The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker Collection

Chapter 6-2

“Halloa there!” He deliberately slurred his words as if he was in drink.

The sentry started and looked at his companion for guidance. The older man shook his head slightly and then looked sideways when Blackwell approached from his left.

“It’s a fine night,” Smith said, drew his pistol and smashed the steel barrel on the young sentry’s head. Although the tricorne hat absorbed much of the blow, the youth still staggered, and Smith struck again. As the soldier slumped to the ground, Smith allowed his musket to fall, grabbed the man by the shoulders, and dragged him into the shelter of the inset doorway.

Blackwell had not been as fortunate. The older sentry, warier and much more experienced than his companion, noticed the mask on Blackwell’s face.

“Stand clear, you rogue!” The older soldier lowered his musket with the bayonet inches from Blackwell’s face.

Rather than speak, Blackwell sidestepped and rushed forward. Expecting something similar, the sentry swung his weapon in a sideways s***h. The barrel caught Blackwell on the chest, knocking him sideways. Glear and Dymer rushed up, throwing themselves on the soldier with their fists and boots pounding.

“Don’t kill him!” Smith ordered as Blackwell recovered and drew his pistol.

“b****y lobster bastard!” Dymer said, lifting his boot and stamping on the soldier’s head.

“We’re not here for that,” Blackwell pulled Dymer off the prone man. “Tie the bugger up!”

With the sentries bound and gagged, Smith slid the older man’s bayonet from the musket and prised loose the padlock from the warehoused door.

“The door’s still locked,” Glear said. “And solid oak. We can’t break in.”

“Yes, we can.” Smith began to hack at the door frame with his bayonet. “Cut around the lock with the other bayonet. The door may be oak, but the frame is only soft pine. Come on, man!”

“Hurry!” Blackwell said, looking around him. “We don’t have much time!”

With two energetic men digging at the wood, the lock was soon freed, and Smith pushed the door open. Glear shoved past him to enter the building. “Out of my way, cully.”

Dymer laughed and thrust in next, nearly stepping on the prostrate body of the older sentry. “I should have brought a glim,” he said.

“There will be a lantern near the door.” Smith felt for a shelf, located an oil lantern, and scraped a spark from his tinder box to apply to the wick. The resulting yellow glow revealed a hundred kegs, barrels, and packages.

“They’ve got everything ready for us,” Dymer gloated as Smith lifted the lantern higher to illuminate the warehouse.

Smith walked to a desk in one corner and lit two candles. “Don’t waste time,” he said. “Get these kegs to the door. The wagons will be here shortly.”

Glear stared at Smith. Perhaps he thought that breaking into the warehouse was the end of the business, rather than just the beginning.

“Come on!” Captain Blackwell was more practical and organised his men. “Dymer, you and Glear bring the cargo to the door. Smith and I will help the boys load it onto the wagons. Smith, help me drag these blasted redcoats out of the way.”

By the time Skinner drove the first wagon along the quayside, Smith and Blackwell had a stack of kegs waiting to be loaded.

“Come on, man!” Blackwell said as Skinner looked from him to Smith. “Get these things aboard before the Excisemen come!”

Transferring the cargo from the warehouse to the convoy of wagons took the best part of an hour, but fortunately, Skinner had ensured plenty of extra hands. Smith grunted as the time passed. He watched two men load Skinner’s cart with twenty-four tubs of spirits, a quarter keg whose contents Smith could only guess at, and two bags of tea. Other carts were similarly laden until they rumbled away in a steady convoy.

“Where do you store the goods?” Smith asked.

“That’s none of your damned business,” Blackwell replied.

“The sergeant and relief guard will be here in five minutes,” Smith said as the last wagon rolled away. “Let’s make it look good for him.”

“What’s your plan?” Blackwell was slightly dishevelled with the labour, with a trickle of sweat running from his forehead.

“Close the door and put the sentries back in place,” Smith said.

His mother had run forward for a final embrace at the foot of the gallows, only for a sentry to push her roughly back. “That’s my husband!” Smith’s mother had said, and the sentry laughed and dropped the butt of his musket on her foot.

His mother had run forward for a final embrace at the foot of the gallows, only for a sentry to push her roughly back. “That’s my husband!” Smith’s mother had said, and the sentry laughed and dropped the butt of his musket on her foot.“Get back where you belong,” he snarled.

“Get back where you belong,” he snarled.“And my son!” Smith’s mother reached out her hands. “Please!”

“And my son!” Smith’s mother reached out her hands. “Please!”The sentry pushed her away. “Get back, or I’ll break your head!”

The sentry pushed her away. “Get back, or I’ll break your head!”“Mother!” Smith tried to help until the hangman put a hard hand on his shoulder.

“Mother!” Smith tried to help until the hangman put a hard hand on his shoulder.“It’s too late whining for your mother now,” the hangman said. “You should have thought of her before you stole Sir Francis’s horses.”

“It’s too late whining for your mother now,” the hangman said. “You should have thought of her before you stole Sir Francis’s horses.”“We didn’t steal any horses,” Smith said, watching as the sentry wrestled with his mother.

“We didn’t steal any horses,” Smith said, watching as the sentry wrestled with his mother.“Sir Francis said you did, and I’ll take his word over yours!”

“Sir Francis said you did, and I’ll take his word over yours!”The soldier slammed the butt of his musket into Smith’s mother’s stomach then pushed her to the ground.

The soldier slammed the butt of his musket into Smith’s mother’s stomach then pushed her to the ground.“We don’t have time!” Blackwell complained.

“I’ll do it myself,” Smith dragged the younger man to his old position and propped him against the walls as if he had been sleeping. Blackwell, casting nervous glances along the harbour front, helped do the same with the older man.

“And I want their weapons,” Smith said, removing both sentries’ muskets and bayonets.

Only when he was satisfied did Smith step away. Rather than return immediately to the Dancing Horse, he merely retired to the shelter of the brig and watched as the sergeant marched to the King’s Warehouse with the relief guard. Blackwell glared at Smith suspiciously and then joined him.

Smith grinned at the explosion of noise as the sergeant realised what had happened.

“It’ll be a couple of hundred lashes for these men,” Blackwell said.

“I’d imagine so,” Smith said and added, “toe crushing bastards,” without any explanation.

“That’s a good job well done,” Blackwell said. “We’ll have to celebrate.”

Smith nodded. “The landlady will be pleased with the extra custom.”

“Not at the inn,” Blackwell said. “Seahaven. We won’t mingle with the crowd, Mr Smith. You and I have matters to discuss.”

“I’ll hide these two first,” Smith lifted the muskets, “and join you within the hour.”