Smuggler's Moon sjf-8

by Bruce Alexander

I held my tongue. There would be no good purpose in trading rudeness for rudeness, so I simply bowed to him most politely, wished him a good day, and departed.

  For a bit, as I returned with Mr. Crawly to town, I mused upon the lieutenant’s attitude toward me. Why, he was quite as impolite as Lord Mansfield’s butler. Yet hadn’t he the day before been ever so much more obliging and mannerly? Ah yes, but the day before, I had but watched him and listened to his exchanges with Sir John and Mr. Eccles; he had had naught to say to me. He would seem then to be one-one of the many-who bowed and scraped to those he thought (or feared) might be his betters, and treated the rest with arrogant hostility. Mr. Patley had not a high opinion of the man. I now understood better the why of that.

  I mentioned none of this to Sir John when I came back. There was no need, of course, but more important, he said that he had a task for me that was every bit as important as the one from which I had just returned. I was eager to hear of it.

  “Do you wish me to wear pistols for this one, as well?” I asked him.

  “What? Oh, no, certainly not necessary. Indeed, if you were to do so, it might create the wrong impression altogether.”

  “Perhaps I should ask just what sort of task you have in mind for me.”

  “Simple enough,” said Sir John. ”I wish you to go down to that sandy beach where you and Mr. Perkins and the two Deal constables prevented the landing by that crew of smugglers-I know not the name of it.”

  “Goodwin Sands-or so I understand.”

  “Very well, Goodwin Sands then. Where was I? Ah yes, I wish you to go down to that beach and look for Mr. Bilbo.”

  This was indeed good news. ”Is he coming for a visit?”

  “No, no, not the sort you mean. He’ll not be coming ashore at all, not even anchoring out there offshore.”

  This was most puzzling. ”How then shall I see him? How can I know him?”

  ”Why, by the flag that he flies. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, Jeremy, that ships that ply the Channel hereabouts fly all manner of flags from their rigging and their masts?”

  “Well, yes, I have, but I thought them more or less for decoration.”

  “Nothing of the kind. The Union Jack, which you’ve no doubt seen, is flown for purposes of identification. It declares that this is a British ship. The orange ensign identifies the ship as Dutch, and the fleur de lys flag declares the ship as French. Ah, you say, but what about the rest of them-those small flags that flutter all round the rigging? You’ve seen those, too, haven’t you?”

  “I have, yes, and wondered at them,” said I.

  “Well,” said Sir John, ”they’re there as signals-to other ships or to those on the shore.”

  “What do the signals say?”

  “Whatever they might like them to say,” said he quite expansively. ”It would all be worked out in advance between those in the ship and those on the shore.”

  “Now I begin to understand, sir. You and Mr. Bilbo have worked out a code between you, have you not? But how did you know when Mr. Bilbo would be here?”

  “That was according to his estimate,” said Sir John. ”I could in no wise dictate to him the time of his arrival. He did say, however, that if all were ready he would sail by Deal morning and afternoon. There’s little of the morning left, but he’s a man of his word, and we must look for him during the rest of the day. I cannot see him, and so you must be my eyes in this. Do you recall the general look of his ship?”

  “I do, yes,” said I. ”It’s called a sloop, is it not? I’ve seen others like it.”

  “Very good. Now, what you must do, Jeremy, is to go out there to the beach and keep an eye open for Mr. Bilbo’s sloop. Now, as you’ve said, you’ve seen others like it. That is both good and bad, for while it should make it easier for you to recognize his as a sloop, it may make it possible for you to confuse his sloop with another. And so keep in mind that Mr. Bilbo’s ship is, as I understand, varnished in a lighter shade than most. Had you noticed that?”

  “Now that you mention it, sir, I suppose I had. I remember it as a sort of golden brown.”

  “That is no doubt correct,” said he, ”but another point to aid identification-he will be flying the Union Jack. And a third point, which is the most important, he will be flying green and white flags from his rigging. Have you got all that?”

