Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  Brazier waited intentionally: he wanted the operation to be well in progress before he acted, but it was a tense time, his body itching until the point came when a fired musket would do more to aid his purpose than interfere with it. Under a sky showing a mass of stars, mixed with broken clouds, he took off his sword, which interfered with his movement, to slowly and carefully move both barrels to the edge of the now deserted path.

  By its side a gorse bush was used to hide both him and the ends of the slow match. With the minimum of light spill, he unshaded his lantern, using the flickering tallow to set the flammable cord fizzing. A boot was then used to kick the powder barrel onto the path, where he prayed it would roll down: the other barrel he intended should stay where it was. The length of match he had calculated gave him time to get away and, lantern in hand, he moved quickly, running uphill, hoping his feet would find flat ground.

  He didn’t find any before the gunpowder exploded, a huge flash of orange flame, which went up to the sky above and surely reflected off the few clouds close to passing over, also sending out a shockwave which came close to knocking him over. Next, the powder atop the turpentine went up, a lesser flash but it set light to the highly combustible liquid. In quantity, it too was explosive, if not as much as gunpowder, but it sprayed out to cover and set alight the surrounding gorse.

  Brazier, moving as fast as the light would allow thought, if that did not panic everyone into fleeing, he could not think of what would. But uppermost was something Marker had said about John Hawker: he would be the last to leave the tunnel system, because he would not do so until he was sure all the entry points and exits were sealed off. And Brazier also knew, from the same source, where he would finally emerge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The fires he’d set going were not going to last and, if anything, the slight glow made it harder to see than previously as they rendered less effective the starlight. The moon, up now, was still too low to provide much illumination, forcing him to progress slowly, it being wise to do so, in case there were still some of Hawker’s men around. With only the vaguest idea as to where his destination lay, his headway was carried out with many a stumble and one fall to bark his knees. He had the details of Marker’s map fixed in his mind, but the actual terrain he had dared not reconnoitre would never quite match up to what had been written down.

  It was Hawker’s horse, saddled and waiting, tied to a stunted tree, which saved him from going past the place he was seeking. Away from the fires, which were now no more than distant glowing pinpricks, opening the lantern was a risk, not least because it required he use both his hands, which meant no pistols. But it was one which had to be accepted, because it showed the path by which Hawker had made his way to the cliff side house, within which lay the entrance to the tunnel he used, it taking him to the point on the face where his signal and guiding lantern could be seen offshore.

  There was no trace of any light coming from within, it was just marginally blacker than its surrounding so it took another flash of lantern light to find the door and the latch by which it could be opened, not that it was any better inside. He could only allow a couple of seconds of illumination to orientate himself before the lantern, flap shut off, was placed on the floor. This allowed him to take out his pistols and cock one in readiness.

  The open trapdoor he’d seen briefly established Hawker was still here, yet this in itself was strange. If he had been the Excise and they were presumably swarming over the area, how could Hawker feel safe? Mounted or on foot, he was in the wrong place to avoid danger, just another of those things Brazier had to accept he would probably never know. Right now, with the time seeming to be interminable, he was damning the man and wondering where the hell he was.

  The first hint of light, showing the outline of the trapdoor, had Brazier stiffen and reverse the uncocked right-hand pistol, lifting it high as the glow increased. Then came the sound of boots on a hard surface, the light rising up from below to bounce off the ceiling, refracted just enough to give Brazier an indistinct sight of his surroundings, the bare walls and exposed beams, also allowing him to move into the position he required. Those boots hit the wooden risers of the ladder, making a sound which seemed to echo.

  The lantern came out before the hat-covered head and there was one hand on the trapdoor edge to aid him up, as the unmistakable black-clad shape appeared. Brazier waited till the body was nearly out, one boot on the floor, before the butt of his pistol was used to hit Hawker as hard as he could, a blow which sent him crashing to the floor, his lantern dropped but still functioning. Brazier stepped forward and gave him another kick to the crown, which sent his hat spinning away.

