Strange Capers

by Joan Smith

  “Not now, Miss Pethel,” the captain said, shaking off my arm.

  “This is urgent. Desperately important! Don’t you see? Aiglon has done this to tie you up while he seizes the shipment of arms!” I told him.

  “Good gracious, what put that in your head?” he asked, looking at me as though I were a moonling.

  “This is the night they arrive!”

  “No, no, tomorrow night, Miss Pethel.”

  “I tell you it’s a trick! You’ve got to stop him.”

  “My job is to stop Napoleon Bonaparte, miss, and I’d be grateful if you’d let me do it!” he hollered. He shook me off into the shadows in disgrace.

  He didn’t believe me. And neither would anyone else. I was the only person in the whole town who knew what was happening at Lord Ware’s dock just a scant few miles away. There was a little bay there, which made that bit of the coast invisible from town. But what could I do? I didn’t even have a gun. And I didn’t have transportation, either.

  That last necessity wasn’t impossible to overcome. There were any number of carriages and mounts gathered around the Leas. I edged to the back of the throng, aware of the curious eyes following me, but soon the crowd’s attention was diverted by the show Cokewell and his men were putting on. I stood quietly until no own was looking, and during this time I picked out my mount. There was a white mare tethered to a tree a little apart from the others. Best of all, there was a pistol wrapped in fustian and attached to the saddle. Several of the wagons had hunting guns in them, too, but a horse would be easier to get away on.

  I eased myself toward the white mare, unfastened her line, and walked her off a few yards from the throng. No one seemed to notice. As soon as I got behind some trees, I pulled myself up into the saddle and took off. I wished I had Jeremy and Jake or some men with me, but there was no one I recognized or trusted. They were somewhere in that troop of Cokewell’s, impossible to get at. The mare didn’t like having an unknown rider and gave me some trouble at first, but I spoke gently to her until I was beyond hearing, then urged her on to a gallop.

  When I reached the highway it was deserted. There wasn’t a soul on the road except me. I had the eerie sensation of being the last person alive in the world. I flew through the black night, with the white moon shining down on me, hastening to Lord Ware’s home. I recognized the perimeters of his land when I reached his spinney and took the short cut through it. Here the moonlight vanished, and I picked my way more slowly along the horse trail, listening for any unusual sounds.

  Ware Castle soon rose up in the distance, a great gray stone giant brooding over the water. I saw lights in two of the upper windows before I could see the bottom part of the house. When I was close enough that I required more stealth, I dismounted and went forward on foot, not forgetting to unwrap the pistol and take it with me. There was a bare, unprotected area between the spinney and the house, which I traversed by hunching down low and running as fast as I could.

  Soon I was in the home garden, with the rear wall of the castle before me. I wanted to go around to the front, which would give me a view of the sea and what was going forth there. I flattened myself against the wall, thankful for my gray gown which disappeared against the stone facade. I inched forward, ears cocked. Before I reached the front of the building, I heard stealthy sounds. There were a few words spoken in voices I didn’t recognize. I didn’t recognize the words, either, for they were in colloquial French. Any doubt that I had been mistaken in my fears now vanished. This was the time and the place where the guns were being sold to the French. There was only one more point to verify, and that was that Aiglon was a part of it.

  I crept forward, inch by inch, till I could peek around the front of the castle. There was a whole line of huge crates there, and in the darkness of night, men were unloading heavy boxes and carrying them down to the wharf, with two men for each box. One box had its top removed, revealing guns packed in sawdust. At the wharf, Lord Ware’s old ship had a gangplank placed to allow easy loading of the cargo. I tried to count the number of men and lost track at eighteen. How was I ever to stop so many armed men? For they were armed. In fact, it was the duty of two husky brutes to do nothing but stand with pistols cocked, looking all around for intruders.

  I recognized Mickey Dougherty. He stood just at the top of the gangplank directing the loaders where to stow the boxes. I looked around for Aiglon, praying he wouldn’t be there. There was the sound of a door opening, and suddenly two of the Frenchies turned toward the castle. “C’est le patron, “ one of them said. I waited to see who would emerge as the chief of the operation. Would it—impossible thought—be Napoleon Bonaparte himself? The boots that strode down the steps had an arrogant, imperial sound to them. My heart beat like a drum in my throat during those interminable few seconds while I waited for le patron to show himself.