  “Yes, Sir John-lighter shade, Union Jack, green and white flags.”

  “Right you are.” He gave a crisp nod of approval.

  “But what was this about creating the wrong impression?”

  “Ah yes, that,” said he. ”Well, what would you think if you were to walk the strand and you saw a young man, such as yourself, staring out at the sea quite intently. And then you returned some hours later, and the young man was still there on the beach in the same place, still staring just as intent out to sea?”

  “What would I think? Why, I would think that rather odd, I suppose.”

  “I’ve no doubt of it. And that is the wrong sort of impression. I wish you to be virtually invisible there on the beach, just a part of the larger picture.”

  “And how do you hope to accomplish that?”

  “Well, Jeremy, I know not how it is today, but when I was a lad about your age, it was a common enough sight when down on the seashore to see a young man in the company of a young lady. Whether in conversation or not, either seated in the sand or strolling the waterline-it mattered little what they did, so long as they did it together. Is that not how it is still today?”

  “I suppose it is.” With each word I hesitated a bit. I was suspicious of the direction in which he seemed to be taking me.

  “That being the case,” said Sir John, ”I have asked Clarissa to keep you company whilst you search the horizon for Black Jack Bilbo’s sloop.”

  I raised no objection. It would have availed me little to complain. Besides, if this were truly to take an entire afternoon of waiting and looking, I should be glad for someone to pass the time with.

  Thus it was that we were there together on Goodwin Sands for a number of hours that day. As Sir John had supposed, we sat for a time, then walked, sat again, then walked again. It was a perfect day for such. The sun shone down bright upon us. It was-in my memory, at least-the brightest and sunniest day we had known since our arrival in Deal. I recalled that when Clarissa and I first visited this place, it presented to us what seemed then to be a somewhat sinister aspect; I carried with me the image of that shipwreck beneath a brooding, gray sky. So was it then; yet on this day, Goodwin Sands seemed a different place altogether: the sky was blue and without a cloud (truly so: I looked and looked and saw not a one); the reflecting sea shone with the same deep blue, except in those places where it caught the sun and glinted silver. It was a day on which to enjoy the generous gifts of nature. And we were indeed not the only couple out on the beach on that afternoon.

  Not forgetting why we had come, we paid much closer attention than the rest to the ships and boats out there on the Channel. Most of them were far too small to have taken our attention for more than a moment-fishing boats, most of them, and the largest of them single-masted. A Royal Navy frigate did glide by on its way to Portsmouth, impressive in its graceful bearing. Then finally there came a host of small cargo ships which passed our vantage, homely in appearance and ungainly in passage. Some were large as sloops but had not their style or shape. Clarissa remarked that she had never truly been aware just what a crowd of ships was out there between England and France. I replied that they were thick as coaches in the Strand on a Monday morn-and she agreed.

  We talked of a great many things during those hours upon the beach. I remember well that she had heard that I had been something of a hero in last night’s battle at the crossroads. What pleased me most was the realization that she could only have heard such from Sir John. ”Hero” would not have been his word, but hers. Even so, to think that he had been sufficiently impressed to remark upon it to Clarissa elevated my spirits to a point higher than they had be
en since first we came to Deal. Still and again, it was a bit embarrassing to be told this by her-yes, but at the same time oddly pleasurable, too.

  This led to a discussion of her visit with Sir John to Deal Castle, which provided her first exposure to his quotidian labors, save for an occasional visit to his court. She had seen him in action, so to speak.

  “He is terribly impressive when asking questions, don’t you think?” said she.

  “I have heard it said that he is the most able interrogator in all of Britain,” I replied. ”He seems to sniff an untruth and hear the lie in the liar’s voice. All he lacks-”

  “Is the power of sight,” said she, interrupting, as she quite frequently did.

  “True enough, but more often than not he seems to see better with his blind eyes than the rest of us can with our own, no matter how perfectly they may work. He takes special pleasure in explaining to all who may ask that if a man lacks one of his senses, then he must compensate by strengthening the other four. There. I have heard him say it so many times that I am sure that I have quoted him exact.”

