by Joan Smith
Then it happened. At five o'clock sharp, an ear-piercing whistle rent the air. Looking to its source, I saw Stamford in the doorway, his face wearing an expression that was new to me. It was the face of authority. Crisp commands were uttered in a loud, clear bark. The dragoons leapt to attention, hastened out the door to assemble themselves magically into columns as straight as a ruler. The orders given were not entirely comprehensible to me, but our local gentlemen explained that they were to make a “forced march” to the camp, there to get themselves mounted and go after “the gentlemen."
In some manner, Wicklow had found out my plan. The ensuing brouhaha was hardly less than that which must have followed the interruption of the Duchess of Richmond's ball, when the allied forces were called from the floor to go to meet Napoleon. I had the most nauseating apprehension that I had met my own Waterloo.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It has occasionally been whispered of me that I wear the trousers at the rectory. I believe there may be some truth in it. I discovered in myself that afternoon a streak of something that I have always associated with men, in any case. I did not panic as the moment of truth descended upon me. I was distressed, of course. To remain unfazed at such a time must indicate a lack of average intelligence. I was plenty distressed, but not cast into hysterics, nor anything like it.
While the ladies gathered around, chirping and oohing and aahing at the soldiers forming into ranks, I looked for Jemmie, who should be somewhere around, looking for me. I spotted him inching his way toward me, and under cover of the confused scene going forth before us, it was easy to slip into the assembly hall for a private talk.
"What happened?” I asked.
"Now don't panic, miss. It ain't a desperate situation."
"Do I look panic-stricken? Just tell me the facts, Jem."
"He was riding up and down the shore road, Wicklow, looking this way and that, almost as though he knew we was up to something, but we had our scouts out, and he didn't see anything he wasn't supposed to. Then he spoke to one of his lads, and first thing ye know, one of the redcoats was riding back to the sheepwalk. He must of seen Phillips—he was bound to. Then he rides back to Wicklow, and Wicklow hotfoots it here, to the assembly."
"And this you call not desperate! It seems to me it is not far from it. You've given Phillips word to abandon the cargo and proceed with his load of furniture? Perhaps some of the men can roll a barrel or two to safety. At least they will not be caught with the stuff on their premises. It is pretty hard to prove anything in that case."
"The lads weren't of a mind to give up their last load."
"You cannot mean—but what have they done with it? What are the dragoons doing all this while?"
"A message was sent down the line for them to start for town, thinking to stop Phillips as he went from the sheepwalk to the shore road, ye see, for they didn't know we were on to them. I'd have got to ye sooner, but I had to wait and see what they meant to do. I've had Phillips turn his rig around and go back the other way."
"What is the point of that? When the tranter does not come out of the sheepwalk at the expected time, they will not be long in overtaking him. They are mounted on some of the fastest horseflesh I have ever seen. Where is Phillips intending to take the loads?"
"To Oxton's."
"The Seamew?" I asked.
"Aye. I figured there was time to get it aboard and cast off before the redcoats tumbled to what was afoot. They'll waste a while marching to camp to get their nags."
"We are going in circles. It will be dumped again, and grappled for again, and have to be."
"Nay, they ain't about to dump it again, miss,” he told me. “She's been under water long enough we can't lower her again, or she'd he bleachy."
"We can't sail the load to London. You know the place is crawling with customs men."
"Nay, miss, they's coming here, to Salford. That's all."
"I think you have run mad. Wicklow will claim the right to board and search the Seamew, and all this runaround has been for nothing. There isn't time to get it to the crypt, and I won't use it in any case. He already knows I am Miss Sage."
"It's Andrew he suspects. He shadowed him home from the assembly, and he's been keeping a mighty close watch on him of late. But I didn't think ye'd use the crypt this time, miss. Ye'll have to come up with another idea."
