Jack Frake

by Edward Cline

  Jack Frake permitted himself to speak. He could not control his emotion. “In England, the country you betray by hunting, robbing and murdering its best citizens, as you did today!”

  Pannell’s hand swept up and erased the accusing face with a powerful backhand. Jack Frake was knocked off his feet and fell to the dirt floor. “Must I resort to the Hawkhurst gang’s methods, Master Frake? Shall I take a whip to you? Shall I tie you to the underbelly of a horse and set it loose in the brambles? Beat you with a stick? Dangle you up-side-down in a well and feed you water? Or — I can improvise on Newgate methods here, Master Frake! Outside there are countless rocks. You can be tied down and some of the heaviest of them placed on your chest one by one, and left there for hours until you can’t breathe! But there’s no need for any of that. You and your friends have ballyragged me for too long a time. The trick must end, and you with it, if necessary!”

  “I won’t tell you a thing,” said Jack Frake. “I’ll die with dignity.”

  “Dignity?” barked Pannell. He took his riding crop from under his belt and began to beat the boy with it, the crop rising and striking with each word. “Dignity? Let’s — see — how — dignified — you’ll — feel — when — I — ”

  Fix and Craun, who neither condoned nor condemned Pannell’s behavior, nevertheless winced at each blow.

  “Leave him alone, sir,” said Richard Claxon. The sound of his voice, a voice sweetened with gentleness and forgiveness, charged the air and dispelled its miasma of brutality. “It wasn’t his fault. It was God’s will. Jack isn’t to blame… ”

  Pannell, his arm and crop poised for another blow to Jack Frake’s back, stopped and stared at the other boy. He lowered his arm and stepped over to look down at the sweating, agonized face. “What was God’s will, Mr. Claxon?”

  “I know who you are,” said Claxon. “You’re the Commissioner of Revenue. They make jokes about you in the caves.”

  “Jokes? Caves? Make sense, sir!”

  “God has punished me, sir. It was not your doing… my leg here. God directed your actions.”

  Pannell blinked once, and rose to his full height. He studied the boy’s face. It was ashen white, and the eyes looked back up at him with an eerie mixture of kindness, pain and an intensity that made him uneasy. “My actions, Mr. Claxon?”

  “I broke a man’s legs, once,” explained Claxon. “He was a judge. But this is His punishment for me, for taking His justice into my own unworthy hands. It is His way of revealing Himself to me… ”

  Pannell smiled, then glanced smugly at Jack Frake, who had managed to sit up in a corner. “God clearly is on my side, Master Frake!”

  “God is your ally,” confirmed Claxon.

  Pannell tossed the crop away and held out a hand in back of him. “Hat, Mr. Fix!” The officer removed his tricorn and gave it to his superior. Pannell leaned down and slipped it under the boy’s head. “There now, Mr. Claxon. That must be much more comfortable for you.” He snapped his fingers. “Chair, Mr. Fix.”

  Fix found a stool and brought it over. Pannell sat down. “Now, Mr. Claxon. Let’s have a serious chat here. If God directed my actions, then I must be His instrument, mustn’t I?”

  “Yes… ”

  “And if I have served as His instrument of action, then I must also be His instrument of truth.”

  “Yes,” said the boy. “You could not be otherwise… ”

  Pannell cleared his throat before he spoke again. He felt uneasy exploiting the boy in this manner, but his greed for information hurtled him forward. “Then tell me the truth, Mr. Claxon, and earn God’s complete forgiveness for your… er… crime.” Pannell held his breath, then asked, “Where is Augustus Skelly’s headquarters? And where is the actual landing?”

  “No!” shouted Jack Frake, stumbling to his feet. “Don’t say anything, Richard!”

  Claxon seemed not to have heard his colleague. “Portreach,” he said.

  “That’s his headquarters?” asked Pannell eagerly.

  “No, that is where he has already landed contraband.”

  “And his headquarters? Where is he taking this contraband?”

  “No, Richard!” shouted Jack Frake again. He tried to move toward Claxon, but the links of the cuffs tripped him and he fell again to the dirt floor. “Don’t tell him!” he cried, crawling toward Claxon. “He’ll kill Skelly, and Redmagne, and all your friends!”