  ‘Move and you’ll die.’

  Just like the gun pressed to his neck, this was a precaution in case he was still conscious. With no sign of movement, Brazier righted Hawker’s lantern and unshaded his own, which lit up the room. There was a groan to say if he was down, Hawker was not completely out, but he was in no state to fight, so Brazier could put his pistols away and uncoil the rope he had looped over his shoulders.

  Dragging his hands to behind Hawker’s back, one end was used to tie them, which allowed Brazier to ponder what to do next for from here on it was all improvisation. He realised how heavily he was breathing, not from effort but from the strain he’d been under for hours now and, since there was a chair handy, as well as a table, he sat down to both look at his victim and examine his options, both pistols laid on the table and handy. There being no rush he was there some time, until a way of proceeding emerged, one which would do what was required.

  He was also scolding himself for not bringing the canteen of water, first because he was thirsty, but secondly, he would have been able to dash water into Hawker’s face and start to bring him round.

  Elisabeth had been unable to sleep, so rose from her bed to pace the room and wonder at what the day would bring. Release, hopefully, but there was no certainty and the way her uncle had seemed to hedge when they were walking − and later talking − was worrying. They’d had dinner together, Henry declining to join them, but with Aunt Sarah in attendance, her behaviour not only precluding any intimate discussion, but also because she had dominated the occasion.

  She had also gone to some trouble with her appearance, wearing a dress Elisabeth knew was kept for special occasions, like the Easter services at St Leonard’s and the May Day fete on the Mill Hill, which saw her under public scrutiny. She’d also sought by the use of powder and rouge to enhance her features.

  More remarkable was her behaviour with Dirley, whom she’d made plain in the past she despised; indeed, she could hardly allow herself to acknowledge his existence. Not this night, where she had been simpering and flattering, referring to his immense charm and obvious intelligence, while insisting he regale her with tales of his court appearances and successes. Despite the response being an exercise in commendable modesty, the conclusion of each anecdote was greeted with the enthusiastic clapping of her hands.

  It got more serious when she asked how well Dirley had known her husband, the first of many questions which created an atmosphere, even if Sarah Lovell sought to make it sound like normal dinner table conversation. The clue for Elisabeth, able to watch the enquiries without being in eye contact, lay in the creased upper lip, which seemed to contract as each query was posed.

  ‘Did you find Samuel simpatico?’

  ‘I’m sure, dear Dirley, you were impressed by his wit and charm?’

  ‘As I saw it, he was an asset to the household, wouldn’t you agree?’

  All were answered politely and in the affirmative, but his niece could also see it was merely Dirley avoiding anything confrontational. Then his face stiffened when she asked him,

  ‘How would you say were Samuel’s relations with Acton?’

  ‘You must understand, Mrs Lovell, my main occupation was the law, which takes place in my London chambers. I did visit here many times, but not enough to provide you with an answer.’

&nb
sp; ‘So Acton never mentioned to you there was any difference between them?’

  ‘Not that I can recall.’

  ‘Yet you,’ she simpered, ‘with your fine legal brain, would surely have been sensitive to the atmosphere? I seem to recall Samuel being somewhat put out after he and Acton had a discussion. It took place in the study, of course, and what it was about was not vouchsafed to me, but I was sure there were raised voices. Within days of this meeting Samuel had left the house, never to return, something which I had no good reason to expect.’

  A small delicate handkerchief was produced to be put to her nose, as if tears were about to flow. Elisabeth wasn’t fooled and she guessed Dirley wasn’t either because, if the expression was one of sorrow, the eyes where as hard as agate.

  ‘I so long to know what happened to him − some accident, I suspect.’

  Mood is an odd thing, sensing it in another even more tantalising, as you search for reasons why the slight change in someone’s demeanour indicates discomfort, as Elisabeth was doing now with Dirley.

