image which the statesman managed at last to identify as that of the legendary Hercules crushing the sea giant Antaeus. The engraving on the obverse side was less difficult of identification: it was the Emperor Napoleon, victoriously laurel-crowned. What made my lord gasp with surprise, however, was the inscription which he translated, reading aloud in stunned accents: “‘Invasion of England. Struck in London, 1804’.”
He turned a puzzled face towards the Captain. “What can this mean?”
“Only that His Imperial Majesty believes in being beforehand with the world. This and others similar were struck in Paris, against the time when Napoleon should hand them out to his victorious armies in London.”
“Madman!�
� exclaimed the statesman. “Opinion in highest naval circles is firm that he can never bring off this invasion with such craft as we know him to have designed for the purpose. What, then, can he intend? Has he some other card to play?”
“Many, from what I myself have observed. To begin with, there are 175,000 men encamped in the vicinity of Boulogne and a flotilla of at least 2,000 boats of various kinds ready and waiting.”
“It must first evade the Navy,” observed my lord.
Captain Jackson smiled grimly. “True. With Nelson standing off Toulon and Cornwallis off Brest, their chances of pushing their noses out into the Channel are small indeed. But if they should come—”
“We shall be ready.” The statesman’s mouth set in a grim line. “Our Volunteers will be waiting on the beaches.”
“Armed with pitchforks,” said the other, with a grimace.
My lord finished his wine, and placed the empty glass upon the table.
“I grant you that we have not nearly enough arms to go round. But the spirit of the Militia is splendid, and a pitchfork can be a fearsome weapon in the hands of a desperate man.”
Captain Jackson nodded.
“On the whole, I agree with you, sir. But our most deadly enemy is not across the Channel, but within England.”
The statesman raised his brows.
“You refer, of course, to the French agents who are working over here?”
Captain Jackson nodded. “That medallion which you are holding has another use than the one for which it was originally made. It is also the link between Napoleon’s agents, the passport which one must show to another as a token of belonging to a common cause. God knows, sir, how many of these things are at present in the country!”
My lord looked thoughtful.
“Some of these agents have already been arrested,” he said consolingly. “Others, like your friends in this area, are left alone in the hope that one day they may lead us to the more important members of their organization. You say that you are convinced there is a key man in this area from whom all the others take orders; without him, the rest would be of little account.”
“I am certain of it. And yet, ever since I brought those French agents across the Channel by Napoleon’s orders, my helpers have kept constant watch on their movements without once coming within reach of this man.”
“You are certain that he exists?” asked my lord.
“Positive. We know that the others receive orders, for at times, these messages have been intercepted—just as I myself receive orders, without knowing whence they come.”
The older man nodded.
“I understood you to say that these messages are left for you in the cove where you also go to pick up the dispatches for France. What arrangements have you for making these collections?”
“I go to the appointed place in the first week of every month. It is a tiny cove some few miles north of Torbay, inaccessible from the shore save by a steep and dangerous climb over the cliffs, and only accessible from the sea at low tide. There is a deep cave into which a man must crawl for a matter of ten yards or so; after that, its height increases so that he may stand upright. No one who did not know the place would venture in. The dispatches and messages are left for me in a plain wooden box—there’s no clue there, sir—on a kind of recess high up on one side of the cave. The dispatches are sealed, of course; but you know how little that has prevented us from reading and making a copy of them.”
My lord nodded again.
“And the messages? They are never written by hand?”
“No,” Captain Jackson shook his head, regretfully. “They are made up of printed words cut from the pages of a book, and pasted on to a sheet of ordinary letter paper, such as may be readily purchased by anyone. It is some time, however, since I received one of them.”
He paused a moment, then added, slowly, “I have reason to think that I am no longer completely trusted.”
“What makes you say so?” The older man’s tone was sharp with anxiety.
The Captain shrugged. It was a very different gesture from that which he had made in the presence of the French Emperor: this time, it was restrained, casual, totally English.
“A combination of circumstances,” he answered. “In the first place, I have undoubtedly been followed about on several occasions; although I have always, I trust, succeeded in evading my pursuers. Then, too, this long gap in the receiving of orders—that is unusual, particularly in view of the fact that I’m positive there is some important scheme afoot at the present time.”
My lord let out a quick exclamation. “What exactly do you mean?”
