The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker

Chapter 3

Smith stood under the wind-twisted apple tree, staring out to sea. Over there, less than thirty miles away, the French coast marked the frontier of continental Europe. The narrow English Channel acted as a defensive moat between the two landmasses but also as a highway between two nations, Great Britain and France. The two cultures were more similar than either would care to admit, with a shared history of violence and conquest. The people of both nations owed allegiance to a man claiming royal blood, both had a crust of arrogant aristocracy, both lived by trade, and both competed for colonies across most of the nations of the world. Given all these similarities, combined with their proximity, it was natural that the two countries were rivals and enemies.

Ignoring the wind that drove cold rain against his face, Smith scanned the early morning sea, recognising the purpose of every vessel, from the fleet of local fishing boats to the Royal Navy frigate hurrying on its ceaseless patrol. Shifting his gaze, Smith looked down on Kingsgate, with the two inns set on opposite sides of the High Street, the ancient church, and the houses that straggled down to the harbour.

On one side of the High Street, the Dancing Horse was a traditional oak-framed Kent house, with a central hall now used as the taproom and diagonal bracing supporting jutting eaves. A lookout tower thrust from one side, a virtual guarantee that smugglers used the inn as a rendezvous. Behind the inn, and accessed by a high-arched gateway, were stables for any passing traveller. Across the road from the Dancing Horse sat the larger, brick-built Hounds Rest, the coaching inn for Kingsgate, with a large courtyard at the back where horses were the innkeeper kept horses for the stagecoaches that rattled along the coast to London.

Smith nodded. The two inns encapsulated the division in Kingsgate, with the respectable establishment of the Hounds Rest and the more disreputable Dancing Horse, a centre for the broken people and those outside the framework of the law.

Smith contemplated the village. “I’m back,” he said, “but I’m not me.”

The memories returned, as they had so often. Smith recalled the betrayal, the humiliation, the frustration, and the sense of defeat. His hand moved automatically to his throat and fiddled with his neckcloth before he forced it back down.

Smith altered his stance under the tree and looked further inland, where Kingshunt Manor stood on its knoll, surrounded by a belt of woodland, groomed policies, and avenues of trees. Even from this distance, Smith could sense the aura of wealth, privilege, and power emanating from Kingshunt. He studied the outline of the house, noting the belvedere turret that the owner had recently added and the broad sweeping view inland.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Smith said. “We’ll dance, Sir Francis, you and I.” He felt the anger rise within him as a montage of memories ripped through his mind. Once again, his hand moved towards his throat.

“No,” Smith shook himself back to the present. “This is not the time to think backwards.” He looked out to sea, nodding in satisfaction.

The two-masted lugger lay a mile offshore, backing her sails against the now fluky wind.

“You’ll do,” Smith said.

That evening, the High Street was quiet, with rain weeping from the roofs onto the ground and people huddled against the cold wind. Smith walked through the village until he arrived at Hop Lane that extended at right angles to the High Street. A man lounged at the entrance to the lane, shielding the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe as he contemplated the view to the sea.

“It’s a fine evening,” Smith said.

“It’s a bit cold,” the man said, removing the pipe from his mouth.

“The moon will be out tonight,” Smith said.

“Three-quarters moon, I reckon.” The man replaced the pipe with his deep brown eyes never straying from Smith’s face.

“Light enough for a run.”

The man puffed blue smoke. “It could be,” he agreed.

Smith lifted his head to test the wind. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked while a farrier hammered out a horseshoe. “With this breeze and the way the tide runs, Spike Cove would be an interesting place to visit.”

“It may be,” the man removed his pipe again, adding tobacco to the bowl.

Touching his hat with his forefinger, Smith strolled back along the High Street and leaned against the wall of the inn. As he had suspected, the man with the long-stemmed pipe vacated his position and walked casually down Hop Lane.

“Right to the Preventative men,” Smith murmured in satisfaction.

The dog had stopped barking now as the farrier gave a final few blows to his horseshoe. Quiet returned to Kingsgate, the peace before the storm struck.

At one time, the Spike had been an important, though small, manor house. Local legend claimed that its origins extended to the days when the Jutes had first landed on Britain’s southern shores, centuries before England existed. Smith did not know if local lore was correct. Nor did he know that the Spike had flourished in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The owner had chosen the losing side in the Civil War, and now the Spike was a ghost of itself; a sad, wind-buffeted ruin that overlooked Spike Cove. Only furtive lovers and stray sheep used the crumbling stones for shelter, but that evening Smith settled himself in a corner of tumbled masonry and watched events unfold.

