‘And what do you expect of me?’
Daisy was surprised at the question, clearly seeing the matter as obvious. ‘If they is doin’ that, there can’t be too many left behind at the slaughterhouse. Happen there be a chance to get free whoever it is they is holding there.’
‘You don’t seriously expect me to help you rescue them?’
‘Be to your advantage to have help, Captain Brazier, would it not?’
‘Help to do what?’
The question was so obtuse, Daisy was thrown. From what he had heard about this naval cove, it had to be said mainly from the crossing sweeper who worked by St George’s Passage, he was a kindly soul, considerate and never failing to smile and tip a coin. The man opposite now was nothing like that. If Daisy had never served in the navy, he had been aboard ship with hard and mean sods as owners or masters. That was what he was seeing now.
‘You’re suggesting I stir myself,’ Brazier growled.
‘And the men you have too,’ Daisy replied, a plea in his tone.
‘To get out of Hawker’s slaughterhouse a lot who’ve already been given a drubbing by him and his men. And what happens then, Trotter? Who will Hawker come after?’
‘He can be taken on, if we’s combined.’
‘I think you mistake my purpose.’
‘You want to go up against Tulkington. You put a pistol to his head, did you not?’
‘Even if I did, I cannot see how the notion of becoming involved in a confrontation between two smuggling gangs will serve my needs.’
If Trotter had hinted at a plea previously, there was no mistaking it now. His voice broke, as he insisted, ‘I got to get my Dan out from Hawker’s clutches.’
‘Then I suggest you find another way, because I am not it.’
‘I’m on my own,’ came out as a loud, head-turning cry.
The looks aimed at the corner they were occupying went from the mildly curious, through slightly alarmed, to the seriously put out when it came to the men at the card tables. It was not loud enough to bring Saoirse into the card room at precisely that moment, that had to be mere coincidence, but it did bring her to Brazier’s table.
‘Is everything as it should be?’
The reply came as the Brazier goblet was filled again. ‘In my case, yes. Do I have to introduce you to Daisy Trotter?’
‘I know the name and face, but have never made acquaintance.’
‘Perhaps something to be thankful for.’ That got a pained look from Daisy, which Brazier ignored by taking a gulp of wine, on which the look changed to one of alarm as he added, ‘You would scarce believe what it is he’s asking me to do. He wants me to go to Hawker’s slaughterhouse and prize from that sod’s grasp a bunch of useless creatures I wouldn’t give a hammock to on any ship of which I had command.’
‘They’re good lads,’ was the protest.
‘I’d be asking you to keep your voice down,’ Saoirse hissed. ‘This room is quiet for a reason.’
‘So you won’t aid me?’
‘I don’t think that requires an answer.’
It was now Daisy conjuring up the name of William Pitt, as well as the rumours going around, that this bastard was in league with him. If he had heard the gossip it had been mixed with what folk saw as a remedy. With knowledge of that, Brazier might change his tune. As he explained, it did not look like it from the disbelieving expression.
‘Me, conspiring with Pitt?’ he cried. Now he got a look from Saoirse that had him moderate the level of his own voice to an angry hiss. ‘Whoever sold you that canard has too vivid an imagination.’
‘You’se visited him, an’ dined with him at the Three King’s twice, or so I’s been told.’
‘God in heaven, this town.’
That came with a look or irritation aimed at Saoirse, not of condemnation, but a general disapproval of Deal. If he had expected any response from her it was denied: she had on her face a look that said ‘I told you so’. There was a temptation, nothing to do with Daisy, more to do with her and enhanced by his drinking, to tell of Pitt’s proposal and his refusal. He would also be open about the reason the idea had been floated in the first place, as well as the pressure to which Pitt hoped he would succumb. That was until he realised, having consumed way too much wine, the danger of allowing his tongue to run away with itself.
‘Well you may go, Trotter, and tell the idiots spreading the rumour, they are wrong.’
‘And the other?’
‘I am not minded to repeat myself.’
He didn’t move immediately. It was as if Daisy, looking into the tankard of a yet-to-be-touched porter, was racking his brain for a way to change Brazier’s mind, words that would get him what he so desperately needed. The man opposite gave no indication such arguments existed, so Daisy eased himself out of his chair and wiped his nose with his sleeve, before nodding to Saoirse.
Brazier was not prepared to let him go without a parting shot. ‘I suspected the last time we met you were seeking to use me for your own ends, Trotter. Be aware, I am not fool enough to fall for it.’
That obviously stung, Daisy going from miserable reflection to anger in a flash, calling over his sloping shoulder as he left.
‘You might be more fool than you know, matey.’
The deep-laden vessel drifting a mile off the shore could see the lights of Dover, the beacons that marked the harbour entrance and the glim of multiple pinpoints behind, which denoted occupied buildings. A look around the invisible horizon showed any number of other pinpoints, which marked the positions of vessels either hove to for safety or, for the more adventurous, those making their way through the Channel narrows despite it being a cloudy night. Right ahead, over the prow, beyond its own lanterns, was Stygian blackness.