  She thought about this for some time. This was during one of our walking bits, and together we covered quite a stretch there along the water before she chose to speak again.

  “I can certainly understand, Jeremy, how you happened to choose the law for your career. I believe that if I were a man, I should be a lawyer, too. Perhaps someday there will be a place for women in the law, too, yet I shall not see it in my day, I’m sure.”

  While I did not scoff at this remark of hers, I thought it too fanciful to be taken seriously. That, of course, was just the trouble in considering women in such responsible fields as the law. They are creatures of fancy (and none more so than Clarissa), and the law, the discovery and punishment of crime, matters of guilt and innocence-these are areas in which cold logic must rule. Yet of course I said nothing.

  “Nevertheless,” she continued, ”it would do me well to learn a bit of Sir John’s work, and the nature of legal procedures, et cetera, so that I might use a bit of this information in some future romance of mine. I can think of nothing better than one which would combine romance with the drama of murder. Perhaps I might write a tale of murder in which the reader must seek to guess the identity of the murderer before him whose role it is to do so in the narrative. How does that seem to you, Jeremy? To my knowledge, it has never been done before.”

  “How does it seem to me?” It was a clever idea; I gave the question serious consideration. At last I said to her: ”I do not think it would please readers.”

  “You don’t? But why?”

  “Let us consider the common temper of the readers of romances. Why do they read them?”

  “Why, for entertainment, for amusement.”

  “Exactly, but you would admit, I’m sure, that it is entertainment of an idle sort that they seek. They would not wish to do the sort of mental work that you propose. They expect the author of the romance to do that for them. And so, what am I to say? I do not believe that your idea, clever though it may be, would please readers, for readers are too lazy.”

  “Hmmm,” said she (had she appropriated that from Sir John already?), ”perhaps you’re right.”

  We continued to talk, though at some point once more we sought the comfort of the soft, dry sand. I asked a few questions about what, if anything, Sir John might have learned from his interrogations at Deal Castle. From the little she had to tell me, I took it that he had learned little from the prisoners. I felt reassured that I had missed nothing of real importance. He who was captain of the wagon caravan provided Sir John with a list of the London shopkeepers, most of them in Westminster, to whom the contraband goods were to be delivered, thus managing to assure himself of a lighter sentence. Beyond that, there was little. I was, however, relieved to learn that the man whom I had seriously wounded was patched up by Mr. Parker, the surgeon, and it appeared that he would recover as swiftly as Mr. Trotter, the surviving member of Mr. Sarton’s tiny constabulary.

  Yet to speak of Mr. Sarton was to be reminded of that terrible night of killing in which I saw our friend Molly wailing and keening over the body of her dead husband. And so I then told Clarissa what I had that morning heard from her. Yet I was in no wise surprised to learn that my companion there on the beach had heard all I had and more from Molly Sarton. She knew not only that Molly was unwilling to stay in Deal, but also that she was so unwilling that she had even turned down an offer from Mrs. Keen to come on as cook at the tearoom that they might make a full eating house of it. Clarissa knew not only that the house was not Molly’s own, but also that the notice to vacate which had been sent her demanded that she leave in five days’ time. And she knew, no doubt, a good deal more things about dear Molly’s plight. After all, why should she not? The two had shared a bed for nearly a week. Between us, indeed, Clarissa and I knew all about Molly’s plight, except how to better it.

  “We must do something,” said Clarissa most earnestly.

  “But what?” said I.

  “Perhaps we should tell Sir John. He may think of something.”

  I considered the matter. There was little or nothing that we two could do to help. But there were avenues and opportunities open to him of which we could not even conceive. At the very least, since he was acting magistrate, he could make it possible for Molly Sarton to remain for as long as he were here. Or perhaps he might know some aristocrat or noble in London who badly needed a cook. He was, after all, a very influential man.

  “I think you’re right,” said I. ”Sir John should know, and I think you’re the one to tell him.”

