Included in that group of prisoners loaded into the open wagon were two taken by the King’s Carabineers from that fourth wagon which had turned about and run, thinking to flee whilst our attention was elsewhere. Yet just as Sir John had predicted, they were caught and brought back by Lieutenant Tabor and his men.
All were together now, and ready to travel. Mr. Perkins drove the open wagon, and constables Bailey and Patley sat at either end, guarding the prisoners. Three of Lieutenant Tabor’s troopers drove the remaining wagons, and we-Sir John and I-rode back to Deal in Mick Crawly’s hackney coach. We went in caravan, Mr. Crawly leading the way, obviously relieved that neither his coach, nor his horses, had suffered a scratch during the encounter. All this took time, of course. It was about two o’clock when we set out on our return journey. Knowing that it would be near an hour before we reached Deal, I thought to learn more from Sir John of what lay ahead. I had, for instance, no notion of where, precisely, we were headed. Nor did I know what next he might be contemplating. To these and other like questions I hoped to learn the answer, and I was bold enough to believe that because of my conduct under fire (as it were) I was entitled to them. Vain expectation!
Once we were underway, I put that first question to him in the manner of a helpful warning. ”I do hope, Sir John,” said I, ”that you do not intend to install all these prisoners at the inn. They would be easily rescued from there. Do, please, remember what happened when last prisoners were locked up there.”
“I am not likely to forget, Jeremy,” said he to me. ”And in answer to your question, no, I do not intend to install them there.”
“Well … where then?”
“That you will learn in due course. You acquitted yourself well on this night. You must be tired. Why not take a rest? That is what I intend.”
So saying, he folded his arms over his capacious belly, leaned back in his corner of the seat, and made ready to doze.
“Am I to be the only one among us all who does not know where we are headed?” I asked in frustration.
“Oh, by no means,” said he, ”I’m sure our prisoners have no inkling of our destination.”
I could but sit in silence, musing upon the events of the night, rehearsing over and over again in my mind that minute (or hardly more) in which all the shots were fired and all the damage done. What I had seen and done in that time repeated dreamlike until at last, lulled by the rocking of the coach, I fell into a dreamless sleep. Whether or not Sir John truly slept during that time I cannot say.
Just as the movement of the coach had put me to sleep, its cessation roused me: the sudden loss of motion brought me up and out of my seat, blinking in the dark, attempting to see where we had stopped.
“Calm yourself, Jeremy,” urged Sir John. ”We have arrived. Now you’ll have the answer to the question that so plagued you.”
Indeed I did. The site beyond the window was lit well enough for me to see it exact-and I did truly recognize it, for I had been there only hours before. I was looking at the arched entry into Deal Castle just as the last of the smugglers’ wagons, filled with contraband goods, disappeared inside.
A knock came upon the door at the far side of the coach. I slid across the seat and threw it open. There stood Dick Dickens, appearing far more eager and energetic than I felt at that moment.
“Sir John!” said he in an enthusiastic manner which well matched his bright appearance.
“Is it you, Mr. Dickens?” responded Sir John.
“It is, sir, and I see that all went as you wished.”
“Not quite all, there were two dead and two wounded among the smugglers, and I would not have wished that. But in the main, I would say that our operation was a success. But tell me, are you ready for us?”
“Just as I said when last we talked. I can supply storage space for the goods in the wagons. And Deal Castle, like any such, has a place for prisoners.”
“A proper dungeon, eh?” asked Sir John. ”You needn’t keep them in comfort.”
“They’ll find little of it here.”
“Good. I want them good and miserable when I come to question them. But what about the problem of the wagons and the horses? Have you solved that?”
“Yes, I’m sure we have. Once we get the wagons unloaded, I’ll have four of my men take them out to a farm outside of town. The owner is someone I trust, and he’s agreed to store the wagons as long as necessary and feed the horses with his own as well.”
“Can you get them out there before daylight? All this must be done in secret, just as I’ve said. I’ll need about twenty-four hours.”
“Oh yes. Believe me, sir, it is also in my interest that all this be kept utterly quiet. If George Eccles should get wind of this …”
“We’re in complete agreement then,” said Sir John, offering his hand. ”Look for me back here sometime toward noon.”
Mr. Dickens clasped it with his own and gave it a firm shake.
“Till then, sir,” said he.
With that, he shut the coach door, and with a word to Mick Crawly, he sent us off to Middle Street.
“Do you trust him?” I asked Sir John, putting it to him bluntly.
“Yes, I do,” said he. ”He has proven himself many times over. You see, Jeremy, he used this long period of inactivity to put into operation a truly formidable intelligence system. He can tell you whoever in Deal is involved in the smuggling trade-and to what extent. If I were asked-and I may be-who should have George Eccles job, I would say it should be Dick Dickens.”
“This in spite of his criminal past?”
“People change, Jeremy. Oliver Perkins changed, as you well know. And I have heard from him that Mr. Dickens’s story is even more dramatic than his own.”
“Oh?” said I-ever the skeptic at that time of my life.
“And how was that?”
