The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker Collection

Chapter 8-2

Bess pondered for a moment, watching Smith. “I don’t know.”

“You may have nightmares for the remainder of your life, or you may love it,” Smith said. “Or you’ll feel nothing.”

Bess did not reply.

Smith lifted Bess’s pistol, opened the window, and fired into the sky outside. “That will wake up the neighbours.” He handed the weapon to Bess. “How are you with a g*n? Let me see you.”

“Who is making that noise?” Ruth hammered at the door.

“It’s all right, Mrs Martin,” Smith soothed her. “Nobody’s hurt. It was only a practice shot.” He waited until Ruth bustled away then returned his attention to Bess as she aimed at the fireplace.

“No.” Smith shifted the muzzle until it pointed directly at his face. “Aim at me. Look me in the eyes and shoot me. It’s all right; it’s empty. I’ve just fired the damned thing, and these weapons only hold one charge.”

Bess’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted the pistol and pressed the trigger. The hammer fell with a slight click.

“You see how hard that was?” Bess removed the pistol from Bess’s hand. “The trigger has a very heavy pull. It’s hard enough for a man and harder still for a woman.” He smiled, taking any sting from his words. “It’s a general fault with many pistols that their triggers are so excessively stiff that it’s impossible to keep the sight on the target when firing.”

Bess listened, nodding.

“This weapon is ten inches long. You’d be better with a pistol about six inches in length, certainly no longer, and a 20 to 24 bore. Find one with a spring hook on the side to fit onto a belt and a trigger that is exceedingly light to pull.”

“I’m as strong as many men,” Bess protested.

“And many men struggle to pull a stiff trigger,” Smith told her. “Choose an eminent g*n maker, one on whose respectability you can place utter dependence.”

Bess listened intently. “I’ve never heard you speak at such length.”

Smith touched her pistol. “A good weapon can save your life,” he said, “while one of poor quality jeopardises it.” He smiled. “One thing’s for certain, if you need a g*n, you’ll need it badly.”

“I was standing right behind you,” Bess said. “I could hardly miss.”

“That is true,” Smith agreed. “If you managed to pull that stiff trigger before I shifted aside.”

Bess’s brows closed in a frown. “I’d have blown a hole in your spine,” she told him.

“You might be better with a blunderbuss,” Smith said. “It’s anything but ladylike, but it is functional and a fearsome weapon. It takes a charge of 120 grains of black powder and holds a load of musket or pistol balls. Swan shot can also be effective.”

“Have you used one?” Bess asked.

For a moment, Smith was a youngster back aboard the ship, with a horde of yelling French seamen trying to board. He held the blunderbuss in trembling hands, with the foretopman shouting at him to fire before the damned Crapauds swept onto them. He lifted the blunderbuss and squeezed the trigger, with the shot blasting into the French ranks, wreaking c*****e as men and pieces of men dissolved in a welter of blood and flesh and torn bones. Smith screamed at the sight and cringed as the wind blew a haze of French blood over him.

He held the blunderbuss in trembling hands, with the foretopman shouting at him to fire before the damned Crapauds swept onto them. He lifted the blunderbuss and squeezed the trigger, with the shot blasting into the French ranks, wreaking c*****e as men and pieces of men dissolved in a welter of blood and flesh and torn bones. Smith screamed at the sight and cringed as the wind blew a haze of French blood over him.Smith pushed away the memory. “Imagine how you would feel with a two-inch muzzle thrust in your face. A blunderbuss is the best weapon for creating instant respect. At forty feet, there is a spread of between twenty-four to thirty-six inches. At sixty feet, the spread can be fifty inches.” Smith gave an evil grin, darkened with memory. “Now, Bess, that’s hard to avoid.”

Bess nodded. “Yes, and you can load a blunderbuss with scrap iron, stones, or even rusty old nails, so you don’t have to waste money on shot.”

Smith shook his head. “Only in an emergency. That kind of ammunition can play merry hell with the bore, and imagine if a nail was caught crosswise in the barrel? The weapon would blow up in your face.”

Bess nodded, shivering.

Smith continued. “Whatever you choose, Bess, keep the flint sharp and your powder dry.” He touched the pan of the pistol. “Ensure the frizzen — that’s the metal the flint strikes to create a spark — does not become greasy or worn, or there’d be few sparks, and the priming powder won’t ignite.”

Bess nodded, with her eyes fixed on Smith and her eyes softening.

“Remember that if the touchhole between the pan and the powder becomes clogged, the priming powder might flash in the pan without the spark reaching the charge, so you’ll have a misfire, and your opponent will have an advantage.”