  Claxon moved his head on the tricorn so that he could see his straw-mate. “I must, Jack,” he said. “He’s God’s instrument of truth, and my means of salvation for all my sins. I have thought of women and drink and all the other fatal distractions. I strayed, I have sinned. I confess. You must confess, too, Jack… ”

  Jack Frake saw a species of madness in Claxon’s eyes. At another time he might have felt pity, or even fear. But here he answered with anger and contempt. “That’s rubbish! He’s tricking you! You’re not well! Your head’s afire with fever! You’re — ”

  Pannell rose and kicked Jack Frake in the side. “How dare you pronounce such… such blasphemy!” he said. He was genuinely shocked by the boy’s words. He looked at Fix and Craun. “Get him out of here.” The two men picked up Jack Frake and carried him outside the cottage and shut the door behind them.

  Pannell returned to his stool and grinned with benevolence. “Now, Mr. Claxon. Let’s go on. Where is Skelly’s headquarters? How many men does he have? Are they armed?”

  He came out of the cottage five minutes later. Some village fishermen and their wives stood at a distance, watching the Revenue men loiter outside the cottage. Jack Frake was sitting on the ground, leaning against a water trough. The bodies of John Fineux, Aubrey Shakelady, and William Ayre were heaped like logs a few yards away.

  Pannell smiled triumphantly, and said to Fix, as he slipped on his gloves, “Find a cart, Mr. Fix. The Claxon boy must be taken to Gwynnford and a doctor, and these dead ones must be hauled into town, too, I suppose.” He locked his hands together behind his back and wandered away. His next task would be to trap the men in the caves near Marvel. He did not know how he could do this with only seven men, when there were some twenty who would be defending those caves. He would need to act soon. News of the capture of the two boys would spread quickly.

  It was at that moment that he heard the beat of drums and the cadence of marching feet. He glanced up at the county road, and saw a column of soldiers approaching. Mounted officers glanced down with curiosity at the scene below. He saw artillery drawn by teams of horses, spaced between three companies of disciplined scarlet. He saw two companies of regulars, and one company of grenadiers. Pannell’s eyes grew bigger with an idea that was blooming in his head.

  He laughed once again, turning to his men and pointing to the column. “God clearly is on my side!”

  Chapter 23: The Major

  MAJOR ADAM LEIGH, RIDING AT THE HEAD OF THE COLUMN WITH HIS aides, had a premonition that the man galloping determinedly up the slope from the village below was bringing trouble. The rider wore the heavy gray coat of the Revenue Service, and even under the gray sky the silver Crown coat of arms on his black tricorn glinted a little.

  Henoch Pannell rode up to the major and doffed his hat in salute. “Good day to you, sir! Whom have I the privilege of addressing?”

  “Major Leigh, of the Middlesex Brigade. And you, sir?”

  “Henoch Pannell, Commissioner Extraordinary of His Majesty’s Revenue.” Pannell trotted beside the frosty, wary major. “I must have a word with you, Major Leigh, and a stationary position would be a more amenable means of conversation. In private.”

  “We are in a bit of a rush, Mr. Pannell,” said the major, not turning to the Commissioner.

  “In too much of a rush to pass up a bit of glory — at the request of your King?”

  The major sighed in annoyance and ordered his aide to halt the column for a rest. As the order was relayed from company to company down the column, the officer and the Commissioner wandered out of earshot of t
he major’s aides and stopped several yards away. “All right, Mr. Pannell,” said the officer, still holding the reins of his mount. “What is it?”

  Pannell said, “”I’ve just sprung a trap and caught myself some smugglers!”

  “Congratulations,” drawled the major in ill-disguised unconcern. “It must have been a pleasurable experience, to judge from your demeanor.”

  “Oh, pleasurable it was! Shot three of the scum dead, me and my men. Got two of them alive, and one of them has given me some very important information.”

  Pannell watched the major, expressly indifferent to the news, reach inside his coat for a snuffbox, open it, inhale a pinch of the powder, and sneeze. Not before he had returned the delicate cameo-decorated box to his coat did he give Pannell his attention again.

