“Quiet!” hissed Delancey, priming his pistols. The boat edged silently towards a small jetty from which came the sound of barrels being rolled along planks. Against the starlit sky Delancey could just make out the two pole masts of what was probably a lugger and certainly not the Dove. Slowly and gently the boat came alongside the vessel, covered by the noise of her unloading. “Four with me,” whispered Delancey. “Coxswain, take the boat and land with three men at the other end of the jetty. Leave one man in charge of the boat.” Silently he swung up the side of the lugger and saw that the deck was dimly lit by a lantern wedged in a corner where the light could not be seen outboard. There were five men on deck, two working a hoist and the others on the gangplank. Several more could be heard moving on the jetty, one of them whistling as he did so.
“Stop that noise!” said a voice of command and the whistling stopped.
“Is that the lot, Ned?” came another voice from the jetty.
“Only six more,” came the voice again of the man who had called for silence.
Delancey realised that he had to act at once. Glancing round to see that his men were behind him, he fired a pistol into the air and called out, “Stay where you are in the king’s name. You’re all under arrest!” He then strode across the deck and placed himself on the gangplank, his men with him, their pistols levelled.
The smugglers’ immediate reaction was so prompt and expert that it had evidently been rehearsed. Someone blew a long blast on a whistle. The lantern was extinguished. The men on the jetty ran shorewards, leading their packhorses. Of the men on deck three managed to scramble to the jetty and run after the others. Two were immediately secured, and a third was trapped in the hold. From the shoreward end of the jetty came the sound of a skirmish, where the coxswain and his men were trying to stop the fugitives. Horses could be heard cantering on the peninsula and, more distant still, came the sudden shrill note of a cavalry trumpet. So the dragoons were there.
Looking about him Delancey saw that his capture was a vessel he had never seen before. “What’s the name of this craft?” he asked the man with the whistle, who replied, “The Mary Ellen of Weymouth—damn you.” He and the others were placed under guard in the cabin while Delancey went ashore to see how his coxswain had fared. Two packhorses had been secured together with a boy who had led one of them. The rest had escaped in the darkness, where the dragoons were presumably hunting them. Delancey had only moderate hopes of success ashore—the smugglers would know Newton Heath better than the soldiers could.
He walked back to the lugger reflecting on the irony of the situation. His plan to trap Sam Carter had completely failed. He had been fooled by more experienced opponents but one of them had gone too far, using a probably forged letter to send the Rose out of the way. This move seemed quite needless, for the Rose at Studland Bay would have been no real threat to the Mary Ellen in the South Deep. The sole result had been to arouse Delancey’s suspicions and bring him back to Poole harbour. All Delancey’s careful planning had ended in his missing the Dove and capturing another smuggling craft—one of which he had never heard. His main achievement had been in saving his reputation for sagacity.
At daybreak it became possible to take stock of the night’s seizure. Captain Molyneux appeared at the head of his troop and reported the capture of four more laden packhorses and two of the land smugglers. The rest had scattered over the heath and vanished. As for the Mary Ellen, she was a fair prize, caught with the last of her cargo still aboard, but she was not of any great value; an old vessel patched up, not worth a proper repair. Delancey had earned enough to live on for the next few months. Molyneux had something towards his gambling debts. The dragoons and revenue men were happy, having undoubtedly hidden about half the goods they had seized. The smugglers were resigned to their losses, knowing that seizures were bound to take place from time to time. As for the men of the Rose, they looked upon Delancey as an almost legendary hero. Less pleased with himself than the others could realize, Delancey took the Rose and Mary Ellen into Poole with mixed feelings. He now had some business to do ashore.
“Look, sir!” said Lane as they neared the Custom House wharf, “There’s the Dove!” And the Dove was indeed at anchor within a few cables distance. As Delancey went ashore the first man he met was Sam Carter. They both laughed and Delancey asked, “Where did I go wrong?” Sam was still more amused.
“Perhaps you play whist too well!” So Early had not been deceived by the acting. Once he was satisfied that Delancey was really a good player, he had disbelieved the story about Lulworth Cove. Assuming it to be the opposite of the truth he had ordered the signal to be made accordingly. Delancey’s wry reflections on his failure to play his part were interrupted by Sam Carter, who added, “No ill feelings, I hope?”—to which Delancey replied, “I could wish we had been on the same side.”
At the Custom House, Delancey insisted upon seeing Mr Withers alone. When Miller had reluctantly left the room, Delancey produced the letter and enclosure he had received off Swanage.
