Smuggler's Moon sjf-8

by Bruce Alexander

  “Well and good, sir,” said Mr. Crawly. ”I have but one question for you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Does Sir Simon know that these army gents will be staying with him as his guests?”

  Sir John smiled. ”In all truth, he does not. Still, as the biggest landholder in these parts, he should not be surprised if, from time to time, he has official guests drop in. If he protests vigorously, just tell him that Lord Mansfield sent these troops down to help Sir John Fielding in the discharge of his duties. You may pass that word on to the troops.”

  This time I was privy to the plan as it was made. I sat and listened to Sir John outline it. I bent over the map with them as Mr. Crawly chose the best place for a roadblock. I heard Lieutenant Tabor’s comments on the difficulty of following a train of wagons undetected. In short, I saw that as I had suspected, this was very likely the plan that Sir John had worked through with Dick Dickens late into the night before. How Dickens had come by the information upon which it was based I had no idea.

  My suspicion that he was co-author and prime mover of the plan was confirmed when, at the end of the afternoon session, Sir John dictated to me a memorandum, giving all details, which was to be delivered into the hands of Dick Dickens only. Thus had I an opportunity to enter Deal Castle, which I had wished to do ever since first I spied it.

  It was to my mind no proper castle at all, for it had neither turrets nor towers. It did, however, have a moat with a bridge across it which could be raised to make unwanted entry impossible. The bridge was down, as one might have expected, and I strode across it in a manner more confident than I felt. At the arched entrance I was challenged and halted by a soldier dressed in odds and ends-or one who was more likely a member of some local militia detailed to guard the castle against unauthorized visitors; he was, in any case, a man with a musket, and I thought it unwise to disobey him. I stopped, as ordered, and gave my name to him and told him whom I wished to visit. This information was passed on to another just inside the castle who ran off to deliver it to the proper place and person. I had no choice but to wait. Upon his return, he invited me to follow him and thus did serve as my guide through the narrow corridors and descending stairs which led ultimately to the office of the Customs Service.

  “Why not wait for me?” said I to my guide. ”I cannot suppose this will keep me here long.” He was years younger than I, and appeared sickly. I saw no cause for him to tramp the stairs unneedful.

  He nodded and took a place by the door which he had pointed out to me. I knocked upon it, and it was opened by Dick Dickens himself. Saying not a word, he beckoned me inside and closed the heavy oaken door after us.

  “You know all about this?” he asked as I passed him the letter from Sir John.

  “I do now,” said I. ”I was present while the details of the plan were fixed, and I took in dictation the letter you now hold in your hand.”

  “And do you think it will work?”

  I was somewhat surprised by the question. What should it matter to him what I thought? Perhaps he was as unsure as I.

  “I think it may if the information we’ve been given is correct; if the men in the wagons do not greatly outnumber us; and if Mick Crawly does not betray us.” I said nothing of my uncertainty about Dickens himself.

  At that he laughed. ”You need not worry about Mick,” said he, ”nor about the quality of the information. I stand firmly behind both.”

  He then took but a moment to read quickly over the letter; then did he surprise me again by handing it back to me.

  “You do not wish to keep it?”

  “No, I have the contents firmly in mind. Better that you have the letter. It would not do to have it found here or on my person.”

  And so I took it and buried it deep in my pocket. Then did I bow my goodbye to him. I was out the door and, with the aid of my guide, out the castle in not much more than a minute.

  We rocked easily in the interior of the hackney coach as the horses proceeded up the hill at a walk. There were five of us. Apart from Sir John and myself, I counted the three constables who had come down from London-Messrs. Perkins, Patley, and Bailey. Earlier in the evening they had made the rounds in Deal, giving special attention to Alfred Square, hoping to give the impression that there was naught different about this night. Now all had gathered together, mounted into the hackney, and rode in silence up through the highlands to the place Mr. Crawly had judged the best to stop the train of wagons on their way to London.

