by Dudley Pope
Being practical businessmen, the smugglers had a scale of prices depending on the method of delivery: a four-gallon cask of brandy sold at sea (to fishermen loading it into an open boat for transfer to the smack, or sunk for “creeping”) would cost a guinea, while a similar cask landed would be thirty shillings or more. The buyers on shore were usually “traders;” men who bought direct from the smugglers and distributed the contraband to those that wanted it—innkeepers for the brandy, grocers for the tea.
The more he thought about it the more he realized that smuggling was a good deal more complex than one might think; a good deal more than desperadoes with black eyepatches thrashing their way across the Channel on a stormy night …
First, someone had to put up the cash for building a vessel, whether a small fishing-smack with a lugsail, or a big cutter carrying her own ten-oared boats. Apart from the greater carrying capacity, the big cutters had an advantage over the smaller vessels because they did not come within the Hovering Act and the later Smuggling Act, which were particularly aimed at vessels hovering off the coast, waiting for a chance to land contraband when there was no Revenue cutter in sight. Any small unlicensed boat found more than nine miles from the shore was, under the Acts, considered to be “hovering” and liable to confiscation, but the big cutters came outside their provisions.
The regulations were strict but the Customs did not have enough vessels to enforce them. And if a privately-owned cutter sailed from Cowes bound for Dover, it was almost impossible—without catching her—to prove in a court of law that she had called in at a French port on the way, loaded contraband, sailed back and unloaded it secretly somewhere along the shores of the Marsh, and then gone on to Dover, entering as though she had come direct from Cowes.
All along the coast the Customs had their Riding Officers, men who patrolled on horseback and watched for unusual activity, usually a suspicious number of carts and packhorses close to a quiet bay or beach. But Riding Officers were responsible for long stretches of coast; often one man had to cover fifteen miles or more; and it was not difficult for a rowing-boat to slip into the beach on a dark and wet night after being given a signal that the officer had passed.
An amused “Whoa there!” jolted him out of his daydreaming, and he reined in to find his uncle had stopped several yards behind. When Ramage rejoined him, Treffry waved his riding-crop towards a large, well-proportioned stone house set back half a mile from the road and sheltered from the wind by a circular copse of trees. It stood on the edge of the ridge of land over the Marsh; Ramage guessed from the windows on the east and south side there was an uninterrupted view of the coast from Hythe to beyond Dungeness.
His uncle coughed. “We’d better keep a tight rein on our curiosity, heh?”
Ramage nodded. “Simply a social call by Squire Treffry and his sailor nephew, I think. He knows what I want, so we can leave it to him to raise the subject.”
“Splendid—ticklish business.”
Ramage sensed that his uncle was uneasy at the prospect of the forthcoming meeting: the Marsh Men must have a fearsome reputation …
He might have a fearsome reputation among the Marsh Men, but Charles Henry Simpson (a director of the East India Company, Vice-President of the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, Vice-President of the Sea-bathing Infirmary, director of the British Fire Office, and elected trustee of the British Museum) had enough of the breezy assurance of the wealthy to thoroughly enjoy his last appointment.
“I’m the newest captain in the Romney Volunteers, my dear Treffry,” he said proudly. “The newest and the most junior. And all my senior officers are tenants of mine!”
Treffry wagged a cautionary finger at the tall, silver-haired man who was standing at the sideboard removing the many-faceted cut-glass stopper from a sherry decanter. “Mind they don’t have you swimming dykes and doing extra drills because you charge ‘em too much rent!”
Simpson gave an easy laugh as he poured two sherries, giving one of them to Treffry.
“Well, Lieutenant, you sure you won’t join us?” When Ramage shook his head, Simpson sipped his sherry delicately, gave an appreciative sigh, and said: “Your uncle tells me that I can be of service to you …”
Not knowing quite what his uncle had written in the letter, and irked by the question of a surety, Ramage said warily: “I have to get to France in secret—on the King’s business, you understand. Once there, I have to be able to send back at least one report, and possibly more. And then I have to return with—”
“You have proof that you are on the King’s business?”
