The next stop was Vincent Flaherty’s paddock, where he found, as arranged, Dutchy, Peddler, Cocky and Joe, all anxious to know what they were to do next, eager to get on with it. They were also curious as to why he’d had one of the packhorses rigged to carry a couple of barrels − one of gunpowder, the other of turpentine − both from the Spafford barn, though it was open to a good guess, with only Flaherty voicing concern.
‘There’s enough to set goin’ a war, Edward.’
‘Wars have to end sometime. This might be one of those occasions.’
There were a couple of lanterns, as well as coils of rope hanging off the strapping, along with Zachary’s old army canteen, filled with water.
‘My pistols?’ he asked.
‘Primed and loaded,’ Dutchy said, handing them over, as well as a long sheathed knife, which was attached to his belt.
Instead of putting the pistols in the same place, Brazier stuck one each side of the horse, jammed into the straps holding the barrels, likewise his sword, which did nothing to diminish the desire to know what he intended. When he told them, it was not well received. Even the Irishman thought it rash.
‘You’re going up against known killers. Jesus, you should have with you all the help you can get.’
‘All the help won’t get to where I need to be, Vincent, it will do the exact opposite. I have been told Hawker will have men all around the bay. Somehow, I’ve got to get close to the cliffs overlooking it without being either spotted or sent away and it can only be done alone. But there are things which must be carried out, the first to get to where I need to set off from and, with time running out, we have to get moving.’
‘I’d wish you God speed, but somehow I think Old Nick might be more what you need.’
Brazier grinned. ‘Don’t let Zachary hear you say that. One more thing, I’ll be coming by in the morning and I would want you to have Canasta ready saddled.’
‘I won’t go asking who it’s for.’
‘You don’t have to. And fix me a price, a true one, not what you’d do for a friend. I intend the pony to be a present.’
He remounted, the others following suit, to be led out of the stables and on to a path which would take them south. Brazier had an eye on the heavens, on this day a mix of billowing cloud and blue-grey, both of which, if it stayed this way, were going to be helpful at different times and a damned nuisance at others. What he feared was either becoming fully established; he neither wanted pitch-blackness or a clear sky.
He could sense the mood of those following, just by the utter lack of banter. There was no moaning from Peddler either, which would have Cocky joshing. This was something he’d experienced from time to time at sea, though never on one of his own vessels, the discontent of a crew so real you could touch it.
He was not about to explain, this being another maxim a naval officer required to keep in the forefront of his mind. There were occasions when a captain could take his men into his confidence, but it was something to be rationed carefully. There was no time in battle for elucidation; each man had to do that for which he’d been trained, then he had to obey without question any orders he was given, even if it looked to make no sense. The man in command had to have the sole power of decision or confusion would sink them all.
Vincent had spoken nothing but the plain truth: for all his manoeuvring and devious ploys, the chances of things going wrong was well past high and the price, if it happened, could be mortal. Going into battle in war was different: everyone aboard ship knew the risks and, with a few exceptions, they accepted the chance of death or wounds. If he asked his old barge crew, they would volunteer to a man to go where he went and so would Joe. But he’d risked their lives already the night he was shot and he was determined never to abuse their loyalty again.
So it was a silent group who came to the cliffs overlooking the fishing huts of Kingsdown, dotted along the beach, with the boats the locals used hauled up on the strand. From where they sat, it was possible to see the stretch of seashore running many miles north, where, with the mudflats of the Stour estuary hidden, it appeared to meet the snow-white cliffs which ran round to the North Foreland.
To a smuggler it was as if God had chosen it to favour them in the fight against the Excise. One of their number sat here might see the distant lanterns waving on a dark night as a cargo was landed but they could do precious little about it. By the time they closed the distance, their quarry would be long gone, and even their cutter would struggle to intercept a lugger, crewed by men who knew the water and the shore like the back of their hand.
‘Who would want to be a Revenue man with this to battle against?’ he asked, to get no reply. ‘Am I to be sent off with gloom?’
It was Dutchy who replied. ‘No sense in pretendin’ to be happy when we ain’t.’ He added more, acting as a spokesman for them all. ‘We came when you asked for help, Capt’n, an’ it weren’t just for the promise of pay.’