  As Sir John had explained earlier that evening: ”Smuggling goods from France-or anywhere else-can only be successful if you get the smuggled goods up to the market. And the best market is not down here in eastern Kent but in London. Whatever has been landed here must be brought up there for the job to be completed. We may either try to cut off the traffic as it is put ashore, or on the road leading to London. We have information of a large shipment-at least three wagons full-to be brought north. The shipment will be made up of the usual luxury goods-wine and brandy from France, and perfume, as well; tobacco from Turkey; and even fine linen and lace from Flanders. If we can stop the shipment, then we can deal a telling blow to the smuggling trade here-not perhaps the deathblow I would like, but one that will certainly wound.”

  And so it was to be a roadblock, one set up at some back-country crossroads of Mick Crawly’s choosing. The idea was to halt them whilst the King’s Carabineers rode up from their rear to cut off a possible retreat. How did we know the owlers’ train of wagons would go up this particular road? And how could we be sure that they would not leave till after midnight? These were essential questions, of course. Yet they were questions I could not answer; nor was I even certain that Sir John could. In short, this seemed to me to be a good enough plan yet one based upon information of questionable worth-a sound structure built upon an uncertain foundation. I had hinted as much to Sir John upon my return from Deal Castle, yet I drew no response from him-no, none at all.

  It should be evident from what I have written thus far that I was uneasy and somewhat agitated regarding that which lay ahead. What I felt was not so much fear as it was a heightening of the emotions, a quickening of the pulse, as I prepared myself for battle-or so I told myself. In any case, the slow pace of the horses pulling the hackney in no wise matched the racing of my heart. Oh, how I wished Mr. Crawly would drive the horses faster! Yet he had said as we began our journey that it would be best to go slowly, so as not to attract attention so late at night. All that was understood and agreed upon, yet now that we were beyond the town, must they plod as old plow horses? Unbeknownst to me and unintended, my left foot had been tapping at a quick, steady pace upon the floor of the coach. Indeed I knew not how long it had done so, for it seemed to have a will and a mind of its own. I was only made aware when Sir John placed his hand upon my knee until my foot was still, then put a finger to his lips, asking for silence. The three constables were quiet as could be. Mr. Perkins and Mr. Bailey, who sat across from us, rode along, bouncing and jostling with the movement of the coach. Their eyes were shut so that I supposed them to be nodding with sleep. But could they be praying?

  At last we did reach the crossroads which Mr. Crawly had designated as the most likely spot to halt the owlers’ caravan. I had to admit that it was well chosen. There, two country roads merged into a single high road which led northward to London. We climbed down from the coach, taking with us the musketry and cutlery which had been on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. In addition, each of us, except Sir John, wore a brace of pistols and carried powder and shot enough for a sustained battle. Once the coach was positioned well across the London road, Mr. Crawly, aided by Mr. Perkins, unhitched the team of horses and led them behind a copse of trees, to give them fair protection when the bullets began flying. Mr. Crawly and Sir John would remain there with them. Mr. Bailey took a place in good cover about three or four rods down the road where the owlers were expected to appear. Mr. Perkins took another on the other side of the same ro
ad about three rods beyond that. That left Mr. Patley and I to establish our position upon the roof of the coach. In a way, we were quite exposed. Because of that, we prepared a barricade there atop the coach-Sir John’s portmanteau and my valise, each stuffed with bits and pieces of heavy clothing. In addition, there were two cloth bags filled to bursting with sand; these had been supplied by Mr. Crawly. We were to lie behind them. Constable Patley was to do the shooting with the two guns we held between us, and I the loading. I had practiced it in a prone position with him until I managed to do it (an accomplishment in itself, it seemed to me) in about half a minute. Try as I might, I seemed unable to manage it any faster. One of these weapons was his alone-a musket with a rifled barrel, with which, according to Mr. Bailey and others, Patley could hit a target a hundred rods distant. It took a bit of doing for us to establish ourselves, and for that matter, we two were the last to settle into position, but eventually we were also ready. We had planned for a three-wagon train. Mr. Patley and I would be responsible for the first of them, Mr. Bailey for the second, and Mr. Perkins for the third; if there were a fourth or even a fifth, it would be the responsibility of the King’s Carabineers. We felt we were ready for them.

