The Vice Of Virtue (A Poor Man At The Gate Series Book 10)

by Andrew Wareham

  There were seven barges tied up, four for the south, all to much the same pattern with a single mast and a lug sail for a favourable wind but expecting normally to be pulled by their horse on the towpath.

  "Better you should return directly to Dunkerque, Jean-Paul. I can deal with the rest of the business on my own."

  "You need a man from our side of things, sir. Safer that way."

  Hood shrugged - he was the outsider, had to accept the local man's word.

  They climbed aboard a barge, dropped down into the tiny stern accommodation - a cooking stove and a bunk and little else - barely room for the pair of them and the bargee, it seemed. The Belgian shifted an apparently solid beam in the bulkhead between them and the cargo hold and opened a small door, a crawl way. They dropped to hands and knees and shuffled through to a stuffy little space under the cargo, a pair of pallets side by side the sole comfort.

  "Four hours, probably, sir. If the military stop us then we are to overnight in Dinant, or so we shall tell them. The customs people will wave us through."

  The barge pulled out from the wharf and was walked slowly south with almost no sense of movement where the two were confined. Hood dropped rapidly into sleep, old habits resurging, snatching the minutes of rest whenever they offered themselves. He woke silently to Jean-Paul's hand.

  "Listen," he breathed almost silently.

  There were voices in the cabin, the bargee and an unknown.

  It was instantly clear than an additional bribe was under negotiation, in exchange for information. The deal was rapidly done, no more than a matter of a couple of bottles of schnapps, and they heard the customs officer warn the bargee that Dutch cavalry were about to set out on the towpath, on their way to Dinant, there to join a company or two of infantry on the march almost to the border where they expected to find a cargo of dangerous contraband accompanied by foreign spies.

  The pair left the cabin and Hood tapped Jean-Paul's shoulder.

  "Will the barge get there first?"

  "Perhaps. Very close. If the cavalry take their time in Dinant - to water the horses, possibly to feed the men, then there will be a good chance."

  The bargee appeared a few minutes later, obviously concerned - he had no wish to appear in the middle of a fight between the smugglers and their insurgent allies and the Dutch army.

  "Can we make more speed?"

  "No. The horse walks at the pace it always goes - it is not a one that can gallop. It plods along, four miles an hour, all day long, except for its breaks - that is how it is bred, that is what these horses do."

  "How far from the farm to the French border?"

  "An hour, a little more."

  "Are there horses at the farm?"

  The bargee shrugged - he did not know, how should he?

  Hood swore - he hated going in unplanned, inventing the next move as it came. He had seen too many men die for chancing it and relying upon luck. Every man's luck ran out in the end.

  "We get to the farm and, if we are there first, you pull into the wharf and quickly tell them all you know and then get out, down the river and over the border before you stop. Drop me at the wharf, telling them who I am and asking where the English milord is. I will go to him and get him out. Tell them there will be money for closed mouths - a lot of money. Jean-Paul will guarantee that the gold will come to Dunkerque and you have my promise. I cannot write anything on paper, but my word is good."

  Jean-Paul nodded, briefly said that the English had been reliable for the last twenty years, to his certain knowledge.

  "What if there is fighting when we get there?"

  "You will see and hear the muskets at a distance. Close the bank and put me off and then disappear."

  "What will you do on your own, sir?"

  "What I have come for."

  They sat in the round bows of the barge for the remainder of the journey, nearly three hours of growing tension, the darkness closing in, a few lights on or near the river bank, but all silent.

  "Farmers sleep at night, sir. Candles and lanterns cost money and summer nights are short."

  "No sign of troops."

  "They must be behind us - they are noisy always, and there would be some lights, if only pipes smoking. Most likely their officers would not march out before dawn - it will be light by four o'clock, early enough, they might think."

  "The dragoons might have ridden on ahead rather than wait for the foot."

  "Perhaps. If there is a full troop, forty or fifty strong, then they might. If there is no more than a detachment under a lieutenant, a score or so, they would not, probably - unless the boy officer wanted to make a name for himself."

  "A glory hunter - always a menace!"

  Hood grimaced as he reflected that was the case for civilians as well - young aristocrats seeking excitement were equally as much a nuisance.

  There were lights at the wharf, half a dozen storm-lanterns giving sufficient illumination for a double line of thirty or so farm labourers to pass cases and barrels from one to another, directly from barge to a pair of wagons.

  "How much does a barge carry?"

  "Thirty or so of your tons, sir. Fifteen or more wagon loads - but they will not have so many wagons here, will have to load and take them away and then return. When the wagons pull off they will put the cargo into a barn to wait. If the Dutch come they will quickly find it, and then they will burn the farm at least."

  The barge came against the wharf and they jumped ashore. The boy at the horse's head held all steady while the bargee ran to find the farmer himself. He came back quickly.

  "The wagons are going just two miles down the road, sir. There is a narrow place with low cliffs there, and the local men have all gathered together and are taking the muskets when they come and will hold the Dutch off if they arrive. They are not trained soldiers, they cannot stand against cavalry in the open meadows by the river."

  "That is sensible. Where is milord?"

