Hanging Matter

by David Donachie

  “Look at the tilt on them, James,” shouted Harry eagerly. “They are wrecks. Dozens of them. That is the Goodwin Sands.”

  James knew Deal, though not as well as Harry, who’d been stationed there while serving in the Navy. But he’d been partially raised not six miles away in the estate their father had purchased after retiring from the West Indies command, Cheyne Court in the parish of Chillenden. He’d seen that sight many a time from the shore, the innumerable wrecks littering the treacherous hazard slowly sucked under by the constantly shifting sand.

  Those sails behind him would be visible from the shore, so that Deal pilots, who kept a sharp lookout for any potential fees, would be wondering about them. But their boats, set to intercept ships coming into the anchorage, would be out to the north and south, covering the Gull Stream which led to the Pool of London, or the southern approaches close to the demarcation line with Dover. But they would be unlikely to see him, because the jolly-boat was too low in the water.

  Harry looked back, cursing as he saw that the barque had made a substantial gain. Then, as he ran over in his mind a chart of what lay ahead, his heart lifted. They had one chance, and only one, which depended on their distance from the sands and the state of the tide. He was on his toes now, leaning back with the rope attached to the boom grasped in his hand, trying to see if there was a line of breakers close ahead. The first flash of white made him yell with excitement. He now knew why his pursuer had altered course to put on more sail, for from his higher elevation he’d seen those waves breaking on the Goodwins long before.

  “James, get ready to chuck the baggage over the side. We may need to lighten the boat.”

  Time now seemed to stand still. They watched as the bowsprit got closer and closer, with their pursuer edging first slightly to the north, then to the south so that the master could keep all his sails in play. The faces that lined the forepeak grew from mere white blobs to people with features. There was nothing of excitement of the chase in their looks, mere cold-blooded murder.

  “Major Franks, if you fancy a shot with your pistols, I am bored with being stared at.”

  The heads disappeared as soon as the soldier raised them, though he had little chance of hitting anything at this distance, especially on such a mobile platform. As he fired they all heard the high-pitched girlish voice order his targets to mind their duties. Only one head re-appeared, a fellow with a beard so thick it entirely obscured his features, leaving only small, close-set eyes visible under his hat. There was a musket in his hands, but he wasn’t looking at the jolly-boat, he had his eyes on the line of white breakers cascading over the approaching sandbar. Yet they were not breaking evenly, in a continuous line. There was a wide gap, off to his starboard side, where the water was calm. Harry prayed it was the Kellet Gut, a deep-water channel that led into the safety of the anchorage. If the man trying to kill them was local he’d know it, and he might use it to cut Harry off from safety.

  There was only one way to stop him, though it entailed a degree of extra risk. Harry hauled on the boom and the tiller, steering for the southern tip of the channel. The barque followed, seeming to leap forward as the wind, now coming in over her quarter, acted on her sails. Everyone in the boat, bar Pender, was staring at him, wondering what he was about. He had neither the time, the breath, nor the inclination to explain. With this wind, if he could force his pursuer south of the neck, there would be no way the man could come about to pursue him. The barque edged up slightly, with the bowsprit now aimed to cut off his wind as a prelude to running him down.

  The ship rose and fell as the swell increased in the rapidly shoaling sea. White water creamed from the bow, with screeching gulls, suddenly numerous and oblivious to the drama being played out, diving across them. The man with the beard had called six of his men forward and they now leant on the rail, each bearing a musket. The tip of the bowsprit seemed, at times, as it swung on the upward roll, to be above Harry’s head, yet when it dipped it missed the stern of the jolly-boat by a good ten yards. But it was inching closer, with that bearded, piggy-eyed face ever present. He was using his arms to command the helmsman, and ignoring Major Franks’s attempt, futile in the heaving sea, to hit him with a pistol ball.