  We waited. Time passed slowly, so slowly that it seemed a very eternity since we had taken our positions. I wondered at that.

  “Have you some idea of the time?” I asked Mr. Patley in a whisper.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said he. ”I’d judge it to be about half past midnight, give or take a bit.”

  “Only that?”

  “Well, let’s see what my timepiece says.” All the Bow Street Runners carried them as necessary equipment.

  He rolled over upon his side and fished out of his waistcoat pocket a fat watch of German make. It opened with a button spring. He held it up and looked at it closely by the light of the moon.

  “I misjudged by ten minutes,” said he. ”I have it here as twenty minutes to one in the ay-em. Keeps good time. Should be right.”

  I nodded, shifted my position, and waited longer. The moon was nearly full and very bright. In the gap between my valise and one of the sandbags, I looked down the road upon which the wagons were expected to come and was surprised at the clear detail I saw in the scene before me. Each bush, rock, and tree stood out as if in the clear light of day. In a sense, there was not much to see, for the road curved out of sight only about ten rods, or perhaps a little less, from where we were positioned.

  “You’ll hear them before you see them,” said Patley.

  “What will they-”

  ”Shhh! Listen! Here they come.”

  I attended closely but heard nothing-nothing, that is, of hoofbeats and creaking wheels; I caught only the sounds of the night-the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees, the call of an owl. Were Mr. Patley’s ears so much sharper than mine?

  Evidently they were, for in about a minute’s time there came the sound of voices. I had not expected that. Perhaps I had thought the smugglers would be as silent as we. They were not. There was shouting and raucous laughter coming from beyond the bend in the road. I suspected that they had got at the brandy they were hauling and drunk deep of it. They must have contemplated the journey to London as one long drunken ramble.

  Thus did they come. Just as the first wagon appeared, one who rode in it burst into song, and two or three of the celebrants joined him. I did not know the ditty, nor could I quite make out the words to it, but it had the sound of a sea shanty, or some sort of drinking song.

  It was remarkable to me how close they came to us before noticing that there was something amiss. The fourth and last of the wagons had just appeared at the bend when the first of them at last pulled up no more than ten yards distant from us. It was close enough, in any case, so that I could tell that indeed there was something out of the ordinary about this wagon and team which led the smugglers’ caravan. It was filled not with goods but with men-armed men, whose assigned task it was to protect the three wagons behind them. This they might have done well enough had they been sober, for indeed they outnumbered us four and were heavily armed. Nevertheless, their condition had the effect of making our respective circumstances even. And after all, we would soon have the cavalry galloping to our aid, would we not?

  The first wagon had come to a halt so close to our team-less hackney that we could hear its occupants discuss this peculiar situation as they might a felled tree in their path or a flooded river.

  “Here, now,” said the driver, who seemed the most sober of all, ”what’s this large thing blockin’ our way? Looks like a coach, so it does.”

  “Where?”

  “Let’s see.”

  “Right up yonder it is.”

  “I be damned if you an’t right. It does look like a coach for fair, don’t it?”

  By then, all in the wagon were up from the wagon bed and looking at the hackney. One or two had bottles in hand, others pistols; some simply stood empty-handed and stared. There was general agreement among them that what stood before them, blocking their way, was a coach.

  “But where’s the team of horses that brought it there? How did it get there?”

  “And why did they leave it-that’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Well, I’d like to know, too,” said the driver in a manner which seemed to be intended to put an end to such useless commentary. ”But one thing I’m certain about. A couple of you-or maybe it’ll take four-better climb down and move that thing because I can’t get around it on either side. Trees are too thick and close to the road. Just push it over into the ditch, which is where it ought to be anyways.”

  The six or eight in the wagon set to arguing amongst themselves as to which of them were to push our hackney off the road. Having worked it out at last amongst themselves, the designated four clambered down from the wagon. Just at that moment a voice sounded forth deep and loud from among the trees; we recognized it in an instant as Sir John’s.