  "On the wagons, somewhere between here and there."

  "Damned fool!"

  "He is a milord, sir. I met some of them in the wars, sir. They are all the same!"

  Hood grunted his agreement.

  "You have done your job, M'sieu. Go now, and you were never here. Take this!"

  Hood held his hand out with a small leather bag.

  "Just to say thank you, sir. Jean-Paul will have your proper fee next month, when I am able to send it across the sea. I could not carry much in a hurry."

  The bargee weighed the bag in his hand, estimated twenty in English gold, grunted his thanks. With more to come he would speak to no one.

  "We walk, Jean-Paul. If horsemen come, you must run to the right and hide in the darkness. I shall go left of the roadway and fire a pistol."

  If there were only a few troopers it would not be difficult to avoid them in the night - they would not have enough men to form a close line and make a sweep. A full squadron would make life difficult, however.

  They followed the rough track for twenty minutes, nearly a mile, before hearing the low rumble of wheels and then the clopping of horses' hooves.

  They stood to one side in the low grassland, waited until the wagon was almost on them to be sure that there was no escort of cavalry.

  "Oi! Qui va la? English?"

  Lord Frederick's very surprised voice answered him.

  "Yes. Who is that?"

  "Your brother, and better not speak any names aloud, yours especially."

  "Oh! But, everyone knows me - I have introduced myself to the leaders here - it was only proper that I should. They were very excited to know that they had English support!"

  "Enjoy your life in America, young man!"

  "I'm sorry; I did not quite catch that..."

  "You will."

  Hood looked about him: the river to their right; steep, almost mountainous hills to the left, closing in, as the bargee had said.

  "Are there horses to hand, brother?"

  "Only one or two, I think, b
ack at the farm."

  "How far to France?"

  "Two miles, perhaps three - I am not entirely certain."

  "That's where we are going. Now. Come down - no time for farewells man! We must move quickly - there may be a troop of dragoons down on us at any minute. I am ordered from Whitehall to take you away, brother - you must not be discovered here. Do you know of any landing stage along the river with small boats drawn up?"

  Lord Frederick did not - he had not observed any such.

  "Walk. Quickly. Have you pistols?"

  He had not, he was not here to take part in a battle.

  Hood reflected that it might be as well - the young fool probably could not be trusted with any firearm.

  "If I give the word then you must run, my lord. No argument, no delay. Go south and then turn towards the river. Stop when you are sure you are in France and I will find you at the riverside. Have you money?"

  "I am carrying five hundred in English, French and Dutch coinage - I was to deliver it here."

  "If I do not meet up with you by six o'clock in the morning then make your way to the nearest town and hire - do not buy - a horse and a groom at a livery stables. Make best speed to Calais and take the first boat to England. Do not give your own name. If you must use a name call yourself Lord Plonkerton - I will be able to follow after you then."

  Lord Frederick was not sure he approved of Captain Hood's choice of name - it was vulgarly satirical, he felt.

  "Is all of this so very necessary? I hardly think the Dutch will kill an English lord out of hand!"

  "The government would look foolish in the eyes of all of Europe, because all would be certain you were an English trouble-maker, sent as an agent provocateur. They would probably haul you before a criminal court and humiliate you and the whole of Whitehall. That must not happen, under any circumstances! Do you understand?"

  Lord Frederick hoped he did not - it sounded almost as if he was instructed to kill himself rather than be taken.

  "Now, stretch out!"

  The hills rose before them as the valley narrowed. They were heavily wooded and precipitous as far as they could tell, almost certainly impassable to cavalry. Twenty minutes, Hood estimated.

  "Where are the insurgents?"

  "There." Lord Frederick pointed vaguely in the dark.

  "Have you a password?"

  "No. I did not think of that."

  Hood wondered whether he had thought of anything at all.

  "What's that?"

  A few shots behind them, then the sight of a haystack going up in flames, illumination for the attackers, horsemen vaguely visible in the distance.

  "Run!"

  They trotted side by side into the narrowing gap, forced to keep to the road as the verges grew rougher and steeper.

  They heard hoof beats. Hood stopped, head cocked to listen.

  “Four, no more than that. A small patrol. Run. I will stop them and cover your back.”

  “But…”

  “Run, now, or I will put a bullet through your head. You will be neither captured nor recognised, then.”

  Lord Frederick ran.

  Hood stepped to the side of the road, his outline obscured by the bushes, heavy pistols in his hands.

  There was just enough light to pick up the outline of a cocked hat, uniform of some sort, presumably Dutch and cavalry, cantering, too fast for the light, which made it easier. He fired two rounds, low.

  The leading horse screamed and went down under the other three, bringing them all into a heap.

  Hood bent down and scuttled back, twenty yards quickly while any survivors picked themselves up, then carefully in concealment.

  There was shouting, uncertainty, a lack of command – the first horse had carried the officer or sergeant, it seemed. A carbine fired at an imaginary target, leaves blowing in the light wind probably. A second joined in. Neither round came within fifty yards of Hood.

  There was musket fire a furlong behind him, a picket sounding the alarm for the insurgents, he presumed.