My mind was a perfect vacuum. Another idea was nowhere in sight. All the regular places as well known as an old ballad, and not more than half an hour to find our spot and move the load. It was impossible. That Wicklow suspected poor innocent Andrew was bouncing around there too, disconcerting me to no small degree. The Seamew would dock in the bay, the stuff could not be carted far enough away to be safe before Wicklow was back, or had a deputy back.
"No, you'll have to burn them off. Don't let them land before dark. In fact, I think you'll have to swim out and board the Seamew, Jem. No, better take a rowboat; it is too cold. I don't see any other way. Tell them they are to go fishing till well past dark. We'll bide our time and see where it is safe for them to land, and give the signal. What is Phillips doing after he unloads the brandy? Where does he take the load of furnishings he has?"
"It's only going to Stalkley, three miles inland. He can be back tonight."
"Good. Does he come right back?"
"I thought it best to tell him to, in case we needed him."
"Excellent. Meet him, or have your brother meet him, and direct him to go to the inn and wait word there. We may want him on a moment's notice."
"I'll get word to him. And the Seamew, she's to loiter round shore, or what?"
"No, send her out a bit, and come back around eleven to do her loitering under cover of darkness. We'll have to do some sharp scouting to find a safe spot for her to land. A pity we could not take her farther down the coast, but we don't want a war with the smugglers from Harwich on our hands as well. That's all we need. Where is Crites, by the way?"
"He's gone to Felixstone to buy a telescope, miss,” Jem answered with a grin.
"Good God, I wish Wicklow were as easy to fool."
"Ye'll think of something,” Jem told me, with a confidence which I own seemed badly placed. Then he dashed off, to do just as he was bid.
The evening of the fifth of March was an evening I would not care to have to relive. As I could be of no use in town, I went home, to sit on pins and needles, running to the front door every two minutes, to look up and down the road, for nothing in particular, then up to the bell tower, to view the Seamew's progress. From the front door I saw considerable darting up and down the road by the dragoons, all looking harried, excited and very determined. From the bell tower I saw the stern of the Seamew growing smaller and smaller, and I also saw Jem rowing up to his own dock, carrying a string of fish. He had taken time to pick up the family's supper during his errand!
At eight-thirty we sustained a short visit from Wicklow, who came for no other purpose than to insult us, if his behavior was any indication. He asked for Andrew, not myself, though I remained in the room as a matter of course. He did not outright accuse my brother of being Miss Sage, nor, I believe, did Andrew ever imagine for a moment the point of the questions put to him.
To myself and Edna, there could be no doubt of his meaning. There were sly compliments on our elegantly furnished saloon, so well done on a churchman's salary. Three hundred pounds a year, he believed Porson had mentioned. There were innuendos about the oddity of a churchman professing the view that laws were not to be regarded if one did not care for them. Even, at the nadir of the visit, there as an imputation that absentmindedness was a cunning disguise for a criminal. None of this fazed Andrew in the least. He answered in his own hapless fashion, turning the commitment on the saloon to myself, and to the last charge replying that he did not think he was absentminded precisely.
When he tried to turn the talk to organ, Wicklow arose brusquely and headed to the door. I took a step after him—pure instinct, as I wanted him to leave mor
e than I wanted anything else in the world at that moment. “I'm sorry, Mab,” he said, and looked at me. I think there was pity in his eyes, but there was determination in the set of his jaw.
"Seems to be in the devil of a bad skin tonight,” Andrew said. “Daresay it's this business of trying to catch the smugglers. Or have you and he had a falling-out, Mab?"
"A little disagreement is brewing,” I answered, which satisfied my brother.
"That is a pity. I know how you feel. I don't suppose you noticed whether Miss Trebar was taken home from the assembly by Officer Milne?"
"I don't think so, Andrew,” I answered, sorry to see his passion for the chit continued unabated.
At ten, Jemmie came to the back door, to tell me Wicklow had men posted all along the shore road—every man on duty, from the far side of Fern Bank right to the sea in front of our own house and the church, with added strength at such suspicious points as Aiken's, the Eyrie, the school, etc. All my old haunts. The safest thing would be to dump the load, bring the Seamew into dock at Salford and consider the business finished.
