Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  “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?”

  ”We would not be here if we were not sure of it, sir,” said I.

  “True, but our lads are outnumbered.”

  “So were we last night, yet we surprised them and took them proper.”

  “I like your spirit, lad.”

  Sir John’s plan, which he had earlier revealed to all, was simple as could be. As soon as the owlers were down on the beach, we would take positions along the high ground above, behind a natural rampart of sand. Once the boats from the smugglers’ ship, a cutter, had landed and were in process of discharging their cargo, the smugglers would make easy targets for us above. It is true that we were outnumbered, though not by so very many. It was true, too, that in any absolute sense the Carabineers were untried in battle, for according to Mr. Patley their duties in Jamaica had been largely ceremonial, but they had been well drilled and presumably knew how to handle their weapons.

  Though I had half expected to load for Mr. Patley, as I had the night before atop the hackney coach, I was not at all surprised when Sir John requested that I remain with him. I knew that he felt I should be protected from possible harm both because of my age and my unofficial status; he may have praised my performance to Clarissa, yet he felt in general that I was too young to be involved in shooting circumstances; he used me only reluctantly.

  So here we sat, Sir John and I, behind this low wall of sand, simply awaiting the arrival of a boat or boats from the ship. Though it was out well beyond the sandbar, a good half a mile away from the waterline, I could nevertheless make out its general outline in the bright moonlight. And I could certainly see a boat heading for the beach down that stream which cut through the sands. Yes, and there was another boat behind it, as well.

  “There are two boats coming, sir,” said I.

  ”Well, we shall wait till both are ashore and unloading has begun.” ”Yes sir.”

  “But keep me notified.”

  That I promised to do and kept a careful eye upon the boat which led the way to shore. It was larger than that which had landed on our first meeting with the smugglers. This one, rowed by four men, would carry a considerable cargo of goods. I saw, too, that the one behind it was of the same size and design. It would not take many trips back to the mother-ship to empty her hold completely.

  I looked left and right and saw—again in that bright moonlight—that all within sight were ready and a bit tense with waiting. I noticed something else: all of the constables were to my right, placed each to the next at a distance of thirty feet or a little less. To my left were six of the Carabineers, placed at the same rough distance, each to the next. Mr. Benjamin Bailey, captain of the Bow Street Runners, had assigned us our separate positions. He, of all people, must know what he was about, I told myself. Still, would it not have been better if the constables—and Sir John and I—had been mixed in among the untried Carabineers? All except myself were steady, confident men who might well stiffen the nerves of those off to my left, should resistance from below become unexpectedly fierce. Ah well, ‘twas not up to me to decide such matters.

  “The first boat has landed, Sir John.”

  “They’ve pulled it up on the beach, have they?”

  “Yes sir—and now the second boat is in. They’re pulling it alongside the first.”

  “They’re unloading them?”

  “Just begun.”

  “Well then,” said he, ”it is no doubt time to notify them of our presence.”

  He raised himself up on his knees (for he would not dare to stand and offer those below so fine a target) and cleared his throat. Then did he present his speech of the night before, repeating it near word for word. It was, of course, an appeal to surrender, yet it ended with a threat: ”If you resist or try to flee, you will be shot dead.”

  There was wild laughter below. Yet they were not so disorganized as the drunken caravan guards of the night before. Immediately they sought the protection of the wagons. There must have been near twenty—nay, more—who scattered behind them in less than a minute. A man on horseback, whom I had taken previously to be the leader, rode from one to the next, shouting encouragement to his men. He dismounted behind the third wagon and sent his horse galloping, riderless, out toward the darkness at the north end of the beach (where, unbeknownst to them, Lieutenant Tabor and six of his troopers waited to ride down upon them). All that took place more or less simultaneous, but what soon became evident from all this hurly-burly and running about was that the owlers were determined to make a fight of it.

  As best I could, I described this confused scene to Sir John as he nodded eagerly, taking it all in. He had but one question.

  “Do you recognize the man on the horse?”

  “No sir, I don’t,” said I. ”His hat’s pulled down, and his cape collar’s up. I can see naught of his face. And even if I could, he’s pretty far away.”

  “Remember then how he was dressed,” said he. ”Keep an eye on him as things progress.”

  “Yes sir.”

  As he had the night before, Sir John gave to them the first shot—or shots, really, for they came in ragged succession—pop-pop-pop—so that it took near half a minute for the owlers to waste their bullets and wonder if they had had any effect. What was most plain from the shots which were fired was that they had not an inkling of where we were hid. Most of the shots—which were from pistols of no great size—had hit the sand below us along the hill which led down to the beach. Still did Sir John withhold the order to fire. Soon I saw why. A minute passed, then more. Three or four heads popped up above the wagons and two exposed their whole bodies, stepping out from behind the tailgate of one of the wagons. One walked boldly from one wagon to view the hill above. There was uneasy laughter to be heard. Curiosity had made them incautious.

  “Are they coming out yet?” Sir John asked in a whisper.

  “They’re starting to do so.”

  “Let us wait just a little longer.”

  A full minute passed. I know that to be accurate, for I counted off each one of those sixty seconds. And during that time, more heads came up, and a growl of talk was heard amongst the owlers.

  “Would you say now, Jeremy?”

  “Yes sir. Now.”

  “Fire!”

&nb
sp; The volley from the nine muskets felled three, which I could plainly see. Yet I’m sure there were more—heads and shoulders, whole trunks, presented as targets which simply could not be missed. As many as a third of their number may have been hit by those first shots—and I told Sir John of it. Yet the survivors of that volley now knew our location, and balls from their pistols began digging holes in our barricade, spraying sand this way and that. Nevertheless, the effective range of a pistol is not very great, nor is it very accurate, and so, what they offered us was more in the nature of an annoyance than a danger.

  The constables and the Carabineers then fired at will as targets presented themselves, but now, of course, targets presented themselves far more reluctantly than before. Heads were kept low; none ventured from behind the cover of the wagons. Would it continue so till morning? No. An indication that things were about to change came when, surprising us all, the flink pistol fired again and another rocket was launched into the sky. When it exploded, it sent an even grander shower of fiery sparks out into the night. This was obviously a signal, yet a signal for what? After informing Sir John of this odd development, I waited for an answering rocket from the ship—but none came. What did it portend? Little good for us.

  A goodly space of time passed before the rocket achieved the desired result. Indeed, I had quite forgotten it and was looking up the beach, wondering if Lieutenant Tabor and his men would ever join the fray—and if it would make any difference if they did. This I was pondering when, of a sudden, I heard a great boom, a whishing through the air, and a powerful thud not too far behind us. Good God, the smugglers’ cannon! I had quite forgot the cannonball that had been thrown our way but a week ago as we marched our prisoners up the hill.

  Did I write ”the smugglers’ cannon” but a few lines past? It should have been writ ”the smugglers’ three cannon,” for if there be such a thing as a volley of cannon, we were then offered one from the ship. I was watching it closely (as close as the darkness permitted) when the side of it suddenly seemed to burst into flame. What I had seen, reader, were three good-sized cannon erupting simultaneous in powder and shot. Then came the great roar they made together, and the separate thuds—one which hit below and two directly on either side of our place behind the sand wall. If the pistol shots did little more than spray us with sand, the cannonballs fair drowned us in it. Sir John and I had it in our faces—our nostrils and mouths—so that we came up coughing and spitting out the gritty stuff. But Sir John quite amazed me, for it seemed that between coughs and spits, he was laughing! Not great guffaws, but mirthless chuckles of a sort that somehow said he was anticipating something quite jolly. It would have to be something very jolly indeed to make up for this.