by Wendy Bayne
Father was livid. “She’s my daughter and she’s made a convincing argument as to why she should be with me!”
Mr Johnson grunted with disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, she’s a child!”
I bristled but before I could say anything my father relaxed his stance, “I know that you feel responsible for her being here, Miles. But she isn’t a child and she isn’t in London, she’s here with me, with us.” He put his hand on Mr Johnson’s shoulder who still looked very disturbed. Father shook him good-naturedly to get his attention. “Miles, the fact that she isn’t in London is not your fault! Good God man you kept my wife safe! If not for you she would have been here, and Lissa might have been dead. Don’t you see that we would have still been here regardless? The truth is we really don’t know what might have happened if things had transpired differently. I’m just happy that they’re both alive! And I have you to thank for that.”
Mr Johnson looked at me and sighed, “Well, poppet, it looks like you’re with us.” He bent close to me and whispered in my ear just as my father turned to the others and assigned stations. “That popper you have in your pocket is only good at close range so keep it safe and hidden until you need it. And pray that you don’t need it.” I stared back at him in surprise that he knew about the popper. I looked at my uncle who was talking to Dr Jefferson then back at Mr Johnson, his eyes showed fear and something else that I wasn’t sure about. He bowed, gesturing towards the door with his hand, “After you, Miss Turner.” I didn’t know what to say so I went ahead followed by him and then my father.
The smugglers finally arrived just when it seemed like they wouldn’t. It was well past midnight when they came silently and swiftly. The first sign was the sudden increase in activity of the wildlife which must have been disturbed by their movement. A shot rang out suddenly then the night was alive with flashes of light and the sound of weapons being fired, men screaming and wagons and horses moving. We were on a battlefield.
There was a scream from the back of the house and several shots were fired inside the house. I wanted to run back there and check on the people in the kitchen. But I couldn’t leave my father and the others. Suddenly there was a terrible commotion coming from the hallway. My father left the window that he’d been defending and ran for the hall door. As he flung open the door, I heard a familiar voice, it was Browne. He was in the house! I felt in my pocket for the little pistol that my uncle had given me and ran after my father. I reached his side and saw Browne standing there with a pistol pointed directly at my father’s chest. My father’s pistol lay at his feet. I stopped in the doorway…my heart was pounding in my ears, but I still heard someone come up behind me and to my right, they were hidden behind the doorjamb. Browne was laughing at my father who looked extremely angry. Neither of them had acknowledged my arrival but I wasn’t about to let that bastard kill my father. I pulled out my pistol raised my good arm to aim…I told myself that I could do this. Browne was a stationary target, he wasn’t more than five feet away, I knew I could do this. All I had to do was aim and pull the trigger. Browne finally looked at me and laughed when he saw the little popper in my hand.
My father turned his head towards me, his face blanched when he saw my pistol and he yelled “NO!” But I could feel the resolve in my heart. I just had to make my hand obey. It seemed that I lost all sense of time and sound. I looked at Browne laughing, he had shifted his aim to me. Our guns went off simultaneously and two spots of blood appeared on his person. One was dead centre in his chest and the other was in the middle of his forehead. I hadn’t even heard my pistol go off or seen the flash from the powder, I had been so focused on Browne. I watched him abruptly stop laughing and fall to the floor. I dropped the pistol and turned to my father. He pulled me to him, hugging me tightly. Then pushed me back to inspect me he was shaking as a tear slid down his cheek. “I’m not injured, Papa. I’m fine.” Father nodded patting my shoulders while swallowing great gulps of air like he had been holding his breath. Then he reached down for his own pistol and went to Browne. He looked down at him then at the spent pistol by his body. Suddenly there was crash behind us and I turned to see Mr Johnson sprawled in the doorway, a small table had fallen across him. I rushed to him along with papa. He had been shot in the chest. He was very pale and seemed to have trouble breathing. He reached out to touch my cheek, smiled then closed his eyes. I heard myself screaming “NO!”
