Devil to Pay (18 page)

I have the honour to be, sir,

Your obedient servant,

George Miller

The enclosure was addressed to the Collector at Poole and was dated from Corfe Castle on March the second.

Dear Sir,

Rumour has it that a cargo is to be landed illegally at Studland two days from now and that the
Rose
has been given orders accordingly. I think it my duty as a law-abiding freeholder to make it known to you that this cargo is in truth to be landed at Mudeford near Christchurch. I also have good reason to believe that the vessel concerned will not sail again from Mudeford before four in the morning of March the fifth which gives me the more reason to hope the preventive cutter will be there in time.

I have the honour to be, sir

Your ob't ser't

James Weston

Delancey read these documents a second time and then more slowly again, and the more he studied them the less he liked their contents. The
Rose
did not, of course, come under the orders of the Custom House at Poole so that he could ignore the request if he chose. But should he do so? With his head in his hands he began to puzzle out what had happened. First of all, his deception plan had failed. If the informer knew that Studland, not Lulworth, was the place where he expected the landing, a warning must have reached him. It seemed likely, in that case, that the smugglers had also been warned and that a signal would have directed Sam Carter to some other point, probably Lulworth. But what about the signature? If Withers' signature had been forged before, might not this letter be another forgery, the work of the same hand? If so, what was the object? The
Dove
was presumably at Lulworth and would be gone before the
Rose,
beating to windward, could arrive there. But somebody still wanted the
Rose
out of the way, presumably because there was another smuggling vessel expected. The aim would be to lure the
Rose
well to leeward of the point at which this other landing was to be made. Where, then, would it be? Presumably in Poole harbour itself. All this, however, was sheer guesswork. Perhaps the
Dove's
run had been delayed for a day and would take place at Studland after all. . . . Whatever he did now might be wrong and it would be sheer luck if his guess were to prove correct. The probability was that he would be made to look ridiculous by the morning—the keen young naval officer whose knowledge was not quite equal to his zeal. All the gossip in Market Street, Poole, would be about the way he had tried to trick the smugglers and had been tricked himself. Delancey came on deck and paced up and down for five minutes. Then, abruptly, he made his decision and began to issue his orders. “Hands to go about!” was the word and the
Rose
made a course for Poole harbour.

“Mr Lane—I shall want two boats manned and armed, with a lantern in the six-oared gig. I am going to close in with Studland Bay. Start sounding in five minutes, I want a reliable man in the chains.”

“Aye, aye, sir. The ebb has begun, though.”

“I know that—Mr Torrin!”

“Sir?”

“I shall want you to take the gig into Studland Bay. Show your lantern and you will be challenged by some dragoons who should be posted there. I shall give you a letter to Captain Molyneux but I want you to know the situation in case he asks questions. My guess is that tonight's run is taking place in the South Deep. I shall take the other boat in and will head for Goathorn Point. I should be greatly obliged to Captain Molyneux if he would, therefore, block the landward exit from that peninsula, covering the paths between Newton and Newton Copse.” Going below with the chart and map, Delancey explained his plan in detail, allowing Torrin to believe that he was acting upon information rather than upon mere guesswork. After making contact with the dragoons Torrin was to bring the gig up to the harbour entrance and mount guard there from midnight until the other boat came out again. Mr Lane, with the
Rose
herself, was to cruise as far as Christchurch, returning to the Swash next morning to pick up the boats, together with any capture they might have made.