  The muskets were aiming now. It was no easy task, for the two vessels were moving in different directions; but the ship was coming so close that they would be bound to hit something. The noise, like a huge, sighing gust of wind, surprised Harry as much as anyone else. The air was suddenly full of small migrating birds, thrashing around looking for a place to land and rest. The bows of the ship were covered in them, and Harry could see the men with the muskets thrashing around to try and clear the way for a clean shot. One of the men discharged his weapon, which only added to the confusion, as the escaping thrushes collided with those still trying to land.

  The first sight of white broken water under their counter lifted Harry’s spirits. The seabed was shelving fast. As he eased the boom to adjust to the loss of weight, James threw the baggage overboard. With no keel, he had a very shallow draught. But that ship could not draw less than twenty feet, and if he could sail over the sands, drawing his pursuer after him, there was every chance that he would turn the tables and draw his opponent into mortal danger. If he struck the Goodwins at speed, he’d certainly lose his masts, and with luck, he’d damage his ship irreparably.

  They were now abreast of the southern neck of the Kellet Gut. It was going to be a close-run thing, with no certainty that Harry himself wouldn’t get stuck in the sands as he changed course. No man in his right mind would go straight for shoal water, even in a small boat, unless he was certain of the tide. Harry trimmed his course to keep the wind, bringing their pursuer even closer. Shouting his orders, Harry, followed by Pender, let fly the sail and ducked under the boom. He hauled hard and used his foot to kick round on the tiller, completely changing course as he headed for the foam breaking round the northern spit of the Gut.

  His pursuer followed him round, attempting to beat the leeway of the falling tide and swing his ship. His speed helped and the bows were now a matter of feet from their starboard side. A wave came under the ship, lifting it high and aiming it towards them. It started to drop as the same water lifted the jolly-boat. For a moment it looked as though the little vessel was going to be smashed into the sea. The water around them was a mass of spurts as the men finally fired off their muskets. Harry, concentrating on the task ahead, had no time to look and see if anyone had sustained a wound. Suddenly the barque seemed to shudder, as the way came off her and the bows, forced round by the leeway, swung rapidly round till they were heading south.

  Harry knew why. They were over the sands. He prayed he would not get stuck so close to his adversary. Those muskets would be reloaded soon. But, regardless of that risk, he had no choice but to loosen his grip and slow his speed, for the last thing he could afford was to ground the boat. If necessary, they’d all have to get out and push, hoping that the sands beneath their feet were solid enough to support their weight. Once in the deep waters of the Kellet Gut they would have to row like the devil. He fully expected that a boat would be over the side of that barque, intent on continuing the pursuit.

  “Oars, Pender,” he called as the jolly-boat slowed and drifted sideways. They lay along the side and Pender had his looped over the protruding thole before Harry even got his into position. As the two oars bit the water they heard the voice again, screaming at them in a frightful tone that sounded like a hurricane ripping through the rigging. They only saw the top of the head, hidden under a tricorn hat. The man’s arm was back and as he screamed out his words he threw something at them with all his might.

  “Here, you sods. You live another day, but not many more. Take this ashore with you. And make it plain to all that the same fate attended this bugger awaits anyone else who seeks to poach my trade.”

  The object spun through the air so swiftly that it was impossible to identify the blur. But they knew soon enough when it landed in P
olly Franks’s lap, staining her cream dress with dark blood. He’d used the pepper and salt hair to throw it, and given its length that afforded him a lot of purchase. The tufts were still there on the cheeks. But there was no life in the wide staring eyes. Polly Franks screamed, lifted Tobias Bertles’s head out of her lap with both hands, and threw it into the deepening water of the Kellet Gut …

  They heard the laugh, high pitched, giggling, and deranged. It nearly drowned out her screams.

  CHAPTER SIX

  POLLY was still sobbing as they approached the shore. Mr Wentworth had been sick over the side and had kept his head there ever since. In such a busy anchorage, with an entire fleet of men-o’-war, and with hundreds of ships waiting to take on stores and hands, many a head gazing over the bulwarks of ships they passed must have wondered what was afoot. But their shouted questions were ignored. Harry, deliberately avoiding the public quays, headed for the beach, and as he heard the soft crunch of the bows run into the shingle he felt his tension ease. He collapsed over the tiller, exhausted, more from the thought of what might have happened than the effort. They sat there for a while, rocking on the gentle waves that hissed over the stones.