Treffry interrupted sharply: “You have read my letter?”
“Of course, of course, my dear Treffry; it slipped my memory.”
Ramage stared at him coldly, slowly rubbing the older of the two scars on his right brow. It ill became one of the leaders of the Marsh smugglers—he was rapidly coming to believe that Simpson was the leader—to cavil about proof that he was on the King’s business. How many French spies had made use of Simpson’s services to land in or leave England?
Simpson was polished; his home was elegantly and expensively furnished. Yet for both man and house it was a studied elegance, an elaborately applied polish. The man spoke slowly—yet he thought quickly. It was a slowness that was deliberate; possibly the result of careful training, to ensure correct diction. But although Uncle Rufus had referred to the man’s wealth, he had made no mention of origins: no “son of … ,” or “his brother is …” or “father was …”—the normal, identifying remarks. No, it was unlikely that Mr Simpson would welcome any questions about his origins, and he was wealthy enough to stifle any in this part of the country.
“I had in mind hiring a fishing-smack. My purpose in trying to find a smuggler is that he will know his way about the French coast better than most …”
Simpson was nodding, an understanding smile on his face, as if wanting to make amends for his earlier tactless question. “Not only would know, but would be assured of an understanding attitude on the part of the douaniers. The French are anxious to get their hands on sterling, since their own currency is worthless, so their Customs men do not consider that Frenchmen selling brandy and tobacco and tea to fishermen for sterling are dealing in contraband.”
“As long as I get to France, I’m not questioning anyone’s motives,” Ramage said dryly.
“In that case,” Simpson said equally dryly, his tone of voice showing that he guessed Ramage’s thoughts, “my friends will be able to accommodate you. When do you want to sail?”
“Tonight, if possible. There’ll be four of us.”
“Four? I thought you would be alone.”
“Myself and three of my seamen.”
“The fishermen who carry you across might be nervous at being outnumbered by—well, King’s men …”
“Perhaps it could be explained to them.”
“That would not be possible.”
“But—”
“Take my word for it, Mr Ramage; I can’t explain why at this stage, but believe me, you’ll understand before you reach France.”
“There is no point in me going without my men: the whole business would fail.”
Simpson shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mr Ramage; I have to think of my friends.”
“So you won’t help?” Ramage asked bluntly,
Simpson shook his head sadly. “I daren’t involve my friends …”
Half the morning had been wasted; he had to be in France within the next twenty hours. Yet there was not enough time left to start all over again. Simpson was too smooth, too suave, too sly for any honest man to trust him; but Ramage knew he had no choice. This man had to be persuaded. He glanced at his uncle, who was finishing his sherry in anticipation of leaving.
“Mr Simpson, I must tell you that the reports in the newspapers that Bonaparte is likely to invade within a short time are taken very seriously in London. In fact—”
“But such reports appear every week,” Simpson
interrupted scornfully. “We’ve been reading them for more than a year.”
“Quite, but there are reports which have just arrived and which you will not be reading in the newspapers. My orders are based on those.”
One could hardly tell a smuggler, even a wealthy smuggler who was one of the biggest landowners in Kent, that the First Lord of the Admiralty himself, and Lord Nelson, had decided to send him to France: that might start the fellow thinking that if the operation was as important as all that, then someone ought to be paying a lot of passage money. That in turn would mean that Lieutenant Ramage paid since the Admiralty would—officially, since such money had to be paid officially—refuse to have anything to do with smugglers.
Simpson shook his head and smiled; a disarming smile, Ramage felt, of the type he would use when gently refusing a parson’s plea that he should pay for putting a new roof on the church in the next village.
“I’m sorry, Mr Ramage …”
“Very well,” Ramage said bitterly, “I must admit I’m not surprised: my uncle was unduly optimistic.”
“Come now, Nicholas,” Treffry said gruffly, “don’t be hasty!”