  Pannell was impervious to the rebuff. Instead, he glanced back at the column. “Fine looking troops you have, Major. Have any of them seen action?”

  “The grenadiers were in Flanders two years ago, under another commander. The rest are recruits, mostly. Why do you ask?”

  “They look fitter than most troops I see in these parts. What is your hurry?”

  “We are escorting artillery to Spithead for shipment to the colonies. We must be there in three days. Then we rejoin our colonel and march to our home barracks.”

  “Artillery for the colonies,” mused Pannell. “How long have you been marching, Major?”

  “We were billeted near Falmouth. The batteries there are being dismantled. We’re out of the war now, you know.”

  “Er… When were your men last paid, Major?”

  “Three months ago. What has that to do with whatever subject you seem reluctant to bring up?”

  “Only this,” said Pannell. “They would be paid more frequently if the Army received its due from the Treasury. But the Army does not receive its due, because the Treasury does not receive its due from Customs — which does not receive its due from this country’s commerce. Free-traders and smugglers cheat your men, Major, and the free-trader I can trap today and extinguish is none other than Augustus Skelly!”

  “I appreciate the logic, Mr. Pannell, but what has it to do with me?”

  Pannell assumed his own air of frost. “This is a most urgent matter, Major. Quite simply, I am authorized to draft you in the service of His Majesty’s Revenue. I require your assistance to help me capture Skelly.” Pannell reached inside his coat and pulled out a document he was never without. It was his commission, signed by the King and the prime minister and bearing both their seals. He held out the cream-colored sheaf of paper to the officer. “It will cost you but a day’s delay.” He paused, then added with mocking drollery, “We’re out of the war now, you know.”

  The major’s jaw became rigid, but he took the document. He unfolded and read it, then handed it back to Pannell. “I can’t go chasing after smugglers and owlers, Mr. Pannell, not even one as notorious as Skelly. My orders are to get this ordnance to Spithead. Besides, I must also account for every musket ball, ounce of powder, and inch of boot leather I expend.”

  “I’ll write a letter that will exonerate you of any charges of adventurism, Major, and account for all your ordnance and more. I, too, carry a commission, from Pelham himself, as you saw.” Pannell smiled. “Your country and King will be more grateful than you can now imagine. This is no little favor I ask of you, and my gratitude — not to mention the King’s — will be commensurate, I can assure you.”

  Pannell did not wink at him, but the major got the impression that he had. “You present one with a difficult decision, sir,” said the officer, angry that he had been trapped by this man.

  “Doing one’s duty when it arises should not ever be a difficult decision to make, sir.”

  The major grimaced. “All right. Where are your rascals? And how many of them are there?”

  “Near Marvel,” said Pannell breezily. “The whole gang is there. No more than twenty, I’d say. Probably just now returning from a contraband run near Portreach.” He nodded to the column of soldiers, and barked a laugh. “They won’t be expecting anything like this!” He added, “I see there is an ordnance wagon, and that your pieces are field-ready, Major. We’ll need them.”

  The major allowed himself a slight smile. “It’s a bother, but the gun crews could use some practice.”

  * * *

  “They should have been back hours ago,” said Redmagne.

  “They were told to join us at Portreach when they were finished,” said Skelly.

  Skelly had planned to accompany Henry Naughton, the pilot of The Hasty Hart, on the sloop’s return trip to Styles. But he had changed his mind and boarded the last galley that carried what remained of the contraband he brought from Guernsey. His men were busy now unloading the five borrowed carts and relieving the fifteen ponies of their burdens. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Skelly stood outside one of the two eastern entrances to the caves, watching his men lug crates and sacks of goods inside. Chester Plume, the bookkeeper, was in the storage cavern, making a record of the goods and supervising their stowing.

  “Send someone to Penlilly to see what’s awry,” said Skelly.

  “I’ll go,” said Redmagne.

  Skelly shook his head. “No. Hopfius doesn’t know you. He’s tight-lipped and won’t believe you’re with me. Send Tobie Robins. He repaired the rudder of his fishing ketch last month.” Robins was by trade a carpenter. Hopfius was the village leader.