A lantern, seemingly suspended in mid-air, flashed three times, the signal for which the French captain had been waiting. John Hawker, standing behind it, saw the return message, a lamp shaded and unshaded to tell him his message had been received. On the other arm of St Margaret’s Bay, a second light appeared, by which time the sails on board the ship, which had been backed and were flapping loosely, were drawn tight to take what little wind there was, which set the timbers creaking as the vessel began to move.
On the wheel, the Frenchman kept those two lights in his sights as he bisected them with his bowsprit. Another lookout, placed aloft, was concentrating on the unseen higher ground. If anything shone from there, it would mean danger, which would see the cargo ship put up its helm and withdraw. On either beam, crew members with the sharpest eyes made sure nothing was approaching from north or south.
They were safe until the ship was close to making its landfall. In the cabin was a proper manifest of the cargo, with details of the goods carried and for whom they were destined. All were proper names of legitimate importers, so they could plead innocence, being off course if intercepted. Having made the crossing several times, the fellow in command knew, by his position relative to those shore lanterns, when to give the order to drop a stern anchor, this paid out on a stout cable as the ship inched in.
The rest of his crew had been travelling between holds and deck, first unlashing the cargo, chests and bales secured against the motion of the sea, then fetching part of what was uncovered on to the deck, this to save time. There was a solitary figure in the chains, casting a weighted line and seeking to calculate the depth of water under the keel. At a soft call from him, the movement of cargo was abandoned. The sweeps, laid along the deck, were slipped into the water through portholes, the sails under which they had been edging let loose again.
Now they were inside the arc of the bay, the prow was set at the well-lit mouth of the main tunnel. Figures could be seen descending ladders, to make their way down to the water’s edge, one party waiting for a line, which would be thrown from the ship’s stern once the prow had been very gently beached. This, and another from the bows, would be lashed off to the dolphins, to hold the craft in position.
From a virtuall
y silent manoeuvre, the noise grew markedly; even whispers and low calls multiplied, if issued by dozens of throats. The extra-wide gangway was opened, the gangplank shoved out to be taken by willing hands, who moved at the landward end as far as possible to create a shallow slope. That done, unloading could begin, the holds needing to be stripped in very short order.
A line of bearers took the barrels, bolts and small bales, as well as wooden chests of tea, scrabbling over the shingle and then up the wide ladders into the tunnel. John Hawker had a very limited view of what was happening, but then he had no need to see something that happened a dozen times a year, only broken off when the midsummer months denied them the darkness in which to work.
Inside the tunnels, in single file, the bearers of the contraband trudged their way up the slight incline and into the tunnel, which led to the chambers hewn out of the stable chalk, where the cargo would be stored prior to distribution. Hawker appeared halfway through the unloading to make his way in the reverse direction and to clamber down to the beach.
He found the Frenchman at the base of the gangplank and a few words in his language, just about all Hawker knew, were exchanged. Then it was mainly silence, if you excluded the sounds of heavy breathing, displaced shingle and the odd curse when someone slipped.
Eventually the time came for Hawker to go aboard and check the holds were clear, to take from the Frenchman the manifest, accurate in all respects excluding the intended recipients. He passed over to the captain his fee, a leather pouch heavy with coin, before making his way back to the beach, watching while those of the crew on land went back aboard, the gangplank being drawn in.
At a soft call, the securing cables were loosened and hauled inboard, while men on the capstan dug their feet into the deck and leant on the poles, to pull the stern out into deeper water. As many as were available of Hawker’s porters put their shoulders to the hull and pushed. Slowly the vessel refloated, to be hauled out to a point where sails could be reset, the yards having been hauled round to take enough wind to get way on a ship that would set course for its home port.
The ladders were withdrawn back into the tunnels, the entrances shuttered off, leaving the strand clear of humanity. At first light, a couple of Hawker’s men would come to the beach to ensure no trace of the night’s activities existed: items dropped or a coat discarded. Meanwhile the man who employed them ensured that all was properly stacked, his porters paid their copper and dispersed.
Out at sea, the three-times shading of a lantern told those on the cliff tops it was time to depart. Last to leave was John Hawker, who made his way back to the hut, to where he had left his horse munching on a hay net in the nearby bothy, sitting down to wait for daylight. When that arrived, he had to lead the animal up the steep path to the grassy leas, which ran to the cliff edge. There he could mount and ride home, free from any danger of inadvertently going over a cliff edge in darkness.
Henry Tulkington would come the other way, possibly tomorrow or the day after, with the manifest Hawker had in his pocket, to check it against the cargo and make sure nothing was missing that should not be. That established, he could alert the other half of the coastal enterprise, run by a man John Hawker had never met, to begin distribution of the contraband to his waiting customers.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The pressure of time obliged Henry Tulkington to hire a private coach to get him back home. He arrived in the early hours of the morning in a reasonably good mood, which for him meant no one got a frown for some perceived error, which lasted until he was presented with Dirley’s letter. The mere fact of it having been written was enough to make him angry: that his aunt had read it doubled the feeling, which was awkward, since the emotion had to be concealed. It did not sit well with him, but he knew he needed Sarah Lovell too much to offend her for something that could not be undone.
