The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker Collection

Chapter 5

Breakfast at the inn was quiet, with only a handful of early-morning travellers in the taproom, and Ruth dishevelled as she served everybody.

Smith ate the usual mutton chop, washed it down with a small beer, and listened to the intermittent, early-morning conversation at the nearest table without much interest.

“Did you hear about Duguay?” The speaker was squat, bald, and unshaven.

There was a long pause before his companion, a fellow carter, replied. “No. Who is he?”

“Duguay, the French corsair, the privateer.”

“Oh, him, God rot his liver. What about him?”

The bald man slurped at his tankard. “The Navy captured him. HMS Partridge caught him cruising off Folkestone.”

Partridge Smith listened with more attention. Captain Duguay was one of the best known French privateers, a skilled freebooter who had been the scourge of British seamen since the beginning of the present war. If the Navy had captured him, they had delivered a grievous blow to the local French war effort.

“Does that affect me?” the second carter asked. “Is this Duguay fellow going to attack my cart or steal my horse?”

“Unlikely now that the Navy has him,” the bald man said.

“No, then I care less than nothing,” the second carter snapped his fingers. “That for your Duguay.”

Smith tucked the information away in case he needed it at a later date, although he could not imagine how. He finished his chop, looked up at the sound of a coach horn, and knew that the twice-weekly London Mail had pulled up at the Hounds Rest across the road.

“Go and fetch the newspaper,” Ruth gave the stable boy a casual slap on the backside. “Hurry now.”

The boy was back within two minutes, and Ruth pinned the newspaper to the wall before scanning the page.

“I see Ambrose Grant has another success,” she said casually. “He’s a rising star of the Preventative Service.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Smith said. “The government send him wherever the smuggling is most rife.”

“That’s correct,” Ruth said. “He won’t be coming to Kingsgate though, not now Sir Francis stopped the last cargo.” She removed Smith’s empty plate. “I’ll have to increase my prices unless the Free Traders get to work again.”

Smith rose to his feet. “Let’s hope for good news,” he said and nodded to the old man beside the fire.

* * *

Short grey waves splintered in a long line of silver-white surf on the cold shingle shore. A dozen fishing boats sat on the beach, with their crews repairing their nets from the previous night’s work, while a score of disconsolate seagulls explored the pebbles for any pickings the ebbing tide had left. Smith stood at the juncture of water and land, with his hat pulled low over his forehead and the wind whipping his cloak around his legs. Only two vessels sat in the harbour, a two-masted lugger with French lines and a dirty collier unloading her cargo into a succession of carts, with Skinner giving orders to the carters.

“Take your load to the Hound’s Rest,” Skinner said to the squat carter. “And you two,” he said to the next two men, “your coal is for Kingshunt Manor. For God’s sake, don’t go round the front, or Sir Frankie will have your hide. The coal cellars are round the back of the house.”

To Smith’s right, the ancient harbour wall marked man’s attempt to pacify a minuscule section of the sea while a line of buildings faced south. Their windows were small, deep-set against the weather in unpretentious walls that were more functional than aesthetic. Only two of the buildings were of any size. One acted as a grain store for Sir Francis, and the other was the customs’ warehouse, known locally as the King’s Warehouse.

A pair of scarlet-uniformed soldiers stood sentry in front of the latter, one an undoubted old soldier with his nose inflamed and reddened and his eyes dulled by a lifetime of heavy drinking. The second man was decades younger, with the uniform’s black leather stock holding erect a chin which had barely felt the snick of a razor. His eyes darted nervously from side to side at every sound and sight.

Quite right, Smith approved. A veteran who knows all the tricks and a youngster to learn.

Quite right,A veteran who knows all the tricks and a youngster to learn.Smith had stood at the same spot all morning, oblivious of the sea that licked at his boots. He watched the sentries as they performed their duties and noted the behaviour of the sergeant that escorted the changing of the guard. At two in the afternoon, Smith stepped away from his post and walked past the King’s Warehouse, wishing the sentries a good afternoon.

The old soldier ignored him while the youngster grinned an acknowledgement.

* * *

The old man beside the fire watched as Smith jerked his head towards Skinner.

“Come here,” Smith ordered. “I have a proposal for you.”

Skinner sidled over, with the old man straining his ears to listen.

“The sentries change every four hours,” Smith said, closing a ten-minute conversation. He tapped his fingers on the side of his pewter tankard. “That’s the only occasion the sergeant visits them. I’ve watched the King’s Warehouse for three days and three nights, and the routine never varies. An officer only appeared once, and he was an ensign with the cradle marks still on his arse.”

“We’ll have to speak to Captain Blackwell,” Skinner said doubtfully, still in shock at the audacity of Smith’s idea.

Smith leaned back, resting his head against the taproom wall. “If you find Blackwell, Skinner, I’ll speak to him. Bring him to me at this inn.”

Skinner flinched, as Smith had expected. “Captain Blackwell won’t come to you, Mr Smith. He’ll expect you to go to him.”

“Will he, indeed,” Smith said. “Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.”

“What?”

Smith saw the reference was wasted on Skinner. Common mariners and carters were not the most educated men, although they often picked up scraps of knowledge from their travels. “Tell me where I could find the elusive Captain Blackwell.”

“I can’t do that,” Skinner said.

“Why not?” Smith already guessed the answer.

“He’d kill me.”

Smith lifted his tankard and took a draught without dropping his gaze from Skinner’s face. “In that case, Skinner, pray tell him that I wish to meet him.”

“I’ll do that, Mr Smith.”

“Do it now,” Smith placed his pistol on the table as a signal that he was in earnest.

“Yes, sir,” Skinner said, standing up and stumbling to the door.

Smith allowed him a full minute before leaving the inn to follow. Guessing that Skinner would check behind him, Smith crossed the road and kept in the shadows, placing his feet on the ground simultaneously with Skinner’s so his quarry would not hear his footsteps.

Twice Skinner stopped to look over his shoulder, and each time Smith remained still, merging with the dark. Once a dog barked at some nocturnal sound, and Skinner jerked nervously. Only when the dog’s owner snarled it into silence did Skinner move on, leaving Kingsgate to take the coastal path to the east.

As they skirted Spike Cove, Skinner glanced down the cliff at the crashing sea and moved quicker before bowing his shoulders and increasing his pace to a near run.

The village of Marsham was three miles along the coast, a huddle of houses based around the harbour with three streets stretching inland. Skinner eased past the turreted Norman Church to where a dozen larger properties stood within walled gardens, separate from the village.

Skinner glanced around him nervously before he pushed open the gate of the smallest of the detached houses.

“That’ll do me,” Smith said and increased the length of his stride. He was in the garden before Skinner reached the front door of the house. A board on the wall boasted the name Seahaven, while light gleamed faintly from two of the five front windows.

“Captain Blackwell’s residence, I presume?”

Pushing past the startled Skinner, Smith banged on the front door. He stepped back, unsure of his reception, and placed one hand on the butt of his pistol.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” The maid who answered the door curtseyed politely. She was about twenty-five years old, with a pleasant round face and neat dark hair cut short. Deep brown eyes surveyed both men as she waited for somebody to speak.

“Is your master at home?” Smith asked, removing his hand from the pistol. He realised that Skinner had fled.

“Yes, sir.” The maid dropped in another, deeper curtsey. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“John Smith.”

“Pray to come in, sir.” The maid opened the door wider.

Despite the lateness of the hour, lamplight still shone in the hall, revealing that the house’s interior was as clean and simple as the exterior. Plain, solid furniture stood against the unpainted plaster walls, and two nautical pictures added character. The maid ushered Smith into a square reception room with a long oaken table, six chairs. and a mahogany chest of drawers. An array of decanters stood on top of a polished display cabinet. The curtains had not been drawn, not the shutters closed, allowing Smith to see through the tall, multi-paned window to the darkness outside. A second door, presumably into a wall cupboard, was inset on the left and decorated with a painting of a ship in full sail.

“I shall fetch the master,” the maid said, curtseyed for the third time and swept away.

Smith hardly had time to inspect the room before Captain Blackwell arrived. “What the devil do you want here, Smith?” Blackwell overtopped Smith by a good four inches.

“Good evening, Captain Blackwell.” Smith eyed the captain. Nature had not blessed Blackwell with a pleasing countenance, instead giving him a long, lugubrious face with thin lips that twisted upwards on the left side. The captain appeared tense, despite being master of his home.

“What do you want?” Blackwell asked again.

Smith noticed that Blackwell remained close to the chest of drawers. “I only wish your attention, Captain Blackwell.”

“You have that.” Blackwell’s mouth twisted further.

“You lost your cargo a few days back,” Smith said. “And you nearly lost your men.”

Blackwell stepped along the length of the chest of drawers and placed his right hand on top as if he were caressing the wood. “Are my affairs any concern of yours?”

“I can help you regain your cargo,” Smith said.

Captain Blackwell hesitated for a moment. “Who are you to interfere, Mr Smith?”

“Call me a well-wisher,” Smith said.

“I don’t care for strangers interfering in my business,” Blackwell said. “I could set the dogs on you or whip you out of my house.” When he produced a long pistol from the top drawer, Smith had anticipated the move.

“That’s not very neighbourly,” Smith pointed his pistol at the captain’s stomach. He heard the cupboard door open behind him and the light patter of the maidservant’s feet on the floorboards. He did not expect the cold pressure of a g*n muzzle against the base of his spine.

“Neither was that, Mr Smith,” the maidservant said coolly. Reaching around Smith’s body, she removed the pistol from his grasp. “I’ll have this weapon if you please, sir.”

“Search him,” Captain Blackwell ordered, as the broken-nosed man from the inn entered the room and took Smith’s pistol. The maid patted Smith down as if she had experience in the procedure and removed the knife from his belt.

“Nothing else,” the maid reported.

“Sit down, Smith,” Blackwell indicated the chair at the foot of the table.

Smith sat down. With Captain Blackwell at the head of the table, his pistol in front of him, the maidservant at the side, and Broken-nose behind him, Smith decided it were best to remain still.

“Now, John Smith, if that is your name, tell me your plan to regain my cargo.”

“I’d take it from the King’s Warehouse,” Smith said at once, holding Blackwell’s gaze.

“That will be a hanging offence,” Blackwell leaned forward.

“Only if they catch you.”

“I caught you handsomely enough,” Blackwell said dryly. His lip curled another fraction of an inch. “And who will put his head in the noose to do the deed?”

“Who is the leader here?” Smith asked. “You? This fellow here?” He jerked his head in the direction of Broken-nose. “Or perhaps your maidservant? Does she keep you in place with curtain lectures?” Smith watched as anger darkened Blackwell’s already saturnine face.

“I am the captain,” Blackwell said.

“Then you must do the deed.” Smith leaned back in his chair. “If your nerves are strong enough.” He saw Blackwell’s anger intensify, overcoming the captain’s caution.

“What do you suggest?” Blackwell’s fingers began to dance on the table.

“Wait until the sentries are three hours into their duty,” Smith said. “By that time, they are cold, bored, and lax. Distract them with a woman or a bottle, overpower them, and break into the warehouse. Simple and direct.”

“There will be repercussions,” Blackwell said.

Smith smiled. Despite the guns pointed at him, he was in control of the situation. “Don’t do it if you are afraid.” He knew he had forced Blackwell into a corner.

Blackwell’s face darkened further. “Tell me the details.”

Captain Blackwell was now the supplicant. Smith stood up, dipped his finger in the decanter of French brandy, and drew a rough plan of Marsham on the table top. “Gather round,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”