Devil to Pay

by C. Northcote Parkinson

  “Are they not tempted, then, to make a direct contract with them, accepting a regular share and agreeing otherwise to leave them alone?”

  Mr Payne was genuinely shocked at this suggestion and his reply was uttered in terms of pained surprise: “Really, sir, I hope you do not regard the men of the revenue service as dishonest? I never heard of such an infamous agreement being made or even proposed. I would have you know, sir, that our men have a strict sense of duty. They will put to sea in the teeth of a gale. They will engage their opponents with resolution. Many have been killed in action and others, more fortunate, have lived to receive the commendation of the Board for their loyalty and courage. We have good reason to be proud, sir, of the men who are employed by the Commissioners of Customs.”

  Delancey hastened to assure Mr Payne that he was filled with admiration for the revenue men and that he looked forward to serving alongside them. He realized that theirs was an arduous and hazardous service and one of great importance to the realm. Mr Payne was presently mollified and induced to go into practical details. Delancey would be sworn at once, the lawyer attending for the purpose, and this was done. It was agreed that he should take over the command at midday and that he should receive an immediate advance of twenty guineas; enough at least to provide him with cabin stores. It was agreed, finally, that he should sail almost immediately for Portsmouth where he needed to collect his gear and give up his lodging. That done, he would take his cutter to sea, cruising towards Beachy Head. Delancey did not reveal his plans in detail, not even to the collector. After being shaved at the barbers he kept an appointment made for him by Mr Payne with Mr Robert Edgell, Supervisor of Riding Officers. That worthy turned out to be an ex-corporal of Dragoon Guards, surly at first but responsive to the idea of making some money. Delancey told him no more than was necessary but spoke frankly about his sources of information. “You’ve done very well, sir, if I may say so,” said Edgell finally. “You mind me of Mr Buckley, who always knew what he was about. But how will you board the cutter without anyone seeing you?” Delancey had overlooked this problem but realized that his plan would fail if Harry Stevens was to realize that his boon companion of Saturday night was commander of the Rose by Monday afternoon. There was still time for Sam Carter to receive warning and make his run at another place on another night. Edgell solved the problem by lending Delancey the sort of costume a riding officer would wear; a dark cloak, spurred riding boots and a low-crowned hat to pull down over his forehead.

  They went down to the quayside with Delancey carrying his own overcoat as a parcel and looking for all the world like one of Edgell’s men. At the Custom House Wharf Mr Edgell saw Delancey safely into the boat and when Mr Payne appeared, a little late, handed him down into the sternsheets. The boat was pushed off and rowed down the harbour to where the Rose rode at single anchor, provisioned for three weeks and ready for sea.

  Mr Payne boarded the Rose with dignity and was received by the mate, Mr Tom Lane, with the crew paraded on deck. Delancey followed a minute later, leaving his borrowed gear in the boat. He remained modestly in the background while Mr Payne addressed the crew.

  “You all know, men, that Mr Ryder has been hurt in an accident and will not be on duty again for some time to come. I have decided, therefore, to appoint a temporary commander. He joins the cutter today and I present him to you: Lieutenant Richard Andros Delancey of the Royal Navy, an officer of great experience, lately commanding the cutter Royalist. Strictly obey his orders and this next cruise will bring you success.”

  Having no warning of this, the Rose’s men were taken by surprise and Lane the mate, for one, seemed to be offended. Delancey decided to waste no time. “Hands to the capstan and halliards!” he shouted. “Prepare to make sail.” Ordering Mr Lane to take charge of the deck, he saw Mr Payne over the side and said goodbye to him. As he watched the cable hauled in, the mainsail and jib set, he felt a keen sense of pleasure. The deck was alive under his feet. The wind sang in the rigging. He was at sea again! There was a stiff westerly breeze and it was cold to the point of freezing but he hardly noticed even the spray in his face. He knew all too well that the craft was new to him and that he was liable to hesitate or blunder. If the crew sensed his ignorance they would lack confidence from the outset. “Lay a course for Portsmouth, helmsman,” he said to the man at the wheel. “Come below, Mr Lane, and show me the chart.” In the cabin the mate produced the chart but Delancey hardly looked at it. “Now tell me quickly, Mr Mate, what is our tonnage, our draught, our armament and crew?” The Rose, it appeared, measured 154 tons, mounted twelve 4-pounders and two 9-pounders, carried a chest of small arms and was handled by a crew of 22 including the commander, chief mate, second mate and two deputed mariners. “Very well,” said Delancey. “Who is the second mate? John Torrin? And the other two? Netley and Wansbrough? Right. Who is the man with red hair, the one with the squint, the man at the wheel, the man at the lookout?” In a matter of seconds Delancey had bounded on deck again and was giving the helmsman the exact course to clear Gilkicker Point. “Right, Wilkins, steady as she goes. What’s that craft Miller—on the starboard bow? Flake down the halliards, Jackson and Field!” He was able to give the impression of knowing every man by name even while asking Mr Torrin for the names of the rest. He set the square mainsail for the run to leeward and then struck it again in approaching Portsmouth. The men were evidently on their mettle, anxious to show a naval officer that they were proper seamen and better than would be found in a frigate. There were certainly fewer of them than would have manned a naval craft of similar tonnage. While not smart in the way that Delancey knew, they did the work quickly and quietly. There was none of that singing which naval officers deplored, the bellowing of the shanty which could be heard aboard the average merchantman. What would they be like in action? He decided to leave that test until tomorrow. For the moment it was enough to enter Portsmouth on the flood, drop anchor and lower a boat. The light was fading as he stepped ashore, followed by Davis, the man who was to serve as his steward. He picked up a longshoreman with a barrow and agreed on a shilling to be paid for his services. Delancey shivered a little in his shoddy greatcoat and walked quickly towards his lodging in Ropewalk Lane.

  From his lodging Delancey sent his luggage on board the Rose and told the coxswain to return to the Hard at four o’clock. It was his duty, he knew, to call on Mr Ryder.

  So much had happened since Delancey was last at the Star and Garter that he was almost surprised to learn that Mr Ryder was still there and unfit to be moved. Delancey was shown to the sick-room without any hesitation or argument. Ryder looked white and far from well but he thanked his visitor for calling and was glad to have news of the Rose. He had been told of Delancey’s temporary appointment in a letter from Mr Payne. “I am obliged to you, sir, for accepting the command without pay. That fifty pounds a year is now all I have but you will have nothing until you secure a prize. There was little I ever made in that way but I shall pray for your better success. There are smugglers enough at sea. It is merely a question of finding them!”

  “When will you be able to return home?”

  “Next week, Mr Winthrop says.”

  “I am sure that will speed your recovery. It should be of value to me, in the meanwhile, if you could tell me something about the men I have to command. Tell me about Mr Lane.”

  “Bob has served all his time in the Revenue Service. He is a good reliable seaman and has never cost us so much as a broken spar. He knows the law and he can recognize a moonraking craft on even the darkest night. He lacks enterprise, though, and chief mate is as high as he should go.”

  “And John Torrin?”

  “Not as careful a man as Bob but better in action. He’ll command a cutter some day.”

  “What is a deputed mariner?”

  “A seaman who has been sworn in as a deputy customs officer. There has to be one in each boat and he is usually the coxswain.”

  “I see. Are all the men loyal?”
/>   “We should not employ them if their loyalty was in question.”

  “Let me put that question in different words. If any one of your crew were to pass information to the smugglers, which man would it be?”

  “My dear sir! I should hate to think ill of any seaman under my command. There is no good reason to suspect any one of them.”

  “But suppose that intelligence of our plans had actually reached Sam Carter? Suppose that the facts were known and could be proved beyond all shadow of doubt?”

  “Really, sir, you face me with a dilemma. . . . With great reluctance—and since you insist—I should first question Michael Williams.”

  “The man who has lost a finger? Why?”

  “His sister is married to Nick O’Brien and Nick is cousin to Dan Palmer.”

  “I see.”

  “But please don’t misunderstand me. I say nothing against Mike Williams and have heard nothing against him.”

