Danial Spafford had sent his lugger crews out in pairs throughout the day, some to scour the alehouses of Deal, others to various dwellings, each with instructions to look out for the whereabouts of certain people. The way Tulkington landed and moved his goods, and who oversaw the unloading, was no mystery to men who had been in the same trade for years. His rival had been picking up information all that time, which eventually amounted to a picture. The where and how he had, but not the when.
It was a matter of deep envy that Tulkington’s operations were so well organised. The ships he used were larger and his cargoes more varied: not just tea and brandy, but fine wines in the cask. He brought in quantities of tobacco, ladies’ leather gloves, bolts of silk and lace, added to which he had a secure place to land his cargo outside the midsummer months. It was also one Hawker’s men could defend as well as get clear from if they were required to escape.
Most smugglers landed their contraband and carried it to where it could be quickly stored. For the owner of an individual lugger and small quantities, that had to be Deal Beach itself, or very close by. There, with speed and in darkness, a number of brandy barrels or tea-laden waistcoats could be quickly hidden in the cellars and attics of the houses, before any lawful agency could intervene unless pre-warned.
For Spafford, with a couple of luggers’ cargo, it was the Sandwich Flats a mite more than a mile north of Sandown Castle, his stuff borne by hand over the scrub and sandhills by willing locals for a copper reward, to be hidden behind false walls in various barns or, at the right time of year, under hayricks, with the men he led around to guard them until it could be sold.
Tulkington had the use of St Margaret’s Bay, a place hard to approach unseen by land and near impossible in numbers along the shoreline. The base of the high chalk cliffs at either extremity were boulder-strewn at low tide, under at least a half a fathom of water when high and often more. With a strand in the centre free from obstructions, the bay had only one steep path as landward approach, while the area was riddled with long-employed tunnels, which, being in chalk, required no supports.
Tulkington’s father had hewn out a series of chambers, with wooden beams to keep in place the roof and, into these, the products disappeared to be stored for later distribution. This meant he had no need for constant cross-Channel journeys at inclement times of the year − indeed if the spring and autumn importations went well, he could often avoid the middle months.
The window for the landing of large-scale contraband was constrained by both weather and the hours of daylight. Midwinter provided few opportunities, while in midsummer the few hours of darkness favoured a swift approach by smaller boats and an even faster unloading, this being achieved by a line of as many as one hundred souls in a passing chain. Thus it became an activity from which much of the town took benefit, which in turn guaranteed silence.
The same applied to Spafford and the folk who lived around Worth and Ham, but Hawker oversaw those who carried out the unloading at St Margaret’s, each pair of hands known to and depending on him for the means to eat and drink, better than that allowed by the meagre pay they drew as farm labourers or apprentices.
What required no explanation were the possible conditions prevailing under which such activities could be carried out. The state of the moon was important: full or near full meant the need for heavy cloud cover; nothing but a sliver was best. Then there was the sea state, which mattered just as much for a Deal chancer as it did for Tulkington or Spafford.
A really heavy swell had to be avoided. Not only was unloading dangerous and, from a full-sized cargo vessel, time-consuming: it was too easy for a vessel to be driven so far onshore it would struggle to quickly refloat, quite apart from the damage inflicted upon the hull. It also needed to be reasonably calm, though not utterly so, and the tides had to be favourable.
For all these caveats, there was no guarantee, even if conditions were fair, when Tulkington’s cargoes would be expected and that was what his smaller rival was seeking to discover. It was cheering to find certain parties − Hawker’s close gang members − were missing from their usual haunts, which had Spafford ask, once everyone was back from their tasks, where his son was.
‘Last time I saw him he was outside the Albion,’ was one reply.
‘Not for long,’ was a sniggered response from ‘Dolphin’ Morgan.
This was a soubriquet given to him because he was held to be as thick as the wooden posts that sat in a line along the high point of the beach: bollards, to which boats could be secured. It was as well he took it in good humour, for he was massive of shoulder and fist, while being short of temper.
‘Any hope of getting him back an’ sober?’