  ‘I think we would all want to know, Mrs Lovell. I do recall Acton told me, on your behalf, he sent out many parties in search for him.’

  ‘All in vain,’ came with the onset of genuine tears.

  ‘Sadly true.’

  Elisabeth knew she had been thinking on those exchanges to distract herself, but since they were inconclusive and she really didn’t care what had happened to Samuel Lovell, she resolved to get out the clothes she would pack in a trunk, one which she would ask to be brought to her room in the morning. She must act as if all was going to be as it should; not to do so was to give way, as she had many times already, to feelings of despair.

  Lifting John Hawker bodily was out of the question: he would have to get to his own feet as, once upright, even hands tied, only a fool would think him not capable of some trick. So Brazier took the end of the rope by which he’d tied his hands and threw it over one of the exposed beams. When the groans ceased and the head lifted a fraction, he took up the tension, which had Hawker’s arms pulled off his back as far as they would go. Causing him pain was a plus; even more of a bonus was the way, over some time, it got the bastard first to his knees, then on to his feet.

  ‘You,’ was a snarl from Hawker as he faced Brazier.

  This was immediately followed by an attempt to close, soon stopped by a hearty double-handed tug on the rope. This had him spin round and saw his arms so high up his back, it threatened to tear them from his shoulder sockets. It also produced a satisfying cry of real pain, which subsided when slightly lowered.

  ‘Still want to kill me, Hawker? Pity there’s no fire about, though if there was, it would be me setting this place ablaze and you trussed like a chicken and roasting.’

  The string of expletives had Brazier smiling and he eased the rope again just enough to leave it uncomfortable.

  ‘It is now my chance to do away with you, for which I daresay the good folk of Deal, if indeed there are any, would be deeply grateful.’

  ‘Do your worst, Brazier,’ Hawker gasped. ‘I won’t beg.’

  ‘I never thought you would. Oblige me by taking a couple of paces backwards.’ Refusal to budge saw the arms dragged up again, the only way to ease the pressure being to comply. As soon as he was right under the beam, Brazier looped the rope round his neck so he couldn’t move his head. The rest in one hand, his knife was employed to cut it to the length he thought would serve.

  ‘I could kill you but, odd as you will find, it being a sentiment of which you have no knowledge, committing murder − however justified I feel in doing so − does not sit well with my conscience. And there’s another thing you lack.’

  ‘Too lily-livered.’

  ‘Killing people does not require courage, Hawker, what it needs is a black heart and in this you are truly blessed.’ As he was talking Brazier first doubled the rope back on itself, the line laid over and under. He then fashioned two loops and drew the end through, pulling it tight, talking all the while. ‘One of the things you learn in the navy is there’s a knot for every purpose and I have just fashioned one for this.’

  A pause and Brazier put his mouth close to Hawker’s ear. ‘I sense you’re curious but determined to appear courageous. Odd, you’re not a brave man but a bully and, I suspect, one who takes pleasure in inflicting pain.’

  ‘Ten minutes with you,’ he growled, ‘one to one, an’ you’d know about it.’

  ‘Two minutes with me and swords and your guts would be hanging out.’ The rope was put round his neck again and adjusted, so his arms were as far up his back as they could go, the loop pulled so the line over the beam was taut. ‘What you have round your neck, Hawker, is a slip knot.’

  Brazier pushed down the arms slightly, which tightened the knot till it was pressed into his flesh enough to make his eyes bulge, then eased it once more.

  ‘This demonstrates to you what will happen if you try to free yourself, which cannot be done with your arms in the position they now occupy. The more you lower them, the tighter the knot will get around your throat, which to me, presents a neat solution to the problem you are.’

  Another pause as Brazier moved round to look Hawker in the eye.

  ‘Nothing to say? Well let me tell you the Excise has already been alerted by the High Sheriff of Kent to this night’s attempt at landing contraband, now abandoned.’ What followed was a hope. ‘They are, most certainly, on their way.’