“Hasty!” Ramage exclaimed angrily. “With respect to Mr Simpson, we aren’t asking much. If Bonaparte invades, there’ll be no more smuggling: no more Mr Simpson, in fact, since he’ll be one of the first strapped to the guillotine. What”—he held Simpson’s eyes, his voice harsh but quiet—”exactly what have you ever done for the country in this war, except make a fantastic profit? Yet you were born in the country. Two of the three men I’m taking with me to France, and whom you object to, are foreigners.” His tone now became contemptuous. “One is American and the other Italian. Each of them has done more for Britain in the war than all the men that you employ!” He turned to Treffry: “Come, Uncle, it seems there’s little honour among—smugglers.”
As Treffry stood up, his face flushed but obviously angry with Simpson rather than his nephew, Simpson gestured to the two of them. His face had suddenly gone white and strained; the nonchalant attitude had vanished. Ramage suddenly saw in his expression the face of a man with a bad conscience.
“Please sit down again, both of you. Mr Ramage, you put into words the thoughts that sometimes come to me in the sleepless hours before dawn. But”—he looked up, half-defiant and half-apologetic—”I’m not apologizing for anything except my decision not to help you. I was wrong. All my resources—and they are not inconsiderable, as you have probably guessed—are at your disposal. You will be landed in France tonight. Where are your men?”
“At Dover. They will arrive—” he looked at his watch, “in half an hour.”
“Very well. There’s an inn close to the west quay at Folkestone called the Kentish Knock—named after the shoal in the Thames Estuary, I suppose,” he said with an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere. “Will you be there with your men by nightfall? A man will introduce himself to you. What should he say so you’ll know he is not an impostor?”
“Have him say, ‘Do you remember me? I served with you in the Triton.’”
“There’s just one thing,” Simpson said, almost apologetically. “Getting you to France is no problem, but you want to be able to escape again. I presume you won’t know when you’ll have either the opportunity—or the need. So I will arrange—no,” he said hastily, “don’t tell me anything about your plans; just tell me if mine don’t fit in with them. So, I’m arranging for you to get to France, and for a fishing-smack to be waiting for you in Boulogne for as long as you want. It can pass from Boulogne to Folkestone without difficulty. That will make your escape less of a problem.”
“It will make it no problem at all,” Ramage said cheerfully, anxious to restore a better atmosphere.
“Good, but you must understand that the smack can wait because of—er, certain arrangements—made long ago, before the war, in connection with—er, certain contraband business … and, er …”
Simpson was having such difficulty that Ramage said helpfully, “You want to be sure you can continue the operations long after I am back here.”
“Yes, exactly! I would appreciate it if you forgot all the details, should you have to write any reports for the Admiralty.”
“Agreed,” Ramage said. “I shall be as anxious as your men to keep out of the hands of Revenue officers!”
Simpson stood up and held out his hand. “Yes, our greatest danger—and I say ‘our’ advisedly—is from our own cruisers. The French will be no problem. By the way, until you arrive in France, I must ask you to do exactly what the smacksman says, even though he may give you strange instructions. Their significance will become clear to you by the time you reach Boulogne.”
CHAPTER SIX
ALTHOUGH the new Army barracks at Shorncliffe were nearby, so few Scottish or Irish régiments marched through the streets of Folkestone that bagpipes were rarely heard in the town. Yet the deep-throated skirl of the Scottish and Irish pipes had a little in common with the thin and reedy yet lilting music coming from the Kentish Knock’s bar parlour, in Piecrust Lane, one street inland from the harbour, so that passers-by paused to look in.
The young man standing by one of the tables and playing the pipes was plump and stocky with wavy black hair which fell over eyes now glazed from the effort of blowing and keeping the small bag full of air.
The tune, a strange one to English ears, was nevertheless haunting, and the dozen or so seamen in the bar had fallen silent, watching the piper, whose expression showed that the melody he was playing had momentarily carried his thoughts to a distant country.
Finally the tune ended and he snatched the bag from under his arm, cutting the notes off sharply. He sat down at the table, grinning at the three men already seated, and waving to other seamen who called their appreciation.
One of the three, a lean-faced, raggedly-dressed individual with thinning sandy hair, who was apparently more than a lit-tie drunk, pushed a mug in front of the piper. “Have a pint of Kentish ale, Rosey, and play some more. Those Italian bagpipes kick up a nice tune.”
“You like, eh? Sono doloroso … Iso sad now; is a long time …”
“You’ll go back one day; Genoa has been there a long time—no one will steal it.”
“You don’t know Rosey’s mates,” a Cockney said. “Like pursers, they are; steal it bit by bit, so’s no one really notices ‘til it’s all gorn!”
“Is true, Staff,” the Italian said. “This Bonaparte steal it all now, but one day we chase him out and go back, eh Nick?”
There was a slight hesitation as the Italian (who until a few hours earlier had been noted down in the Muster Book of a ship of the line in Portsmouth as Alberto Rossi, born in Genoa, and rated ordinary seaman) used the name Nick—he was finding it hard to be familiar with Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, the man who had for so long been his commanding officer.
Now, in common with the other two men who, when sudden orders had been received from the Admiralty by the new telegraph linking Portsmouth and London, had travelled to Dover with him from the same ship in Portsmouth, he was doing his best to carry out Mr Ramage’s orders. These were simple enough: they were all—including Mr Ramage—to behave like fishermen or seamen from a merchantman while in England. Once they reached France they would receive fresh orders.
France! He was hot and nearly winded from playing the pipes, but the thought of landing in Bonaparte’s own country chilled him. Not because the prospect of a fight with a bunch of Frenchmen was frightening: no, it was more the idea that Bonaparte’s armies now strutted like peacocks over most of Europe—the Low Countries, Spain, most of the states in Italy, Austria, maybe even Switzerland. In fact it was easier to remember that they were not in Britain and Portugal. Perhaps some of those places round the Baltic—Sweden, for example—had not been invaded, but Rossi knew that the only possible reason was that they were too insignificant for Bonaparte to be bothered with. Russia? Probably too big …
Will Stafford, born in Bridewell Lane, with
in the sound of Bow Bells, and apprenticed to a locksmith before going to sea, had a wide-eyed naivete about some aspects of life which contrasted with a remarkable knowledge of other aspects, most of the latter picked up while working as a locksmith at dead of night and usually without the owner of the lock knowing or being charged. Yet Stafford had an instinctive understanding of people; he usually sensed moods in his shipmates and recognized the sudden stab of nostalgia in time to murmur a comforting phrase or divert the mood with a quick joke.
As he watched Rossi fold the pipes before putting them down on the table, he saw that the Italian was brooding and knew he had to be brought back from the past of the hills of Piedmont and Tuscany to the present of the bar parlour of the Kentish Knock, with its low ceiling blackened round the fireplace from years of wintry evenings and smokey chimneys.
“Them pipes is more musical than the Scotch ones,” Stafford commented. “Ain’t got so much body, though.”
“Accidente,” Rossi said, “I never hear the Scotch, but pipes sono Romani! The Romans have the bagpipes first. These Scotch—” he waved, dismissed kings and clans contemptuously, “they copy them. They eat the porridge and drink the whisky and blow hard.”
“Scots,” said the lean-faced man sitting on the form next to Ramage. “‘Scots’ if it’s people, ‘Scotch’ if it’s things.”
“That’s why it’s called ‘Scotchland,’ eh Jacko?” Stafford said sarcastically. “Anyway, I’ve heard the Irish had ‘em afore the Scots.”
Jackson gave an easy laugh. “Don’t expect an American to explain that. Why—”
He broke off suddenly as he saw a man come through the door from the street and stop, peering round at everyone in the bar. The man saw Ramage and began sidling over towards him, but he had not moved six feet before Jackson, in one catlike movement, had left the table to intercept him.
“Hello, Jacko,” the man said nervously, half-expecting to see a knife, “it’s all right, I’m expected!”