  Hood made his way south along the road, satisfied that the Dutch patrol was coming no further. He rounded a bend, saw lantern light, half a dozen armed men around a prone figure.

  “Oh, Christ! No password!”

  Hood ran silently towards the group, stopped outside of the lighted area, whistled twice, obviously not a night bird.

  “Englishman! Coming in, gentlemen!”

  He repeated himself in French, waited for a response before joining them.

  “Is he dead?”

  “The word is of riot again, sir. Organised, this time, under the name of General Ludd.”

  George Star was irritated; wages had been rising for a year and there was a shortage of hands in the town – it was actually difficult to get skilled labour locally.

  “What the hell is wrong with them, Mr Tonks? Every single one of our people earns more than a farm labourer – even the women! Most of the men are better off than at any time in their lives!”

  “Yes, sir – but it ain’t them who are going to be burning and machine-breaking.”

  “Who is it? Layabouts, drunkards, thieves and idlers, I presume!”

  “Pretty much, yes, sir. Mostly it’s the handloom weavers, sir, who are making less and less of a living these days. It’s been tight for them for years now and the big new mills have finished them off. A few of them right at the top end can make their money still – but there ain’t much call for the fancy goods in cotton any more, especially now that the new machines can do very nearly as well as the hand men at less than half their price. For the most of them, the work ain’t there any longer and they won’t come into the mills, they value their freedom. So they say. Really, sir, it’s Saint Monday that they won’t lose – they don’t fancy working six days of the week instead of cramming sixty hours into three or four. They are drinkers, without exception, and can’t handle being sober six days out of the seven!”

  “In fact, Mr Tonks, they are no damned use to themselves or anyone else! They blame the machines for their poverty, when really the bottle is their enemy, and their only friend. How many of them are there, locally, that is?”

  Tonks had no answer. The handloom weavers had never been counted, for fear that someone might try to tax them, probably, and the factors they had always worked for were a dying breed and could give no estimate of their numbers.

  “At a guess, sir, and in the absence of certainty – which is a state I detest – I would think they might get a thousand men out on the streets. Most will come from the town but quite a number from the old villages. There is a surprising number of farm labourers still, sir, tucked away on pockets of land on the lowlands that have not been taken up by the mills and mines yet, and they are poor and very willing to join other men’s trouble. Then you have the folk up on the moorland – and they are all hand to mouth up there, with it being poverty land and the mines mostly uncertain. Add to that, there are a few of almost professional troublemakers, the true reds, who will come out any time they have a chance, and young men – boys really – who will riot for fun, because they are poor and life is boring, and criminals who will seek shops to loot and houses to burgle in the chaos. It doesn’t sound many, just a thousand, but in the night and with no militia nearby, it’s enough to burn half of the mills in town.”

  “But, why?”

  “Spite? Fear? As much as anything, sir, there’s a twisted logic to it – if there is no work for handlooms because the machines have taken it, then destroy the machines and the work must come back again. They don’t understand that all that will happen will be new machines in France or America taking the work instead.”

  “Beyond my comprehension, Mr Tonks! Do they not realise that the past is gone? What’s to be done?”

  Tonks gave a sly grin, suggested they should retire to somewhere a little less exposed than the mill floor. Better they should not be overheard, he implied. They took Tonks’ gig and drove to the local hotel, ordered a meal in a private p
arlour.

  “Thing is, sir,” Tonks said, “we have two choices, both of them good enough, but one a little – well, quite a lot, really – better.”

  George translated that statement – ‘one entirely lawful, the other far less so’.

  “Tell me more, Mr Tonks.”

  Emboldened by George’s evident understanding, Tonks took a small sip from his wine glass – he was an abstemious sort of fellow, well known to be in public – and explained.

  “The simplest course is to get the Mill-Owners Committee up and running again, sir. Take up a subscription and hire on a hundred or so Paddies with billy-clubs – the normal response, there’s always spare bodies in Liverpool or Manchester to do that job. That way, every mill is protected and the rioters are put down, till the next time.”

  “Nothing new in that, Mr Tonks.”

  “Quite right, sir. The alternative, you see, is not to be aware of what is going on, to be taken by surprise, one might say, and be a day late in bringing the Paddies in.”

  “To a town more than half burnt down! What’s clever in that, sir?”

  “It depends which half, sir.”

  “Ah… You mean, that if, just perhaps, Norton was to be burnt out, whilst we were not, then we would be in a far stronger position in the trade. In fact, we would be the largest enterprise in town, I believe.”

  Tonks smiled – he had expected George to instantly pick up on all he implied.

  “How?”

  “We need to expand our loading bays, sir. As well, it might be a good idea to put down new cobbles in two of our yards. Besides that, I have it in mind to lay a section of horse-drawn railway between the three mills furthest from the canal side. Gangs of navigators, sir, to camp up on the job, so that they will be present twenty-four hours of the day. Coincidence, of course.”

  “So it will be! A bonus for their loyalty – which might just be whispered in advance – and all will be well. Do you have any actual contacts amongst the rioters and incendiarists, Mr Tonks?”

  “One or two, sir – just the odd one who is known to me.”