“Go and inquire, Henry,” said Mr Grindall. “There is maybe some help we can offer.” His nephew hurried out and was gone for some minutes.
“One would as soon expect to hear a tale about highwaymen! There are a few still on the road, I suppose, but not in the approaches to a garrison town. That waiter must have been mistaken, you can depend on’t.”
“I’m entirely of your opinion, sir,” said Delancey, returning to the fireside, where young Fowler presently rejoined them.
“I have the true story now,” he said. “Four sailors recently paid off mistook this gentleman for the master-at-arms of the Royal Sovereign, who is one of the most unpopular men in the fleet.”
“I have heard that,” said Delancey, “and his captain is a martinet.”
“The gentleman was badly beaten before the men discovered their error and ran off. It was one of them who stopped the coach, however, and told the driver where the injured man lay. He’s lucky not to have frozen.”
“Where are they taking him?” asked Mr Grindall.
“The landlord has told them to bring him in.”
On hearing this Mr Grindall led the way to the front door, towards which the victim of coincidence was being assisted by a group of bystanders, some of them passengers from the coach itself. All were loud in their sympathy and comment.
“His leg is broke, Tom, that I’ll swear.”
“And a rib too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Best send for Mr Cartwright.”
“He’s out of town, I hear tell.”
“There’s Mr Winthrop, then.”
“Aye—someone go for Mr Winthrop!”
“Say it’s a case of a broken leg.”
“And a rib too, seemingly.”
The injured man was brought in and laid on an oak settle while the apothecary was sent for. The group of sympathisers stood back for a moment, parting enough for Mr Grindall to see who it was that had been hurt.
“Why, it’s Mr Ryder!” What else he had to say was drowned by a renewed babel of conversation.
Mr Grindall now insisted that Mr Ryder should be given a bedroom at the Inn. There could be no question of taking him to his home at Cowes. He felt partly responsible for the accident, he explained, as Mr Ryder was coming there at his invitation. The landlord proved sympathetic and the injured man was carefully taken upstairs. The move had hardly begun, however, when Delancey unexpectedly took his leave.
“I am sorry to desert you, sir, but I have some business to which I must attend. I thank you for your hospitality and hope that we may meet again. I am sure that Mr Ryder is in good hands.” With a few hurried words of farewell Delancey had gone, Mr Grindall wondering a little at his guest’s abrupt departure. “Strange that he left us so suddenly. There is little after all, that a half-pay lieutenant has to do!” But his further reflections were interrupted by the arrival of Mr Winthrop, the apothecary, a small man with a portentous manner. He finally gave it as his opinion that Ryder had broken a rib as well as his leg, would be off duty for several months and was lucky, indeed, to be alive at all.
On leaving the Star and Garter, Delancey hurried to the Sally Port and looked around for a boat. There was none there, the weather being so discouraging, and he went back to the Point. This time he was in luck. There was a man-of-war’s longboat alongside the jetty and an officer just about to embark. Lieutenant Bentley of the Venerable (74) was somewhat the worse for liquor, having dined ashore with the military, but he was in an amiable mood and accepted Delancey as a brother officer. The Venerable was at Spithead and he saw no reason why the longboat should not land Delancey at Ryde. Cowes was out of the question in an easterly wind—the boat would not return until next day—but Ryde was almost opposite where the Venerable was at anchor.
The boat pushed off into rough water and the coxswain steered into a darkness which was only relieved by the white foam on the wave tops. The snowstorm had passed but spray came over the bows at each plunge, slapping on the tarpaulin and forming a pool under the floorboards. The oarsmen pulled well, however, and Delancey duly landed at Ryde and, his luck still holding, he even found a farmer who could drive him to Cowes. Before ten that night he was knocking at the door of Mr John Payne’s house. An impatient voice from a first floor window asked him what he wanted.
“Mr Ryder has been badly hurt and will be off duty,” said Delancey briefly. “I am a naval officer and I have come to offer my services as temporary commander of the Rose.”