“I’m not sure,” replied the other, slowly. “I may be wrong. But for the first time, I’m being told to do something quite out of the common way. I have orders to deliver a number of kegs of brandy to the cove of which we’ve just been speaking, and to leave them there in the cave.”
“But I thought you said you were no longer given these orders?”
“This was a shipping order, given me in Rochefort by Napoleon’s agent,” replied Captain Jackson. “What’s more, the casks have been specially marked, so that there can be no mistake.”
“And is this all?” asked my lord. “I see no positive signs of anything untoward in that.”
“Perhaps not; but I’ve never before been given cargo for any destination but such as my own men had decided upon. It’s unusual, sir, and in this game anything out of the common way merits attention. I mean to discuss it with Number One tonight, when you have left.”
The older man leaned forward in his chair, an earnest, troubled expression on his usually urbane countenance.
“I beg of you, Peter, give up this mad game now! You have done enough. When I suggested, three years since, that you might relieve your boredom by pretending to turn smuggler, thus obtaining news from the French coast, I had no notion of your being so thorough about the business—much less of your pretending to spy for the French! That was a rash, unconsidered move, in my opinion.”
“And yet necessary,” replied Jackson. “You see, sir, I soon found that it would not do merely to act the part of a smuggler. The French authorities welcome English smugglers to their coasts just so long as they bring the precious gold guineas which are needed for building boats and manning them. Without the gold, I would very soon have found myself gracing the interior of a French prison. That could serve neither my country nor myself. No, the smuggling had to be genuine—and from that one step, the rest followed inevitably.”
“I suppose so,” conceded the statesman, reluctantly. “But tell me, how did you set about becoming a genuine smuggler? I have never heard the whole.”
Captain Jackson laughed softly.
“Inquiries made in one or two unconventional Quarters along the Devon coast soon put me in touch with a genuine band of freebooters, as they call themselves. They were a harmless enough group of men who looked on the business simply as a means of getting a livelihood—it may surprise you to know that they are patriots to a man, but they see no reason why a war with France should put an end to their trade. I was fortunate enough to be able to be of some service to the leader of the gang—he was on the run from a Preventive officer at the time!”
My lord tut-tutted. “It all sounds most improper. Perhaps I had much better know nothing of it.”
Captain Jackson grinned. “As you will, my lord. The ostrich, I believe, works on the same principle.”
The older man ignored this thrust. “How much do these people know of your own personal concerns?”
“Very little,” replied Jackson. “Their leader—whom I can trust, as he owes me his liberty—knows I am an English agent. To the rest, I am simply a man who can obtain the best contraband out of France. Once it is landed in England, running and selling it is their affair provided that they sell only for gold. The guineas are paid over to me, when they have taken the profits, to procure more contraband. Thus English smuggler and French authorities both get what they wan
t.”
“So you are a guinea smuggler,” said my lord, uneasily. “That in itself is a serious matter—an act of treason, in fact. Do you realize that the currency regulations—”
The Captain grimaced.
“Spare me your Civil Service jargon, by your leave, sir. I am fully aware of the precarious legal position in which I stand. But to keep faith with England, I must needs betray her. Only as a guinea smuggler could I gain the confidence of Napoleon.”
“There was no need for you to aim so high! I had it in mind that you might bring us news from the Iron Coast; not that you might penetrate to Napoleon’s very Council chamber.”
“As I have explained, my lord, one thing led to another. Once I was known as an English smuggler, I was approached by the French—firstly to collect dispatches from this agent of theirs in Devon, secondly, to act as an agent for them myself. It would have been impossible to refuse, even had I entertained such a consideration. But how could I do so? What better way could a man find to serve his country, than to have a foot in the enemy’s camp?”
“True, true: and we have learnt much from you, my boy. But you must end the affair now, before it is too late. You say that already they suspect you. Should you be arrested here, in England, it would be difficult to bring you off safely: and should you be taken in France—”
He broke off and shook his head.
“No,” he resumed. “My conscience cannot acquit me of doing a serious injury to your parents by allowing you to continue in this way. It must end, my boy.”
“My parents cannot feel what they are in ignorance of: nevertheless, I am inclined to agree with you, sir. For some time now, I have felt that I had reached the limit of my usefulness in this particular sphere. My work henceforward must lie with the Navy. But there is one last task I have to perform before I quit my free-trading for good.”
The other man nodded. “You mean to expose this French agent? Have you any plan to that end?”
The Guinea Stamp Page 2
