by Dudley Pope
“I didn’t have this in those days,” Raven said, touching the scar. “Changes a man’s appearance. You’ve collected a couple, too,” he added, tapping his forehead, where Ramage had two scars above his right eyebrow. “Clean cuts, like from a sword, m’Lord?”
“Boarding parties,” Ramage said. “What happened to you?”
“Misunderstanding with a Revenue officer a few years back,” he said briefly. “I’ll fetch up your hot water, m’Lord. I’ve unpacked your bag and set out your razor. Your linen’s been washed and should be dry in half an hour—it’s hanging over the kitchen stove. I took it down last night. Your fresh clothes is hung up.”
Ramage muttered his thanks and remembered the sealed orders in his coat pocket. He had not bothered to read them, and he waited until Raven left the room before jumping out of bed and reassuring himself that the seal had not been broken. Not, he realized, that the orders would give away any secrets—Lord Nelson made sure of that.
He stripped off his nightshirt and tossed it on the bed. It was chilly, and every muscle in his body seemed to ache, but five hours’ solid sleep—much more than he could usually manage at sea—had refreshed him. Raven had hung up his uniform—well, he would not be wanting that for a while. He would wear the grey breeches and brown coat, and take an old pair of trousers and a jersey with him.
He walked over to the large window and looked down over Romney Marsh. It was as though a great wedge of low and utterly flat land measuring a dozen miles by almost twenty, with Dungeness its apex, had been arbitrarily stuck on to the high land stretching from Hythe through Aldington and in a gentle sweep on to Appledore and finally Rye.
From anywhere along this ridge—his uncle’s house was right on the edge of it—one could look right across the Marsh to the Channel, which formed the distant eastern horizon. Even in the early sunlight the Marsh seemed mysterious and brooding. He had forgotten just how flat it all was. The canals and drainage dykes, which also served as hedges, now seemed as they reflected the rising sun like narrow ribbons of shiny metal criss-crossing the green fields and spanned here and there by small, humpbacked bridges which allowed the sheep to move from one meadow to another.
If there were few villages, there were fewer towns: he could just make out the buildings of Dymchurch round to his left, their west walls just black shadows, with Old Romney almost due south and the long point of Dungeness—known locally as “the Ness”—beyond.
Fifteen minutes later, washed and shaven, he joined his uncle at the breakfast table. Rufus Treffry was a stocky man of sixty who did not carry an ounce of fat. His face was round and cheerful, and although his once sandy hair was now thin, his eyebrows were bushy, bristling out over startlingly bright blue eyes.
While Raven served at the table with a remarkable economy of movement, Treffry said: “How is my sister, and that sailor she married?”
“Both very well. They didn’t know I’d be calling, otherwise they would have sent greetings.”
“And what’s the news from Dover Castle? They expectin’ Bonaparte?” He spoke lightly, but Ramage detected his concern.
“Everything is quiet in Dover. I don’t think there’s more news than is reported in the newspapers.”
Treffry grunted doubtfully as he helped himself to fried eggs and thick slices of gammon from the dish Raven was holding. “One day they’d have us believe Bonaparte is due any moment, and the next they’re laughing at him!”
Ramage grinned at the cross, almost aggrieved tone of voice and, catching his uncle’s eye, glanced at Raven, indicating he would say more when they were alone. For two or three minutes the men ate in silence while Raven replaced the covers on the hot dishes and left the room.
“Well, what’s all the mystery, m’lad?” his uncle demanded.
“I have to get to France in a hurry—and perhaps return in even more of a hurry …”
“What’s wrong with landing by boat at night from one of the King’s ships?” Treffry asked, his voice showing he accepted there was a reason and was merely curious.
“I’d probably land all right from a cutter, but the chances of getting away again—a rendezvous has to be arranged, and depends on weather. And I have to send reports back to England …”
Treffry frowned. “Is this some sort of spy business?”
There was no harm in him knowing that much; indeed, there could be no other reason for visiting France. “Yes, I have to try and find out one or two things, and send some reports back. Then I can come home again! Do you know anyone who can help?”
