Devil to Pay (10 page)

It was still bitterly cold but the clouds had gone and he would see, by starlight, the streets of the town through which he was making his way to the riverside. There were few lights to be seen but there were distant sounds of revelry from some sailors' tavern, presumably the Pig and Whistle. He walked on briskly and was able, presently, to identify the Customs House. He racked his brains to remember the facts he knew about smuggling. There was no traffic now in tea, he thought, the stuff being unobtainable in time of war save from the East India Company itself. There was nothing to be done with silks either, the duties having been lowered. Smuggling was confined, he thought, to spirits and tobacco, the spirits being often as much as forty per cent over proof. He vaguely remembered having heard stories about the ferocious Hawkhurst Gang which had flourished long ago. Present smugglers avoided fighting, he had been told, because of the militia being everywhere in wartime. They used cunning instead of force these days, sinking their cargo when pursued and coming back for it when the revenue men had gone. There was another trick reported, something to do with the kegs being slung under the lugger's keel. Revenue men had to be clever since most of their earnings came from commission on what they seized. How long would it take him to learn the trade? Still pondering on this, he identified the Customs House Wharf with, alongside, an unrigged cutter, evidently the
Nancy.
All was quiet along the wharf and there was a gangplank in position. On tiptoe now and without making a sound, Delancey went aboard the cutter.

Slowly and quietly he made his way aft, coming at last to the companionway. He stood there listening, for a minute or two and then went below. He wondered that the hatchway should be open but remembered that the cutter was to be broken up. There would be nothing aboard worth stealing, not so much as a rope yarn or a scrap of old canvas to lie on. He paused at the foot of the ladder for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Looking up through the hatchway he could see the starlight overhead. Looking aft he expected to see a glimmer of light through a stern window but all was dark. Perhaps there was no stern window in a cutter of this tonnage, far smaller than the craft regularly built for the Customs Board, but there should have been a scuttle aft even then, or at least a deadlight let into the deck. It was not much of a place to sleep in but no worse than some others he had known. He wondered whether there would be rats: or would they have gone ashore when they heard that the vessel was to be broken up? Cautiously he began to make his way aft. His shoe struck against a small ringbolt underfoot and at that instant his arms were suddenly pinned to his side by a powerful grip. “Keep quiet, mate,” said a rough voice. “Say one word and I'll slit your windpipe.” The threat was backed up by the coldness of the steel and Delancey wisely did as he was told. There were two men there, he realized, one who had seized him from behind, the other (with the knife) in front of him. While the point was still at his throat his wrists were jerked behind him and tied with a length of rope. Only then was the knife put away so that his captor could use flint and steel. A lantern was lit and raised so that the light fell on Delancey's face.

“Who is it, Dan?” said the voice from behind him.

“Damned if I know,” said the other. “I think as how our best plan will be to cut his throat.”

D
ELANCEY found himself looking at a shabby individual who was obviously a landsman. He guessed that the other man, whom he could not see, was some sort of fisherman or boatman. Rat-face—or Dan as the other called him—might once have been a clerk or shopman but had long since been discharged, probably for petty theft or drink or both. He might see himself as a master criminal but his was clearly not the stuff of which murderers are made. Even if evil intent were there he lacked the courage.

“Killing me,” said Delancey, “won't help you find the gold.”

“What gold?” asked Ratface with sudden interest.

“Gold be damned,” said the other man, “don't let him gammon you!”

“I mean the gold that was on board
The Friends.
Jack told me about it. Buckley's men hid it and never told the Customs.”

“Who told you?”

“Jack Rattenbury.”

“You know Jack?”

“Well, I should do.”

“And
he
said there was gold aboard this craft?”

“One time there was. Isn't that what you were looking for?”

“No, we weren't. But we found
this!
“ Ratface pointed to a half anker (or small keg) which stood on a locker, masking the deadlight on that quarter. “We was just a-going to open it when you had to come blundering aboard. If there had been gold we should ha' found it.”

“Even if lashed to the keel?”