“Did you know of this letter, sir?”
“No, I was off duty that day.”
“You were shown it, no doubt, on the following day and told of the action that Mr Miller had taken?”
“The incident was mentioned, I think, but I did not see the letter itself.”
“Might I know your opinion of it?”
Mr Withers took up the letter again and examined it more carefully.
“Well,” he said at length. “I should suppose that ‘James Weston’ is an assumed name—one I have heard before in some connection. Letters of this sort come to us fairly often. The writer is himself engaged in illicit trade and has quarrelled with some rival. . . . No, I am wrong there. He has an interest in that craft you captured in the South Deep and wants to lead you away towards Christchurch.”
“And the handwriting, sir?”
“It is disguised.”
“Now compare it, if you will, with the handwriting of Mr Miller’s covering note.”
After a long pause Mr Withers looked up with a dazed expression and said at length:
“I see what you mean. . . .”
“The ‘James Weston’ handwriting is disguised, sir, as you say, but it was done in too much of a hurry. Some letters are still alike—look at the word ‘Studland’ in both of the documents. Look at the capital C in Collector—here—and then at the C in Christchurch, here. I submit, sir, that James Weston—known to be in secret correspondence with John Early—is Mr George Miller.”
Shaken as he was by this revelation, which he had to accept, Withers still had some resolution and dignity left. He sent his clerk to fetch Mr Miller and said nothing more until the deputy comptroller stood before him.
“Mr Miller,” said Withers slowly, “the acting commander of the Rose received yesterday off Swanage a letter from you and an enclosure. Both, in my opinion, are in the same handwriting. Their purpose was to mislead the revenue officers and I have reason to suspect that the writer has been in regular communication with a man to whom the illicit traders look for direction.” There was a tense pause and Withers concluded: “May I have your comment?”
“You may have it this instant, sir,” replied Miller, handing a document over. “I have spent the last twenty minutes in writing my letter of resignation, and I now confirm before this witness that I resign my office from today.”
Miller walked to the door but paused for a moment to add: “I mean to retire, sir. It is fortunate that I can afford to do so.”
PART THREE
Chapter Nine
THE PRIVATEER
WHEN RICHARD DELANCEY next had occasion to appear in the High Street at Poole, he had the novel sensation of being famous. He was not exactly popular but neither was he a person to be ignored. Ladies nudged each other, glancing his way, and men of substance stared more openly, grumbling a little perhaps about young men who seemed to be too clever by half. Although aware of being the centre of attention, Delancey was f
ar from feeling self-assured. His early successes had been due to his abilities being unknown and underrated. Now that he was thought to be ruthless and subtle his opponents would be forewarned and cautious. There would be no more accidental encounters like that with the Four Brothers of Shoreham. After fruitless cruising he would be back in Portsmouth by June, unemployed as before and as poor as ever.
Emerging from the stationers with his latest purchase—a copy of the Naval Atalantis by “Nauticus Junior” published in 1788—Delancey almost collided with Mr Withers.
“Ah, glad to see you, Captain! You must realize, I suppose, that everyone here is talking about you and that every gossip is eager for information.”
“I suspect, sir, that they chiefly want to know when I am going.”
“Some folk are a little apprehensive. . . . But here is a young lady who wishes to attract your attention. Heaven forbid that I should stand in her way! Good morning, Miss Hill! May I ask what has brought you to Poole?”
It was Louisa, as pretty as ever and as lacking in diffidence. “La, Mr Withers, I came in the hope of seeing you. But I’ll confess that the shops of Poole are a minor attraction, amazingly better than ours at Dorchester. Mr Delancey! How pleasant that we should meet like this! The truth is that I hoped to fall in with you, knowing that the Rose is in port. I wish you joy of your recent success.” “Your servant, Miss Hill—and thank you.”
“I will leave you two,” said Mr Withers, “but I shall be jealous if you flirt too much.”
“We shall be discretion itself,” replied Louisa, “for all the world knows that Mr Withers is my beau and I dare not risk losing his regard.”
After Mr Withers had gone Louisa produced a letter which came, as she explained, from Mr Early. “Knowing that I was to be in Poole today, he asked me to act as messenger.”
“I am vastly obliged to you, Miss Hill,” said Delancey, pocketing the letter, “and as obliged again to Mr Early for entrusting the missive to so charming a bearer.” Louisa dropped a little curtsey and they walked slowly on together. She looked about her as she chattered, missing nothing and glad to be seen in company with a man so much in the day’s news.