  He strode boldly out into the white moonlight, and I recognized the unmistakable outline of Lord Aiglon. He rattled off some French. One of the French guards darted away and returned with their leader. The man in charge of the French part of the expedition carried something in his hand, some sort of bag. He delved into it with his other hand, and came out with a fistful of golden coins. They poured from his fingers like rain to be caught in Aiglon’s outspread hands. Fury burned in my throat. And still I had not come up with a reasonable means of stopping this despicable treachery.

  Lights were called for. Aiglon examined the coins, hefted them, rubbed his fingers over their surface to be sure he wasn’t receiving counterfeit. At last he appeared to be satisfied and called for “le vin pour tout e monde. “ Right there, in front of Lord Ware’s castle, wineglasses were distributed and wine poured.

  Mickey Dougherty wasn’t likely to pass up a glass of wine and came running to join the party. “Let’s not dally with this, Aiglon. Get them shoved away from shore aussitôt que possible, and all that,” Mickey advised.

  “You underestimate me, Mick. The burning stacks will keep the town and Cokewell entertained for several hours. Best to leave nothing to chance,” Aiglon replied, as calmly as though he were in a polite saloon. He even proposed a toast in French.

  And still I didn’t see my way clear to tackling so many men. I thought if I could get either Aiglon or the French leader at my gun’s point, the others might do as they were told, but I was by no means sure of it. The cowardly thought occurred that I could always have the English half of this team arrested after the French had escaped and at least bring them to justice. But then those crucial guns, which were needed here, would be off to France to arm Boney’s waiting soldiers. No, I had to do something now before the arms left in that boat.

  It was either desperation or lunacy or both that propelled me from the shadows. No one noticed me as I glided forth. I advanced a few steps and drew a target on Lord Aiglon’s chest. And then I didn’t know what to say. The most frightening words I knew were those spoken by highwaymen, so I said, “Stand and deliver.” My voice shook, but my gun held fairly steady.

  A shocked silence settled over the men. They looked at each other, then to their respective leaders for orders. It was Mickey who recognized me.

  He uttered some unrepeatable curses, ending in the words, “By God, it’s Constance Pethel!”

  Aiglon didn’t say a word. He peered through the shadows, trying to determine whether it was indeed me. The moon shone full on his face, turning it a ghastly white. He looked like a statue dressed up in a topcoat and breeches. I was so busy staring at him that I missed what the others were doing. I didn’t realize that part of the tableau had come to life, that the French patron had drawn his pistol and cocked it. I just saw Aiglon’s arm fly out, and later thought that he was trying to deflect the bullet’s direction. I saw a flash of orange from the Frenchman’s gun, heard a deafening roar, and jumped back. My head hit the corner of the stone castle, and I was momentarily stunned by the impact.

  When I opened my eyes, I was lying flat on the ground, being examined for bullet wounds by A
iglon, who was cursing a blue streak. I sat up and saw that Mickey was harrying the Frenchies aboard. I had failed. My head reeled with the shock of sitting up. Blue and purple wheels spun in crazy circles, bright yellow spears flashed in between, and somewhere in the dim background was the creak of sails being raised and their direction taken. As it was too late to do more, and as I had failed so miserably, dying seemed like a good idea. I closed my eyes and tried to die, but my ears went on tending to business. They recognized the sound of Mickey’s voice.

  “There’s a good night’s work then,” he said cheerfully. “What seems to ail Constance?”

  “I don’t feel any blood,” Aiglon replied. His hands traveled up my neck, over my head, and back down my body. I pushed them away weakly, but they continued to flutter over me.

  “She’s keeled over with shock at such a mauling as you’re giving her. Constance isn’t used to that kind of carrying on. How’d she know we were here?” Mickey asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” Aiglon growled, and raised my head onto his arm. “Constance. Constance, speak to me,” he ordered. His voice was ragged with worry.