My father gathered me to him and held me tight. Dr Jefferson came running from the kitchen in response to my scream. He handed his pistol to my father as he knelt beside Mr Johnson then he turned to me, “Lissa! Go get Mrs Dawson and stay there with your uncle. He’ll need you.” Then he turned back to my father and shook him. “Colin, help me get him onto the settee,” he pivoted on his heels. “Spencer, Dalton give us a hand here!” I heard the others coming but I couldn’t look up at them. All the while I just stood there looking down at Mr Johnson. I couldn’t tell if he was even breathing.
My father grabbed my hand shaking it to get my attention “Lissa! Look at me…” I turned my head towards him. “Go to Samuel. Miles will be alright, I promise.” I looked in his eyes and all I saw was fear.
Panic set in, I decided that I couldn’t stand there and watch Mr Johnson die so I fled to the kitchen as quickly as I could. Everything was quiet there. My uncle was sitting at the table with a cup of tea in front of him, so I went quickly to Mrs Dawson and explained what had happened. She gathered up the small kettle, a bowl and grabbed some clean linen for bandages then the doctor’s bag and bustled out of the room.
I sat by my uncle as he poured me a cup of tea then push the cream and sugar towards me. It was so quiet! Eerily quiet. “Is it over?”
My uncle had been staring into his own untouched cup, he looked worse than he had when he’d been shot. “Yes,” he said quietly, “it’s over, thank God.” He waved his hand towards the door. “According to Mr Dawson, our men are with the gypsies doing a clean-up.” He rubbed his hand over his face like he was exhausted. “God, I need a drink.”
I turned to take a good look at him and saw that there was blood on the front of his jacket, I jumped up, rattling the cups on the table. He saw me staring at him then looked down and scowled, he shrugged out of his coat folding it inwards, so the blood wasn’t visible. “It’s not my blood, brat, I’m untouched.” He patted the seat next to him. “Sit and keep me company.” He added more sugar to his cup then took a huge gulp. I sat with him taking his hand in mine, he squeezed it then leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I took in the rest of the room, Angel was applying a bandage to Robert’s head, he was awake and sitting so it must not be to serious. But I saw nothing to account for the blood on my uncle’s coat. Mr Dawson was seated on the settee by the fire watching Angel and Robert with a slight smile of pride. Dalton, I assumed, had gone out with the rest of our men.
Then I noticed that Louisa was nowhere to be seen. I saw a pistol on the floor near Robert and my uncle had one close by him. Mr Dawson’s was on the settee beside him. “Where’s Louisa?”
My uncle swallowed hard, put his head down on his arms and groaned. The Dawsons were all looking at him with awe. It was Angel that spoke first. “She’s dead, miss, she tried to kill Robert and Mr Hughes shot her.”
My mouth was dry as dust as I looked at my uncle and all I could say was “Uncle Samuel?”
He turned his head to the side, so he could look at me. Then he closed his eyes. “We weren’t paying attention to her. The shooting started so quickly that none of us saw her work her way around to where Robert was loading the pistols. She grabbed one just as he turned around with a spent one. She had it pointed at my back, but Robert lunged for her and it fired, grazing his head. When I turned around after hearing the shot, she was still standing there with the spent gun in her hand pointed down at Robert on the floor. It didn’t register with me that she had already fired so I shot her before she could kill him. But she had already shot the gun. I killed her, an unarmed woman, I killed
her, Lissa.” He sobbed, turned his head and buried his face in his arms and cried.
I placed my hand on his back, I was at a loss for words. I looked at Angel then Robert for support, but they were looking at their feet. It was Mr Dawson that got up and sat down across from us. “I know you’ve taken the pledge to stay away from spirits and you’re an inspiration to me just on that alone. But for what you did for my son you have my undying thanks.” Then he plunked another pistol on the table. He reached over and shook my uncle’s arm. “Here now, are you listening to me because it be important that you listen.” Uncle Samuel raised a bleary eye to him and sniffed, pulling out his handkerchief he wiped his nose. Mr Dawson pushed the pistol towards my uncle who recoiled from it. “Now this here is the second pistol she was pointing at my boy, it’s one of two that he’d loaded that were laying on the work bench. She’d took one of them after she tried to shoot you.” He turned and pointed at Robert’s feet. “That there one by his feet is the empty one that she dropped after missing you, she must have had it hid in her pocket. You killed the bitch what would have murdered me only son and for that I’m beholden to you.”