Nor did he have time. He needed to go and see John Hawker, to check if the cargo had come in as arranged, that it conformed to what was expected, so any thoughts on what his uncle might be up to would have to wait. Once more it required the use of a horse, St Margaret’s Bay being another place he could not risk being seen by the prying eyes of curious servants.
Coming out of the front door, he saw a stable boy holding his animal by the mounting block, but his attention was taken by Creevy signalling to him, clearly a plea for attention. Given the man was standing over some ornately trimmed yew topiary, Henry assumed it was that he wished to talk about, so he decided to give the gardener a minute or two. He did, after all, care for the first impression given to a visitor approaching the house and the formal parterre was an important part of that.
‘What can I do for you, Creevy?’ he asked, once the man’s hat had been removed.
‘There’s som’at I reckon you might like to know, your honour.’ The look of mystification had Creevy blurt out what it was. ‘Upton has taken to walking some of his horses down by the lake of a morning, regular like, if different animals.’
‘I cannot see that makes—’
Henry stopped, looking right into the old man’s watery eyes, slightly thrown by the look the gardener sent to right and left, as if, absurdly, he did not want to be seen talking to his employer. It was that look which nailed it, but he was not going to ask if Upton met anyone on those walks. Creevy was not to be alerted to family affairs, but it was obvious what he was driving at.
‘I’m obliged to you,’ was delivered with a look that told him he was to say no more.
‘Allas look out for you, Mr Henry, you bein’ the kind gent you are.’
It would have shocked no one who knew him that Henry Tulkington took that at face value; he saw himself as a benevolent master.
‘Garden is looking splendid. A testament to your care.’
With Creevy’s hat already in his hand, an obsequious touch of the forelock was required, even if it was delivered to his master’s retreating back. Henry could read into what he had been told everything that was implied. No one ever walked the horses in the woods around the lake, even if it was not expressly forbidden. Ergo, if he was doing so, it must be for a reason. Another problem to be dealt with, but finding what it entailed would have to wait. He mounted and, as soon as he was in the saddle, he kicked his mount into motion.
‘Smooth it were,’ was Hawker’s report. ‘Which is a relief, after what Spafford and his lot got up to last time.’
What had been a smiling face clouded; Hawker was still smarting from having part of the previous cargo pinched from under his very nose, on the same strand of pebbles he had visited the night before. It had sent him into the passion that had ended in him collaring Spafford junior, hauled out of a gin shop and very publicly dragged along the main road of the town to the slaughterhouse.
‘Speaking of which?’
‘Couldn’t risk any trouble with a cargo comin’ in, so I’s sat on matters regarding Brazier. But I can tell you, it’s festerin’ and, for my money, the longer that goes on the better.’
‘Holding them all here has a risk, John. It can’t be kept a secret forever.’
‘With respect, I don’t reckon anyone to take me on and another day won’t hurt. I’ll get out and about once I know all’s well at the bay. A little bit of coin spent on porter and gin for the right folk and they’ll be champing to string the bugger up.’
‘Which must be prevented.’ Seeing a look bordering on disappointment, Tulkington was quick to add an admonishment. ‘He might be a sod and one I would welcome gone permanently, but he is still a post captain in the King’s Navy. A man like that is too elevated to be strung up by a baying mob, without which we will suffer serious repercussions. Understand that those responsible for order hereabouts will stand for much and look the other way, but not that.’
The expression on Tulkington’s face left no doubt about his sentiments, nor were they a mystery. For all his power locally, it rested on certain norms that must not be breached. It was axiomatic that those who turned a blind eye must not be given cause to
look in order to protect their own position.
‘Out of Deal will serve, though a few heavy bruises won’t go amiss.’
‘Those I will see to personally,’ came with a growl, which was a mistake; the rebuke was swift, with no concession to his pride, already a touch dented.
‘I’ve told you, John, stay out of it!’
It hurt to reply in a voice, which, to him, sounded weak and submissive. ‘Course, Mr Tulkington, I was meaning, I will see the right folk know what to do.’
‘And what not to do, which is to go too far. Now, the manifest.’
The document was handed over to be perused, but he did not produce from his pocket the matching list, one of two documents, which had been couriered down weeks past by Dirley. The two would not match exactly, given that goods coming from various regions of France could not be guaranteed to arrive in a given time.
That country was cursed with any number of internal borders, with each region seeking to levy a transit tax on anything going to a neighbour and beyond. Quite apart from legal delays, a lot of inter-province smuggling went on, which also had an impact. There was no cause for concern if some things were late, as long as they came over the Channel eventually, so the books in Dirley’s safe balanced over something like a twelvemonth.
‘You don’t want to see Spafford, then?’
‘I will spare myself that.’
‘He keeps asking about his boy.’
‘Who is safe from everything but his own bad habits.’ Catching the look of enquiry, Tulkington went on, ‘Tell him nothing. The less he knows, the better.’
Me too, by the sound of it, Hawker assumed.
Sarah Lovell had not been fooled by Henry’s unruffled response; she had known him too long and too well and had been prepared for a blast of invectiveness. When it didn’t come, it naturally set her to thinking. It could not be anything to do with her feelings − her nephew was indifferent to those, and not only hers.
A Lawless Place Page 20
