by Edward Cline
The blue ribbons on Skelly’s map marked the secret locations of galleys owned by Skelly or ones he could rent from sympathetic owners. The green ribbons were the locations of wagons, carts and horses he could use to transport contraband from the coast. Skelly was often gone for weeks at a time with his pilot and crew on The Hasty Hart on journeys to Guernsey, to the Isle of Man, to ports in France and Holland. Always he would return with the hold full of tea, coffee, tobacco, brandy, wines, silks, lace, salt, and other taxable commodities. Skelly had exacted a promise from the merchants he dealt with that they would not sell any contraband he supplied them with at current, duty-inclusive prices, but to sell them sans all duties. This dictum contradicted the practice of most smugglers, who took advantage of the duty-inclusive prices in order to increase their profit margins. Skelly, committed to the removal of all taxes, could see no justice in that, and accepted only a mark-up for his profit. The other gangs resented Skelly’s policy, but could do little to fight it. Skelly sent men out to towns to spot-check merchants to ensure that his policy was being followed. It was a unique situation even among the “contraband companies.”
“Larboard oars up! Starboard oars ease up to come alongside!”
Jack Frake suddenly heard the creak of the schooner behind him and footsteps on a deck. He could not turn around now, for he was intent on emulating the man in front of him and correctly maneuvering his oar. The wind diminished and the water became calmer as the galley came alee of the Ariadne. Then he felt the prow bump into the ship’s side. He and the men on his side worked their oars to push the galley against the hull of the schooner.
Skelly rose from the chest, looked up and doffed his hat. “Welcome home, Mr. Cheney!”
“Hallo, Mr. Skelly!” answered a voice from the deck. “Come aboard!”
Jack Frake turned in time to see a rope ladder drop from the main deck.
“Secure your oars!” shouted the tiller man. All oars turned in their pins to rest on the seats. The tiller man and the prow man threw ropes up to men waiting at two open ports on the Ariadne. Some of the oarsmen took out flasks of rum and drank to slake their thirst; others began packing pipes. Jack Frake, the ordeal over, loosened the scarf on his face, pivoted on his seat and lay down. He looked up and saw the furled sails on the masts that towered above him, and the pennants above them curling steadily in the wind.
A dark figure blocked his view. “I want a clerk, Mr. Frake,” said Skelly. “You will accompany me to take notes of the cargo we leave with.” He proffered a teakwood box that held paper and writing instruments.
His bones and muscles said no, but Jack planted his feet on the boards, stood up, and took the box. “Yes, sir.” He followed the man up the rope ladder.
Once they had climbed the ladder to the deck, Skelly shook hands with Captain Cheney. “Fair crossing, I trust,” said Skelly.
“Fair and quiet enough,” said Cheney. “Nary a French sail on the horizon the entire voyage.”
“The French have been too busy on the Continent,” said Skelly. He briefly apprised Cheney of the events since November, when they had last rendezvoused. Charles Edward Stuart had landed in Scotland in July of last year and had won a succession of battles there. “They say that Cumberland the Uncouth is still searching for Wee Charlie, who we think was a fairer match for him than was Saxe.” Skelly chuckled. “A few of my men lost bets on my namesake when the King called his son home after Fontenoy last year.”
The captain laughed. “Fancy that! Wee Charlie gone to ground! He’s routed, though?”
“Completely. He got as far as Derby before Cumberland ran him through at Culloden last month.” Skelly scoffed. “If you ask my opinion, this landing of his — again courtesy of the French — was just a French ruse to get our troops out of this Succession war. They never expected Charlie to win, only to make enough fuss to panic the King. And panicked he was, as was the whole country.”
“Sly French,” said Cheney, “and I’ll credit you the notion. Well, I suppose you’ve heard that Louisbourg, in Nova Scotia, has fallen to the Navy and an army of northern colonials?”
Skelly grinned. “Ramshaw brought me that old bit of news last June.” The two men exchanged a few more comments. Then Cheney asked, “Where’s your sloop?”