The look that got was that pigs might fly, while if he wanted to chastise Dolphin there was no point. If Harry was not present there was no time to fetch him, and besides, if he had gone into the Albion it could only be for one purpose, one which would render him a liability. Not even Daisy could tell Dan Spafford his son was that.
Suppressing his irritation, Spafford told his men of the intention to rob Tulkington.
‘An’ tonight looks to be a good ’un for the deed.’
This was followed by a slow look around the dozen men whom he held to be loyal, for not one of them could but wonder where this would lead; a fellow like Hawker was not one to take matters lying down and behind him stood Tulkington, who was way more powerful in terms of resources. Candlelight made grimmer what were serious faces and Spafford knew they would need bucking up.
‘Time I let you in on the truth, lads. The cupboard’s near bare. It’s this we do, or it’ll be goin’ back to portage, hovelling or you all grubbing for enough sea coal to fill a sack you can sell.’
Not normally a man of many words, Daniel Spafford observed the shock the truth caused, taking some comfort from the fact he had kept his situation so well hidden. Now he laid it out plain and he was not shy on the alternatives. These men had come to him to get away from the lives they had led before, which was relentless toil on the beach or in the water and never knowing for sure where the next bit of coin was coming from.
Smuggling with Spafford had allowed them a life of some ease for the occasional risk of being had up by the Revenue and even, given they were sometimes armed, being maimed or killed. If they had been well rewarded, it would have been spent as soon as it was paid; that was the nature of the beast and Spafford knew it. There would likely be not a saved guinea between them.
‘So where’s the money to buy a boat, an’ you need that to eat? Where’s the coin to pay the Clerk of the Council for a spot on the beach? And even if you could run to it, what kind of living could you make with everyone out to cut each other’s throat for portage or a passenger? I daresay there are ways to eke a crust, as a crossing sweeper or a night soil man, happen.’
A pause heavy with meaning was followed by, ‘You’re with me, Daisy?’
‘As ever Dan.’
That got the assembly a gimlet-eyed examination of those same faces, which left in more than one mind the thought that disloyalty could make it unsafe to show Daisy your back.
‘Right, let’s get dressed as we need to be.’
The men who made their way to the shore, carrying the oars that would propel their boats, were uniformly attired in long dark coats and tricorn hats, while half of them were armed.
John Hawker, having set his toughs on Brazier, had picked up his horse and a pair of pistols at the slaughterhouse, to then make his way to St Margaret’s Bay, riding along a path running along the high point of the chalk down, a task that became increasingly difficult as twilight turned slowly to night. So it was by lantern light he made his destination: a dilapidated cottage halfway down a cliff-side track, already occupied by one of his gang members.
His primary job had been to assess the sea state in daylight and, if it looked suitable, to hoist an ensign on a flagstaff only visible out at sea, which would tell the vessel cruising out in the Channel it was, weather-wise, safe to come in. Tulkington was adamant no chances be taken, so only if the flag remained flying would the operation proceed, which meant it was necessary to ascertain that was still true and that there were no sightings of Preventatives trying to assemble in the village half a mile inland.
They should have been strung out halfway between Deal and Walmer Castle, waiting for a cargo that was never going to arrive, but it was best to be sure. Nothing had been reported so, certain it was safe and that the men he needed were in position, he lit and handed over one lantern, then took another himself.
A lifted trapdoor exposed a set of steps, which took him and his companion down to a narrow tunnel, in which the light he carried bounced off the smooth white of the chalk, this providing good illumination. As the crouched pair made their way, other lanterns were lit at intervals until the point came where they must split.
‘Remember, wait till you see the light flash out to sea.’
The instruction got a look, which said the listener was no fool and knew what he was about. In the face of a glare from Hawker, who was no more a man to leave matters to chance than his employer, it quickly disappeared and so did he. Going on alone Hawker eventually felt a breeze on his face as well as the smell of the sea in his nostrils, which told him he was close to the high opening, one covered by a gorse bush growing out of the chalk cliff.
He shaded his lantern prior to moving the edge of the bush to one side, just enough to let him see out, using a tie left on a ringbolt to keep it from swinging back. It was near to blackness now, broken clouds in the sky hiding the stars and too little moon to silver the edges. Held up, his lantern was unshaded three times, with no response, which did not cause worry.