Peddler pitched in. ‘Well said, Dutchy.’
‘Only the Lord can count the number of times we’s been at your back an’ in many a scrap. Never did we ask for even a nod of thanks.’
‘For which I’m grateful.’
‘You don’t know how down we were after you was shot, with the notion you might have snuffed it.’
‘I’m a hard man to kill, Dutchy, and it will be as true of tonight as any other.’
Silence descended again, which made uncomfortable the wait for Cottin, this relieved when Brazier saw the twin lamps either side of a chaise, making its way along the coastal track. This had him kick Bonnie into a trot, taking them downhill to meet it at a point where the track came to a natural halt against the bluff. This marked the end of the beach, beyond which there lay only a rock-strewn path along the bottom of the cliffs and even this ran out when the tide was full.
By the time he made this spot, Cottin had arrived and had got down from his seat to look at the approaching party, one brought to a halt by Brazier well away from contact. He dismounted to issue a greeting, then took an arm to lead the fellow well away from his coachman.
‘You asked about my men, Mr Cottin − come and meet them.’
Cottin was introduced name by name, not one of which elicited a smile, which had him place them in the same category as the worthies of Deal, which was miserable. He was then pointed to the way they’d come down to meet him.
‘It’s a steep climb and not the best of tracks, but it will take you directly to the road to Dover. The signal to do so will come from one of my men, swinging a lantern from the heights above us. As soon as you see it, you will know this is the night of the landing and can proceed with the alert.’
‘Further along the cliffs, for it is I who will have to signal to him. He cannot see the bay and I must to be sure.’
Cottin pulled out his pocket watch. ‘And when do you anticipate this taking place?’
‘Hopefully I will have a sign before it is fully dark. I’m glad to see you have the coach lamps already lit. They will surely be required.’
‘I insisted upon it, Captain Brazier. The fellow might say he had the flints he needs, but I have known coachmen who refused to light the candles unless an extra payment was met. This man has his fee and will get no more.’
‘Can I suggest you retire a hundred yards or so? It will be easier to see the light from a position further back. Is there any doubt in your mind regarding what needs to be done?’
‘None.’
‘Then we have come to the point of action. May I express a wish all goes well for both of us?’
Brazier took the violent handshake well, but it did hurt a bit. He went back to where the others waited and remounted, to lead them up the track Cottin’s chaise would take, swinging left on to the leas, where they dismounted. Closing with Dutchy, after he pulled the lanterns off the packhorse, he asked they be lit and, once aflame, for the shades on both to be closed. Out came his Hunter next, flicked open, obliged to ask a question to which he felt he should know the answer.
‘Can you read a clock, Dutchy?’
‘I can,’ came without a smile.
‘The fellow I was talking to requires from you a signal, sent by a waved lantern. I want it sent to him a quarter shy of nine, which should be when the sun is down and only the afterglow remains.’
‘Do I need to know the purpose?’
A glance at the piece said there was time, but it was not a wide-ranging explanation, just the bare bones. ‘I calculate he can be in Dover at a fast trot in not much over an hour, though it will depend on the time it takes him to get from rough track to road.’
‘What if he can’t rouse out what he needs?’
‘If you’d met him properly, you would have seen determination. Soldiers no, but I think he will light a fire under the Excise. I hope it matters not if this takes some time, even if they fail to arrive till after dawn.’
‘Don’t take much of a brain to see a lot goin’ wrong.’
‘If it does, it does. All I can do is make a plan and hope it works, and this goes at sea or on land.’ He took up the second lantern. ‘Now, I must be on my way. It would cheer me to be wished good luck.’
‘Goes without sayin’, Capt’n, an’ for all of us.’
Tempted to shake their hands, it was put aside for a pat on each shoulder, which was less painful. Then he was gone, leading the packhorse along a well-worn track, used by many people to get from Deal to Dover, but only when the light was good. Late in the day, it was deserted.
Brazier would make no attempt at subterfuge till he was much closer to St Margaret’s Bay, and he was never to know how luck favoured him, for this was the approach where, short of his regular body of men, Hawker had decided to leave uncovered. His whole body was tingling with anticipation, ready when challenged to either bluff his way past or use his sword, a pistol being too loud and only employed to get away.