“Still in Styles. Some Revenue men rode in about an hour before we did. We’d have been hard put to explain a need to fish at this time of night, in this weather. So, we’ll do it the hard way. We can safely dally here for a while. The coast is nasty enough tonight and no Revenue men will want to venture out.”
“Well, come down to my cabin, have some coffee to warm your innards, and we’ll trade more news! I’ve got tobacco for you — excellent Oronoco — and American nails, if you want them.” He glanced down at Jack Frake. “New man, or a son you’ve sired and raised while I’ve been away these six months?”
“New man,” chuckled Skelly, “Jack Frake. This is his first outing. Recruited him in Gwynnford after he routed a press-gang.”
“Impressive work!” said Cheney. He held out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Frake.” Jack Frake shook the captain’s hand. “Could have used you in New York. Gangs there snagged three of my crew a day before we weighed anchor.” Cheney turned to speak to Skelly again. “We picked up some Jamaica sugar, too, if you’ve a mind to look at it.”
“Yes, I might.” Skelly put a hand on Cheney’s shoulder. “A word of warning, my friend,” he said. “There’s a new smuggling act. It’s a felony now to ‘assemble’ for purposes of running goods — as we do now — and of course you know your fine vessel here can be seized for hovering.”
Cheney grinned with irony. “I know. But they’d have a deuced time breaking this beauty into three parts!”
“They’re even thinking of fining districts whose juries don’t convict known smugglers,” said Skelly with a bitter sigh. “And then the ‘fair-traders’ among the merchants and shopkeepers have apparently bent the ears of the Customs Board. There’s talk of reducing the tea duty to a shilling per pound. That will return that end of the business to the ‘fair-traders’ and knock the wind out of not a few gangs.”
Cheney whistled in amazement. “Your colleagues on Romney Marsh will be killing each other just to make tuppence on a pound,” he remarked.
Skelly nodded. “So, my advice to you is not to conclude any trades in that quarter… ”
Jack Frake was only half conscious of the conversation. He was too fascinated with the masts and the complex rigging and the size of the ship. There were cannon on the deck, and nearby, a hoist over the open hold. The moon came out then, and through the ropes of the larboard shrouds he saw a long, uneven silvery band that stretched from east to west. It was the first time he had seen England from the sea.
He wandered away from Skelly and Cheney and stood alone for a time next to one of the cannon, looking at the coastline as the moon and rolling clouds played with his sight of it. With the finger of his eye he traced the length of the band, and remembered a map he had seen a long time ago. The pain and exhaustion in his body seemed to evaporate from him then, and his body and mind felt weightless. An emotion galvanized his consciousness, and on impulse, in answer to something he had once seen from a distance and now had reached, he tore off his hat to hold it high in the air in salute to the glowing triumvirate of himself, the coastline and the memory, and shouted “Huzza!”
Cheney and Skelly glanced over at the boy standing by the shrouds, peering into the windy darkness. “Is he addled,” asked the captain cautiously, “or have you been working him too hard?”
Skelly smiled. “No,” he answered in a quiet, speculative tone which was friendly but did not invite further questions. “What you see is a boy on the eve of becoming a man.”
That night each galley made two trips between the Ariadne and the men waiting on shore. The carts and pack-horses carried four hogsheads of tobacco, two casks of salt, a quantity of paper and nails, and miscellaneous other goods Skel
ly had selected from Cheney’s hold. Eight hours later the contraband was stored in the caves and some of the men left to return the carts and horses that were rented from local farmers. Jack Frake had a tankard of lamb’s wool — a concoction of ale, nutmeg, and pulped roasted apples — with his meal, and fell asleep at the long table in the dining hall. His share of the value of that night’s run was four guineas, six shillings and eight pence. With some of his earnings, he was able to purchase himself new breeches, shoes, a new coat, a new hat, and extra candles with which to read at night. Redmagne had loaned him a copy of Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe.
Chapter 12: The Commissioner Extraordinary
“YOUR INFORMATION WAS TARDY, MR. LEITH.”
“It were late comin’ to my ears, Mr. Pannell.”