Bess put her hand on the pistol. “So keep my flint sharp, my frizzen in good condition, the touchhole open, and the priming powder fresh and dry.”

“You’ve got it,” Smith became aware that Bess’s expression had altered since he had begun speaking. She was no longer looking at him like a friend or a client but with a more disturbing emotion.

Damn! Damn, damn, and double damn! I’ve no time for romance!

Damn! Damn, damn, and double damn! I’ve no time for romance!“Well, John Smith, my frizzen is in excellent condition, and my touchhole is open if your flint is sharp and your powder fresh.”

Am I wrong? Does she only wish to bed me? No, not with that look in her eyes. She’s moved beyond the purely physical.

Am I wrong? Does she only wish to bed me? No, not with that look in her eyes. She’s moved beyond the purely physical.Smith twisted his lips into the semblance of a smile. “In that case, Bess, let me check the condition of your frizzen.”

Bess’s smile was that of a woman in complete control.

* * *

“The Excise Service is the natural enemy of the free traders,” Smith spoke to the wall, fully aware that Bess was listening to every word. “Excisemen on land, and the Preventative Service at sea.”

“That’s correct,” Bess agreed.

“Tell me how it works in this parish,” Smith shifted, so he sat up in bed, with the sounds of the street evident although the window was closed.

“Much the same as everywhere else,” Bess told him.

“Tell me anyway.”

Bess gathered her thoughts for a moment before she replied. “There is Musbie, the Collector’s Clerk. You’ll know him by the ink stains on his fingers. He never comes to the Dancing Horse, though. Like all the Custom staff, he drinks at the Hounds Rest.”

Smith nodded. “He’ll be underpaid, underappreciated, and a font of knowledge in all things to do with the Customs and Excise. I might cultivate his friendship.”

“Then there are the tidewaiters or tidesmen. There are eight of them for the parish, two based in Kingsgate and the rest in Marsham. The Collector rotates them, so I don’t know their names.”

“The tidesmen are the lads who patrol the coasts and check the cargoes of ships that arrive in the harbour,” Smith said. “Sometimes, they travel with suspect ships.”

“That’s right,” Bess agreed. “We only get coasting craft in Kingsgate and Sir Francis’s ship for sending farm produce away.”

“The tidesmen are badly paid, too,” Smith said, “but they get a share of all the contraband they seize.”

Bess nodded.

“If we give them a larger bribe or allow them to find part of the cargo, we can neutralise them.” Smith folded his hands behind his head, watched as Bess shifted her position, and allowed his brain to ponder all the information she provided.

“Next up the ladder is the landwaiter, who supervises the tidesmen. The landwaiter also checks cargoes leaving the harbour and arriving and can enter anybody’s house to rummage for smuggled goods. Above him is the surveyor, also based in Marsham, as is the comptroller, who deals with the financial matters.”

“And above all is the Collector of Customs, who lived in Hop Passage, a hundred yards from the Dancing Horse,” Smith said. “Thank you, Bess.”

“Don’t forget the Preventative service,” Bess said. “The Customs sloops and cutters that patrol offshore.”

“I know of them,” Smith said.

“There’s one man that scared Captain Blackwell,” Bess said. “A fellow called Ambrose Grant. He’s the best Preventative captain in the fleet, but thank God he’s based up in Scotland at present.”

Grant’s name seemed to hang like a threat in the room until Bess slid her foot up Smith’s leg. “Is your flint sharp again?”

Smith pushed thoughts of Ambrose Grant to one side and concentrated on more immediate matters.

* * *

Smith could not judge the age of the man who sat in the furthest corner of the taproom. He might have been fifty, or he might have been seventy, although Smith guessed somewhere in between. The man was evidently of the sea, with a tarred canvas jacket above wide, much-patched trousers, while his face was as deeply tanned as any deep-water man should possess. To prove Smith’s assessment, the brass earring in the man’s right ear glinted in the firelight.

Every time Smith entered the taproom, the man sat in the same position, with his back to the wall and a small pewter tankard on the table at his right elbow, yet Smith was aware the old man had followed him on more than one occasion.

“That fellow there,” Smith said to Ruth. “Who is he?”

“Thomas Carman,” Ruth said at once, “and he’s as interested in you as you are in him.”

Smith lifted his head slightly. “Thomas Carman? I know that name,” he studied the man again. “I thought he was long since dead.”

“Not yet,” the landlady said, “although he sits there, day after day, trying to drink himself to the grave.”

Smith smiled. “Let me help him towards his destination, landlady. I’ll buy him a drink.”