  “I am glad to hear it and I hope to be able to say as much.” Delancey looked round the room with a swift glance and asked whether the service at the Inn was good.

  “Very good, I thank you,” said Mr Ryder. “And I have had many visitors. Mr Grindall could not have been kinder and I expect his nephew to call at any moment. He has been entered as acting second mate in the Rapid cutter based on Southampton. The cutter is at Spit-head and I understand that young Mr Fowler is ashore on some errand for Mr Madden. He will be glad to join us in a glass of wine.”

  Delancey explained that his visit had to be brief but he was still explaining this when Fowler arrived. They greeted each other, again with restraint on Fowler’s side, and finally left together. Sensing an opportunity, Delancey asked Fowler to convey a message to Mr Madden. Walking down to the Hard, he gave a brief outline of his plans:

  “All this,” he concluded, “is in strictest confidence. This is Monday and I am expecting the Dove lugger to make a run on either Wednesday or Thursday night. If the Rapid will cruise on each of those two nights between the Foreland and the Nab, she will be in position to intercept. She should not be seen from the Isle of Wight in daylight. Prize-money to be shared equally.”

  “What if she heads the other way, sir?”

  “Then we keep the prize. You can point out to Mr Madden that I am providing the intelligence upon which the plan is based.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll tell him. I should think he will agree.”

  They walked on in silence for a minute or so and then Fowler said something of what was on his mind.

  “It is strange, sir, our meeting again. There are things I should like to forget. I still have nightmares and wake in a sweat, thinking I am back in the Artemis, or giving evidence again at the court martial.”

  Delancey looked keenly at the young man and asked, rather sharply: “Do you talk in your sleep?”

  “How can I tell sir? Nobody has told me that I do.”

  “You have a cabin to yourself?”

  “A small one, sir.”

  “It is certainly better that you should. But it might be better still if you lived ashore, away from scenes which remind you of events better forgotten.”

  “How can I, sir? There is only the one trade to which I have been bred.”

  “You would be better, then, on board a merchantman.”

  “Even in wartime, sir?”

  “Listen, young man. You have nightmares about the experiences you had in the Artemis, and very distressing they were, I’ll allow. But ours is not a profession for the squeamish. If the thought of these past events were to keep me awake I should not be fit to hold a commission. In the navy our trade is war. Is that the trade you ought to pursue? I beg leave to question it. You would be happier in commerce.”

  “I should be happier ashore—I know that. Thank you for your advice, sir.”

  They came to the Hard where Delancey’s boat was already waiting, perhaps ten minutes before it had to be there. The light was failing even at this hour on that wintry day and Delancey was eager to embark. Saying goodbye to young Fowler, whose boat could be seen approaching, Delancey stepped into the Rose’s gig and told the men to push off.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” said the coxswain, “one of the men has gone to get some pepper for the cook. You have come a little sooner than we expected, sir.”

  “You also came in sooner than you were told to do. Who is it that is ashore?”

  “Williams, sir.”

  “I see. I shall give him five minutes.”

  Delancey left the gig and paced up and down on the quayside. He had to decide what to do about this breach of discipline. He was not, at the moment, in the navy. He could not expect the punctual and exact obedience on which he would ordinarily insist. Nor did he know the standards of discipline to which these revenue men were accustomed. He decided to utter no more than a word of warning. Odd, however, that it should be Williams. How easy it was to be too suspicious; how easy to make a fuss about nothing. . . . More than five minutes had passed before there came the sound of hurrying feet. The missing man, still out of breath, found himself face to face with his new skipper, still very much an unknown quantity. He quickly decided to bluff his way out of it.

  “Well?” said Delancey, coldly.

  “Beg pardon, sir. I was running an errand for the cook. I wasted no time, sir, and ran most of the way back.”

  “What was your errand, Williams?”

  “To fetch some pepper, sir.”

  “And the cook told you to do this?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did you do anything else?” “Oh, no, sir.”

  “Very well. Into the boat; and don’t let this happen again, coxswain. Boat’s crew must stay in the boat. Push off, Watson.”

  When the gig was alongside the Rose Delancey told the boat’s crew to remain in the boat. Going on deck, he then sent for the cook and asked him whether he was short of pepper.

  “No, sir.”

  “You did not send ashore for some?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you send Williams on any other errand?”

  “No, sir.”

  Delancey then ordered the boat’s crew on deck and addressed them. “I don’t know what sort of discipline you have had on board this cutter. It may be a new idea to you that you should obey orders. It is certainly a new idea to some of you that you should speak the truth. What I want you to know and remember is that your chance of making prize-money depends upon doing exactly what you are told. I’ll not inquire further into Williams’ errand ashore. But I’ll have no more of it. You have your duty to do and I have mine. Set an anchor watch, Mr Lane. The remainder can turn in. We shall sail before first light.”

  Delancey was uncertain, in fact, what punishment (if any) he could inflict. In any case, it was better to make little of Williams’ offence. It meant nothing in all likelihood (some tobacco, perhaps, or a girl) but, supposing the worst, it would be better to lull Williams into a false sense of security. There was nothing against him as yet and what information, anyway, had he to sell? He could warn Carter that the Rose had a new fire-eating skipper from the navy but that was nothing in itself. What would the average naval lieutenant know about free-trading? Thinking on these lines, Delancey realized, almost with a shock, that he was not an average lieutenant. He had begun to expect more of himself than of anyone else. In what way? After a fresh effort he decided that most men would think that a certain amount of effort, whether physical or mental, was “good enough.” The question he was learning to ask was different. “Could anything more have been done? Could anything more be done now?” Well, what was the answer? It was obvious as soon as the question was asked. Something should be done to put Sam Carter off his guard. How? Why, to tell him that the Rose would be off Beachy Head on Thursday and Friday. Make that known in Portsmouth on the day before the Dove was to sail from Poole? There was not time enough, and, anyway, the Dove must have sailed already for Alderney. . . . Delancey unrolled the chart and began to make calculations o
n an odd piece of paper, placing the tide-table at his elbow. Then he tore them up, realizing that he had forgotten the central fact that the Dove would sail after dark. Beginning again, he guessed that she would reach Alderney on Tuesday in daylight, spend the next day in shipping her cargo, sail at about nightfall on Wednesday and arrive off Sandown Bay on——But that was all too late! Sam was to visit Molly on Thursday or Friday, which meant that he had to unload his cargo near Poole on Wednesday night after calling, earlier at Sandown Bay. This meant sailing from Poole on Sunday (yesterday) rather than today. . . . Any scheme of deception would have to wait until another time. There was nothing to be done now.

  Further calculations were interrupted by the arrival of Mr Lane and Mr Torrin to join him for supper. He realized now that a cutter’s commander could not live alone like the captain of a man-of-war. If this was an unwelcome discovery it was softened by the realization that the food would be fresh, with bread instead of hard tack and beer instead of grog. The meal was simple but Delancey was able to offer his mates a glass of wine to follow. They drank the King’s health and “Success to the Rose!” and then settled down to a discussion about the cutter’s sail-plan, rig and armament. One fact which soon emerged was that the crew never had target practice. No allowance was made for it by the Treasury so that gun-drill, performed at least weekly, stopped short of actually firing. Delancey was shocked by this discovery, which seemed to put the revenue men at an appalling disadvantage. Mr Lane disputed this, arguing that smugglers would be still less likely to spend powder and shot on a mere exercise. Noise was the last thing they wanted.

  “Aside from that,” said Mr Torrin, “these smugglers of today are not like the men who made up the Hawkhurst Gang a lifetime back. They don’t commit murder for the pleasure of killing. They don’t fight at all if they can avoid it. Like the rest of us, they just want to make money. So we don’t expect battle and murder, not in the ordinary way. It is wartime, we know, and there’s the chance that we might fall in with a French privateer. That’s how we lost Mr Buckley: there was no call for him to go after her the way he did. But he was always a fighter was Mr Buckley and never counted the odds against him.” Anecdotes were told about other revenue craft but Delancey brought the conversation back to the subject of target practice.