by Alaric Bond
“And the other option?” he asked, after a moment.
“Or they can join one of the gangs in the area,” she said, in a rush. “Work as free traders, and earn more in one night than they would all week elsewhere.”
He stiffened slightly, but she was already well into her speech.
“There's little risk and hardly any discomfort, so a good few have chosen that line.”
“I am certain of it,” he said, his tone deliberately neutral. “But you say little risk; surely they must fear capture? Prison or impressment must be the least of their worries: some may hang.”
Her head lowered momentarily, and he thought his words must have upset her. For a second he considered tempering them, but she had begun to speak again.
“A few are caught, to be sure, and yes, the penalties can be harsh. But many about here share the proceeds of their work, and have an interest in seeing it continue. And some of those administer the law.”
That also should hardly have shocked him: the point had been rammed home often enough during his time at the Board of Customs, and later at Harwich. Smuggling required finance to purchase the contraband goods; those participating would either be a cooperative, with many taking an equal share and risk, or one man with sufficient funds to stake the purchase alone. That person, usually known as a venturer, was all too often a pillar of the community: a doctor, a member of the gentry, even a minister of religion or a magistrate. And when the law was administered by the local populace, with judge and jury being every bit as culpable as those in the dock, crime was liable to go unpunished.
“So, do you wish for the smuggling to cease?” he asked.
She paused at the end of the bridge and thought for a moment. “I would wish for another course, perhaps. But in truth the free traders are just part of the problem.”
Griffin waited, hoping she would continue, although the girl, it seemed, had had a change of heart. He glanced in her direction, but her gaze remained fixed into the middle distance, and he noticed she had coloured slightly.
“What then?” he tried eventually, and this time she did turn to him.
“I have spoken too much already.” Her tone was clipped and, although looking at his face, she avoided his eyes. “An' me not knowing you from Adam. You're to stay a while, you say? It is best that you draw your own conclusions, rather than listen to those of others.”
They only had to cross the road now to reach the inn; all too soon their conversation would end even if, for a number of reasons, Griffin very much wanted it to continue. She paused as they reached the front door and something of this must have shown in his face, as hers suddenly broke into a delightful smile.
“But I am thanking you for your help,” she said, using an expression he had heard several times during his brief spell in Sussex. Then, balancing her load on one arm, she carefully reached for his. The pile of clothes tottered, but was soon secured. Griffin opened the door and held it for her, as she squeezed inside. He followed, but even as he entered the hall she was disappearing down a narrow staircase at the far end. For a moment he thought she might turn back, and was disappointed when she did not. The hall was empty and his upstairs room seemed a long way off. But they were still in the same house and, despite all he had heard that day, Griffin found he was unaccountably optimistic.
* * *
“Stuffed up, pumped up and still wet behind the ears,” Gadd pronounced, before taking another gulp of his tea, a drink that had been stiffened with a fair measure of spirit. “Nothing like the man Commander Carter was. And did I mention he's from John Company? What good will that be in a revenue cruiser?”
“Might come in handy when we comes to a rummage,” Fuller mused. At something over forty he was one of the senior members of the cutter's crew and, like many of the others, had served in the Royal Navy. “Them Indiamen are usually stuffed full of booty that we don't get close to; like as not he'll know all the old hidey holes.”
Gadd pursed his lips. “Well, he's hardly going to be understanding much about a fore an' aft rig, that's for sure.”
Fuller sipped at his own tea, which contained nothing more potent than a little cow's milk. “We don't know that; why not wait 'til he takes her out?” he said, after considering. “And with a bit of luck, that time won't be too far off. The old lady hasn't seen proper salt water for several weeks now; I'm feared the shock might sink her.”
“Ask me, we're doing very well where we are.” Forsyth was a northerner who had also swapped his berth in a man-of-war for what he had assumed to be a quieter life. “With all that's been going on the last few months, I'd say it were the safest place.”
“Safest place ain't always the best.” Fuller again. “Bee's already missed one moon. There must have been twenty runs sent home in that time, and the longer we're here, the harder they will be to crack when we do come back.”
Wooderson shook his head. “It ain't the free traders that bother me, it's that Horsebridge lot, together with them what deals ashore.” Wooderson knew more about the subject than anyone else and his views were usually respected. He was by far the oldest and had forsaken the more lucrative world of the smuggler and turned gamekeeper with the revenue service. Consequently he was known as a ten-shilling man, a sobriquet derived from the mariners' weekly pay. “They're wrong 'uns, and no mistake, though their punishment will come, by the grace of God. 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall': Proverbs sixteen, verse eighteen,” he added slickly. Wooderson's conversion had been complete, and was in no way confined to his attitude to smuggling.
The cutter lurched slightly, then a call from above heralded the arrival of six more men who began to file down into the berth, bringing with them a fresh draught of evening air. The newcomers, who had mainly been employed painting the Custom House stables, grizzled and moaned as they made themselves at home after the day's labour.
“Blimey, Gadd, you might have kept that oven burning,” one said, as he rubbed his hands together then blew on his fingers theatrically. “What you been doin' all day, while honest men were workin'?”