The time a ship could make its landfall could never be fixed, regardless of tides – indeed it was not unknown for there to be no arrival at all and with no way of telling why. All he could do was wait.
Spafford was in no rush to execute a plan he had worked out a long time past, as well as one he had dreamt many times of carrying through. It was a long slow row, in a pair of oared cutters, from the boathouse at Sandwich Flats to where he needed first to be. He had no intention of having his men bend their backs to throw up spray, which might pick up what little light existed and be visible to watchers on the Kingsdown cliffs.
Being in the smuggling game required that he know every bit of the coast and Spafford hove to a cable’s length short of the headland called Leathercote Point, the south side of which formed the northern extremity of the destination bay. He needed to wait out of sight to even the keenest eye, rocking on the swell, the oars only used to steady the boats, keeping them from drifting, while he sang softly to himself, which he hoped would reassure his bound-to-be-nervous companions.
The winking light out at sea came after a long wait. Spafford knew that would be responded to, even if he could not see the pair of lanterns spaced wide apart on either arc of the bay, of which he had been told. This gave the ship’s master a way to make his landfall close to, if not exactly in, the middle of the bay, thus avoiding the huge rocks at the edges. Even with an onshore breeze there would be no sail; the ship would be edged in on its sweeps, dropping an anchor in deep water and paid out on the capstan until she grounded. Once unloaded and lightened, the same cable and capstan would be employed to silently haul the vessel out to deep water again.
‘We’re on, Dan,’ Daisy whispered. ‘You was right. Hear that lads, he were right.’
‘We’ll stay awhile, yet.’
If the approaching vessel was hard to see, it was not, in increasingly close proximity, impossible to hear; creaking cordage and straining timbers, plus the odd command, floated across the water, until eventually an outline of triced-up canvas on the yards could be faintly detected. Then came the splashing sound of the long sweeps dipping into the water to provide steerage way. The noises grew, grunts and possibly curses, with bodies moving about to tell Spafford the holds were being opened and emptied, the cargo being brought on deck so that transferring it would be as swift as possible.
There would be men on the strand now and they would cast a line to draw ashore a thicker cable, this so the ship could be hauled in and held fast to a dolphin. That would be followed by the dropping of a long gangplank, down which the contraband could be speedily taken to a pair of long ladders. These led up to the entrances, twin tunnels through which it would be carried at the run. Speed was essential; the ship needed to be a goodly distance offshore by dawn, an innocent-looking trading vessel on a course for a French home port.
Hawker was well aware this was the time of maximum danger, so his nerves were taut. You could take all the precautions you like, but you could never be sure it would not all go ahoo. If the Revenue were waiting where they should be, in anticipation of what he had told them was coming ashore, all would be mustered in the wrong place. Thus there would be none to man the other possible concern: the Revenue’s armed cutter, berthed in Dover Harbour.
A vessel that carried four small cannon, it was to be feared. Out at sea it was invisible and, being a swift sailer if well handled, it could quickly spring a trap, at which point the ship and what it carried would be abandoned. The tunnels, quickly sealed to keep their entrances hidden, would be full, not of cargo, but men seeking to escape capture.
The silence, which had mostly held, was broken by the rasp of the keel on the pebbles. Then came gasps and the occasional cry, added to the scrunch of a multitude of feet, both the ship’s crew and Hawker’s locals, slithering as they tried to run on a rising bank of shingle bearing a load, with Dan Spafford listening hard and seeking to time what would come next.
The chambers in which the cargo was stored were nowhere near sea level; they were halfway up the cliff side and access to them was wide enough for only one man at a time, so once the first loads were on their way, the numbers on the beach would be few and that was when he could strike.
‘Haul away,’ was a quiet instruction.
The oars were dipped to take the Spafford boats in to the shore. Once they heard the hiss of water on the shingle it was pull hard, with his men being led out before the lead cutter even beached, to splash along the shoreline yelling ‘Surrender in the name of the King’, with their leader firing off one of his pistols, the crack of which echoed around the bay, this while the second cutter was heading for the side of the cargo ship to board.