“Well, it seems that whilst he was in Newgate, awaiting trial for violation of the excise laws-that is, for smuggling-he managed to write a letter and get it smuggled out and delivered.”
“That was bold of him,” said I.
“Far bolder than you think, for the letter was written and delivered to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. And boldest of all was its content, for in the letter, Dickens set about criticizing the mode of policing our coasts against smuggling. Not only did he tell him what was wrong, he took it upon himself to tell the Chancellor how it might be put right. The remarkable thing was that what Dickens put forth was all quite practical and helpful. He went so far as to suggest that there were other matters he would communicate, if given the chance.”
I laughed aloud at that, so taken was I by the fellow’s audacity.
“He was, in effect, asking for a pardon,” said I.
“It would seem so, wouldn’t it? In any case, he got it-though not immediately. First the Chancellor of the Exchequer wanted to look him over. He had Dickens brought to him, and he found that he liked a number of things about him-his cheek, first of all; though more than that, he liked his direct, plainspoken manner; and lastly, he liked his youth, for when all this took place, Dick Dickens was but a few years older than you are now. So he made an arrangement with the Lord Chief Justice-not Lord Mansfield, but his predecessor-and had him released into his custody. No pardon was necessary, for Dickens had not yet been tried, though the result was the same. He enlisted him in the Customs Service, put many of his suggestions into practice, then promptly forgot about him. Dickens rose in the service, was given positions of trust and command, and finally was made Customs Officer for Deal. George Eccles secured his post through preferment at about the same time, and almost immediately the two fell into conflict. Eccles tied Dickens’s hands, just as he did the rest of his officers up and down the coast. And so, unable to operate on his own, Dickens put together a formidable intelligence network. He had made this known to Albert Sarton, and the two were beginning to work together when I made my entrance.”
“And so you then continued the collaboration,” I offered.
“You might say so, yes.” He waited for my response. When none came, he asked, ”Are you now convinced of his reliability?”
“I am,” said I, ”though I confess that it is largely because you approve him. You were ever a better judge of character than I.”
“That is because I am older than you,” said he, ”and have been proven wrong often enough that I’ve learned by necessity how to judge men.”
He said not another word on our journey back to 18 Middle Street. I attempted to draw him out on what might be planned as our next foray against the owling trade. Yet he would not be persuaded. He simply smiled and shook his head, altogether unwilling to commit himself.
It was Molly, the widow Sarton, who wakened me late the following morning. I learned from her that Sir John had been gone for some time and taken Clarissa with him. And where do you suppose they had gone?
”Why, to Deal Castle,” said she. ”According to him, you would understand.”
Oh, I understood-indeed I did. I was to be kept in the dark, just as before. Not even to be present during the interrogation of the prisoners-that did indeed exclude me, did it not?
“He said that he had a task for you that only you or one of the three constables could perform,” she continued. ”What sort of task?”
“He dictated a letter to Clarissa and left it for you to deliver.”
Once again, it seemed, I was to play the post boy.
“To whom am I to deliver it?”
“To that young lieutenant. What’s his name? Tabor, I think it is. He said you’re to wear the brace of pistols you wore last night and …” She hesitated. ”And you’re to use them, but only if you have to, so as to protect the letter.”
Well, thought I, this errand may be more interesting than I had first assumed. It may even be of some importance in the grand scheme of things.
“I shall certainly get it out to him. You’ve got the letter, I assume?”
“Right here in my apron pocket.”
“Any specific instructions-that is, any others besides the brace of pistols?”
“Oh yes. First of all, you’re to take Mr. Crawly’s hackney up there to Sir Simon’s and no other. If he’s not available, then wait till he is.”
“All right. That’s understood.”
“Then, second, you’re to wait while the lieutenant reads it through. Tell him to take special note of all the particulars, and then to burn the letter. And if he doesn’t do it, you’re to take it from him and burn it yourself.”
I’m sure my eyes widened a bit at that. I know that my heart pounded an extra beat or two. In my memory, Sir John had never taken such extreme precautions.
The conversation I have just reported took place in the kitchen as I ate a grand breakfast and she did sip at her tea. Molly seemed to relax visibly after she had delivered Sir John’s instructions to me. I, by contrast, had been put into an uneasy state of mind, imagining ills that might befall me on my way to the Grenville estate. Perhaps to divert me from such thoughts, she introduced a new topic of conversation, one which she supposed might cheer me.
“I hear you’re reading the law with Sir John,” said she to me.
“That’s so,” said I. ”I mean to be a barrister.”
“You’ll make a good one, I’m sure. But you’ll make an even better one with a proper law library. I’d like you to go through Bertie’s books and choose whatsoever you will and take as your own.”
She had quite overwhelmed me with her offer. ”Why,” said I, ”I know not what to say.”
“ ‘Thank you’ will do quite nicely,” said she with a wink. ”Shipping will be a bit, but Sir John said that he would cover the cost for those you pick and for Clarissa’s, too.”
“Clarissa?” How did she figure into this?
“Certainly,” said she, rather defensively. ”She had the same sort of choice I’m giving you. Surely you think that’s fair, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes-yes, of course.”