“I know some folk who could help if they had a mind to,” his uncle said cautiously, “but they’ve no reason to love authority: the Revenue men make nothing but trouble for them.”
Sensing a reluctance on his uncle’s part, Ramage said: “Surely running foul of the Revenue men now and again doesn’t turn them against the King, does it?”
“Dear me, no,” Treffry said agreeably, “but you must remember that the war has made their—ah, profession—ten times as dangerous. So many of our own Navy ships at sea, and all on the watch for anything suspicious.”
“Very well, so smuggling is ten times more dangerous,” Ramage said sourly, “but I’ll wager it’s also twenty times more profitable, thanks to the war.”
“Very probably,” his uncle said, his eyes twinkling, “and no doubt Bonaparte’s douaniers want ten times bigger bribes. I must admit I know very little about it; I must be one of the few around here not involved. I hear some of my neighbours grumbling at the risks their men run, and they usually send me a case or two of brandy at Christmas, Easter and Michaelmas. Still, when I see a string of packhorses being led across my land in the middle of the night, I must admit I look the other way; and when I see a shielded lantern shining from a high window facing the Marsh I assume it is a curate working late on his church accounts, although no doubt the Revenue men would claim it was a signal to smugglers that the coast was clear for their packhorses to make a delivery.”
“I’m not judging them,” Ramage said hastily. “I just want their help!”
“Yes, I know all that, my lad; but I’m trying to warn you it’s not going to be as easy as you think. First, you have to understand these men haven’t been smuggling just for the last seven or eight years—since the war began. No, they’ve been smugglers all their lives, and their fathers before them. They—”
“I know all that, sir,” Ramage said impatiently.
“I doubt it,” his uncle said, unruffled, “and if you want their co-operation it’ll make your job a lot easier if you know more about ‘em. I can see you’re thinking in terms of a couple of men and a small fishing smack, but—” he wagged an admonitory finger, “remember the Marsh covers a couple of hundred square miles, and the Marsh Men control all the smuggling along the coast from Folkestone to Rye Bay, and that’s some 25 miles. Why, I doubt if anything happens on the Marsh without them knowing about it—and not only on the Marsh. Did you notice any people on your way here last night?”
“I didn’t see a soul after I got through Hythe.”
The old man shook his head and smiled. “I’m sure you didn’t; but people saw you: long before dawn they were trying to discover why a naval officer galloping full tilt along the Ashford road suddenly turned off southwards at Sellindge and headed for Aldington. Many people were roused from their beds, and didn’t get back to their sleep until word reached them that Mr Rufus’s nephew had arrived at Treffry Hall, and all was well.”
“But what—” a startled Ramage began to say.
“Ask anyone on the Marsh the distance from one place to another, and he’ll say so many miles, as the Rhee hawk flies. If he gives an odd sort of grin as he says it, you’ll know he’s a Marsh Man.”
Ramage looked puzzled. “Rhee hawk? What sort of bird is that?”
Treffry gave a dry laugh. “Ah, you might well ask. An invisible bird that can carry a message in its beak and fly almost as fast as a galloping horse.”
�
��But ‘Rhee?’ I don’t remember—”
“Part of the sea wall that stops the Marsh flooding at high water …”
Ramage nodded. “I remember. They say the Romans started to build it when they began draining the Marsh. Separates Romney Marsh from the next one—Walland Marsh, isn’t it? Joins up with the Dymchurch sea wall.”
“Well, the hawk in question probably nests somewhere in the Rhee Wall,” his uncle said enigmatically. “Anyway, you’d better forget all about it now, as long as you’ve grasped what I’m trying to tell you.”
Ramage glanced at his watch but his uncle shook his head. “There’s no hurry—yes,” he held up his hand to quieten Ramage, “I know you’re in a rush, but you can’t do anything until Raven comes back.”
“Where’s he gone? He was here a few minutes ago.”
“Gone to see a friend of mine. He’ll be back within the hour—and then we’ll know if my friend is going to be your friend, too!”
“You’re talking in riddles,” Ramage protested mildly.