  “Traitor!” I tried to sneer it, but it came out in a whining, mewling whimper. His face was a blurred, black scowl above me.

  “I see you’ll have your hands full talking away this night’s work,” Mickey said. “I’ll go and bring Cokewell and a few of the lads to help us round up our French friends. It shouldn’t be too long. I wish I could stick around for the show.”

  “Go ahead,” Aiglon said distractedly. When he spoke again a moment later, his voice was much firmer. “Drop the bag, Mick.”

  “Now if I didn’t go and forget I’d picked it up at all.” Mickey laughed and tossed the bag of gold at Aiglon’s feet.

  I feared my brains had become addled by my fall. Why would Mickey bring Cokewell when they had succeeded so well in evading him all night? Their French friends had already left. The show was over except for the show of concern Aiglon was putting on for my benefit. He was trying to pull my head against his chest while he comforted me with soothing phrases.

  “Get your hands off me, you despicable wretch!” I said, wrenching away from him.

  He released me at once and threw his hands up in the air as though still at gunpoint. “That ain’t no way to treat a hero, Constance,” he cautioned.

  “You may be a hero to your French pals; don’t expect any medals from King George!”

  “My darling idiot, you’ve already made a jackass of yourself tonight. Don’t make yourself a flaming jackass.”

  His words were hard, but his smile was soft. Though I hadn’t yet figured out what was going on, I knew it wasn’t what I had thought and feared. “Oh, Aiglon, have I really?”

  “Most assuredly, a prime jackass.”

  “I’m so glad!” I breathed, and went into a real, honest-to-goodness swoon in his arms.

  My head ached abominably. My blistered heel was burning; every muscle in my arms and legs ached from my long walk, the climb up the hill, and the exertion of riding astride when I wasn’t accustomed to it. I hadn’t put on a pelisse when I fled the house, and it was freezing cold by the water. I didn’t even want to think of how I must look, but, in spite of it all, I was at peace.

  Then I realized that Aiglon was restless. Once he was convinced I wasn’t seriously hurt, he began moving his position about to get a look at the sea. “What are you doing, Aiglon?” I complained.

  “I’m just looking at the boat,” he answered vaguely.

  “The navy is going to intercept it, isn’t it?” I asked. “The French aren’t going to get away with our guns at all.”

  “No, the navy has nothing to do with this.”

  “But how are you going to get the guns back?”

  “What guns? There aren’t any guns on that boat.”

  “I saw them with my own eyes,” I insisted. It occurred to me that I might not have gotten to the bottom of the story yet, but I was loathe to make a greater fool of myself than I already had.

  “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem, Constance.”

  He stood up and peered out to sea. I got to my feet and did the same. “I’m very glad to hear it,” I said, “for it certainly seems to me that you sold those guns to the Frenchies, and the boat is rapidly sailing to France.”

  “Yes, it looks that way, doesn’t it?” he asked. There was a frown pleating his brow.

  “If you counted on Mickey Dougherty to perform any vital part of this plan, Aiglon, you’re a worse jackass than I am.”

  “Oh, my God! You don’t suppose he double-crossed me?” Aiglon gasped.

  “A flaming jackass,” I said weakly.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  “Aiglon, that boat is sinking!” I exclaimed. It took me two or three minutes to realize it, for its submersion into the sea was slow. As it pulled straight away from shore, nothing unusual could be detected, but as it tacked out of the bay into the channel, it was perfectly clear that the stern was listing badly. “The guns are going to be lost! Do something, Aiglon! Cokewell needs those guns desperately!”

  He looked down at me and smiled a reckless smile that belonged on a buccaneer’s swarthy face. “Yes, I really must leave you now, my Inconstant one. Duty calls.”

  He was gone, and after he’d taken a dozen paces, he was lost in the shadows of the night. I didn’t know what he was doing until I saw a sleek prow pull out into the bay following the Frenchmen’s boat. I darted down to the wharf, and though visibility was imperfect, I was pretty sure it was Retchling at the helm.

  Various dark forms darted about, one of them presumably Aiglon. I didn’t recognize the ship, but I knew it wasn’t Mickey’s lugger. It skimmed speedily, effortlessly through the water like a shark or a mermaid. As soon as the simile occurred to me, I tentatively identified the ship.