“She had not so many to choose from, naturally, for Bertie wasn’t much for romances. He did like his poetry, though, used to read me some when we …”
There she stopped, quite overcome by the tears that of a sudden welled in her eyes and the trembling in her throat.
“Oh, Jeremy,” she wailed, ”what shall I do with all this furniture? What shall I do with my life?”
I happened to have a clean kerchief in my coat-Clarissa’s doing-so I offered it to her that she might regain her composure. And gradually, blowing her nose, clearing her throat, she managed to do just that. When, once more, she could converse, I asked her quite innocently if she could not keep the furniture and live in the house. In response, I saw an expression of absolute disgust upon her face.
“In this town of Deal?” said she, wrinkling her nose. ”I would not remain here where Bertie and I were shunned and treated so shabby. You saw a bit of it in the church from the vicar.”
“I thought he behaved shamefully.”
“There was worse,” said she, though she did not care to elaborate. ”Besides, even if I chose to stay here, I could not.”
“Why so?”
“The house belonged not to us but to the town. Mr. Kemp, the old magistrate-him who was murdered before Bertie-left it to the town of Deal that it might provide shelter to all who succeeded him in the office. I’ve already received a notice to vacate.”
I felt a great sadness and sympathy for her, though I could think of no more to say. From what I had heard, Molly Sarton was now in a state in which a great many widows found themselves. Yet she wanted no pity. She reached across the table and gave my hand a squeeze.
“I must beg your forgiveness,” said she in all seriousness.
“Whatever for?”
“For losing control as I did.” She sighed deeply. ”Oh, don’t you worry about me, Jeremy. I’ve been in tight straits before, and I’ve always come out of them well enough, for if there’s one thing I can do, it’s cook. By God, I believe I am the best cook in all of England!”
And with that, she burst out with a triumphant laugh. Her sudden change of heart I found quite contagious: I, too, believed that she would triumph over her circumstances, that she was indeed the finest cook in England. I began laughing, too.
“You’ll show them all,” said I. ”I know you will.”
Yet afterward, there was much to brood upon. Any reasonable view of her situation would have been considerably darker than what we two, in that final moment at the kitchen table, would have allowed. I realized that once I was out of the house and into the street, the letter to Lieutenant Tabor in my pocket and the pistols to keep it safe there belted round my waist.
I had no difficulty finding Mick Crawly, nor in persuading him to take me up to the Grenville estate. Nevertheless, so troubled was I by what I had heard from Molly Sarton that even though I rode beside Mr. Crawly and listened to him talk excitedly of the events of the night before, I had little to say in response. I found myself troubled, too, by the easy way he talked of roadblocks, ambushes, and the like, for after all, Sir John had been insistent to Mr. Dickens on the need for secrecy. I decided to confront him with my misgivings.
“Mr. Crawly,” said I, ”surely Sir John impressed upon you the need for absolute secrecy in regard to all that happened last night.”
“Oh, he did, he did.”
“Earlier, Mr. Dickens gave his assurances that we could trust you not to betray our operations. But betrayal can certainly be unintentional-so I must ask you, sir, have you told anyone of what you saw and heard last night?”
The expression upon his face expressed something akin to horror. And it was real enough and not mere playacting-of that I was sure.
“I gave my word, young sir, and I would never, never break that. It’s just that …” He hesitated.
“Yes, what is it?” I prompted him. I would hear the worst.
“It’s just that, well, last night-that was proper excitement, that was. Why, it was just abo
ut the most exciting time I ever had. I was so worked up I couldn’t hardly go to sleep at all. I’ve been scarce thinkin’ of anything else since then, and here I’d sworn I wouldn’t say a thing about it. I was grateful when I seen you come along because I had somebody I could talk to about it. I was fair burstin’ to tell. Now I have. I’ll be all right now, I swear.”
“Just so long as you’re sure.”
“Oh, I am.”
We left it at that. Nevertheless, after traveling over a quarter of a mile in silence, Mr. Crawly resumed his excited discussion by asking me how many I had actually killed the night before. He seemed disappointed when I told him.
Lieutenant Tabor, however, took such matters in his stride. I found him without difficulty. Indeed, one could hardly miss the encampment of the King’s Carabineers, so near was it to the road leading past the distant manor house. His was the only tent in which one could actually stand to full height. By the time I reached him, he was dressed but unshaven; his servant was preparing to attend to it, stropping a razor, heating the water by the fire. The lieutenant read through the letter quickly and, it seemed to me, rather casually. Then, without a word, he tossed it into the open fire where the pot of water seethed. His indifferent attitude worried me a bit.
“I was to tell you to take note of the particulars which Sir John set forth in the letter, and then tell you to burn it,” said I to him. ”Since you’ve already done the latter, I trust I may tell him you’ve also attended to the former.”
“You may tell him what you like,” said he. ”I am certainly confident that I have mastered the ‘particulars,’ as you call them-time, place, et cetera-or I should not have burned the letter. Will there be anything else? Do you wish to insult my intelligence further?”
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