“This berth dries out with the ebb.” They were spiking the keg as they talked and Ratface was finally able to taste the contents, having spilt some into the palm of his hand. He spat it out again with an oath. “Stinkibus!”

“Spoilt, eh?” asked Delancey, who had never heard the term used before.

“Stinkibus, that's what. It's been in salt water for months, maybe for years. Stinkibus!”

“I could give you something better.” “Well, where is it?”

“Untie me first. Can't you see that I'm a moonraker myself?”

“Just because you know Jack? That's nothing. Anyone could know him who lived round Christchurch.”

“I know someone else.”

“Who, then?”

“I know John Early.” There was an abrupt change of atmosphere and Delancey knew that he had made a big impression.

“So you know
John Early?
Why didn't you say so before? We wouldn't be wanting to offend the Squire of Milton Abbas! Not by no means! Untie his wrists, Will. This genelman is in the trade and sails by moonlight. I'll wager we can trust him.” Will did as he was told and insisted on shaking hands to prove that there were no hard feelings. He was a big man, strong as a horse and without a brain in his head.

“Well, where is it?” asked Ratface. Delancey produced the bottle from his coat-tail pocket and handed it over. “I want my share, mind!” This demand was more perhaps than was reasonable for Will was born thirsty and Dan wanted something (he said) to take away the taste of stinkibus. They finished the bottle between them and went to sleep on the cabin floor.

Next day, unshaven, Delancey really looked the part being almost as shabby at Ratface himself. He felt in no way conspicuous as they walked to the Rose and Crown next morning to meet a number of their friends—whose leader seemed to be a one-eyed character called Henry Stevens. Such was the technical language used, interlarded with nicknames and local allusions, that Delancey learnt all too little. Henry was disappointed, it seemed, in the backsliding of a former colleague called Isaac Hartley. He kept returning to this theme, regretting that Ike should have turned Methodist—he of all people—and given up the trade. Stories followed of how Ike had fooled the revenue men. No one, it seemed, had been more generally useful—as Stevens himself had to admit—and no one had a cellar better hidden. It was all due to his marrying Hannah, the daughter of David Mercer. Dave was a sort of lay preacher himself—damn the fellow!—and Hannah had been brought up in that hymn-singing crowd. Henry spoke of Ike's conversion with all the sorrow that chapel-goers bestow on those who have fallen from grace. “One thing I'll say for him,” said Henry. “He's never split on his old-time friends. He told me he never would and he hasn't.” From subsequent remarks it would seem that Ike's silence was well-advised. “What does Ike do for a living these days?” asked Delancey of Dan. “He's a ship's chandler with a place in Hog Lane,” came the reply. But Henry was still bewailing the loss of a friend. “Why, I ask
why
should he go and turn preacher? I'd rather be a loblolly boy or a Frenchie! I'll never speak to him again, the scow-bunking lubber!” More ale was called for and all agreed that Ike had been disloyal and ungrateful and that he deserved to be married to that sallow-faced Hannah.

From hours of conviviality all that Delancey could gather was that Henry's gang was relatively unimportant but that its activities hinged upon the occasional visits of a man they called Sam, probably from the mainland. He concluded that Isaac Hartley would be a useful source of general information, and that Sam (whose surname nobody mentioned) was said to be interested in a local girl called Molly Brown. Pleading unspecified business, but undertaking to meet his friends again that evening at the Pig and Whistle, Delancey slipped away while Henry was in the middle of another diatribe against preachers. He went first of all to the barber's for a shave and accepted the barber's advice about where to dine. There would be good value, he was told, at the eating house in Hog Lane. So there was and Delancey felt better after his hot-pot and cabbage. He found nearby the sign “ISAAC HARTLEY, SHIP CHANDLER,” and boldly entered the shop, asking to see what boat-hooks they had in stock. Isaac was evidently in a small way of business, providing mainly for fishermen, his shop probably avoided by his old associates. He was no serious rival for George Ratsey, already well known as a sailmaker. He had time for gossip and Delancey described himself as one of the redeemed, bred up in Surrey Chapel Sunday School but sorely tempted of late by some dealers in contraband. He asked Mr Hartley whether he regarded smuggling as actually
sinful?
Isaac took full advantage of this opening. Leaving his boy to take charge of the store, he took Delancey up to his loft, where he kept his rope yarn and twice-laid, his tallow and pitch. Sitting on a bolt of canvas, he explained at length that smuggling was indeed a sin. Doubting perhaps whether his argument had carried conviction, he went on to insist that it did not even pay. Fortunes might be made in Hampshire, at least by the men who financed the trade (with hellfire as their ultimate reward), but here in the Isle of Wight the game was not worth the candle. More could be made honestly, with salvation to follow.