  No reaction, just steady eyes holding a hateful gaze.

  ‘It was never my intention poor local people seeking to earn a few pennies should be had up and face retribution for seeking to put food on their table. It’s a pity the turds who do your bidding have to escape justice as well, but it’s a price which has to be paid. But you, who tried to burn me alive, as well as four men I hold dear, must pay.

  ‘You have two choices, both of them to my mind fitting. I have given you the means to hang yourself; all you have to do is drop to your knees and the slip knot will tighten, resulting in your strangulation. On the other hand, you can stay as you are to be arrested by the Excisemen, who will clap you in irons until you come up before a judge who will, when your crimes are exposed, and there will be witnesses, send you to the gallows.’

  The eyes were still steady, the gaze remaining malevolent.

  ‘So I leave it to you. Goodbye, Hawker, and when you get to the hell you deserve, I hope you are put in a fire, then you will know what you visited upon the poor soul one of your men clubbed in Quebec House.’

  He made to leave, but paused. ‘You must be wondering what will become of Henry Tulkington. Well, I would say his running of contraband is finished, for in finding you, the Excise will also discover the network of tunnels and storage chambers.’

  A smile. ‘I see in your eyes a question. How do I know all this? It will sadden you to find two of the creatures you got to do your dirty work could not wait to betray you. What it is to be a man no one loves.’

  The expression told Brazier his exaggeration had hit home. ‘But to return to Tulkington. For reasons I expect you will be able to discern, him I can neither kill nor serve up to justice. But it will soon be known he no longer has you to do his bidding, so perhaps there are those, beaten by you, who may wish to take revenge on him. I do hope so. Goodbye, Hawker. Enjoy choking, on whichever rope you choose.’

  Brazier took up his lantern and left, now able to move swiftly, which he needed to do in order to be well gone by the time the forces of the law arrived. They would be armed and no doubt nervous, not the types to allow anyone to be in their line of fire. Passing Hawker’s horse, he decided to unhitch it and take it with him; let Vincent Flaherty gain something from all the effort he’d put in rather than allow the Excise to sell it: the owner was profit enough.

  He made his way back to where he’d left his sword, then on to the still tied-up packhorse, leading both mounts by lantern light, back the way he had come until, not far along the clifftop path, the shape of a figure ris
ing out of a bush stopped him dead, soon followed by three more.

  ‘Give you joy, Capt’n,’ cried Dutchy Holland.

  ‘You deserve the grating and the cat, the lot of you.’

  ‘An’ here’s we thinkin’,’ Cocky called, ‘you needed to be locked away for yer ain good.’

  ‘Getting light, your honour,’ Joe Lascelles pointed out, which was true, there was an edge of grey on the horizon.

  This was a gift to Peddler. ‘More’n can be said for you, Joe.’

  ‘Back to Flaherty’s,’ Brazier said. ‘And hope he has the means to give us breakfast.’

  The experience of seeking to rouse out the people required to apprehend the smugglers was one John Cottin had not enjoyed. He found most of the Excisemen too far gone in drink to consider acting at anything approaching speed, this after a long period in which their superior questioned his right to call them out in the first place. It was with much huffing and puffing, along with threats to expose their laxity to the Riding Officer who paid their stipends, they agreed to venture out at all.

  The garrison at Dover Castle refused to budge, and reminded him he required written orders, which could be no more than a request for assistance and, even if he produced one, they were not going to chase all over the countryside on the basis of some rumour.

  ‘It is fact, not rumour,’ he had barked at the captain being difficult.

  ‘So you say, sir, but where is your proof?’

  ‘I have it on good authority as we speak, a vessel is approaching St Margaret’s Bay to land contraband.’

  ‘And I know we do not answer to the likes of you anywhere, we answer to the Horse Guards, so if you want us to rouse out get an order from Whitehall.’