First to arrive were the Riding Officers, the mobile strike force of the Excise Service that patrolled the coast watching for signs of the Free Traders. They rode with their cloaks billowing behind them, and their hats firmly pushed down on their heads until they took up position in Kittiwake Wood to the east of the cove. When a stray gust of wind nearly blasted the leading rider’s cloak, Smith saw the holstered pistol at his saddle.

“Three men, well mounted, but insufficient for the task in hand,” Smith said to himself.

Hurrying behind the riding officers were a group of tidewaiters, the foot soldiers of the Excise.

“Underpaid, overworked, and never appreciated,” Smith murmured. “You are the front line and the most vulnerable of the Excise.”

Next to arrive were the infantry, King George’s final say in maintaining law and order in his realm. Half a company of redcoats, each man with a long-tailed coat on his back and a Brown Bess musket pressed against his shoulder.

“Fifty men, well-drilled, but slow-moving and with rigid discipline long since removing any flexibility of mind,” Smith said.

After the infantry came the Collector, fresh from his home and headquarters in Hop Lane, riding with his Churchwarden-smoking assistant at his side.

“Two men dedicated to collecting taxes for the king’s revenue,” Smith told himself. “One an incomer to the village, the other a paid informer, a local man without friends.”

Behind the Excisemen rode their escort of five dragoons, with their equipment jingling and their horses’ hooves churning mud from the track.

“Five proud horsemen, sabres at the ready, happy to cut and thrust,” Smith said. “Heavy men on heavy horses, with heavy blades.”

Behind the dragoons rode a tall, vibrant man. He sat upright, with a pair of pistols at his saddle and a whip in his hand.

“And there rides the squire,” Smith felt the hatred build up inside him, “the brains and the heartbeat of the king’s presence in Kent. Sir Francis Selby, squire of Kingshunt Manor.” For the next few minutes, Smith studied Selby, committing every detail of the squire to his memory, from the square jaw to his seat on the high-stepping brown stallion.

Twenty minutes after the squire’s arrival, a slow convoy of wagons lumbered from the village and surrounding countryside, rocking and jolting on the rutted road.

“The carriers,” Smith said. “Transport for the law-breakers, the lifeblood of free trade here in the deep south. Fifteen wagons, drawn by twenty-nine horses, all empty and all hoping to return full.”

Lastly, a small body of country folk and villagers arrived, some on foot, a few mounted, with the three principals well-known to Smith. They followed the wagons down the steep track to Spike Cove, which sheltered in a gap between hundred-foot-high cliffs.

“Now, all we need is Captain Blackwell and his lugger,” Smith said, “and the stage is set for the dance.”

As the sun set, the lugger unfurled her topsails and eased towards Spike Cove, where the wagons congregated to carry away her cargo. Men clustered, smoking and talking, some chewing tobacco, others sitting on rocks. One extended a brass telescope and watched the lugger ghost landward. They were relaxed, with nobody thinking to post a sentry and one man even scraping out a tune on a fiddle.

Perched in his eyrie at the Spike, Smith watched as the redcoats emerged from Kittiwake Wood and marched across the fields, scattering the sheep. They formed a semi-circle quarter of a mile from the cove and rested on their muskets, a thin scarlet line waiting for orders. Only when they were in position did Sir Francis Selby and his retinue, including the Riding Officers, leave the wood to ease down the steep track to Spike Cove.

“The musicians are tuning up,” Smith murmured. “The band is ready.”

Although gathering darkness hid much of the drama from Smith, he could judge what was happening from the sounds that drifted towards him. He heard the bellow of a command and the high, surprised shouts of defiance as the Free Traders refused the order to stand.

“Stand in the King’s name!”

“Bugger off!”

“Run for it, lads!”

The c***k of a pistol startled the night, followed by a ragged volley and the hollow drumbeat of hooves as the dragoons cantered across the foreshore to the landing spot. Smith heard more shooting, with the flash of the muzzle flares bright in the night, and then, dimly, he saw a confusion of men hurrying on the track from the cove, with unladen carts and wagons among them. Carters used their whips as they strove to escape the forces of authority, with the sound of sporadic gunfire coming from the shore.