Bob reeled off a list of names – a general and three lesser officers on the British side, four Americans and one Frenchman to the south and west and the ‘colonel’ of a troop of militia operating in the forest lands to the west of the colonies.
“An unpleasant man, Tom, one who has fought for both sides, occasionally at the same time, but he has some control of the larger of the backwoods trails, and if he did not escort our convoys, he would raid them, so there is little choice. Colonel Henry J. Miller will cost us some three hundreds in gold, I believe, but will provide us with sixty men for a month, them to see a guinea a week, him two guineas a day. We can use river-boats for part of the journey through the colonies, ox-wagons for the run north, fifteen miles a day they will make. It will be best if you see Miller yourself, for otherwise he will have doubts – there are those in the Army who might wish to do him down. Major Jackson will provide us with passes through the British areas, if he is still available – he lost every penny of the five hundreds you dropped him - fortunately for him, paying off his most pressing debts first. I believe he has begged his brother to arrange his transfer to the Ordnance Board in England – where fortunes can very easily be amended, they having control of all of the Army and Navy’s contracts for great and small guns and powder and ball; but he will remain here for at least another six months, even if he is successful in achieving his wish.”
“Will he survive so long?”
“Not without access to at least another thousand, Tom.”
“He will need to provide a lot more than a safe-conduct for so much, Bob.”
Bob nodded, said that he would broach the question with the major, endeavour to discover what he could offer, if anything.
Major Jackson was desperate, having become aware, belatedly, of just how insecure was his hold on life; he was willing to promise anything for the chance of even a few hundreds of pounds; neither Bob nor Tom trusted him to be able to deliver, however.
“Gentlemen, I can arrange to buy wheat and corn from the farms down the coast, as well as consignments of beans and brewing barley and best hay and wheat-straw. There will be five hundreds of wagons moving every day, in all directions, and insufficient cavalry squadrons to escort each convoy. It should not be impossible for you to bring a consignment to a given farmstead and for my wagons to pick it up in the ordinary nature of things. The areas where we forage are, in the nature of things, separate from the main theatres of war, and there are no more than troops of irregulars to be found there.”
They accepted his proposals, but arranged for half of their consignments to be run under the aegis of Colonel Miller – he would be slower, but they suspected he might be more reliable.
Joseph continued to buy in timber and furs and a few hides, a legitimate cargo to provide cover again.
Harvest came home and the Commissariat wagons went out to buy grain, as Major Jackson had promised, and after a week, five or ten wagons a day turned up at Tom’s warehouse, offloading as scheduled. A fortnight of profitable activity came to a sudden halt when the Major appeared, unheralded, at Tom’s office door.
“We have a problem, Mr Andrews!”
Tom sat him down, signalled to Joseph for refreshments, quietly told him to stay in hearing range to listen for anything the Major chose not to say.
“Forty of my wagons, Mr Andrews, held at a farmstead just half a day, eight miles, north of the city, carrying the last of your tobacco, sir. A greedy young man of the Provosts, Mr Andrews, who has decided to take a share in our profits – five guineas a wagon, he is demanding!”
Tom’s first reaction was that the Major had himself become greedy, wanted another two hundred in a hurry: no doubt he would ask for the coinage and volunteer to carry it out himself to pay off this certainly imaginary Provost officer.
“The young gentleman demands to see my principal, Mr Andrews, would not accept cash from me, why I do not know, am unable to imagine! I think it would be best for you to ride out with me immediately.”
It stank – there was something badly astray in Jackson’s manner and, besides, he should have gone to Bob Chawleigh, not come directly to Tom. There was false paper enough to cover the stocks in the warehouse already, but the loads on the road were obviously contraband – a nasty, suspicious mind might wonder whether Jackson was setting him up, bringing him into direct contact with goods that he admitted to be his – it could make a very tidy arrest and conviction, one that all of Bob’s array of bought interest would be unable to overturn.
“You will have to wait a few minutes, Major Jackson, I am promised to the master of my ship on the hour, must make my final arrangements with him if he is to bring his hull to my wharf tomorrow. What is the time now? Ten of the clock? By half past eleven, Major Jackson, I will be your man. I have no riding horse of my own, could you hire a buggy, do you think, from the livery?”
Jackson trotted off to make the arrangements, not even begging for the monies in advance so anxious as he was to secure Tom’s company.
“Joseph? Do you know where Bob Chawleigh is likely to be this morning?”
“Here, Master Tom, I sent the boy running for him ten minutes since. I been looking out the pistols I gotten hold of as well, Master Tom, thinkin’ you might have a need for such some day. It cold enough for a big frieze coat on, Master Tom, and I bring your belt along from the old Star. Six big hand-guns, Master Tom.”
Chawleigh appeared, listened briefly, swore and left at a run to fetch his horse from the stables he used, was waiting a furlong up the road when the Major drove up, the reins in his own hands, no boy from the livery. Chawleigh was wise in his trade, set off up the street in front of them – no man looked to be followed from in front – the guilty-minded always checked their back trail, very rarely took note of the travellers up the road from them. Joseph accompanied Tom, causing no upset to the Major – a ‘body servant’ made no difference one way or the other, less significant than a pet dog for being unlikely to bite; he assumed that the bag Joseph carried contained a snack and a bottle for the road, never demanded to see inside it.
The buildings of the city, still relatively small and confined to the island, ended abruptly and gave way to the lines of a camp of Hanoverians, garrison troops and little concerned with apparent civilians travelling out; their sentries at the roadside demanded passes of the trickle of traders coming in, but seemed lackadaisical, as if they expected no attack and really cared nothing about smugglers. The area had been cleared of civilians in some past time of greater emergency, houses and small farmsteads that could have covered a besieger burnt down, hedgerows grubbed out – it was waste, barren, empty, flat and offering no concealment for nearly five miles. They came to a scattering of small farms and woodland and Jackson turned off the road onto a track leading to a barn and small, broken-down house, derelict seeming but with a two acre paddock hidden by the trees and now full of wagons. Upwards of eighty men, the drivers and their mates, Tom presumed, were sat in a huddle, guarded by a half a dozen of dismounted dragoons. The troopers’ mounts, a dozen all told, were tied up to rail by the barn; eleven carried carbine buckets, the twelfth, a slightly better looking horse, had a richer saddle, was probably the officer’s charger.
A captain, a young, slender, smartly turned-out gentleman, seemingly very bored, escorted by a big sergeant and four men, walked out of the open barn doors, nodded to Jackson.
“Is this our man, Major Jackson?”
“Yes, Captain Dawson, this is Mr Thomas Andrews.”
Dawson turned to Tom, looked him up and down dismissively - a mere civilian.
“You are owner of the contents of these wagons, Mr Andrews?”
“I am,” Tom replied, jumping down from the buggy and loosening his overcoat.
“Then, Andrews, I arrest you for carrying contraband goods through the blockade and for treasonable dealings with the enemy. Carry on, sergeant.”
The captain half-turned away, distancing himself from the trash he had to deal with, wholly
un-alert. Tom killed the sergeant first, expecting him to be the more dangerous man; Dawson screamed once but made no attempt to fight – he probably did not know how to. Joseph pulled the old horse pistols from his bag and shot at the four troopers, clustered together; Tom finished the job and watched as the wagon drivers swarmed their guards under. The drivers were civilians employed by the Commissary but were subject to military discipline; Dawson had made the error of informing them that they were a bunch of traitors and could expect five hundred lashes apiece at minimum and they were taking their own measures to avert that crippling punishment.
A rattle of hooves behind him alerted Tom to the presence of Chawleigh; he glanced up as he reloaded.
“Can we lose the bodies and the horses, Bob?”