“He drinks rum,” Ruth said.

Smith shook his head. “Not today, he doesn’t. Come to the counter with me, and make up what I say.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows. “If you wish, Mr Smith, but Tom is not a sociable man.”

“Fetch a pint tankard,” Smith said quietly, “and put in half a pint of strong beer, none of your frothy light rubbish, but as hoppy, as you have, Kent beer of the best quality.”

Ruth obeyed, with her eyes sceptical.

“Then add a gill of gin and quarter of a pint of sherry.”

“In the same tankard?” Ruth asked.

“Yes, and then add a gill of rum.”

Ruth made up the drink, screwing up her face. “I wouldn’t like to drink that concoction,” she said.

“It’s about to get worse,” Smith said. “Do you have a powder flask for your pistol?”

“I do,” Ruth said, wondering.

“Pass it over, please.”

Wondering, Ruth did as Smith asked and watched as Smith added a measure of gunpowder to the tankard and stirred with one of Ruth’s spoons.

“That’s appalling,” the landlady said. “Nobody can drink that. There ought to be a law against it.”

“There probably is,” Smith said, “or an extra tax, but Thomas Carman can, and will, drink it,” Smith said. “Put it on my account.”

Smith carried the tankard across the room and placed it in front of Carman.

“What’s that?” Carman looked at the tankard with basilisk-hard eyes. “And who the devil are you to bring me a drink?”

“I am John Smith, and that’s rumfustian, Teach’s favourite.” Smith sat opposite Carman.

“How the hell do you know what Teach drank?”

“Drink it,” Smith said.

“I sailed with the bugger.” Carman tasted the mixture. “That was a long time ago.”

“Forty years and more,” Smith said. “Are you the man now that you were then?”

“Don’t be b****y stupid. I’m an old done man.”

“It’s the spirit that makes the man,” Smith said, “not his years, and you’re dying of inactivity here.”

Carman grunted and drunk more of the rumfustian. “This stuff takes me back.”

“I heard that the authorities hanged you.”

Carman licked his lips. “Did you hear that?” He glanced at the door as if expecting the heavy tread of Jack Ketch and the shadow of the noose.

“I heard they hanged you at Barbados, or maybe Jamaica.”

“Is that what you heard? Are you sure it wasn’t at Charleston in the Carolinas?”

Smith leaned back, aware that Ruth was watching and listening to every word. “A man who survives a hanging becomes one of the devil’s children.”

Carman nodded. “I met the devil, and his name was Teach.” He flicked aside Smith’s kerchief, exposing the neck and throat. “We share the same father, I see.”

Smith replaced the kerchief. “My father is long since dead.”

Carman drained the tankard. “So is mine.” He gave a gap-toothed grin. “I died beyond the Line, where there was no law except what we made ourselves. Where did you die, John Smith?”

“Gallows Hill, in this parish, and the Downs, three miles off the coast of Kent.”

“You died twice, yet you look alive to me. That’s a rare gift.”

“A man can only die a limited number of times,” Smith said. “After that, his luck ends, and he must live forever.”

Carman pushed forward the empty tankard. “A man can die while still alive,” he said. “He can die of day after day of nothingness, killed by the grey drag of pointless time until death welcomes him with an open grave, or Davy Jones brings him home.”

Smith understood. “A man can get a surfeit of excitement when he is young, and he can never return to a quiet existence again.”

Carman waited while Ruth made up his rumfustian again. He peered into the tankard with his eyes three thousand miles and half a century away. “Where are the days that have been, and the seasons that we have seen, when we might sing, swear, drink, drab, and kill men as freely as your cake-makers do flies when the whole sea was our Empire, where we robbed at will and the world but our garden where we walked for sport?” He drank more from the tankard. “John Ward said that. He was a 17th century Barbary pirate from Kent.”

Smith frowned. “The world is still out there,” he said, “the sea is still the sea.”

“The authorities have closed down the old days, the sea is no longer open, and there is no salt to life.”

“I’ll soon be looking for a crew,” Smith said. “I want bold men of character, men who are not afraid to stake life on the roll of a dice, and men who can look the devil of misfortune in the face and laugh.”

“Where do I sign articles?” Carman asked.

Smith smiled. “Welcome aboard, Thomas Carman.”

I have my first crew member. Now all I need is eleven more men and a ship, and I’ll set a fire throughout Kent that no man, king, or devil, will ever douse.

I have my first crew member. Now all I need is eleven more men and a ship, and I’ll set a fire throughout Kent that no man, king, or devil, will ever douse.