Torrin's boat went into Studland Bay and the
Rose,
half an hour later, was near the entrance to Poole harbour. The larger boat was lowered there and manned with eight men and the coxswain. Delancey quitted the
Rose
last, leaving Mr Lane, with the boatswain and four hands, to take her under easy sail towards Christchurch. There was little Lane could do if he fell in with any smuggling craft but Delancey hoped that the gesture was sufficient. The ebb was running fast but Delancey hoisted a lugsail on his boat and was off North Haven Point in half an hour. To enter the South Deep meant lowering the sail and rowing almost into the teeth of the wind. There was over a mile to cover and it was half past two before the water deepened and the channel curved northward. It was hard work for the oarsmen and was as difficult a piece of navigation as Delancey could remember, but the South Deep was marked by stakes and the coxswain had been there repeatedly in daylight. With muffled rowlocks the boat began its cautious approach to Goathorn Point. Downwind (thank God!) came the sound of voices, the creaking of a tackle and, just audible, the whinny of a horse.

“Quiet!” hissed Delancey, priming his pistols. The boat edged silently towards a small jetty from which came the sound of barrels being rolled along planks. Against the starlit sky Delancey could just make out the two pole masts of what was probably a lugger and certainly not the
Dove.
Slowly and gently the boat came alongside the vessel, covered by the noise of her unloading. “Four with me,” whispered Delancey. “Coxswain, take the boat and land with three men at the other end of the jetty. Leave one man in charge of the boat.” Silently he swung up the side of the lugger and saw that the deck was dimly lit by a lantern wedged in a corner where the light could not be seen outboard. There were five men on deck, two working a hoist and the others on the gangplank. Several more could be heard moving on the jetty, one of them whistling as he did so.

“Stop that noise!” said a voice of command and the whistling stopped.

“Is that the lot, Ned?” came another voice from the jetty.

“Only six more,” came the voice again of the man who had called for silence.

Delancey realised that he had to act at once. Glancing round to see that his men were behind him, he fired a pistol into the air and called out, “Stay where you are in the king's name. You're all under arrest!” He then strode across the deck and placed himself on the gangplank, his men with him, their pistols levelled.

The smugglers' immediate reaction was so prompt and expert that it had evidently been rehearsed. Someone blew a long blast on a whistle. The lantern was extinguished. The men on the jetty ran shorewards, leading their packhorses. Of the men on deck three managed to scramble to the jetty and run after the others. Two were immediately secured, and a third was trapped in the hold. From the shoreward end of the jetty came the sound of a skirmish, where the coxswain and his men were trying to stop the fugitives. Horses could be heard cantering on the peninsula and, more distant still, came the sudden shrill note of a cavalry trumpet. So the dragoons were there.

Looking about him Delancey saw that his capture was a vessel he had never seen before. “What's the name of this craft?” he asked the man with the whistle, who replied, “The
Mary Ellen
of Weymouth—damn you.” He and the others were placed under guard in the cabin while Delancey went ashore to see how his coxswain had fared. Two packhorses had been secured together with a boy who had led one of them. The rest had escaped in the darkness, where the dragoons were presumably hunting them. Delancey had only moderate hopes of success ashore—the smugglers would know Newton Heath better than the soldiers could.

He walked back to the lugger reflecting on the irony of the situation. His plan to trap Sam Carter had completely failed. He had been fooled by more experienced opponents but one of them had gone too far, using a probably forged letter to send the
Rose
out of the way. This move seemed quite needless, for the
Rose
at Studland Bay would have been no real threat to the
Mary Ellen
in the South Deep. The sole result had been to arouse Delancey's suspicions and bring him back to Poole harbour. All Delancey's careful planning had ended in his missing the
Dove
and capturing another smuggling craft—one of which he had never heard. His main achievement had been in saving his reputation for sagacity.

At daybreak it became possible to take stock of the night's seizure. Captain Molyneux appeared at the head of his troop and reported the capture of four more laden packhorses and two of the land smugglers. The rest had scattered over the heath and vanished. As for the
Mary Ellen,
she was a fair prize, caught with the last of her cargo still aboard, but she was not of any great value; an old vessel patched up, not worth a proper repair. Delancey had earned enough to live on for the next few months. Molyneux had something towards his gambling debts. The dragoons and revenue men were happy, having undoubtedly hidden about half the goods they had seized. The smugglers were resigned to their losses, knowing that seizures were bound to take place from time to time. As for the men of the
Rose,
they looked upon Delancey as an almost legendary hero. Less pleased with himself than the others could realize, Delancey took the
Rose
and
Mary Ellen
into Poole with mixed feelings. He now had some business to do ashore.