  “All right,” said Redmagne. He went to find Robins.

  Robins returned to the caves three hours later, long after the borrowed carts and ponies had been returned and just as the men were finishing dinner. His mount was in a lather and Robins was exhausted from the ride. Skelly took him to his quarters. Redmagne joined them. “Well?” asked Skelly.

  “They’re dead, sir!” stammered the man. “Except for Jack and Richard! And soldiers are out there —!”

  Skelly frowned and gave the man the mug of coffee he had brought with him. “Have a swig, son, and catch your breath.”

  Robins gulped down the mug’s contents, then reported everything he had learned. “Hopfius didn’t see the fight,” he concluded. “I mean, there couldn’t have been a fight, because Fineux and the rest didn’t even have swords.”

  “And only Jack and Richard were alive?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One or both of them talked,” remarked Redmagne.

  Robins said, “Hopfius says it was Richard. He helped put him on a cart with Fineux and the others, and he said Richard was raving and spouting the Bible and all. He said Jack looked like he’d been beaten. But Pannell was alone with Richard for a while.” He paused. “Then the soldiers came up the road. Half a regiment, he said, regulars and grenadiers. They was hauling guns. The Revenue men went with them. I passed them on my way back, just two miles from here. I had to go around them!”

  “All right, Tobie,” said Skelly at length. “Go and get something to eat before Mr. Tuck chucks the pot.”

  Robins left. Skelly said to Redmagne, “Let’s take a look outside.”

  At the eastern entrance, they peered into the darkness and saw lights where none had been before. They thought they caught the sound of voices on the drift of the wind, overlapping a strange rumbling.

  “When do you think they’ll attack?” asked Redmagne.

  “Tomorrow morning, at first light, after they’ve rested,” said Skelly.

  “They’ve got guns.”

  Skelly shrugged. “The Army has been recalling all the ordnance that was used to fortify the port towns down here. But I don’t think Pannell has any special influence with the Army, other than its supplying him with dragoons, when they can be spared from Kent or Sussex. He’s simply having a run of good luck.”

  “Could these caves withstand a siege?”

  “Very likely. If we were military men, we could make the best of it,” said Skelly with a sigh. “But, we are not military men, and a siege, with or without artillery,
isn’t going to make a difference in the end. We could be starved out. Or a single volley, or a single charge by those grenadiers, would finish us.”

  “I know.” Redmagne was quiet for a while, as was his friend. “I don’t think Jack betrayed us,” he said at last.

  “It was Mr. Claxon who told Pannell. But Hopfius said he was feverish. His leg was broken in more than one place, apparently. I know what that can do to a man’s mind. I won’t say Mr. Claxon betrayed us.”

  “We must tell the men.”

  “If they don’t already know.” Skelly looked at Redmagne. “If we stay, John, you know this will be the end of us. We couldn’t hold out. If you want to go, go now. There’s Miss Morley in your future — and more long novels for you to write. But if you stay… ”

  “I’ll stay, Augustus,” said Redmagne. “But let me try to rescue Jack and Richard. Alone.”

  “And why would you want to rescue them? So they can share our fate?”

  “No. To set them free.”

  “You don’t know whether they’re with the army down there or in Gwynnford. They could be anywhere, John. And wherever they are, they’ll be under a strong guard.”

  “I know. I want to see if it’s possible. That’s all.” Redmagne paused. “Whether it is or not, I’ll be back to stand with you and the rest.”

  “All right.” Skelly closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Call a meeting.”

  Skelly stood at the head of the long table in the dining hall. He apprised his men of what had happened at Penlilly and of the peril. His speech was short, almost gruff, and he did not invite discussion. “I won’t hold any of you here. You’re free to go, as you always have been. Those who wish to leave, and who helped with today’s run, will be paid, and without prejudice. God knows, there’s a chance you may be able to start normal lives elsewhere. Those who choose to remain, do so with the knowledge that this is the end of the Skelly gang.” He paused. “Think on your decision, gentlemen. Think hard. Then come to my quarters, each of you, when you’ve made up your minds. That’s all.” He turned without further word and left the hall.