“Not really! Raven’s gone to ask a man on my behalf if he can help you.”
“But Raven doesn’t know what I want!”
“He knows all my friend needs to know—and anyway, he’s carrying a letter from me.”
For the next ten minutes both men ate in silence. Treffry finally pushed his plate aside and said, “Your aunt will be down very soon. She has a bagful of questions about the family—that’s why I haven’t asked any!—and she’ll want you to look at the grapes.” Seeing Ramage’s puzzled expression, he added, “You’ve forgotten your aunt’s big vine on the south wall—just about covers the lower half now. Lot of fruit on it—she’s hoping for a mild summer.”
“So’s Bonaparte,” Ramage said, irritated by the way the time was passing. Then, regretting his hasty remark, he added: “I remember stealing a bunch of grapes when I was a small boy.” He grinned as he recalled more of the episode. “They were sour as the devil, and you made me eat them all, as a punishment!”
“And you had colic for a couple of days. Your aunt played merry hell with me; said I was a wicked uncle.”
An hour and a half later, by which time Ramage had told an eagerly listening Aunt Henrietta all the family news he knew and all the London gossip he could remember, horse’s hooves thudding up the long driveway signalled Raven’s return.
Ramage repressed a smile when, five minutes later, once more neatly dressed in his butler’s clothes, Raven came into the breakfast room with a letter on a silver tray. He glanced at the plates on the table, as if shocked that the family should still be sitting in the breakfast room, and delivered the letter to his master.
Ramage noted that his uncle played the role equally well: he took the letter as though Raven had just received it from a messenger at the front door, thanked him, and waited until Raven had left the room—after refusing a request that he be allowed to clear the table—before breaking the seal.
He winked at Ramage. “Raven knows better than I what this letter says, but he’s a stickler for appearances.” He fished around in a pocket and brought out a pair of pince-nez, which he jammed on the end of his nose. “Hmm—from his handwriting you’d never guess this fellow has a cool quarter of a million in Consols and as much again in property. Ah … cautious into the bargain: I expected as much.”
He removed his pince-nez, put them in their case and stuffed them into his pocket along with the letter. Ramage tried to appear unconcerned but could think of nothing to say to his aunt, who was waiting for her husband to speak. Finally she said impatiently, “Rufus—don’t be irritating. I’m sure that letter says something that concerns Nicholas, and the poor boy is on tenterhooks!”
“Oh? By jove, Nicholas, I was daydreaming. Nothing to worry about. Wants to meet you. If he agrees to help, wants me to stand as surety.”
“Surety for what?” Ramage exclaimed.
Treffry gave a rich laugh. “For your good behaviour. He’s probably not yet convinced you haven’t left the Navy and joined the Revenue Service without telling me!”
“And if I’m not well behaved?” Ramage asked sarcastically.
“I indemnify him for whatever he might lose,” Treffry said simply, “and of course I accept. But don’t worry, once he hears your story he’ll do all we want.”
Your story … for a few moments Ramage had the feeling he was galloping across the Kent countryside and shouting at the top of his voice that he was going to France on a secret mission. His uncle seemed to sense his thoughts and said reassuringly, “Never fear, these people know better than most how to keep their mouths shut. One careless word could hang them. And don’t worry about informers—those that aren’t Marsh Men know better than to look one way when they should be looking t’other, and they know what happens to men that look and gossip …”
Ramage pictured the bodies of past informers being put in sacks, weighted with stones, and dropped into one of the dykes. Or maybe not even weighted, but left to float, a warning to like-minded folk and over-zealous Revenue men; the smugglers’ equivalent of a gamekeeper hanging up dead carrion crows outside his lodge. Yes, he would be a foolish fellow who saw packhorses laden with casks of brandy and leather panniers of French lace passing his door on a wet and windy night; the slightest hint that these unshod hooves were on the move would be enough to make men talk loudly to their wives, or put more wood on the fire; do anything in fact, except look out of a door or a window.
Treffry stood up. “We’d best be on our way. I’ll find you a decent horse.”
