“Hang that somewhere to dry; it will sell at market unless it fits one of you.”
George complied and hung the coat from the boom.
“Check the pockets,” I drawled with a wink.
The unpacking continued, some shirts and small clothes, hand knitted socks and silk stockings. A leather case came to light, beautifully fitted with a whole range of surgeon’s instruments.
“Dry those carefully, dip them in lantern oil and set them aside somewhere safe until the case dries out. What have you found next, boy?”
His eyes were glistening; in his hand was a shallow tray with a scattering of gold and silver coins. “Can I really keep these, captain?” His voice was breaking and shrill.
“That was my word lad, you earned them and you keep them.” I eased the helm as the wind shifted. “Keep digging, we aren’t at the bottom yet.”
Some papers with the ink running, soaking books that would go over the side and a small metal flask, battered and blackened. I straddled the tiller, asked the lad to pass the flask to me and pulled the stopper. It was empty, but for a pervasive scent of patchouli. I stripped off my neckerchief and gave the metal a rub, might it be silver? A pale green smoke started to pour from the neck...
In spite of the stiff breeze the smoke remained coalesced in a cloud that moved slowly along the deck of the Maid. We watched open-mouthed as the mist formed into the shape and form of a man. The ghost had little substance and the mast could be seen through as if through fog. What was clear was that the spectre had all the appearance of the deceased doctor; the part-burned clothes and the savage burns were plain to see.
The lad dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in supplication. George growled as his hand dropped to the hilt of his knife and Ben stepped back to join me at the tiller. My mouth went dry and my heart pounded. What on God’s ocean had we uncovered?
“Luff her up, we need to see what manner of hellishness we have here, Daniel,” Ben whispered.
I put up the helm and the Maid came into the wind with the sails flapping and the main and mizzen booms swinging restlessly.
The doctor’s form moved with agonising slowness to the open chest and looked inside. It was of course empty after our search for booty.
“Mon livre, ou est mon livre?” His voice was cracked and fractured. We stared at each other without understanding.
“Mon livre, mon livre, mon livre.” His voice rose with an increasing note of desperation. His arms raised as if in a plea, he cast about the deck until his eyes lit on the pile of books and papers we had set aside to dump over the rail.
He scuttled across the deck, stooped and began to search through the soaking pile. The spectre straightened up with a slim leather-bound book in his hands. The howl of anguish was heart-rending. He had attempted to open the book, but found the pages stuck together.
“George, fetch me the finest scalpel from the lamp oil pot.” I needed to act, if the apparition wanted the book open, I would try my best. Anything to speed his departure from my ship. “Dry it carefully and give it to the ghost.”
“Not bloody likely, if you want ‘im to have the scalpel, you give it ‘im.”
I took the instrument and with my pulse racing I approached the doctor and stretched out my hand for the book. He seemed most reluctant to tender it until I showed him the scalpel and mimed slitting the edges of the pages. Up close he had more substance. He gave me the book, I grasped it and backed away.
With extreme care, I worked the blade of the scalpel between the pages. They were made from very thick vellum which eased my task and only the first half-inch or so had taken up the water. Sheet by sheet I opened the book. Never had I seen such strange writing. The pages were filled with squiggles and lines, the like of which I had never observed before. The scent of patchouli enveloped me. I looked up. The ghost approached me. He held out his hands and took the book and scalpel. Retreating to the gunwale he continued the work I had started, slowly separating the pages.
As each page was disclosed he read the content avidly, shook his head and continued with the task. Then, a cry of joy. He had discovered what he had been seeking.
Pacing the deck, he read aloud from the pages he had exposed. The language was strange and unlike any I had ever heard. It certainly was not English, French or Dutch, these I knew well enough. His voice rose and fell as he spoke and his free arm moved in an increasingly violent manner. Pausing the reading, he cast about the deck until he discovered the flask lying where I had dropped it in shock when the cloud had appeared. He picked it up and made the motion of drinking from it, although I had thought it empty. The reading continued in a louder and more passionate way and he dropped the flask to the deck with a clatter.
The boy was still on his knees, moaning, with his eyes tight shut. George joined Ben and me at the tiller; they were both pale and disturbed. I felt weak and disturbed myself. Never before had I witnessed such as had occurred.
The being turned his face to the sky and gave one final shout. His form shimmered and dissolved back into the formless green cloud, the book dropped, causing the mist to swirl and re-form. The cloud flowed across the deck and slowly re-entered the flask.
Without a conscious thought, I picked up the stopper and ran to the flask. Seizing it up, I nearly dropped it again, the metal felt untouchably hot. After ramming the stopper home, I laid the flask down and took a deep, shuddering breath. “What under God’s heaven was that?”
The boy opened one eye, looked around, stopped whimpering and opened the other. They were bright with tears; he had suffered a large shock. As had we all!
“Ben, break out the spirits, I don’t care if its rum, gin or brandy. I need a stiff drink.”
Ben took a wide berth around the flask and book as he staggered forward to bring our cordial.
“Nipper, go below and fetch me a bread bag and a dozen or so musket balls.”
He scampered away, glad to have a distracting task. Ben returned, taking the long route. He carried a black bottle and four horn beakers in his hands.
“The lad can take one with a little water, we all need a bracer,” he offered.
I nodded and he brimmed the beakers. It was brandy.
Throughout the whole episode, the Maid had been slatting restlessly, so I put up the helm to get some way on and steady her down. As ever, she responded immediately and the wake began to bubble. The boy came on deck with the bag and the lead balls. He also avoided the objects on the deck.
“Take the tiller, Ben. Keep her steady on this heading.” I placed the book, the flask and the musket balls in the bag. “Give me your crucifix lad.”
He started to protest.
“You can afford a gold one, now. No arguments.”
The cheap pewter cross and chain joined the other items. “I don’t know what devils work we have just witnessed, but I want it off my boat.” I secured the neck and flung the bag as far as possible over the side.
“George, put the scalpel back in the lamp oil and throw the rest of the doctor’s rubbish over the side.”
I was uneasy and mystified, the Frenchman’s body should have been on the beach or a slab in Hastings town, yet he had appeared in some form on my deck.
“Choices lads, we can catch some fish and meet Monsewer Frog to get the contraband, or we can run for home now.”
The crew clustered around the tiller and debated while I took a pipe to steady my nerves.
Ben spoke for them. “Daniel, we are a mite frighte’d by what we have seen, but we all need the money, apart from the lad that is. We say, go on and finish the job.”
The light was fading, but if we were fortunate with the catch, we could still get it done. “Rig the nets, let us try our luck.”
It was good; three casts saw the tubs full to the brim, now for the real business of the night. Bearing away we headed for the midnight rendezvous. We had to cover twenty miles in just over three hours.
This was what my ship was built for. With every stitch
of sail set, the Maid flew through the darkness.
I peered at my watch in the light from the binnacle. Ten after twelve, which should do. “Heave to and light two lanterns.”
We all paced the deck staring into the starlit night. Three lights in a vertical line. It was the signal.
“Show them our glims side by side and make way towards them.”
The lugger appeared from the gloom already heaved to. It was calm enough to come alongside. “Rig lines and fenders,” I ordered.
A hail from the Frenchman. “Daniel you are late. We were about to go home.”
“Sorry Jean-Paul. If you had seen what happened on our deck today, you would understand my tardiness.”
The vessels were secured together and the crews transferred the brandy barricoes and the silk to the Maid, stowing them below in the fish hold.
“Well Englishman, what was your problem?” Jean-Paul reinforced his question with a full glass of Dutch jenever.
I described our day, starting with the aborted raid on Hastings. When I told of the events that had taken place on our deck, his brow furrowed deeply.
“The warships escaped from La Rochelle and that is a godless place, they still burn witches there,” he offered.
The crew hurried to install the false deck over the contraband.
The Frenchmen boarded their vessel and cast off. “I am off home, Daniel. My agent will contact you when we have another cargo. Good luck. I think you will need it.” His final sally as they departed for Le Havre.
“Pour the fish into the hold, secure the hatch, make all sail, we are going home.”
The crew set to with a will and in short order we were on passage to the South Coast.
We made good time and dawn was past breaking as we reached Hastings. I stood off while the beach-rats laid out timbers to the water line and harnessed the horse to the windlass to drag the Maid ashore.
When all was ready, I pointed the vessel at the beach and the track of logs. The faster we went, the further we would reach before the tow line was attached. The activity went well and we finally came to rest well above the tide line.
“Off you go lad, up to the stables and order two carts and a covered wagon.”
George lowered the boy over the side at full stretch of his arms and dropped him onto the pebbles. He scampered off.
Nipper didn’t get far. As he crunched away, a dozen excise men dressed in their blue coats and tricorne hats appeared from behind the beached boats and grabbed him. Their leader came under our stern accompanied by four of his men who carried a ladder and two blunderbusses.
“Daniel Adams, you are suspected of carrying goods which have not had His Majesty’s duty paid. We are to search your boat and if our suspicions are confirmed, arrest you and conduct you to the Assizes.”
A pretty pickle, let us hope the false deck stands up to scrutiny. It had never let me down yet!
The Revenuers went through the Maid like a pack of hungry rats and found, nothing...
“Open the hold,” growled the leader.
“Nothing but fish,” I responded.
“Do as I say. Open it,” he ordered.
I nodded to my crew, who cast off the lashings and slid aside the hatch. My heart lurched for the second time that day. Sitting on top off the mass of silver fish was the bread bag I had thrown into the sea hours before.
“Fetch me that,” said the senior officer. “It could be contraband.”
Ben caught up the bag with a boathook and offered it to the man without laying a hand on it.
The officer unknotted the tie chord and tipped the contents onto the deck. Kicking the musket balls aside he picked up the crucifix and the flask. “Why were you hiding these?”
“I weren’t, it must have come up in the trawl.”
“In that case I will claim these items on behalf of His Majesty.”
I was speechless. How could I describe the activities of the day and night to such as him?
He shook the flask and pocketed it with the crucifix. “I will examine these more closely later.”
“Any other suspicious items?” he questioned his men. They all shook their heads and prepared to disembark.
The senior officer’s spotty, porcine face turned from red to purple. “I will have you Adams and when I do you will pay dearly for your criminal activities.” He went to the ladder and was about to descend when his eyes lighted on the cask we had recovered from the sinking. “What is this?”
“It is merely some flotsam we recovered yesterday,” I replied.
“Aye, flotsam covered in French script and symbols. Smash in the top.” This to one of his men who carried a boarding axe.
The rich smell of brandy pervaded the salty air as the man followed his order.
“Daniel Adams, you and your knaves are under close arrest for the importation of ardent spirits without licence or paying duty,” he barked. “Seize and restrain them all.”
*
And that is why, by great misfortune, I sit in Lewes Gaol waiting for the magistrates to decide my fate. I am told that Australia has a fine climate...
The Chief Excise man was discovered the day after our arrest, stone cold dead with an expression of total horror on his face and an empty flask at his feet.
I continuously wonder where the doctor’s spectre roams and what devilment had brought him to such a curious end.
His mortal remains were buried in Hastings town.
Snowfall
by Christine Dale
The opening scene in ‘Snowfall’ was inspired by happy memories of staying at a secluded country house in the winter.
Tom stepped onto the snow covered decking outside the back door.
The morning sun had breached the horizon and was casting a glow on the frost-carpeted snow, turning it light blue. The naked branches of the trees appeared to be lit by hundreds of crystal fairy lights.
He breathed deeply, watching the fog of his breath linger, then fragment, to be replaced by the next. He loved the feeling of being the only person alive and seeing the virgin winter scape before him.
The as yet unfrozen lake had wisps of mist pirouetting on its surface. His row boat lay on the bank, one side almost hidden by last nights’ snow. One oar was sticking straight up, looking like an arm trying for attention.
He had meant to move the row boat up into the garage. The unexpected snowfall had caught him out.
The crunching of his boots on the snow sounded loud in the still of the early morning. The birds were strangely quiet. They hadn’t started their morning serenade yet. He headed down the gentle slope towards the lake.
As he neared the boat he could see the snow had been churned up, as though a giant grey marker pen had been dragged through it.
He reached the buried side and peered over. The snow was disturbed here and displayed vivid patches of deep red blood.
Falling to his knees Tom took in the carnage. There was a small male lying in the boat. It had been a female last time.
“Oh, my, god!” he shouted. Tentatively, he shook the body by the shoulder. “Lad, lad, are you awake? Can you hear me?”
One eye opened and a moan escaped from his cut-blooded lips. The eye slid closed and he lay still. Tom could see his chest rising and falling.
“Well, you’re still alive, but if I don’t get you out of this freezing weather you won’t be for long.”
He heaved the boat upright. Then, after tucking his own jacket around the poor little thing, he dragged the boat by its mooring rope up the slope to the house. Flinging open the French doors, he pulled the whole thing into his kitchen.
The kettle still held some warm water. He tipped some into a bowl, grabbed a clean drying up cloth and set about bathing the many cuts and bumps that covered the young one’s body.
Going by all the foot prints in the snow, it was obvious to Tom that there had been more than one attacker. They’d certainly worked him over.
“Dirty bloody cowards!” he raged. “An
d to think this was going on while I was tucked up asleep in my bed. When I find out who was on my land doing this to him, I’ll bloody have ’em. The courts can have what’s left!”
Tom collected some blankets from the airing cupboard and made a soft bed near the Aga. Not too close. He remembered either reading or hearing somewhere, you shouldn’t warm up hypothermia victims too quickly.
After Tom had arranged the youngster on the blankets, he searched his larder for some kitchen roll. Some of the cuts had started to weep when he’d moved him. Tom folded the squares of paper so they’d be four layers thick and tenderly pressed them over the injuries.
“A cup of tea. That’s the thing to have at times like this,” he murmured. He refilled the kettle and pulled the teapot from the cupboard above the sink. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he sat and watched over the beaten little body, fearing its chest might suddenly stop moving.
Tom had his back turned, making the tea, when he heard a cry. He was on his knees on the floor in seconds. Two terrified eyes looked up at him.
“It’s all right,” said Tom soothingly. “You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” He gently stroked the red fur across his forehead.
The youngster managed to utter; “My mother! My mother! They got my mother. They tore her to pieces. I ran for my life, but some broke away and came after me.”
Tom felt tears in his eyes. “Those utter bastards,” he ranted. “I’ve told the hunt time and time again to stay off my land!”
Active Service
by Rosamond Palmer
I wanted to explore what happens when an autocratic busybody mistakenly finds herself playing duplicate Bridge.
I turn the key to lock the Rover’s door. The car pre-dates central locking and is therefore reliable. So, this is Kings Church. Not exactly traditional, more like something found on an out of town Retail Park, B & Q or ToysRUs.
It was my doctor’s suggestion that I use my considerable organisational skills as a volunteer with a local charity rather than carry out my suggestion of reorganising his patients’ files.
Two young women with children exit the building and head towards a blue car. So, that must be the entrance. Not very clearly marked. I brush my woollen skirt, place the strap of my leather handbag in the crook of my elbow, prepare myself for the challenge and sally forth.
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