That pistol shot had John Hawker, who was on his way to pay the vessel’s master his fee, returning to his opening to peer out into the gloom. He was now trying to grasp what was happening, as well as seeking to make sense of it. He had got to his present position of trust for several reasons, not least his willingness to do whatever was necessary in the chastisement line. But he also possessed a good brain as well as reliable judgement and his instincts, as well as the lack of loud, shouted and repeated orders to yield, indicated to him this was no Revenue raid.
The lantern was abandoned as he hurried back down his tunnel and, knowing the various routes well, he was soon scurrying through the one that led to the main storage chambers, for it was off these that all the others ran. Inside the feeder routes there were men by the several dozen carrying the cargo uphill in a long line and, given the varied objects some were having to manoeuvre, seeking to avoid getting stuck.
Most were so far inside the dense chalk that the sound of Dan Spafford’s pistol going off was muted; only those at the very rear heard it and that did not produce any willingness to turn and find the source, quite the reverse. All knew what to do if they were threatened, which was to haul in the ladders and close off the entrances.
There would be no rushing out into darkness and possible arrest. Above their heads were locals set to keep watch and they would know how lay the land. Having been told what they might face, they would then get to the surface and disperse over time, using a multitude of concealed exits, some of which ran to the next headland.
Part of Spafford’s plan was to have the pair who once worked for Tulkington get to those entrances quickly – they knew well where they lay – and discharge a fowling piece full of buckshot towards each. Aim was not important: it was designed to induce fear, and if some of the shot struck home so much the better. The real object was to ensure those entrances were quickly sealed, this while the main body ran to intimidate those still on the ship.
They could then get their cutters alongside and unload as much cargo as they could carry, a task made easier given that the few sailors remaining, being unarmed and taken utterly by surprise, had rushed below at the sound of the first shot to man the capstan and seek to get the ship off the shingle. Only the master stood his ground, slashing at the holding cable with an axe until he was felled by Dan Spafford’s pistol butt.
For all his screaming imprecations, John Hawker, having made one of the main chambers and seeking to get down to ensure all was secure, could not get past the lumbering and ignorant men portaging the cargo, even when the news of what was happening to the rear rippled forwards. The narrow tunnels had been hewn out of the self-stabilising chalk for one-way traffic, with only the occasional cut-out niche where a man could sit and rest, a seat provided. If Hawker managed to turn the man before him, it did little to persuade those following, which ended with everything coming to a complete halt.
The Spafford thieving was not leisurely: it was ferocious and far from organised. What could be grabbed was flung and only occasionally lowered to the cutters, until there was barely enough room for those who were required to row. Eventually a halt was called and a retreat ordered. The escape was messy and quite a few were served a ducking as they tried to get aboard with too much haste.
That accepted, they were not disheartened as they rowed out the now low-in-the-water boats – quite the reverse. For blood-up and coursing ruffians, who hated common toil and sought profit in adventure, elation came from having just tweaked a very powerful nose.
Hawker got to the strand level eventually by allowing all the cargo in the tunnels up into the main chambers. He had his twin pistols out, ready and cocked as he made the sealed-off exit, to listen hard for evidence of activity. None being apparent he had it opened and the ladder lowered to come gingerly out, lantern held aloft, into the blackness of the night, several of his men following.
There was an eerie silence at first, yet on the soft breeze there carried the faint sound of cheerful singing and, had he been able to see in the dark, Hawker would have been given sight of two cutters full of merry men and purloined contraband. Up the gangplank he came across the laid-out captain being tended to by a couple of his sailors, one of his gang opining, as he saw the mess of cargo that had been abandoned, bolts of silk and a keg of brandy rolling back and forth on the slight canting of the deck.
‘That weren’t no Preventatives, John,’ said the man with him. ‘This was thievery.’
‘Throats will be slit for this,’ was his spoken response, as a couple more of his men joined him.
‘Who was it?’ That got a slow shake of the head but the verbal response was vehement. ‘But I will find who it is and butcher them.’