It was late May. Henoch Pannell sat in a corner table in the Sea Siren with Isham Leith, mugs of ale sitting in front of them, bought by Pannell, but barely touched. No one could hear their conversation, for the inn was abuzz with the latest news from the Continent. It was rumored that the Young Pretender was still in hiding, plotting yet another uprising, and that Marshall Saxe would defeat the Austrians before the end of the year. Seamen from a merchant schooner, the Ariadne, waiting for their vessel to unload some cargo, fueled the noise with their own news from the colonies. French and Indians were raiding the frontier settlements in New York and the Ohio Valley in an attempt to force out the English settlers.
Pannell studied Leith, and the man squirmed under the scrutiny. Pannell did not like Leith. But then he did not like any of the informers who came to him. Most of them were motivated by greed, not conscience. This man, however, was consumed by fear, or by a greediness for his own life, which was the same thing to Pannell. Leith, he already knew, owned an inn at Trelowe, and had recently acquired a license to open another on the outskirts of the town to cater to travelers using the road between Trelowe and Falmouth. He and his brother were busy converting the cottage formerly owned by Cephas Frake into a serviceable public place, adding living space that would share the single fireplace. But the inn at Trelowe did not look so prosperous to Pannell that he believed the man could really afford the changes he was making. This observation piqued the Commissioner’s interest in Leith.
Henoch Pannell made Leith’s acquaintance six months ago when he stopped in Trelowe for a bite to eat. He did this deliberately, because he wanted to assess the man. The information he was able to gather from the inhabitants of this region about Skelly’s — or any other smuggler’s — doings and movements was worse than useless; it was deceitful. Of course, he knew that most of the plain people here defended the smugglers, for they were either their customers, or their livelihood, and so would lie about their knowledge, or deny any. Even though Leith was most likely one of the liars, the man still might be unscrupulous enough to give information. There was, after all, the matter of Parson Parmley. He could be made to give information, and he did. It had been an easy thing to accomplish, once the notion came to him.
Pannell had overheard some guarded talk about Leith around Gwynnford, which heretofore Pannell had ignored because the matter did not concern him. A shadow hung over the man and Leith was not particularly liked in the town. It was said that he might have had something to do with the murder of the rector in St. Gwynn-by-Godolphin over a year ago. But other than a note written by the son of the woman to whom he was now married, there was no evidence that he had anything to do with the crime. The only witnesses who could possibly implicate Leith were gone; the boy, Jack Frake, had been kidnapped by Skelly men in the course of releasing Rory O’Such from the constable’s jail — an incident which still rankled — while Captain Venable and his dragoons had been attached to a regiment of cavalry in the Duke’s army in France. Pannell had heard recent talk in the Sea Siren that the officer, once a regular customer of Hiram Trott’s, was killed at the battle of Fontenoy.
He had Leith’s place watched, and when Leith, his new wife, and brother were all away, went into it to search it for any kind of evidence that would convict Leith of smuggling or of consorting with smugglers, and especially anything that could possibly link him to the Parmley murder. And he had found something — besides a half dozen ankers of Dutch gin concealed in a false wall in the upper floor of the man’s inn at Trelowe. He left the place as he and his men had found it.
Pannell was in no hurry, though Leith did not know this. Since his arrival in the county two years ago, he had established an exemplary record of arrests and convictions of smugglers in Cornwall and Devon, a feat surpassing his superiors’ expectations. He had lost only one man killed in skirmishes with gangs; had lost no Revenue vessels; and had lost no men to desertion. In a time when allegiance and betrayal were almost synonymous, his men were unusually loyal to him. He saw to it that his men were paid, and paid a little better than other men in the Revenue Service, and that they promptly received their share of the appraised value of seized contraband, and of the posted rewards for wanted criminals they apprehended.
Henoch Pannell had a special interest in Augustus Skelly. Warren Pumphrett, deputy assistant commissioner of customs for Essex, was the official slain by Skelly twelve years ago, and had been a cousin of his on his mother’s side. The Pumphretts were a well-heeled family at the time, with a great house in London on the Thames — not far from the Duke of Richmond’s — and estates in Essex and Surrey. The family was even richer now. It owned a tea and spice importing concern, and had connections with men in Parliament, the Court, the East India Company and was connected, through a Pumphrett daughter’s marriage to a high French official, to the French government monopoly that bought and imported English tobacco.