It took Mr Payne some minutes to pacify his wife, put on an overcoat over his nightshirt, light a candle and wake his manservant. There was eventually the sound of the chain being unfastened and the bolts being drawn. The door finally swung open to reveal the deputy collector of customs, pistol in hand, supported by an elderly servant armed with the poker. When finally reassured about his visitor’s respectability, Mr Payne showed Delancey into the study and told his man to make up the dying fire while he himself brought out a decanter and a couple of glasses. He heard the details of the affair without comment and sighed deeply before taking another sip of port. “You have had a rough passage, sir, and a cold journey,” he concluded. “Why could you not have left it until tomorrow?” “Because,” said Delancey, “the kind of man who leaves things until tomorrow would not be an ideal commander for the Rose.” Mr Payne smiled briefly, nodding to himself and there was a minute’s silence before he replied. “The Rose has had no ideal commander since she was built. William Ryder is not of the same calibre as the late commander, Francis Buckley.”
“Mr Buckley commanded the previous cutter of the same name?”
“He did, sir, and with great success. Willis did almost as well with a smaller cutter, the Nancy. Between them they nearly brought smuggling in this vicinity to a standstill. Buckley was killed in action against a French privateer in 1793 and Ryder has recently become a Methodist. Since then the smugglers have flourished, sir; not around the Isle of Wight, to be sure, but elsewhere along the coast. Fortunes are being made from contraband and we have taken nothing for months past.”
“But why should the smugglers benefit from Ryder being a Methodist? I should have thought, sir, that he was the more to be relied upon as an opponent of the liquor traffic.”
“An opponent he certainly is but so much so that he gains no intelligence. Mr Buckley was often at the Rose and Crown—sometimes even at the Pig and Whistle. He met the known smugglers ashore and talked with them. He was sometimes present when they had drunk to excess. He knew a dozen informers, bad characters and go-betweens. His plans were based upon the gossip he heard. Since his conversion Ryder will not be seen in the haunts of sin. He even prevents his men from going to the alehouses which the smugglers frequent. As for the women of the town, he will never keep company with them, nor would he hear the end of it if he did. Things were different in Buckley’s time. He knew what he was about.”
“Well, sir,” said Delancey, “will you appoint me to the command for the period of Ryder’s absence? The smugglers will reckon that the coast is clear, the Rose in harbour and everything in their favour. That will give me the chance to surprise them.”
“But how will you set about it?”
“By going, as a stranger, to the Rose and Crown. No one in Cowes has ever seen me before. No one saw me enter your house tonight. I shall appear as one who is in the trade, an agent from England.”
“So far your plan is possible. . . . It seems, indeed, to offer some chance of success. Very well, sir, the appointment is yours. You will be sworn in as a deputed mariner before the Rose puts to sea. Make your inquiries in the meanwhile and delay our first official meeting until— shall we say?—Monday next. I shall instruct the mate, Mr Thomas Lane, to prepare the cutter for sea while letting it be known that she is not to sail in Mr Ryder’s absence.”
There was some further discussion about terms of employment, finally, “Thank you sir,” said Delancey. “I shall do my best to show that your confidence is not misplaced. May I ask your help before I go? C
an you give me the name of a free trader of some note on the main-land—a man whose agent I might be?”
“That at least is easy. Your man would be John Early of Milton Abbas near Dorchester.”
“Thank you. Does he pass as a merchant?”
“No, sir. He is an attorney.”
“Can you give me the name of one of his men—the shipmaster who actually handles the cargo?”
“Yes—Jack Rattenbury of Lyme Regis. He used to own a lugger called The Friends, that is until she was taken by the Nancy.”
“And where can I spend the night before joining those who have landed by the morning ferry boat from Portsmouth?”
“In your place I should seek shelter on board the cutter Nancy alongside the Customs wharf. She is about to be broken up but her deck will still provide some shelter.”
“Good. One last favour, sir. I could find good use for a flask of brandy.”
“You shall have it and of the best quality, costing no less than nine shillings a gallon at the Customs House Sales.”
Mr Payne produced the flask and showed Delancey to the door. A few minutes later he was explaining to his wife what had happened to keep him from bed. “An odd sort of man, my dear, who had come to tell me about Mr Ryder being assaulted by some ruffians and seriously hurt: a sad business, it would seem, and likely to keep him ashore for some time. This will give the smugglers their best opportunity for years.”
“How do you know that this man is not a smuggler himself?”
“Well, come to think on’t, I don’t know but what he isn’t. He would gain nothing, though, by deceiving me about Mr Ryder’s injury for I shall hear about it, anyway, in the morning. I think he is an honest man, though. He offers to serve without pay so as not to deprive poor Ryder of his livelihood!”
While Mr Payne went to bed, Delancey was walking down to the harbour. Snow had stopped falling earlier in the night but the wind was still cold and the going unpleasant. He had much to think about and he realized, as he walked, how little he knew about the smuggling business. He had known something about the smugglers around Guernsey but suspected that the Guernseymen were not in the same line of business as the men of Hampshire and Dorset. Their task had usually been to bring the goods from France to Guernsey—a trade which was not even illegal until war began and it meant trading with the enemy. Between Guernsey and England was a different business. He remembered hearing that some Dorset free traders—”moonlighters” were they called?—no, “moonrakers” (whatever that meant)—used big and well-armed craft and traded to Roscoff. They were laden with spirits and tobacco, their cargoes being taken inland and distributed from some suitable town—hence Mr Early having his home near Dorchester. He would be a landowner, most likely, as well as an attorney, a friend of the gentry and perhaps himself a justice of the peace. To succeed against a man like that would mean persuading someone to turn King’s evidence. That would be possible only for an officer with a thorough knowledge of the smuggling art, just such a knowledge as the late Mr Buckley had possessed. Delancey cursed himself for his ignorance, realising that he must have forgotten half the facts he had been told. One thing he knew and had remembered was that the smugglers were among the best seamen in the country. They were used to bad weather and dark nights. So, presumably, were the men who served in the revenue cutters, but about them he knew next to nothing. They were exempt from impressment, as he had explained to many a press-gang, but that was almost all he knew about them. They tended, he thought, to wear red flannel shirts and blue trousers. . . .
It was still bitterly cold but the clouds had gone and he would see, by starlight, the streets of the town through which he was making his way to the riverside. There were few lights to be seen but there were distant sounds of revelry from some sailors’ tavern, presumably the Pig and Whistle. He walked on briskly and was able, presently, to identify the Customs House. He racked his brains to remember the facts he knew about smuggling. There was no traffic now in tea, he thought, the stuff being unobtainable in time of war save from the East India Company itself. There was nothing to be done with silks either, the duties having been lowered. Smuggling was confined, he thought, to spirits and tobacco, the spirits being often as much as forty per cent over proof. He vaguely remembered having heard stories about the ferocious Hawkhurst Gang which had flourished long ago. Present smugglers avoided fighting, he had been told, because of the militia being everywhere in wartime. They used cunning instead of force these days, sinking their cargo when pursued and coming back for it when the revenue men had gone. There was another trick reported, something to do with the kegs being slung under the lugger’s keel. Revenue men had to be clever since most of their earnings came from commission on what they seized. How long would it take him to learn the trade? Still pondering on this, he identified the Customs House Wharf with, alongside, an unrigged cutter, evidently the Nancy. All was quiet along the wharf and there was a gangplank in position. On tiptoe now and without making a sound, Delancey went aboard the cutter.
Slowly and quietly he made his way aft, coming at last to the companionway. He stood there listening, for a minute or two and then went below. He wondered that the hatchway should be open but remembered that the cutter was to be broken up. There would be nothing aboard worth stealing, not so much as a rope yarn or a scrap of old canvas to lie on. He paused at the foot of the ladder for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Looking up through the hatchway he could see the starlight overhead. Looking aft he expected to see a glimmer of light through a stern window but all was dark. Perhaps there was no stern window in a cutter of this tonnage, far smaller than the craft regularly built for the Customs Board, but there should have been a scuttle aft even then, or at least a deadlight let into the deck. It was not much of a place to sleep in but no worse than some others he had known. He wondered whether there would be rats: or would they have gone ashore when they heard that the vessel was to be broken up? Cautiously he began to make his way aft. His shoe struck against a small ringbolt underfoot and at that instant his arms were suddenly pinned to his side by a powerful grip. “Keep quiet, mate,” said a rough voice. “Say one word and I’ll slit your windpipe.” The threat was backed up by the coldness of the steel and Delancey wisely did as he was told. There were two men there, he realized, one who had seized him from behind, the other (with the knife) in front of him. While the point was still at his throat his wrists were jerked behind him and tied with a length of rope. Only then was the knife put away so that his captor could use flint and steel. A lantern was lit and raised so that the light fell on Delancey’s face.
“Who is it, Dan?” said the voice from behind him.
“Damned if I know,” said the other. “I think as how our best plan will be to cut his throat.”
Chapter Six
TRICKS OF THE TRADE
DELANCEY found himself looking at a shabby individual who was obviously a landsman. He guessed that the other man, whom he could not see, was some sort of fisherman or boatman. Rat-face—or Dan as the other called him—might once have been a clerk or shopman but had long since been discharged, probably for petty theft or drink or both. He might see himself as a master criminal but his was clearly not the stuff of which murderers are made. Even if evil intent were there he lacked the courage.
“Killing me,” said Delancey, “won’t help you find the gold.”
“What gold?” asked Ratface with sudden interest.
“Gold be damned,” said the other man, “don’t let him gammon you!”
“I mean the gold that was on board The Friends. Jack told me about it. Buckley’s men hid it and never told the Customs.”
“Who told you?”
“Jack Rattenbury.”
“You know Jack?”
“Well, I should do.”
“And he said there was gold aboard this craft?”
“One time there was. Isn’t that what you were looking for?”
“No, we weren’t. But we found this! “ Rat
face pointed to a half anker (or small keg) which stood on a locker, masking the deadlight on that quarter. “We was just a-going to open it when you had to come blundering aboard. If there had been gold we should ha’ found it.”
“Even if lashed to the keel?”
“This berth dries out with the ebb.” They were spiking the keg as they talked and Ratface was finally able to taste the contents, having spilt some into the palm of his hand. He spat it out again with an oath. “Stinkibus!”
“Spoilt, eh?” asked Delancey, who had never heard the term used before.
“Stinkibus, that’s what. It’s been in salt water for months, maybe for years. Stinkibus!”
“I could give you something better.” “Well, where is it?”
“Untie me first. Can’t you see that I’m a moonraker myself?”
“Just because you know Jack? That’s nothing. Anyone could know him who lived round Christchurch.”
“I know someone else.”
“Who, then?”
“I know John Early.” There was an abrupt change of atmosphere and Delancey knew that he had made a big impression.
“So you know John Early? Why didn’t you say so before? We wouldn’t be wanting to offend the Squire of Milton Abbas! Not by no means! Untie his wrists, Will. This genelman is in the trade and sails by moonlight. I’ll wager we can trust him.” Will did as he was told and insisted on shaking hands to prove that there were no hard feelings. He was a big man, strong as a horse and without a brain in his head.
“Well, where is it?” asked Ratface. Delancey produced the bottle from his coat-tail pocket and handed it over. “I want my share, mind!” This demand was more perhaps than was reasonable for Will was born thirsty and Dan wanted something (he said) to take away the taste of stinkibus. They finished the bottle between them and went to sleep on the cabin floor.
Next day, unshaven, Delancey really looked the part being almost as shabby at Ratface himself. He felt in no way conspicuous as they walked to the Rose and Crown next morning to meet a number of their friends—whose leader seemed to be a one-eyed character called Henry Stevens. Such was the technical language used, interlarded with nicknames and local allusions, that Delancey learnt all too little. Henry was disappointed, it seemed, in the backsliding of a former colleague called Isaac Hartley. He kept returning to this theme, regretting that Ike should have turned Methodist—he of all people—and given up the trade. Stories followed of how Ike had fooled the revenue men. No one, it seemed, had been more generally useful—as Stevens himself had to admit—and no one had a cellar better hidden. It was all due to his marrying Hannah, the daughter of David Mercer. Dave was a sort of lay preacher himself—damn the fellow!—and Hannah had been brought up in that hymn-singing crowd. Henry spoke of Ike’s conversion with all the sorrow that chapel-goers bestow on those who have fallen from grace. “One thing I’ll say for him,” said Henry. “He’s never split on his old-time friends. He told me he never would and he hasn’t.” From subsequent remarks it would seem that Ike’s silence was well-advised. “What does Ike do for a living these days?” asked Delancey of Dan. “He’s a ship’s chandler with a place in Hog Lane,” came the reply. But Henry was still bewailing the loss of a friend. “Why, I ask why should he go and turn preacher? I’d rather be a loblolly boy or a Frenchie! I’ll never speak to him again, the scow-bunking lubber!” More ale was called for and all agreed that Ike had been disloyal and ungrateful and that he deserved to be married to that sallow-faced Hannah.
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