My uncle reached out and took the pistol, looking at the priming that was still fresh. He looked at Robert who nodded and added, “Do you think that I’d have played dead like that if the pistol she was holding on me were empty? Not bloody likely! You saved my life, sir!”
Uncle Samuel ran his fingers through his hair trying to smile. He grabbed me and hugged me close. Then he leaned over and shook Mr Dawson’s hand. He got up and walked over to Robert, “Are you truly alright?”
Robert smiled at him. “Dr Jefferson said I’d be right as rain. I’m just not to move to fast or bend over for a day or two.”
Mr Dawson sniggered. “Sounds like you’re just got out of any work around here for a couple of days. If that’s the case, then you better find your bed and get some sleep, boy, and tomorrow you had better go down and see the vicar to tell him you’ll be going to Lon’on. Maybe I’d better go with you, someone will need to explain to him that your ma’s people will be here every winter too.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “The vicar’s a good head, he’ll help us smooth it away with the folk hereabouts.” He paused again, grimacing, “Maybe we’d better take Mr Johnson with us to introduce him too as the new owner and he can explain about your ma’s people.”
Suddenly my stomach flipped as Mr Johnson came to my mind. He was bleeding to death in the parlour. Stuttering, I said, “I don’t believe that Mr Johnson…that he will be able to go with you—he—he’s been seriously wounded.” Mr Dawson’s face fell as if he could see his future dissolve before his eyes.
Just then my father walked into the kitchen. I stood up wringing my hands, I could feel the panic building in my gut but he smiled and said, “Matthew thinks he’ll make it, but he can’t be moved for several days. Mrs Dawson is arranging bedding for him by the fire and Dr Jefferson and Michael will stay here with him while I get you and Louisa back to London.”
He looked at my uncle’s stricken face. “Samuel?”
“She’s dead, Colin. I shot her; I had no choice, she was going to kill the boy.”
Father nodded and sat down. He looked exhausted and older. He had once gone to the continent with the intent of becoming a soldier, but fate had taken him in the direction of intelligence gathering instead. And while that has its own dangers, it is in fact significantly different from the impersonal slaughter on a battlefield, and there was no doubt in my mind that this had been a battle. Father poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea and sat across from my uncle. “Browne is dead as well.” He turned to me putting an arm around my shoulder, taking a deep breath he continued, “Lissa and Miles both shot him.” My uncle’s head shot up at this news. He looked at me as my father continued, “But Miles took a ball in the chest; he’s lost a lot of blood. Matthew retrieved the ball and the material from his shirt so unless infection sets in, it will just take time. He was having some trouble breathing but Matthew was able to draw out the blood with a hollow needle and he’s breathing easier now.”
Uncle Samuel nodded then proceeded to tell my father what had transpired in the kitchen. Father only asked, “Does Matthew know?”
“Yes, he was the one that took her body outside when the gypsies came back to say they were leaving.”
Father sat up, “Leaving!” He ran for the door to the yard just as Michael, Murphy and Jacob came through it. “The gypsies, where they are?”
Jacob swept his hand through his hair. “Gone, the big one, Jibben, said to tell you thank you for the spoils of the war. We couldn’t stop them, sir, there were just too many.”
Before Jacob finished Dalton came into the room from the hallway. “Sir, they’re gone! All of them!”
“Yes. I know, Jacob just told me that they’ve left.”
“Not the gypsies, sir. The smugglers, they’re all gone!”
Father was angry and exhausted as he barked at Dalton, “What the devil do you mean all gone?”
Dalton sucked in his lower lip before speaking, “The bodies, any survivors, the Gypsies they’re all just gone!”
There was a cackle and a hearty laugh from the behind us. “That’s no exactly true, mister.” Dalton jumped aside. Jibben was behind him with the old lady.
She shuffled over to my father, took his chin in her claw-like hand and pulled him down to her eye to eye. “You are an honourable man, Mr Turner. But there were no survivors; they will all be part of the bog soon, it’s better that way.”