Delancey learnt a lot that afternoon. Isaac, he discovered, was less of a preacher than his former mates were inclined to assume. He was much under Hannah's thumb, however, and her ideas were evidently strict. In talking about his old trade, though, there was a note of nostalgia in his voice. Those, evidently, had been the days! True to his vow he would name no names but he was not averse to describing the trade as a whole. Gradually the picture was revealed of the region known to him. The men of property who financed operations were centred upon Dorchester; John Early, Esquire, being obviously the chief of them. The landing places included various creeks from Bridport to Portland and from there to Christchurch. Apart from Christchurch itself the most important smuggling centres were Abbotsbury and Poole. All Isaac's detailed information was, in fact, about Poole. Smuggling vessels were based there and traded mainly with Alderney. Few of them came near the Isle of Wight for the collector there kept two armed boats, one at Yarmouth to examine vessels passing the Needles, the other at St Helen's to examine vessels passing Spithead. Goods for the island were usually sunk, therefore, in Sandown Bay by vessels which went on to Poole. One craft did this regularly (Sam's lugger, thought Delancey) and the barrels were picked up by some local men (Henry's gang, said Delancey to himself) who only used rowing boats out of Shanklin. The lugger would then put into Cowes to collect payment, this being on her next outward passage when her hold was empty. “Did the late Mr Buckley know of this?” asked Delancey and was told that he must have done. What he could not have known was the exact night when the run would take place. There were, of course, many other clandestine activities and the
Ros's
cruising ground extended from Lyme Regis to Beachy Head. Delancey asked whether Sam ever had warning about the
Ros's
intended movements but Isaac knew nothing about that. It was several years now since he had seen the light. It could be, though, that some revenue men were in the smugglers' pay. Such cases were known and no seizure, come to think of it, had ever been made in Sandown Bay After a long conversation, interrupted by many pious platitudes, Delancey thanked Isaac for his counsel and undertook to lead an honest life.

That evening Delancey was at the Pig and Whistle. He had originally supposed that this was the haunt of lower-deck as opposed to supervisory smugglers. He found that this idea was mistaken. The same people were there as he had met at the Rose and Crown but in a different mood and at a different hour. Clients of the Rose and Crown were all male and given to serious discussion about ways to cheat the customs and excise. By the time they reached the Pig and Whistle they were more inclined towards romance. There were women there, described by the innkeeper as his daughters and nieces, and tap-room conversation was more ribald and less technical. Voices were raised in discordant song or violent disagreement. Girls appeared, giggling, and vanished again half an hour at a time. Molly Brown was not among them at first and Delancey was not disposed to waste much time on the others. He listened for hours to Dan, Will and Henry, standing his round with nearly all he had left, but learnt nothing of any interest. While they accepted him as one of themselves, this was neither the time nor the place for talking business. They told stories and made jokes at the expense of Will, whose stupidity made him the natural butt of the others. When Molly Brown appeared she was followed by an old man with a fiddle. She sang, to his accompaniment, a rather sentimental song about a maid who died of love. Applause was perfunctory and, sensing the mood of the moment, she launched at once into a ballad entitled “The Flowing Can.” It was a popular tune and she illustrated the words with appropriate, if sketchy gestures showing how to heave the lead and reef the sail. Each verse ended with a rousing chorus in which everyone joined: