by Edward Cline
An hour after the meeting, Charles Ambrose, the deserter, was the first to come to Skelly’s quarters. Skelly was not surprised to see him. Ambrose left the Army because, as he explained to Skelly years ago, “I refuse to fight for foreign princes. It’s as simple as that. Our own are bad enough. So why should an Englishman die for the right of some royal bugger to sit on a throne and diddle with his people and the folks next door? Presumptuous lot of snollygosters, our Crown, and I don’t like being presumed.”
Ambrose said now, as he stood not quite at attention in Skelly’s quarters, “I’ll stay, sir. You’ll need someone to hold the line.”
Skelly smiled. “Why, Mr. Ambrose?”
Ambrose smiled, then took Skelly’s hand and shook it. “You’re a prince among men, sir, and the only one I’d risk my prat for — excuse my language, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambrose.”
“I’ll see to what we have in the way of weapons and powder.” Ambrose turned to leave, but stopped. “I was thinking, sir. It’s too bad we haven’t any colors to fight under or mark our position. That Customs jack on the mess wall would do. It’d give Pannell pause for thought out there. Permission to hoist it, sir.”
Skelly said, “But it bears the King’s arms, Mr. Ambrose.”
Ambrose chuckled. “I’ll blot it out somehow. It’s as much our flag as theirs.”
“Permission granted.” Skelly paused. “Mr. Ambrose, if there’s a fight, are you certain you’d be able to fire on other Englishmen?”
Ambrose looked perplexed, as though the question contained the answer. “Sir, other Englishmen have been firing on me nigh on ten years now. That’s the way I look at it.”
There were only seventeen men left. Of these, four humbly informed Skelly that they would leave the caves. Skelly did not reprimand them, did not lecture them, and did not sneer at them. He questioned neither their fears nor their greediness to live, for they had lived in the caves with him for years. The men who came to him to say they had chosen to stay could not imagine living in any manner other than as free men. The one group he envied; the other group he cherished.
Close to midnight, Charles Ambrose and others were taking stock of the weapons they had at their disposal, when they felt more than heard a thud shake the caves’ walls. Chester Plume came running down from the “crow’s nest.” “They’re firing on us!” he said. “They’ve set up a gun on the Villers grounds — I saw the flash — and there’s lights in the house!”
Skelly went up with Ambrose and the others to see. There were indeed lights in the Villers mansion. Skelly, holding a torch, took a turn around the top of the hill. Ambrose and the others trailed behind him. Below, all around the hill, they could see the flickers of dozens of flameaux and campfires. “They’ve surrounded the hill,” he remarked. Ambrose spotted the cannon ball and a spread of shattered rock. He bent to examine it. “A six-pounder,” he said.
They heard the report of another explosion, then the metallic crack of iron smashing into rock somewhere on the side of the hill. “Another six-pounder,” said Ambrose, pointing to the west. “Set up in the Talbot fields.” He shook his head. “They’re getting their range right, that’s all. They won’t start the real business until daylight.”
There was another report, but no ball came for what seemed like an eternity. Then they heard a massive thump that shook the ground under their feet. Stone disintegrated somewhere and slivers of it pelted them and stung their hands and faces. This was followed by a moan, which ceased before any of them could determine its source.
“The crow’s nest,” whispered Skelly. They hurried back to Chester Plume’s post. One side of the box-like formation of limestone was gone, and lay scattered in pieces all around them. The sycamore trees that grew around it had been stripped of their bare limbs by the blast of the fragments. Beneath one of the larger chunks was Chester Plume, dead, his clothes and face disfigured.
“Lucky shot,” remarked one of the other men. “Unlucky for Chester.”
“Howitzer,” said Ambrose ominously. “They can pound the roof down on us with it.”
Redmagne did not hear the cannon. He left the caves an hour after the meeting, dressed in his finest silks, the suit he had worn to London in July. He rode straight to the main camp of the red-coats, and was challenged by a pair of young regulars. “What is your business here?” one of them demanded.
“I am Squire John Trigg,” said Redmagne. “I have some land yonder” — he pointed vaguely with his riding crop to the north — “just beyond Marvel. I ride at night — don’t you simply love it at this time of day, it’s so peaceful and quiet! — and I heard the commotion you fellows were making, and I thought I’d see what was to do.”
The men frowned and glanced at each other. The sergeant of the guard came from his tent and walked over. “What’s the problem here?” he asked. He held up a flambeau to better see the stranger’s face.
Redmagne introduced himself again. He finished, smiling innocently, “Thought I’d have a spot of tea with your commanding officer. This is the most excitement we’ve seen since the dragoons passed through here ages ago!”
The sergeant’s mouth twisted wryly. The stranger’s clothes, speech, mannerisms — and especially the large mole affixed to his left cheek — suggested that the man was no danger. This was a spoiled fop who probably had some strange personal habits. Still, he was a gentleman, and he could not be turned away. It would serve Major Leigh right, he thought, to sic the dandy on him. “Well, Mr. Trigg, the major may be busy, but his tent is right over there, the one with the drums stacked in front. Let him pass, privates.”
Redmagne doffed his hat to the sergeant. “Thank you, sir. You’re most kind.” He rode directly to the tent, on the look-out for men in blue coats, and for a peasant’s cart.
An hour later, seated at a campaign table with Major Leigh, and on his third cup of tea, he purred, “Most delicious leaf you carry with you, Major! Army life can’t be the horror people make of it, if this is a sample of your emoluments!” He made a loud sipping sound on the rim of the cup, then gently set it down. “But, Major, have you seen action? I’ll wager you have some exciting stories to tell.”
“No,” said the major, wishing Mr. Trigg would take his leave. The man was, like himself, a gentleman, and deserving of all the courtesies of a visit. But he could not stand him. “I was assigned to the brigade when it returned from Flanders a few years ago. Most of the officers were killed there. I’ve simply been playing nursemaid to these ruffians, and trying to bring the regiment back up to strength.”
Redmagne clucked his tongue. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, dear fellow! I’m sure the French will raise our hackles again, and then you’ll be off to the Continent before you can buss your Lady Jane good-bye! Why, who knows? Someone may replace you when it’s all over!” he added with a gay laugh.
Major Leigh’s eyes narrowed, then glanced down at his pocket watch on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Trigg, I have duties to perform. We’re positioning our ordnance around that hill, and I want to make sure the Commissioner and his men are not up to mischief, and that everything else is just so.” His smile was thin and insulting as he rose. “Thank you for the story of the Villers estate and of your childhood escapades here. It was most entertaining.”
“Why, thank you, Major, and best of luck to you,” said Redmagne, rising. “I’m sure you’ll score a glorious victory, though I still say there are no smugglers in this vicinity. Lud, you’ll be assaulting that pretty little hill and frightening all the cuddly rabbitkins from their warrens!” He held out his hand.
Major Leigh shut his eyes briefly, then shook the man’s hand. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Trigg, in your farming endeavors. It seems a pastime most suited to a gentleman of your, er, talents.”
“Thank you, Major, for your hospitality, and good night.” Redmagne gave the officer a broad, almost imbecilic grin, touched his hat, and left the tent.
Redmagne rode out of th
e camp with the knowledge, subtly extracted from the major’s cautious but wearied mind, that Jack Frake and Richard Claxon were not there, but had been taken to Gwynnford.
Jack Frake was put on the cart with Richard Claxon and the bodies of their colleagues. The cart smelled of fish. The cart, Pannell and his six men followed the column of soldiers from Penlilly as far as a fork in the county road. Then Pannell assigned three of his men to take the cart into Gwynnford, while he and the other three accompanied the column on the road that led north to Marvel.
Jack Frake sat, cuffed as before, in a corner of the cart, near Richard Claxon’s head, his sight locked on the bodies of the men that lay along the cartbed’s length. Claxon clutched his Bible to his chest, and his lips moved in silent prayer. Jack Frake did not think his colleague knew where he was. With every jar of the cart wheels over a hole or a rock, Claxon’s eyes would squeeze shut in pain. After a while, Jack Frake noticed that the Bible had slipped from Claxon’s grip, and that his eyes stared steadily at the gray sky. The cart rolled over a bump, but the eyes did not blink, the face did not flinch. Jack Frake closed the eyes, then reached down and put the Bible back in the boy’s dead hand.
In time, the road led into Trelowe. Jack Frake did not realize where he was until he began to recognize some of the fences, fields and trees they passed. The cart rumbled by his former home, which was now a tavern. A sign-board featuring the heads of three ewes swung gently in the breeze over the door. A sulky and two saddled mounts stood tethered to a post in front. He heard singing coming from the cottage, and laughter. A woman paused in the task of drawing water from the well to watch the cart and its escort pass by.
It was Huldah Leith.
Jack Frake recognized her, and she recognized the face in the retreating cart. The bucket rope slipped from her hands as they shot up to her face to muffle a scream. Then he saw her run back inside the cottage.
Jack Frake felt the beginnings of a terrible mixture of emotions rise inside him — regret, bitterness, and anger — but they subsided almost as quickly as he felt them. He was too exhausted to sort them out and wonder about them. He was looking to his left, to the Channel and the cliff, remembering his cubbyhole.
He did not notice the two receding figures that appeared on the road to watch the cart. They were his mother and Isham Leith.
Redmagne arrived in Gwynnford wearing a dark cloak over his silks. He had removed the mole from his cheek and discarded the white wig. He still looked like a gentleman, but a lesser one. There were people about on Jetty Street, but no one stopped to stare at him. He had two destinations in the town: the Sea Siren, and the jail behind Constable Jubel Skeats’s house. He tethered his mount in the kitchen yard of the Sea Siren, and went through the back door. He told the cook to fetch Hiram Trott. The innkeeper came back and Redmagne led him outside. He told Trott what had happened at Penlilly, and what was to happen tomorrow near Marvel. “I don’t know how much was told Pannell. You may be implicated, Mr. Trott. I wanted to give you warning.”
Trott looked crestfallen, and his face was busy with confusion and anxiety. But part of Redmagne’s information was not news to him. After a moment, he said, “They brought poor Jack in with the others, sir. Nobody’s been talking about anything else all day.”
“Any Revenue men inside?” asked Redmagne, nodding to the kitchen door.
“None of Pannell’s crew. They don’t come here anymore, anyway. They’ve been favoring the Saucy Maiden for some time now.”
Redmagne frowned. “You said they brought in Jack. What about Mr. Claxon? His leg was smashed.”
Trott shook his head. “He was dead, too, sir. They buried him with the others in a hole up in the fields.” He wrung his hands in his apron. “You going to try for Jack?” Redmagne nodded. “Need help? You know I’m good with a cudgel.”
Redmagne shook his head, then took the man’s hand and shook it. “Take care, Mr. Trott. Get out if you can.” Then he turned, mounted his horse, and was gone.
“What to do?” muttered Trott to himself. “What to do?”
The jail behind the constable’s house was a short brick structure with a row of six cells, built primarily to detain drunken sailors. The cells had no windows. The doors were of iron-braced oak. A trap door on the bottom of each allowed the passage of meals. Redmagne left his mount tied to a post in the alley, scaled the wall that contained the jail, and went from door to door, calling after Jack Frake through the traps. No one answered. He strode to the back door of the house he knew so well, for it was in here that he had been interrogated by Pannell and Rear Admiral Harle years ago, and from the first cell by the door that he was rescued by Skelly and ten gang-members. He peered through the tiny window. Two Revenue men were in the kitchen, leaning back on chairs, their boots on the table, smoking their pipes. Mrs. Skeats, he assumed, had retired. There was a ring of keys on the table near one of the men.
Redmagne took two pistols from under his belt, twisted the barrels, stood back from the door, and was ready to cock the hammers and kick the door in, when he heard screeches of rusty hinges behind him.
“Drop the wedges, Mr. O’Such!” boomed a voice. “There are two on your back ready to talk!”
Redmagne lowered his hands and dropped the pistols. The two Revenue men inside came rushing out. He turned around and saw Constable Jubel Skeats and the third Revenue man. Both had pistols leveled at his head. The two other Revenue men grabbed his arms and snapped cuffs on his wrists. Skeats stepped forward and grinned at Redmagne. “Pleased to make your acquaintance again, Mr. O’Such. We thought someone’d try to hijack the lad.”
Mr. Fix waved a hand at the open door of the cell he and Skeats came from. “Welcome back, Mr. O’Such. Your cell awaits you, and you won’t be leaving it this time!”
“Where’s Jack Frake?” asked Redmagne.
“Sound asleep in the next cell, sir,” said Skeats. “He’s had a trying day, you know.” He grinned. “I don’t suppose you’ll be leaving us a shilling for our trouble this time. But meals are six shillings a day, if you want anything better than soup.”
Redmagne smiled graciously. “Then tell Mrs. Skeats to prepare a pair of her famous mincemeat pies, the ones I know she sells to the inns here, who pass them off as their own. One for me, and one for the boy. And coffee, with a dash of rum to keep the bones warm.”
“She’ll be pleased to hear it, sir,” chuckled Skeats. “It ain’t often we get a gentleman for a guest!”
Redmagne turned to Mr. Fix. “Before I’m locked up, may I see Mr. Frake?”
“All right, but just a look. He got roughed up at Penlilly today, but he’s all right.”
Chapter 24: The World Turned Upside Down
AT DAWN, SOLDIERS EMERGING FROM THEIR TENTS PAUSED IN THE CHILLY air to look up at the blue sky, and then at the hill, and saw a small banner floating on a staff on the eastern side of it. Major Leigh and Henoch Pannell, from the second floor of the Villers mansion, where they and their aides had spent the night, used the officer’s spyglass to look at it. “It’s one of ours,” said the major. “What the deuce?”
“It’s a Customs jack, Major, with His Majesty’s arms removed by white paint. A provocative desecration, I must say!”
“Where did they get it?”
The Commissioner shrugged. “Damn them to blazes! I should like to know that myself!”
“But I never heard of a gang adopting colors, Mr. Pannell,” said the major. He paused. “I’m not certain I could fire on that hill now.”
Pannell glanced sharply at the officer. “It’s merely a rag, Major. Don’t let it deflect you from your duty. Those men up there have an elevated sense of themselves, it seems. But then all criminals do, don’t they?” He paused. “I think you should begin firing on that hill.”
Major Leigh put down his spyglass and drummed his fingers on the window sill. “No,” he said at length. “We’ll give them a chance to surrender to you first. There might be women and children up there.”
> “There aren’t,” snapped Pannell. “The boy said so. I did bother to ask. I’m not the ogre you seem to think I am.”
“I never said so,” said the major too nonchalantly. “Still, it would look peculiar if we didn’t give them a chance — given the number of them. Might save my men wear and tear, if they did surrender.” Major Leigh turned and faced the Commissioner with a glacial expression. “You will accompany me under a white flag, Mr. Pannell.” Then he turned and left the room. Pannell allowed himself a quiet curse.
Half an hour later the major, a lieutenant carrying a halberd to which was tied a strip of white muslin, and Pannell picked their way through the brush on horseback to the foot of the hill near the Customs flag. The flag served as a landmark, and without it they would have criss-crossed on the same paths, never coming any nearer their object. They saw that much of the brush had been used as camouflage, and had been cleared away. After returning from Portreach, Skelly had not bothered to have the entrances hidden again; the camouflage was intended to deter the occasional adventurer or the curious. He knew that it could not deter an army. Ten men stood waiting for them in a clearing before the entrance, each holding a weapon.
“Who’s Skelly?” asked Pannell.
A tall man in a black tricorn and a black greatcoat stepped forward. “I’m Skelly,” he said. “And you’re Henoch Pannell.” He paused to smile. “I recognize you, sir. I believe we shared the same table on one or two occasions in Gwynnford, for breakfast. You weren’t very sociable.” He turned and addressed the major. “And you, sir?”