The Pannells were poor, kept-at-arm’s-length relations, and were still so now. Pannell’s own father had struggled for years as a wool-factor, cursing the export ban on wool in one breath, calling for more stringent controls in the next. But the violent death of the Pumphretts’ only son had deeply affected the family. Gervase Pumphrett, the father, still offered a one hundred guinea reward for the simple arrest of Skelly, regardless of the charge or subsequent conviction. Henoch Pannell had heard from his mother that the father had bought a brace of pistols with which to shoot Skelly once he was in custody.
Henoch Pannell had never had any affection for Warren Pumphrett, nor for any of the family. During their infrequent, cool and duty-governed family reunions — his mother and aunt still had some regard for each other — Warren played cruel and often painful tricks on him. He had once gotten Henoch severely beaten with a coach-whip by both his infuriated uncle and his embarrassed father when Warren accused him of taking unseemly liberties with his sister, who had conspired with her brother to humiliate their awkward, shy, and ugly cousin. His back and buttocks still bore scars from the whipping. He had hated Warren. His motive for vengeance was wholly mercenary.
Henoch Pannell joined the Revenue Service for Essex shortly after reaching his majority, thanks to the Pumphretts’ influence on the Customs Board. His career was unexceptional, unrewarding, but stable. He was given command of a Revenue sloop crewed by men indifferent to their jobs. He collected a salary and submitted costs, pursued only farmer smugglers whom it was easy to bully and apprehend, and would have been content to remain in that position, except that he knew that he could just as easily be reassigned or dismissed as a result of someone else’s political influence as was his predecessor. When the appointment of Extraordinary Commissioner for Cornwall became available two years since, Pannell had campaigned for it quietly but determinedly. He got it, because no one else wanted it. It had been created almost exclusively to apprehend Skelly. His friends and enemies on the Board all thought Pannell was a fool to want the post, and not without justification; he lacked wit, imagination and initiative. And, he was as avaricious as he was lazy. These were, they admitted, inadvertent qualifications for employment in the Revenue Service; it did attract men of a dronish mien. They could not imagine any of their officers harrying a man like Skelly, and least
of all Pannell.
But Skelly’s “free-trading” activities in Cornwall were a source of hushed scandal on the Board, more so than was the county’s reputation for ordinary smuggling. Skelly meant something more to the inhabitants than acting as a cornucopia of undutied goods. He was an enigma, a legend, an inspiration — a rebel, a kind of Robin Hood who robbed the Customs and excise and split the profits between himself and the poor. Nervous Board members had nightmares of him leading a march of “free-traders” on London, followed by half the countryside, setting fire to the Parliament buildings and besieging St. James’s Palace. So any man who wished to tackle the problem of outwitting and jailing Skelly — no matter how dull-witted or unlikely a nemesis he might be — was given the Board’s blessing. It was more a fancy than a hope which moved them to present Pannell with an extraordinary commission, exquisitely printed and weighted with the King’s seal and the signature of the First Lord of the Treasury, to “take whatever lawful measures necessary to check and bring about the cessation of smuggling and free-trading in Cornwall and adjacent counties.”
Henoch Pannell was a career man, sincerely dedicated to preserving the solvency of His Majesty’s and Parliament’s coffers. From these could come a comfortable pension and many profitable perquisites, few requiring effort or even interest. But a sensational action was needed to guarantee his future retirement. The capture and certain execution of Osbert Augustus Skelly would secure the gratitude not only of the Pumphretts, but also of the Duke of Cornwall — a son of the King — as well as that of the Board and of other powerful persons. He would be able to choose any position in the Service; Deputy Collector for London had always whetted his appetite, as had Surveyor-General of the Customs for any county (save Kent and Sussex, for these were worse centers of smuggling than Cornwall).