Ramage shook his head. “Thank you, no; I’ll use the one the soldiers lent me so that I can go straight back to Dover to collect my men. I’m leaving my uniform here,” he told his aunt. “I’ll collect it on my way back!”
“I’ll tell Raven to get your luggage, then,” his aunt said and gave him an affectionate kiss. Although she obviously did not know where he was going and for how long, she assured him he would find Gianna staying at Aldington when he returned.
Fifteen minutes later Ramage was spurring his horse and following his uncle along the narrow road to Lympne and Hythe. The road ran eastward along the high land above the Marsh, dipping occasionally and running over a brook and through a copse of trees, then rising over a crest from which Ramage could look to the right across the Marsh and to the left where the land dropped into a valley and then rose and fell in ever increasing hills and valleys until it reached the North Downs.
As they rode at a brisk canter, passing a village every mile or so, Ramage remembered his uncle’s comment about shielded lanterns and noticed for the first time that at least one house in each hamlet—usually the inn—had a tiny dormer window high in the roof, usually on the south side; a tiny window whose actual opening was shielded from the road but was visible for a long distance from the flat land below—and, he guessed, from pathways and tracks leading up from the Marsh. A train of pack-horses coming up to an inn with contraband liquor, or to a grocer’s with tea and tobacco, would watch for the light. There must be some code, so that the light—or its absence—told the smugglers that it was safe to make the delivery or that the Revenue men were out and waiting in ambush.
An old farmer standing at his gate, a fowling piece under his arm and a bulging game bag over his shoulder, gave a cheery wave as they cantered past; the ancient and rheumy-eyed driver of a heavy cart and pair, laden with soggy manure, raised his hat. A parson in black broadcloth, with the bright red complexion and bulbous, purple nose of a determined toper, reined in his apology for a horse, anticipating a chat, but Treffry called his regrets and they rode on.
“Another five minutes,” he told Ramage. “Our fellow lives in the lee of Studfall Castle—the ruins of it, anyway.”
Who was “our fellow?” Was he by any chance the leader of the Marsh smugglers? A quarter of a million in the Funds and a quarter of a million in land—one needed to have been a nabob to have that sort of money. A nabob, a West India planter—or a successful smuggler.
As they cantered on, Ramage found himself wondering about the sheer administration needed for successful smuggling operations; administration and capital, too, since presumably the French wanted cash for their brandy, tobacco, tea, mother of pearl, lace and other luxuries—and no doubt had to pay cash for the whisky, gin, wool and whatever else the Marsh men smuggled to France.
He knew the Board of Customs waged war on the smugglers with all the determination of the Board of Admiralty in its war against the French, and both boards always had the same com-plaint—too few ships and men to do the job properly. From what he had heard the last time he was in Portsmouth, the Customs people had a good case: the smugglers were now using such large and well-armed vessels that few of the older Revenue cutters could tackle them, and usually they escaped unless the Navy could lend a hand.
He wished he had paid more attention to the gossip, but he remembered talk of smugglers using fast cutters of 200 tons burthen, armed with a dozen or more four-pounders and regularly running over to the Channel Islands and French ports. They carried their own boats on deck, enormously long and narrow (forty feet, with a beam of less than five feet, rowing ten oars or more). Frequently a cutter arrived a couple of miles off the coast, hoisted out a boat, loaded it with up to 500 casks, and sent it off to some deserted beach, where carts and packhorses waited. By the time the alarm was raised, the horses had vanished inland with the contraband, and the boat was back with the cutter.
Sometimes the smugglers’ cutters did not have to take even that risk: the Customs men were worried about a new trick, known as “creeping.” A smuggling cutter roped a cask, leaving a very long tail which was lashed round a heavy stone, similar to those used for ballast. The cutter sailed—by prearrangement—near a fishing-boat and (as far as an innocent onlooker was concerned) tacked and at the same time threw some ballast over the side. Quite a normal activity, particularly before running for home. But each sinking stone would take a cask down with it, and at their leisure the fishermen would use grapnels to catch in the tail and “creep up” both stones and casks, cutting the casks free of the stones as soon as they came to the surface.