  “I’ll do it,” said she in a most determined manner, ”just as soon as I can find the right moment.”

  So saying, she set her jaw and turned her eyes out to sea. Clarissa had a strong profile, and among women, strong features are thought to be unattractive and undesirable. Yet I recall reflecting at that moment that in a way peculiar to her alone, she was really quite pretty. Then, of a sudden, she became quite animated. She turned to me and at the same time raised her arm and pointed out into the Channel.

  “Do look, Jeremy! Is that not the ship we were sent out to look for? Out there! See? Why, it’s positively festooned with green flags.”

  I looked where she pointed and saw there could be no doubt of it: it was a sloop of a sort of golden brown hue which flew the Union Jack. What could be more certain? She was Black Jack Bilbo’s Indian Princess. From where we sat, I could even make out figures moving about the ship. One in particular caught my eye: he stood upon the foredeck and jumped up and down, waving both arms for all he was worth. I believed-no, I was certain! — that the figure on the foredeck was my old chum, Jimmie Bunkins.

  Then did I stand and wave back. Indeed, I kept right on waving until the sloop was out of sight.

  “Come along,” said I to Clarissa, ”we must tell Sir John.”

  They would have saved themselves some trouble, thought I, and might even have managed to save themselves altogether, if only they had posted a lookout. Yet so sure were they of the easy success of their enterprise that the smugglers had come in number to Goodwin Sands just a bit before midnight (our lookout told us as much) and left no one to watch behind them. They had gone direct to the beach where one of them fired a flink pistol up into the night sky. We watched the progress of its rocket up and up many, many feet above the beach, until at last it reached its apex and exploded, sending a shower of sparks down on sand and water.

  That was a signal to the ship that waited out there, not much more than half a mile into the Channel. And in response, from that darkness beyond, an answering rocket went up into the sky and sent its own fiery explosion out into the night sky. Everything was in place, and all was ready. If the rockets were thus signals from shore to ship and ship to shore, they were also signals to us that we might move up from where we had hidden ourselves into the positions that had been chosen in advance. All that would have stopped us would have been word that a lookout had
been left-and that would merely have delayed us, for we were ready and eager to fight that night and would in no wise have been held back by one of their band. We were buoyed by our success of the night before.

  On this occasion, Sir John’s plan demanded a more active role of the King’s Carabineers. There would be more for them than pursuing the main body and rounding up the stragglers. Half of them, in fact, were there up above the beach with us, their carabins pointed down alongside our muskets at the smugglers below. The remainder of the mounted troopers, under the command of Lieutenant Tabor, were in the distant dark at the far end of the beach, waiting to ride down upon the owlers. So you see, all was in readiness on our side, as well.

  If anything, the moon was even brighter than it had been the night before. Each person, each object, down on the beach-wagons, horses, and men-was clearly outlined before us in the strong moonlight. Mr. Perkins came walking so low on hands and knees that he seemed to be crawling along. He dropped down beside Sir John and gave me a wink as he did so.

  “The dragoons is getting uneasy, sir,” said he. ”They want to know when to fire and when not to fire.”

  “Well,” said Sir John, ”there’ll certainly be no shooting till boats from the ship out there are on the beach and being unloaded.”

  “Right you are.”

  “And I must make my speech, as well. They’re not to interrupt that.”

  “I understand.”

  “And come to think of it, Mr. Perkins, I’ll call out the command to fire good and loud, so none can mistake. Let them hold their fire till then.”

  “Yes sir.” Yet Mr. Perkins delayed leaving. ”I wish you could see that moon up there tonight, Sir John-so big and round, so bright. It’s what we used to call, in the old days, a smuggler’s moon.”

  “Well,” said Sir John, ”let us hope that after tonight they will call it a ‘magistrate’s moon.’”

  Then, chuckling softly, Mr. Perkins did leave us, moving swiftly as he had come. Sir John turned in my direction.

  “What do you suppose, Jeremy? Shall we triumph this night?”