  “I am Sir John Fielding. I hold an appointment as magistrate of Deal. I order you to lay down your arms and climb down from your wagons with your hands raised, for you are all under arrest by my order. If you resist, or attempt to flee, you will be shot dead. This is your one and final order.”

  The driver of the wagon jumped down immediately and threw his hands up into the air. The four, who were at that moment the most exposed, looked wildly about. The others stood rooted in the wagon.

  “Who was it? The magistrate? I thought he was kilt.”

  “Where’d that voice come from?”

  “That copse of trees behind the coach.”

  Having heard that, one of the four drew his pistol from his belt and fired blindly at the trees. Mr. Patley returned fire, and the shooter fell dead. Then did all seem to happen quite simultaneous.

  Patley passed the musket he had just discharged to me and took up the other. I set about to load the empty gun. Those in the wagon began firing up at us with their pistols; all shots flew overhead, save one which hit the valise with a thunk. Patley fired again and another dropped. I passed him the weapon I had just loaded.

  But then-most alarming-we heard scrambling below and realized that three of the original four were below attempting to scale the coach with the intention of murdering us. I grabbed my pistols whence I had stored them, rolled over to the edge of the coach roof, and came face to face with an ugly owler; his pistol was half up, yet before he could discharge it, I brought mine down upon his crown, barrel-first, knocking him senseless. His eyes rolled in his head; he fell to the ground, knocking another down beneath him. I fired down at the sprawl, unsure which I had hit, nor whether I had hit either. Then, with my second pistol in hand, I looked about for the remaining villain. I found him behind me at the far side of the coach roof with his knee up and a pistol in his hand. Taking care to aim, I fired my own at him, and he fell back out of sight; I heard a thump as he hit the ground.

  Then was all suddenly, deafeningly silent. Only the restive horses stomped and whinnied.


  I saw Mr. Patley rise slowly to his knees from behind our makeshift rampart, his musket at the ready. I followed him up and set about purposefully loading my pistols. Before me and below, there were four men with their hands upraised. In the open wagon I could see one stretched horizontal across the floor-dead or badly wounded-and another close by, certainly dead. I could not be certain about the three at the foot of the hackney; whether they were alive or dead I knew not but would soon discover.

  Then did Sir John’s voice boom out once again: ”Gentlemen, please make your reports. Mr. Perkins?”

  “Two prisoners, sir.”

  “Mr. Bailey?”

  “Two prisoners.”

  “Mr. Patley?”

  “Four prisoners and two dead. Three are not yet accounted for.”

  “Jeremy? Are you all right?”

  Before I could open my mouth to give assurances, Mr. Patley sang forth: ”Jeremy’s better than all right, Sir John. The lad’s a proper soldier.”

  “All good news then?”

  “Not quite,” Mr. Perkins called out. ”There were four wagons. The last of them got turned round and took off down the road they came up.”

  “We’ll leave them to the Carabineers,” said Sir John. ”They’ve contributed naught so far to this operation, save for their presumed presence down the hill. And if we find that cocky young lieutenant has let that wagon get through and escape, I shall twist his ear for him.”

  Reader, I hasten to add that Sir John was speaking in jest.

  TEN

  In which the decisive battle is fought and won

  Mr. Patley managed to embarrass me with his description of my part in the battle at the crossroads. ”Not only did he load for me,” said he to all, ”he guarded my arse like it was the King’s own. Kilt three of them, as I believe.” I’m glad to say that he was wrong about that: I killed no one, though I wounded two. This we discovered in our final accounting, as we herded the prisoners into the open wagon, hands tied behind their backs. Him I had shot last had to be lifted with care onto the floor of the wagon, nor could he be tied, as the others were; yet so weak was he from the shoulder wound I had given him that he could scarce move there in the wagon bed. It did not please me to look upon him thus-though he would have happily murdered us, had I but given him the chance.