  Pender, equally spent, recovered first, and jumping over the side called to a couple of longshoremen to help haul them out of the water. Major Franks was out next, to aid his distraught, sobbing wife on to dry land. The boatmen lifted Wentworth out and James helped Harry to stand upright. “Thank you, Harry,” he said gently.

  “Who was he?” asked Harry, shivering, for he was, like the others, soaked to the skin.

  “He must be known, brother. But let us keep our counsel for the present. We shall have to report what happened to a magistrate. Perhaps they will have some knowledge of him.”

  Harry looked up and down the strand, which seemed to stretch endlessly in either direction, covered in boats, wherries, hoys, smacks, and the odd twelve-oared Deal cutter, which along with the cabinned luggers was the favoured boat of the local smugglers. This was where Tobias Bertles hailed from, or so he said. And that was fitting for a man who laid claim to be an “Honest Thief,” for despite others’ claims to the title, they had landed in the contraband capital of southern England.

  They made their way slowly up the steep shingle, through the great blocks of chalk hurled ashore by some storm, and into the alley that separated the Three Kings from the next door property. The smell of fish was overpowering as they passed the nets hanging out to dry in the wooden sheds, and it seemed to bear down on them as the high buildings shut out the light. They emerged on to the busy street that fronted the lower part of the town. Beach Street was full of carts and horses, laden with all manner of supplies for the ships that victualled here in what had become in the last hundred years one of the busiest seaports in England, despite the lack of a proper harbour.

  Harry led them into the warm interior of the Three Kings, its darkly gleaming oak panelling reflecting the glow from the blazing logs in the open grate, and Pender took station by the hallway fire, in possession of the men’s coats. It was crowded, with many a naval officer and ship’s captain ashore to take breakfast. While Harry searched for the landlord, James went straight in to the parlour, and spoke urgently to an army captain taking his ease by the fire. The redcoat was out of his seat in a second, only too willing to offer it to a fellow officer’s wife who was patently in some distress.

  Polly Franks was still white as a sheet and mute from her ordeal. Her husband got her into the chair and ordered hot wine spiced with brandy for the entire party, then found a spare chair and brought it over for Wentworth. The young man, still racked with sickness, sank into it gratefully, his head in his hands. Franks then crouched down beside Polly, holding his wife’s hand as the warmth penetrated her soaking cloak, making her shiver.

  “I think her cloak is hindering her recovery,” said James. They helped her to take it off, exposing her cream dress and the great streaks of blood and sea water that stained the front. The officer who’d given up his seat stood awkwardly on the other side of the wide inglenook.

  “If I can be of any service, sir,” he said, bowing slightly. “Captain Latham of the Westmorland Militia.”

  Harry came in just as Franks was standing up to introduce himself. Latham pulled himself a little straighter when the major gave his rank.

  “Not a room to be had, I’m afraid. The place is full,” said Harry glumly. “I’m told the Royal Exchange is even worse.”

  James took his arm. “Then let’s at the very least see about some food.”

  “You appear to be in some distress, sir,” said Latham. They were all wet and bedraggled, with drawn faces, and the wretched Wentworth was vocal in his suffering, moaning slightly as he rocked back and forth, so close to the fire that his wet breeches were beginning to steam.

  “You would not credit what we’ve been through, sir,” said Franks, looking up. “Not if it was told to you in a month of Sundays. Cast adrift in the middle of the Channel by one black-hearted villain then pursued to near damnation by one even worse, and obliged to cast every stitch we own into the sea to effect an escape.”

  “I have a room here, sir. You would do me an honour if you’d allow me to place it at your disposal.”

  “Why, that’s a most handsome offer, Captain Latham,” said Franks, standing upright. “And one, on behalf of my wife, I most heartily accept.”