But such an unsatisfactory conclusion for the illustrious career of Miss Sage! I wished a pinnacle for myself, not a defeat. This was no retaliation for Stamford's fast-approaching marriage to Lady Lucy either. What a waste it would be if we should dump the load, only to land at Salford without a single dragoon there to check us out, for according to Jem, the last man was posted at my own front door, nearly a mile from the dock—well, a good half mile and more.
We had never taken a load right into town. No one ever had been so bold, in all the history of the coast, including my old predecessor, Miss Marjoram. It had the daring, reckless, implausible ring of Miss Marjoram to it. I felt a tingle of excitement run right down my spine. Wicklow, awake on all suits, had not thought it necessary to post sentinels in the town proper. The dock was a busy and open spot, but at one or two in the morning—who would be there?
Jem was not due back for half an hour. I could no longer sit still. I put on Andrew's jacket and trousers, tucked my hair under his hat and took a quick dart to the dock to see for myself that even at ten-thirty, there was not a single soul around. I would send word to Phillips to get his wagons down here at once, give the signal to the Seamew and get the stuff dispatched to London.
This determined, I began scanning the closest buildings for good concealment for the operation. I did not wish to have the carts standing on the open dock the whole time. There was a grain storage depot, the fish market area, the ships repair dock, and there, right next to this, was Owens’ warehouse, backing onto the sea. The storefront proper opened on the main street. Between the store and the warehouse was a yard for delivery wagons, but when goods came by ship, they landed their load at the dock.
How fitting a thing, if the brandy should be stored in Wicklow's own nesting place. He would not think to look in his own backyard for the contraband cargo. But it would not be stored anywhere, if my luck held out; the wagons would wait right in the warehouse itself—a huge building.
My mind was made up in an instant. The only addition to the plan was for a few of my men to cause some diversion up the coast, in the direction of Felixstone. Wardle's fishing boat was the diversion hit upon. Wardle's place had in all probability been searched already, for I had learned from Jem that all the smugglers’ homes and premises had been thoroughly ransacked.
By now, Wicklow knew the brandy was on the Seamew, but he could only know it by induction—suspect it strongly, in other words—so he would still be leery of any untoward move by any of my men. The night was dark and still, oppressively so. The naked eye could not spot the Seamew, but I knew she was there, hovering within sight of our signal—a dark lamp, whose cover would be raised three times, to signal a safe landing.
The Seamew had orders to return to shore around eleven. She would not be there sooner, for if the gentlemen had a fault, it was a little too strict following of orders, without using quite the ingenuity one could hope for from the likes of Jem.
I went home and sat like a spider, hiding in the window crack, waiting for her prey to set foot in her web, except it was Jemmie I awaited. He came, approved my plan and left to follow instructions. Wardle and his son were to take their boat out, or make as if they meant to, which would hopefully occupy several dragoons in preventing him.
As the hour of landing drew near, I could not sit at home. This was the crisis, the most outrageous stunt I had tried yet. If my men were to be caught, I would be with them. Back on with the trousers and mask, and off to the dock, after first saying goodnight to Edna and pretending I was about to go to my bed. I personally took the dark lamp from Jem and raised the lid: once, twice, three times, then retired to the shadows to wait.
"Phillips should be here. What can be keeping him?” I asked.
"I'll nip up to the tavern and see."
It was lonely and frightening, standing all alone, waiting, but I was not long alone. When Jem came back, he said, “He can't come. He's being watched. There's a dragoon in the taproom with him. He'd have orders to follow Phillips if he moved an inch. I gave him a sign not to come."
As he spoke, the lapping of the waves hitting a prow was heard, the white sails soon discernible through the misty haze. Jem went forward to tell them they must leave again. Some evil genie urged me to interfere. I called him back. “We'll land it while we can, Jem. Can you break the lock on that warehouse belonging to Owens? We'll store it in there. I've seen by the window it is as well as empty—plenty of room."