“Look, sir!” said Lane as they neared the Custom House wharf, “There's the
Dove!”
And the
Dove
was indeed at anchor within a few cables distance. As Delancey went ashore the first man he met was Sam Carter. They both laughed and Delancey asked, “Where did I go wrong?” Sam was still more amused.

“Perhaps you play whist too well!” So Early had not been deceived by the acting. Once he was satisfied that Delancey was really a good player, he had disbelieved the story about Lulworth Cove. Assuming it to be the opposite of the truth he had ordered the signal to be made accordingly. Delancey's wry reflections on his failure to play his part were interrupted by Sam Carter, who added, “No ill feelings, I hope?”—to which Delancey replied, “I could wish we had been on the same side.”

At the Custom House, Delancey insisted upon seeing Mr Withers alone. When Miller had reluctantly left the room, Delancey produced the letter and enclosure he had received off Swanage.

“Did you know of this letter, sir?”

“No, I was off duty that day.”

“You were shown it, no doubt, on the following day and told of the action that Mr Miller had taken?”

“The incident was mentioned, I think, but I did not see the letter itself.”

“Might I know your opinion of it?”

Mr Withers took up the letter again and examined it more carefully.

“Well,” he said at length. “I should suppose that ‘James Weston' is an assumed name—one I have heard before in some connection. Letters of this sort come to us fairly often. The writer is himself engaged in illicit trade and has quarrelled with some rival. . . . No, I am wrong there. He has an interest in that craft you captured in the South Deep and wants to lead you away towards Christchurch.”

“And the handwriting, sir?”

“It is disguised.”

“Now compare it, if you will, with the handwriting of Mr Miller's covering note.”

After a long pause Mr Withers looked up with a dazed expression and said at length:

“I see what you mean. . . .”

“The ‘James Weston' handwriting is disguised, sir, as you say, but it was done in too much of a hurry. Some letters are still alike—look at the word ‘Studland' in both of the documents. Look at the capital C in Collector—here—and then at the C in Christchurch, here. I submit, sir, that James Weston—known to be in secret correspondence with John Early—is Mr George Miller.”

Shaken as he was by this revelation, which he had to accept, Withers still had some resolution and dignity left. He sent his clerk to fetch Mr Miller and said nothing more until the deputy comptroller stood before him.

“Mr Miller,” said Withers slowly, “the acting commander of the
Rose
received yesterday off Swanage a letter from you and an enclosure. Both, in my opinion, are in the same handwriting. Their purpose was to mislead the revenue officers and I have reason to suspect that the writer has been in regular communication with a man to whom the illicit traders look for direction.” There was a tense pause and Withers concluded: “May I have your comment?”

“You may have it this instant, sir,” replied Miller, handing a document over. “I have spent the last twenty minutes in writing my letter of resignation, and I now confirm before this witness that I resign my office from today.”

Miller walked to the door but paused for a moment to add: “I mean to retire, sir. It is fortunate that I can afford to do so.”

P
ART
T
HREE

W
HEN RICHARD DELANCEY next had occasion to appear in the High Street at Poole, he had the novel sensation of being famous. He was not exactly popular but neither was he a person to be ignored. Ladies nudged each other, glancing his way, and men of substance stared more openly, grumbling a little perhaps about young men who seemed to be too clever by half. Although aware of being the centre of attention, Delancey was far from feeling self-assured. His early successes had been due to his abilities being unknown and underrated. Now that he was thought to be ruthless and subtle his opponents would be forewarned and cautious. There would be no more accidental encounters like that with the
Four Brothers
of Shoreham. After fruitless cruising he would be back in Portsmouth by June, unemployed as before and as poor as ever.