“You come from Guernsey, do you not?” said Louisa at the haberdasher’s door. “My cousin Harriet is engaged to an officer that was recently there—Mr Nash of the 42nd. It seems, however, that his regiment is to go overseas. Her last letter from him was dated from a transport at anchor in the Downs. He did not say so in so many words but I fancy that the regiment is going to the West Indies. Harriet still hopes that the order will be countermanded but in this she may be disappointed. His serving in the Indies may cause a broken engagement. At four and twenty, and with fifteen thousand in the funds, she can’t be expected to wait for ever.”
Delancey agreed in deploring long engagements. Louisa asked him what book he had bought and sniffed a little when she saw the title.
“I had thought it might be a novel. I have just read the Mysteries of Udolpho by Mrs Radcliffe and enjoyed it amazingly. Do you ever read novels, Mr Delancey—or only books on voyages and navigation?”
“I have read some novels but none, as yet, by Mrs Radcliffe. On your recommendation I shall hasten to procure the latest.”
“Pray do so, Mr Delancey. Now I must match a ribbon for my aunt. Goodbye and do not fail to call when next you come ashore.”
After parting from Louisa, Delancey opened the letter she had brought him and stood in a doorway to read it.
Dorchester,
March 9th, 1795
Dear Sir,
I write to congratulate you, first of all, on your success in attempting to suppress illicit trade on the Dorset coast. You have shown yourself to be an active officer in this temporary appointment and I am amazed to think that you have been denied the promotion in the navy to which, from your known abilities, you would seem to be entitled. Nor does it seem to me that the customs service has any great future to offer you. Had I any interest at the Admiralty I should not hesitate to exert it on your behalf. While having no such influence it happens to be in my power to serve you perhaps in another direction. I have friends in Guernsey, some of whom are partners in the ownership of a private man-of-war called the Nemesis of fourteen guns, built for the purpose, and commanded until recently by Mr Perelle. Having been fortunate on his last cruise, Mr Perelle has yielded to his wife’s entreaty and agreed to live ashore, which he can now afford to do. There is thus a captain’s vacancy and I have reason to believe that my friends in Guernsey will accept my nomination. Should you consent to serve as master of the Nemesis I think you will have a good prospect of success, she being fast, well-armed and well-manned. I have already written to my friends in St Peter Port, being sanguine enough to count on your acceptance. Take passage in the packet from Weymouth and call on Mr Elisha Jeremie (another whist player) at his house in St Martin’s. You will be kindly received and I shall look forward to hearing that you think well of the Nemesis. I have entrusted this letter to my fair cousin Louisa Hill and you may care to leave your answer at No 30 in the High Street. Trusting to receive a favourable reply,
I have the honour to remain, Sir,
Your most obliged ser’t,
John Early.
Having read the letter once, Delancey went back over it, mentally underlining the more significant words: “temporary,” “no great future,” “friends in Guernsey.” The letter really paid him a high compliment. As a threat to the free-traders he had to be removed and the best way to do this was to offer him a better appointment. If he refused there would be some other way of dealing with him, the easier to arrange in that his present command was merely temporary. There would be no profit for him if he remained, the goods being sent to places outside his cruising area. As for the Nemesis, she clearly belonged to Early, although managed by his Guernsey agents. She was a regular privateer, with some captures to her credit, and the offer was genuine. Early knew all about him, that much was evident and he appreciated Delancey’s skill as a whist player. On only one point was Delancey in doubt. Did Louisa mention Mrs Radcliffe’s novel in order to convey some other message or was that a chance reference to Louisa’s own tastes in literature? Very much on impulse, Delancey turned back to the stationers and asked for a copy of the Mysteries of Udolpho. One was produced at once, the stationer observing that it was much in demand, and Delancey returned to the Rose with books to read and a decision to make. Without much hesitation he decided to accept Mr Early’s offer.