"Do ye think we should, miss?” he asked, wide-eyed at my gall.
"I do, and I only hope we will have as clear a coast to get it out again in the near future as we have to put it in."
"We'll manage somehow,” he chuckled, shaking his head and crowing a little.
The landing went off quietly, quickly, with not an unnecessary word spoken. When the last barrel was within, Jemmie closed the door, reassembled the lock to an appearance of normalcy, and the men disappeared into the shadows, to go home, leaving the Seamew docked at the public wharf overnight.
"Ye don't think ye should have the Seamew taken home to Oxton's?” Jem asked as we slithered home in the shadows of the roadside bushes and hedges.
"I have a pretty good notion how Wicklow's mind works. He won't expect to find the brandy anywhere near the ship. The public wharf is the safest place we could leave it."
"Blimey, I hope ye're right, miss."
"So do I. Keep your fingers crossed.” I disliked to ask him to pray in such a criminal cause.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Sabbath dawned bright and cool. Wicklow was in the choir loft in the morning, as was Jemmie, nor was the congregation below us in the seated section noticeably smaller. A sort of unofficial truce was in effect on this day of much-needed rest. Wicklow, knowing Miss Sage would not a second time move in broad daylight, was waiting. We all of us went about our customary activities as though in a trance that day—waiting, watching, hoping, planning.
For myself, most of all it was a day of planning. Wicklow would have seen the Seamew at the public dock on his way home last night, so I had her moved in the early morning back to Oxton's. He had gone aboard and searched her before he came to church. My scouts told me all this, told me he had detected the lingering trace of brandy, which vexed him even more than not detecting it on Wardle's vessel the night before. He was understandably in a wretched mood that morning. He hardly sang a note, but kept looking down into the church, mostly at Andrew, with a pensive look on his face.
When the service was over, he said only, “I must leave at once, Mab. I'll look in on you sometime this afternoon, if I may?"
"I expect to be home all day,” I answered, trying for an air of nonchalance. I did not feel calm enough to try for any information.
"Will Andrew be home as well?” he asked.
"As far as I know, he will."
He directed a strange look on me, questioning, uncertain—sorry. He did think A
ndrew was Miss Sage. I had been sure it was myself he suspected. Perhaps he thought me an accomplice. And was Andrew the parasite, the greedy monster he had spoken of earlier? I could not think so. I could almost pity him in his dilemma, except that his wedding was so near. To get his promotion, he would turn Andrew in. My pity was not overwhelming.
I waged a war with my nerves during that day, as I sat glued to the window, watching the traffic go by at a subdued, sabbatical pace. At about three, with my heart nearly distilled to jelly at the sight, Wicklow came into town and went down to the wharf. If he decided to get to his own living quarters through the warehouse, I was done.
I breathed a little easier when he came back up from the dock, turned onto the main street and used the front door. He had not noticed the scent of brandy from the warehouse then. There are few odors that permeate so thoroughly and linger so long as brandy. But then there are few breezes so stout as sea breezes, and it seemed he had not sniffed my cargo out.
I thought he might be freshening his toilette for a call on me, but though I sat on for some time, he did not emerge from the front door, nor did he go to the tavern for dinner. His servant was seen to dart from the doorway in the general direction of the school, down the sea road that passes all our old familiar haunts. He could be going anywhere, most probably carrying orders to the dragoons. There was a goodly number of them promenading the main street with the local girls, every one of them trying to see if he could discover anything of interest for Wicklow.
As the shadows of evening began to lengthen, Wicklow had still not called on me, nor had he left the building. Of this I am fairly certain, for when I was not there to watch myself, Edna replaced me. She was extremely nervous throughout the whole ordeal. I had the onerous chore of assuring her there was nothing to worry about, while my insides heaved and lurched, like a fishing smack caught in a storm. The sickening thought kept intruding itself too that even if Wicklow had not come out the front door, he might have gone out the back, into the yard, back into the warehouse...