  The young soldier turned to Harry and James. “I’m afraid it is but one room, gentlemen.”

  “It must go to Mrs Franks,” said James. “But allow me to thank you for your concern.”

  “But this will never do, sir. I must find Hogbin and insist he provides you with a place to dry your clothes.” He saw the enquiring look in the eyes. “Why, he owns the Three Kings, sir.”

  “I am aware of that,” said Harry, who’d come across Hogbin on more than one occasion. “I’ve met the gentleman, and from my recollection he’s not a man to insist with.”

  Latham smiled. “But I shall ask his daughter, sir, who I do assure you is a much more amenable creature. Major Franks, sir, allow me to show you to my room.”

  “I’d forgotten Hogbin’s name,” said James wearily as Latham led the couple towards the stairs. “But I do recall him as an extremely irascible soul.”

  Harry smiled wearily, taking one boot away from the flames and replacing it with another. “He has too many admirals, rich merchants, and Indiamen captains occupying his chambers to be polite to anyone without a title. The fellow on the desk took great pleasure in alluding to a recent visit by the Duke of York.”

  “I take it you were suitably humbled, brother.”

  “I told him to warm the damn Duke’s bed,” snapped Harry. “For judging by his army’s performance he’ll be on his way back to the Horse Guards within the month.”

  James turned to find a man behind him, bearing a tray full of steaming tankards.

  “Gentleman ordered this. Hot wine and brandy.”

  Harry took one for himself and one for Wentworth. James took a third and the servant looked askance at the two left on his tray, then at James. This was accompanied by a loud, insolent sniff.

  “Take those to our man. He’s in the hallway by the fire,” said Harry.

  “Both of them?” asked the servant.

  “Yes,” growled Harry, taking a gentle sip of the scorching brew.

  “This fellow’s your servant, you say?”

  “He is,” replied James.

  The man was plainly displeased with the idea of waiting on him. Another loud sniff. “How will I know who he is?”

  “Simple,” said Harry, with a glare that made the man tremble. “He’ll have steam rising off him in great clouds.”

  Latham obviously had a way with Hogbin’s daughter, for she appeared before their tankards were empty, favouring them with a curt introduction. Broad of beam, with a jolly round face, she was nevertheless formidable. The drink had revived Wentworth somewhat, and that, added to the heat of the fire, h
ad brought a bit of colour into his cheeks. But his attempts at gallantry with Cath Hogbin fell flat, broken on both her natural resolve and his patent exhaustion. If anything his words angered her and the three men were hustled unceremoniously down the stairs, shown into a private parlour at the back of the basement, and ordered to strip. Harry made sure that Pender would be taken care of.

  “I’ll have your man taken down to the kitchens. Now, every stitch, gentlemen, if you please, for I can see that you’re drenched to your smallclothes.” She banked up the fire. “While you’re about that, I’ll fetch you some towels.”

  “Would it be possible to fetch the towels first?” asked Wentworth modestly.

  She laughed without turning. “Lord, gentlemen, if you’ve been in that there sea, bone-marrow freezing as I know, I don’t suppose you’ll have much showing to embarrass a grown woman.”

  James was already getting out of his breeches. Harry had his shirt off. Only Wentworth, his eyes riveted to Cath Hogbin’s ample buttocks, was still in his wet coat.

  “Nevertheless, Miss Hogbin. Decency demands.”

  She turned one hand up at the side of her head to mask her eyes as she made her way to the door. “If you insist, sir.”

  “And writing materials, if that is possible,” said Harry. He turned to James. “We cannot just turn up at Cheyne Court, quite possibly with guests, without letting Anne know we’re coming.”

  Cath Hogbin did everything required of her with bustling efficiency. Drying, brushing, and pressing wet clothes was plainly something the staff at the Three Kings were used to, for it wasn’t long before all three men were dressed once more. They were informed that Captain Latham had a table in the dining-room and earnestly hoped they would join him for a late breakfast. Harry sought out Cath Hogbin first, to post his letter and to pay for some food for Pender.