“Provided the boy had made no written report of where he expected to be today, yes. If he’s under orders from his colonel, or if he’s working with other patrols, probably not.” Chawleigh turned to Major Jackson, sat unmoving, open-mouthed, horrified, having made no attempt to draw pistol or sword. “Well, Major Jackson? Was your friend on his own, or was he under orders, sir?”
“He was not my friend, Bob, not at all. He forced me to do it! He said he was sure my wagons were carrying contraband, would have them searched officially and would see me broken. He said he would arrest Mr Andrews and have him shot when he resisted being taken up or ‘attempting to escape’, afterwards, and then he would make a big fuss of the wagons full of smuggled goods, bringing himself to the attention of his seniors, while I sold off everything in the warehouse and shared it with him. I had to do it, Bob, had no choice.”
“I’m sure you are right, Major Jackson.” Chawleigh’s voice was deeply sympathetic, understanding of the poor man’s problems; Tom caught Joseph’s eye; they winced in unison and turned away as he spoke again.
“So, Major Jackson, did Dawson say there was anyone else in this with him?”
“No, not at all, I’m sure there is not – I met him at the Club and he spoke to me there twice, and he said nothing of anyone else. I know he is somewhat embarrassed for funds and I am certain he would not have wished to share with another, it was all his idea, though I am not sure how he knew about me.”
“I expect it was because you told him, Major Jackson, you conniving little shit!”
Jackson looked quite indignant for the second or so before Chawleigh shot him.
“I have never been able to tolerate dishonesty, Mr Andrews – men such as he bring out the Old Adam in me, I fear.”
They buried the bodies below the floor of the barn, the military saddles with them, then set to pulling dry timber out of the woods; with eighty men working busily it took very little time to half-fill the old building and then set it afire, hopefully concealing all traces of their activities for the immediate future. A dozen of the wagoners tied a riding horse behind them, a not uncommon practice, and they set off into New York, offloading before darkness fell.
“Jackson had a daughter, I believe, Tom?”
“Hell, yes! What do we do with her, Bob? Her father’s dead but I’ll be damned if I kill a young girl out of hand just for being inconvenient.”
“Move her into your place, Tom. Your Jenny can look after her, keep her safe, I don’t know how old she is, until you can put her on a ship back to England. You can’t leave a young girl on her own in this town.”
Miss Amelia Jackson was sixteen years of age, sheltered, uncertain of herself, alone; told that her father had had to ‘go away’ and that she must stay temporarily at the home of one of his acquaintances until she could be sent back to England, she nodded and set about packing with the aid of the single female servant of the household, a combination of nurse, housekeeper and general factotum.
“Have you been long with the Jackson family? What is your name?”
“Bennet, sir.” She curtsied, nervously, having no wish to be cast off in New York after twenty years in service. “I did come as nursery maid to the mistress before Master George was born, sir, and stayed with Miss after they died, sir.”
There was room in the quarters for more staff and a maid would be useful, and would make life easier when it came to putting the young girl aboard ship.
“Pack your own traps, Bennet. I would wish you to stay with Miss Amelia until we can arrange for her to go to England. Do you know of any family the Major has in England? Could I send to them to take her?”
“Sir George would give her houseroom, sir, in Huntingdonshire.”
“Good. A letter will take six months, I expect, to get an answer. It would be better to simply send her off on the next convoy.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but do you expect to see the Major again, sir?”
Tom weighed her up – she seemed not unintelligent, almost certainly knew enough about the Jacksons’ affairs to be able to put two and two together. He shook his head.
“Poor lamb! On her own in the world at her age, with not a penny of her own, I suspects, sir.”
“Nothing, I imagine, Bennet.” Tom responded to her hint, soothingly. “I will see to your money while you stay here and until you have taken her home, but after that I don’t know.”
“My brother got a little bit of a farm over towards Thrapston way, sir. So long as I gets back to England, there’s a bed for me to lay me head while I looks for a place.”
“Look after Miss and I will make sure you get home, Bennet. Can I give you the money to get fares on the stage in England, to make your way from Bristol to Huntingdon? Will you know how to go about it?”