Father looked at her first in horror then in awe. “How—how many?”
She shrugged and looked at Jibben who said, “Humph, about thirty, maybe more, maybe less.”
Father rubbed his hands over his face, “My god.”
Jibben shrugged his shoulders. “They were scum, you should not let it bother you. They would have slit your throat for a bottle of whisky. No one will miss any of them and if they do,” he shrugged and surveyed the room, “…who here is going to tell them what happened?” He chuckled and then crossed his arms over his chest. “Your king will be happy we saved the gold and silver for you.” He held up fingers as if to pinch something. “Of course, we took a little for our troubles along with the other goods. But I think your master will be pleased.” He threw a thick packet of letters and documents on the table. “There is treason in those pages, Turner. I think your king and master will make you very busy.”
Then the old lady and Jibben left. My father did not argue about the price they had exacted for their aid. He just sat staring at the packet before him and sighed as if the weight of it was more than his weary hands could possibly lift. Everyone else gathered around the table watching as he finally opened the first document and read it. Then he put his hands to his head and let the document fall back onto the table as he whispered, “Oh God.”
Chapter 21
London: December 1827
We had been back in London for three months. My birthday had come and gone as we prepared for Christmas. Uncle Samuel and Father were often gone meeting with Sir Thomas and other government officials or on missions up and down the coast. Whatever had been in those papers that Jibben had given Father was never discussed within my hearing or even when I eavesdropped. Even Lettie said she knew nothing about what they contained or at least that’s what she told me. Murphy, Michael and Jacob were often gone for days and weeks at a time. Mr Crenshaw, my father’s man of business, was frequently closeted with my father and uncle. Apparently, part of his business now was in assisting to sort out the General’s affairs as well as the business affairs of my father and uncle.
The Clarkes had decided against the idea of investing in our horse stud and were looking to move closer to Ramsey’s university. Charity’s first season disappointingly had not produced a husband. She had many suitors according to the gossips, but no proposals ever resulted. Her father suddenly felt that moving to Oxford would better her chances to find a husband among the scholars and aca
demics. But Aunt Mary had heard whispers about Charity, it was nothing specific other than that she had not made the grade within the Beau Monde and was likely to be left on the shelf.
The General’s affairs proved to be confusing as well as shocking to say the least. He was deeply in debt on one hand, yet he had hidden assets that were tied up in a trust for me of all people. Which upon his death was to be mine without restrictions but I wanted nothing to do with it and would have gladly given it all to Samuel to be applied to the debt levied against the Abbey. But Samuel wouldn’t take the money, yet my parents didn’t really want me to keep it either. In the meantime, it was decided to just leave it in Mr Crenshaw’s hands to invest. My one and only question was why did the General do it? No one, not even the General’s solicitors, bankers, or his former valet Appleforth knew of this trust’s existence or why he had made me the beneficiary. He had used a different solicitor and bank to set it all up and my greatest fear was that the money had come from smuggling or some other illegal venture. Once the solicitors had finished tackling the many twists and turns of my grandfather’s will Samuel was able to save the estate from bankruptcy by using a small portion of the inheritance he had received from his mother and grandfather. Thankfully it still left him well off, but the Abbey would have to start turning a profit as a working estate. The Home Farm was not large enough to bear that burden alone and while the orchards were famous for their fruit and cider production, the amount of money required to keep the Abbey solvent required more than what the farm alone could produce. My input wasn’t asked for, but I felt like I had to think of something to help them find a solution.
Mr Johnson meanwhile had been our guest for only a very short time while he recovered from his wound. I was hardly ever allowed to see him and then for only brief periods. After we had been back in London less than a week his father had arrived to take him away to convalesce at his country estate in Devon. He corresponded with my father and after two months of convalescing he wrote to say that he was returning to Dorset with his father to purchase the ramshackle estate where he had been shot and that he had no immediate plans to return to London since he would be busy overseeing the repairs, renovations and improvements needed to make it a habitable home and a working farm once again. While there he would look into the smuggling ventures in the area for my father.