“He'd only just got it lit when I comes in,” Fuller told them glumly. “Cold as a mother-in-law's kiss it were, an' there's no sign of supper neither.”
The room seemed to have grown darker as the newcomers found places to sit, and the smells of turpentine and linseed mingled oddly with those of damp canvas, wood smoke and unwashed bodies. But despite what had been said, they were warm enough; in fact, with the cutter at rest, the fire now burning, a tarpaulin over the hatch and any other likely source of fresh air firmly sealed up, all knew their cramped quarters would soon be hot and airless, just as they liked it.
“I've been entertaining the new cap'n,” Gadd told them self-importantly.
“That right?” one of the recent arrivals asked. “What's he like then?”
“Green as grass, an' no understandin' of revenue craft.”
“You don't know that,” Fuller corrected. “He's an experienced seaman, by all accounts, and as for sailing cutters we have yet to find that out.”
“Well it ain't a seaman we needs, it's a fair-sized ship,” Calver, one of the new men, said. “Something with a bit of clout to give them big buggers a decent seeing to.”
“He's right,” another agreed. “But what did we expect when Pitt's lot started handin' out privateer papers? That one we ran up with just after Christmas was the size of a bleedin' frigate.”
“It ain't the ships, nor the free traders that's our problem.” Wooderson had returned to his original theme. “Nor any boy of a captain come to that. It's what goes on shore-side: that's the true evil.”
The rest grew quiet as the older man continued.
“When the law is set by a gang of cut-throats, an' God-fearin' folk can't walk peacefully in the street, that's when you have cause to worry. Until the Warrens and their cronies is sorted proper, it won't make no difference if they send us a ship-of-the-line with Admiral Howe to command.”
/>
There was a murmur of reluctant agreement.
“You never could stand a bit of honest smuggling,” Fuller said, fumbling for his tobacco. “If it weren't for the free traders, we'd all be out of a berth and probably back in the RN.”
“Or gaol,” Forsyth added, philosophically.
“It's gone far beyond that, an' you knows it,” Wooderson replied unabashed. “What we got on land is an army of criminals, and unless they're accounted for, there's no knowing what's to happen. 'The earth is given into the hand of the wicked': Job nine, verse twenty-four.”
“So what do we do about it?” Forsyth asked.
“I'm prepared to give the new cap'n a fair crack,” a fresh voice, Colclough, spoke up. “But can't say I hold out much hope. Best he can do is keep us out of trouble, and hi'self come to that.” He paused and took a sip of his tea before adding reflectively, “that's where Mr Carter went wrong.”
“He tried to sort the Warrens and their Horsebridge gang out. Nothing wrong with that,” Wooderson said.
“Oh, he tried... but wasn't very successful,” Gadd replied. “You know how he died, I suppose?”
“That's just a tale put about to frighten children,” Fuller said swiftly. “An' it seems to have worked in your case.”
There was a smattering of laughter and Gadd began to sulk. “Well, story or not, he still wound up dead,” he grumbled.
“So what would you have this new man do?” Colclough asked. “Take the Warrens on, or end up as bent as all the rest at Custom House?”
“I just want a bit of peace,” Gadd replied. “An' if it don't come soon, I'll be back to the Navy.”
“He's got a point,” Forsyth agreed. “Fighting Frenchman ain't exactly a quiet life, but at least you know who your enemy is.”
* * *
That evening Griffin sat in the parlour at The Star, having just eaten a substantial portion of beef and kidney pie that had been topped off with one of the finest currant duffs he could remember. He felt full with food, beer – a local brew that was strong, dark and very bitter – and company. The latter was a borrowed pleasure; he sat alone, although the room was reasonably crowded and the buzz of nearby conversations gave it a warm and friendly feel. Griffin drained his tankard and considered ordering more: he felt in need of an early night, but there was still a chance that the girl might appear. A movement from behind caught his attention and he turned towards the door, but was disappointed to see three uniformed figures enter the room instead.
They were dragoon guard officers, he knew the uniform, and they carried themselves with the casual authority of professional soldiers. Griffin had encountered several members of the local volunteer militia when at Harwich and had not been impressed; the strutting attitude of some, together with their garish uniforms and overuse of military terms, made them appear like something from a caricature. Salutes were stiff and often unnecessary and none seemed to be able to make even the slightest move without the action being likened to a march. But these men were very different, and he watched with interest as they approached the landlord, who had clearly been summoned especially to look after them.
“What can I get for you gentlemen?” he asked, wiping his hands on a cloth and smiling professionally.
“We'll take beer, Mr Ward,” the older and more senior replied in a relaxed, almost offhand manner.
“No wine, major?” the landlord asked. “Or we have some spirits: maybe a little port?” Griffin noticed he did not offer brandy.
“Listen to the cove,” one of the juniors, who sported a magnificent set of side whiskers, simpered. “'We have some spirits...' Why I suspect there to be Crowling gin enough in your cellars to float the fleet to France.” The second gave a high-pitched nasal laugh that was both loud and grating.
“Beer, sir,” the major said resolutely. “It is the only drink you serve that we cannot expect to be smuggled.”
The landlord went through a pantomime of shock and amazement, but none of the dragoons took notice. The whiskered one even turned his back, and addressed the room in general.