“I been there, sir, to Sir George’s big place. Us can go cross-country, to Cheltenham and then Oxford town and on to Northampton. The old Cambridge Flyer passes through Huntingdon, sir, and a gig from the inn will take us to Sir George. So long as ‘e be in residence, sir – in the Season ‘e’ll be in London, and ‘e might be off for the shooting later on, but in ‘igh summer and dead winter, ‘e’ll be at ‘ome.”
“August convoy, into Bristol for the beginning of October at latest. There’ll be a ship of mine to take passage on, so that will be no problem. Look after her for the next few weeks, if you please.”
“We ain’t safe here no more, Master Tom.”
“Why, Joseph?”
Tom was unwilling to listen to any prophecy of doom – he liked New York, loved the profits it held out to him and the easy way of life of most moneyed people, outside of the uppermost English classes, with whom he had no wish to mix. There was an imitation of London ‘Society’, for those of birth and breeding, but he had no wish to become part of that.
“The word will be out soon enough, on how the Major Jackson died, Master Tom. Eighty men on them wagons, they ain’t all goin’ to keep their chaffers shut. Some’ll get drunk and some’ll just naturally have to shout they mouths off and some’ll talk to their ladies. Come the end of next month, maybe earlier, and the army people are like to be hearin’ just how their man come to disappear.”
“There won’t be any proof, Joseph.”
“They won’t look for no court case, Master Tom. They maybe not got much time for that Captain Dawson, but he army, and you ain’t, and they looks after their own. They has a quiet word with the other sergeants in they camp, and says as how you was the one topped their brother … well, I don’t reckon either you or me lives too long after that.”
“Colonel Miller makes his delivery in, what, three more days?”
“He do, and the ship makes her berth the day after that.”
“What do you think then, Joseph? Should we go back to England on her?”
“No, boss, the word might go soon after. I bin’ lookin’ at maps and talking about. We takes cabins up to Halifax in Lower Canada, and then we changes ship there and goes to Glasgow in Scotland, not to London or Bristol at all, they’s a lot of Scots men in Canada, always got ships on that run, and from there we buys a little carriage of our own and we drives south to someplace where we starts up again in business, trading or whatever – we disappears
from New York and then we vanishes from Halifax and then we ain’t no place to be seen in Scotland – it’ll need some real bad luck to find us after that.”
“What about the money from this season’s trading, how do we lay our hands on that?”
“Sell it in New York, Master Tom – ‘assign it’, the cargo that is, while it’s still on the sea – they’s two or three men would take it off our hands for say a cut of ten parts in the hundred. We take their Trade Bills and lose about five per cent discounting them and we’re away clear.”
Tom took up his pencil, never as fast with his arithmetic, even on paper, as Joseph was in his head.
“Gives us about five thou’ gross on the deal. Time we’ve paid Miller and got clear it leaves us with about twenty-six thou’ cash in hand.”
“You reckon Miss Jenny wants to come with us, Master Tom?”
“Doubt it, Joseph, I reckon she likes America too much – back in England she’d just be a whore, here she’s got every chance of turning respectable if she wants.”
“When you goin’ to tell her we goin’, Master Tom?”
Tom met Joseph’s stare, challenging him; after a couple of seconds he nodded.
“The morning we go, I think, Joseph. The rent on this place is paid up till next spring, she can take it over till then. What do you reckon, drop her a couple of hundred out of our money?”
“That enough to keep her comfortable till she picks up with another man, Master Tom, and she won’t have time enough to sell us out if she don’t know nothing.”
“Right. Same for Bob, I think, nothing to be said. No need to pay him anything, he’s made his cut, fair and square – perhaps he’ll take up with Jenny, they seem friendly.”
Joseph laughed, shook his head at Tom’s naivety. “He a friend of hers because she knows he won’t never try to get a hand up her skirts, Master Tom – he got a young feller about the same age as you what keeps he bed warm at night.”
“What, you mean …?”
“Yep, just that!”
The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) Page 8