  The next few minutes were very interesting, indeed. I envisaged a chase, a minor sea battle, but it was nothing of the sort. The Mermaid could easily have overtaken the other boat, but she trimmed her sails and dallied about till the other boat sank slowly into the sea, its cargo lost forever. I understood then that her function was to pick up the French sailors who had plunged into the water to avoid going down with their ship. By the eerie silver light of the moon, I saw the French being hauled aboard. As no mutiny ensued, I assumed that one of Aiglon’s men was cajoling them into docility with a gun. It was a well-managed affair but for the little matter of having lost our guns!

  It occurred to me, as the Mermaid returned to shore, that keeping a savage bunch of Frenchmen in line would be less than peaceful, and was very relieved when Cokewell, Dougherty, and about half of the militia arrived at Ware Castle. They ran down to the dock and stood, a fearsome sight, with their axes and shovels, and, in a few cases, their guns, at the ready. Personally, I’d prefer death by bullet to death by an axe. I began to think those rude arms had been underestimated. The blades glinting in the moonlight lent a barbaric touch that would frighten any enemy to death.

  I had the glory of being the only female in all of Folkestone and its environs to witness the capture of the French bandits. To avoid being a nuisance to the men, I hung quietly in the background to learn what I could. As soon as Aiglon had leaped to shore, he went running toward Captain Cokewell, and I eased closer to listen.

  “I’m not entirely happy with this affair, Lord Aiglon,” Cokewell said. “My understanding was that it was to be tomorrow night.” The rough timbre of his voice suggested that his moustache would be jiggling.

  “Unfortunately, things speeded up at the last minute and we had to move swiftly. With the invasion alarm throwing us all into confusion, it was impossible to ask you to join us. I knew you had more important things to do. The safety of the people is in your hands,” Aiglon explained, with a few more splatters from the butter boat to ease Cokewell’s ire.

  “That’s true. I couldn’t have abandoned my post, but I regret missing this little skirmish all the same,”
he answered, somewhat mollified. “But the arms are safe, are they?”

  I perked up my ears to hear how Aiglon would explain away this contretemps. “Safe as a babe in his mother’s arms. They’re in Lord Ware’s cellar.”

  “What the devil are they doing there? They were to be dropped off at my depot!” Cokewell howled.

  “True, but the last time they were headed to your depot, they went astray, as you may recall,” Aiglon reminded him. “It’s been decided in London that each volunteer will take his rifle to his own home. In that way, no mass theft is possible, and the men will have their guns near them at all times.”

  “Trust London to come up with some impracticable plan,” Cokewell complained, but he was so eager to see the arms that he soon pressed on to demand a trip to Lord Ware’s cellar.

  Apparently what he saw there pleased him. He was in his element during the next half hour setting guards on the Frenchies, marching them off to Folkestone, and arranging temporary safety for the arms in the cellar and eventual transportation of them to town.

  If one person enjoyed the night more than Cokewell, it was Retchling. A new side of him surfaced. I daresay his managing powers were even more muscular than his Pensées. He prodded a gun into the prisoners’ backs with great relish and threatened the most dire consequences if they so much as looked a revolt.

  Mickey Dougherty was hanging around the edges of the group, keeping a surprisingly low profile. When I could learn nothing from Aiglon about how the guns had magically not been on the ship when I saw them being loaded with my own eyes, I decided to ask Mickey.

  “One box of guns had to be sacrificed,” he admitted sadly. “We knew the Frenchies would want one opened.”

  “But how did you know which one they would open, and what was in the others?” I asked.

  “That’s where my particular familiarity with the French breed was helpful to his lordship.” He smiled modestly. “I was able to tell him they’d demand that the box on the very bottom of the pile was the one to be hauled out and opened, so that’s the one we had guns in. We loaded the others up with rocks. Packed in sawdust to muffle the sound, you know. The shipment arrived here this afternoon. You’d have heard maybe that my stepda bought a great load of stone statues for his garden? They came all crated, by sea, and were put ashore this very afternoon.” A broad wink explained what was really in the crates.