“Any other of you fine and loyal Englishmen adverse to a spot of foreign liqueur?”
There was no response, although all conversation had long since dwindled to nothing more than the occasional whisper.
“Maybe join us in a bottle or two,” he continued, slapping his gloves against his hand as he swaggered. “Why, the major here would be happy to change his habit were it to our benefit.”
Griffin watched intently. His initial assessment had been wrong; professional they may be, and their dusty uniforms were certainly not for show, but these men shared other characteristics of their amateur colleagues.
“Why don't we sit and yarn?” the officer continued. “I'm sure a lot could be learned that we might find of interest.”
The drinkers regarded them with a silent hostility that seemed to amuse, and even encourage, the younger man.
“I thought not, though I am certain that, if persuaded, you might relent.”
“Perchance that is what they require,” the second, who was no older, smirked. “A bit of persuasion, and there is no telling what we might learn. Sure the pitch cap would work as well on these shores as any other.”
“Leave them, Weston,” the senior officer replied. “You ain't in Ireland now: neither do we behave so to our own folk. Drink this, and we will be on our way; there is still several miles to cover before Lewes.”
The young officer laughed off the rebuke, and accepted the tankard that was handed to him. Conversations started again, but remained guarded. Then, when the officers had finished, and seemed about to depart, the silence returned again.
“We'll leave you to your pleasures, gentlemen,” the senior officer said, in an affable enough voice. “But don't think we are not aware what goes on hereabouts.” The man surveyed them briefly. “You may possibly continue a while longer, but we have our eyes on you, and it will take more than a group of London coxcombs to keep us at bay, of that you may be certain.”
About the Author
Alaric Bond was born in Surrey, and now lives in Herstmonceux, East Sussex. He has been writing professionally for over twenty years.
His interests include the British Navy, 1793-1815, and the RNVR during WWII. He is also a keen collector of old or unusual musical instruments, and 78 rpm records.
Alaric Bond is a member of various historical societies and regularly gives talks to groups and organisations.
Also by Alaric Bond:
His Majesty's Ship
The Jackass Frigate
True Colours
Cut and Run
The Patriot's Fate
Turn a Blind Eye
Read more at Alaric Bond’s site.
About the Publisher
Old Salt Press is an independent press catering to those who love books about ships and the sea. We are an association of writers working together to produce the very best of nautical and maritime fiction and non-fiction. We invite you to join us as we go down to the sea in books.
More Great Reading from Old Salt Press:
The Beckoning Ice: Joan Druett
“Combining historical and nautical accuracy with a fast paced mystery thriller has produced a marvelous book which is highly recommended.” — David Hayes, Historic Naval Fiction
The Beckoning Ice finds the U. S. Exploring Expedition off Cape Horn, a grim outpost made still more threatening by the report of a corpse on a drifting iceberg, closely followed by a gruesome death on board. Was it suicide, or a particularly brutal murder? Wiki investigates, only to find himself fighting desperately for his own life.
ISBN 978-0-9922588-3-2
Hell Around the Horn: Rick Spilman
In 1905, a young ship’s captain and his family set sail on the windjammer, Lady Rebecca, from Cardiff, Wales with a cargo of coal bound for Chile, by way of Cape Horn. Before they reach the Southern Ocean, the cargo catches fire, the mate threatens mutiny and one
of the crew may be going mad. The greatest challenge, however, will prove to be surviving the vicious westerly winds and mountainous seas of the worst Cape Horn winter in memory. Told from the perspective of the Captain, his wife, a first year apprentice and an American sailor before the mast, Hell Around the Horn is a story of survival and the human spirit in the last days of the great age of sail.
ISBN 978-0-9882360-1-1
Turn a Blind Eye: Alaric Bond
Newly appointed to the local revenue cutter, Commander Griffin is determined to make his mark, and defeat a major gang of smugglers. But the country is still at war with France and it is an unequal struggle; can he depend on support from the local community, or are they yet another enemy for him to fight? With dramatic action on land and at sea, Turn a Blind Eye exposes the private war against the treasury with gripping fact and fascinating detail.
ISBN 978-0-9882360-3-5
Captain Blackwell's Prize: V E Ulett
A small, audacious British frigate does battle against a large but ungainly Spanish ship. British Captain James Blackwell intercepts the Spanish La Trinidad, outmaneuvers and outguns the treasure ship and boards her. Fighting alongside the Spanish captain, sword in hand, is a beautiful woman. The battle is quickly over. The Spanish captain is killed in the fray and his ship damaged beyond repair. Its survivors and treasure are taken aboard the British ship, Inconstant.
ISBN 978-0-9882360-6-6
Blackwell's Paradice: V E Ulett
The repercussions of a court martial and the ill-will of powerful men at the Admiralty pursue Royal Navy Captain James Blackwell into the Pacific, where danger lurks around every coral reef. Even if Captain Blackwell and Mercedes survive the venture into the world of early nineteenth century exploration, can they emerge unchanged with their love intact. The mission to the Great South Sea will test their loyalties and strength, and define the characters of Captain Blackwell and his lady in Blackwell’s Paradise.