Three days later the Rose sailed for Weymouth. From there she sailed, without Delancey, for Cowes, bearing her acting commander’s letter of resignation. Robert Lane, as acting commander, called for three cheers as the cutter left the quayside and Delancey stood for a moment at the salute. He knew that he had been a success and that he had even been popular. He felt a twinge of regret but remembered, as he turned away, that his was now to be a different trade. His career in the revenue service had come to an abrupt end, not through any failure on his part but through his being too competent. Nothing he had done would add to his reputation as a naval officer but the episode had added greatly to his self-confidence. He had seen an opportunity and grasped it. He had proved himself as a secret agent, as a commander, as a tactician. Without being uniformly successful, he had been treated by his opponents with respect. They had thought it worth their while to buy him off. The result was the prospect of a new and attractive command, the privateer Nemesis. He lost no time, therefore, in making his way to the packet which would sail for Guernsey that afternoon. As he watched her slip out of the harbour with the old town on one side, the wooded hillside on the other, he had the holiday sensation of leaving the seamanship to those responsible. For once he could admire the sunlight on the sail of a passing lugger without wondering about her possible activities. The sea was pale green in the light but shadowed with cloud and flecked with foam. The old packet was being held close to the southerly wind but was sagging to leeward. If the mainsail could be made to stand f
latter . . . but that, for once, was not his business.
Pacing the deck, Delancey tried to remember all he knew about privateering. He recalled vaguely that Letters of Marque were issued to vessels of two distinct species. In one class were ordinary armed merchantmen, shipping a cargo, which could sail without convoy and which might snap up a prize if the opportunity offered. Far fewer in number were the real privateers, sailing without a cargo and being regularly armed and manned for war. Some of these had been designed for commerce, and especially for the slave trade, but others were designed as men-of-war and had never been anything else. Several of these were based on Guernsey and more—he had been told—on Alderney. Privateer owners and officers were often, if not always, highly respectable men. There was nothing illegal about their business, he realized, but it could degenerate into piracy. The commander of a private man-of-war might thus be tempted to attack ships not under the enemy flag; neutral ships or (worst of all) ships under the British flag. The fact that the temptation was there was no proof, of course, that many succumbed to it. Most privateer officers kept within the letter of the law and regarded piracy as disgraceful—and, anyway, as highly dangerous.
The passage from Weymouth to Guernsey was prolonged by adverse winds and Delancey was glad to have brought some books with him. What he would have liked was a book on privateering but none, so far as he knew, had ever been published. The works he had available were those he had bought at Poole. The Naval Atalantis he found to be a collection of short biographies. The flag officers and captains portrayed were many of them painted in the brightest colours. Other characters were blackened, perhaps without much reason and certainly without any particular knowledge. He had to allow, nevertheless, that some of the sketches were at least amusing. He had to smile at the reference to Admiral Digby who had retired to live in his mansion near Weymouth. “And there let us leave him in his retreat from that honourable profession in which he was never calculated to shine with any great credit to himself or his country.” He was interested to note that a future flag officer had once commanded the Guernsey—a warship’s name that was new to him. Then he hunted for the names of officers with whom he had served, if only to the point of having seen them. Rear-Admiral the Hon. J. Leveson-Gower had barely more than a page: “The haughty demeanor, ill-judged consequence and illiterate superciliousness of this officer, unhappily for him, obscure some professional virtues. . . .” That, he thought, could be near the truth. What did the author say about Macbride? He was Irish, of course, and had been a member of Parliament for Plymouth. His private hobby was cock-fighting and—what was this?—”Not less a champion in the field of Venus than in that of Mars, the gallant captain was always a welcome guest where beauty held its court, generally carrying his conquests with equal success in either field. . . .” Good heavens! This was no description of the overworked man Delancey had seen at his littered desk. Of the officers mentioned some had enjoyed a belated success, he noted, their abilities having been overlooked for years. There was Vice-Admiral Milbanke, for example, whose career provided a striking instance of “merit, when sacrificed to pique or prejudice, may long lay dormant and disregarded.” That was true enough but, in his own case, did the merit exist? Did he really seek distinction in battle or did he merely want to make his fortune and live ashore? If he were to believe “Nauticus Junior” there were officers who had gained affluence in a day There was Captain Finch of the Porcupine (20)—hardly more heavily armed than the Nemesis—who captured a homeward-bound French Indiaman “so richly laden that he was ever afterwards distinguished by the appellation of the Goldfinch, his brother Seymour being also a captain in the navy.” As fortunate and more deserving it seemed, was another officer and one whom Delancey had actually met. This was Captain Henry Trollope who had commanded, as lieutenant, a cutter named the Kite. When war began with the Netherlands—at the end of 1780—the Kite swooped on the Dutch merchantmen, unaware many of them that hostilities had begun—and made a series of valuable captures. The author paid tribute to Trollope’s enterprise and added that “His manners in private life are correspondent with the excellence of his public character; and that he diffuses with liberality, in the milder scenes of retirement, the ample fortune which he acquired by his professional labours.”
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