As the light began to fade he realised he must hurry; this was no path to be on in darkness and, if the cloud covered the starlight, he would be a fool not to stop and wait till it cleared, for he risked going off the cliff edge. As it was, he got close enough to the point where the grass-covered sward sloped sharply downwards, which had to be the southern edge of the bay. There he stopped, crouched down and allowed the packhorse to graze, while he soothed a very dry mouth with a drink of Zachary’s well water.
According to Marker’s rough map, there was a route round the bay along the heights, which would take him to the south side and his real destination. But first he would have to clear the way, which had him consider if he needed to be closer to what would be going on below. Did he need to see the ship beached, which was the only way he could be sure the operation was in progress? Anything else would be guesswork, which might not serve. He decided it was too risky.
To the west the sky was now home to a bank of orange cloud, with a clear strip of gold, while it was clear overhead and still now pale grey, his vision aided by the light of a dying sun reflected on the clouds overhead. Still in the arc of its beam and, having been fortunate so far, he decided on a recce. The packhorse’s reins he tied to a bush, his sword pulled out and unsheathed. Moving cautiously along the slope, the sound of snoring stopped him dead, for he could not believe his ears. Given where he was, it had to be one of Hawker’s men, who would have been keelhauled or worse if the bastard knew.
The temptation to get closer and silence him he dare not risk. He could possibly clout the sod, but what if he heard him approach? It would end in noise, for all he had to do with a loaded musket was pull the trigger. So he made his way round to stop again at the sound of much shuffling. Creeping forward on his belly, he saw through bushes vague outlines, a line of people making their way downhill, a few exchanging quiet words, no doubt the folk who would unload and port the cargo.
This pathway told him he’d gone as far as he could on this side of the bay, and besides, he had come across something which would totally suit his purpose. It was another slow crawl back to where the packhorse was tied off, where he removed his pistols, to stick them in his belt, before loosening the straps holding the barrels. These he carried, one at a time, to where he needed them and, once placed, he unwound the long length of slow match, which had been lashed round the turpentine. The protruding bung in the powder barrel he removed, then the turpentine lid, which had been fitted through the wood with a knotted rope. This he turned and soaked before replacing it.
Lifted and tipped, he emptied a quantity of powder on to the turps barrel, then pushed the slow match in to the powder itself, jammed by the very same bung. There was a small amount of spill, but it didn’t matter. Another length of slow match was buried in the pile of gunpowder on top of the turpentine.
By the time he was finished the light was near gone, so, after coiling a rope around his shoulders, it was sit down and wait, knowing what was going to happen below him could not be utterly silent. When full darkness came, which it did without a bit of cloud cover, Brazier used the time to imagine the next day and what it would bring: nothing if tonight did not go as planned, possibly everything if it did.
The flash of a light out at sea had him sit up. What he could not see was the response, a double unshaking of a lantern in a southern cliff side tunnel to say it was safe to enter the bay. From his position he could only imagine what Marker said would happen next: two lanterns would be fully opened as guides. The temptation to crawl closer to the cliff edge to try and see what was happening he had to fight, patience not being a virtue of which he was excessively endowed.
But he could use his ears. Within what he took to be half a glass came the unmistakable sound of a keel grinding on pebbles, this followed by, not shouts, but indistinct voices, just loud enough to carry. He took them as faint indicators of the vessel being secured to berthing posts, and from then on it was imagination or a recalling of pleading words from Marker and Tombs − made flowing by occasional jerks on the ropes round their necks – which had him picturing what was happening.
A cable would be used to haul it side-on to the shore, this followed by the setting up of a gangplank to carry a line of people on to the deck and down below, there to grab bolts, crates and barrels. These they would then bear up the steep pebbles to the ladder below the main tunnel entry point and, once up the rungs, would make for the chambers hollowed out of stable chalk. These acted as storerooms, where the contraband would stay until the people tasked with distribution came to take it away.
Brazier waited intentionally: he wanted the operation to be well in progress before he acted, but it was a tense time, his body itching until the point came when a fired musket would do more to aid his purpose than interfere with it. Under a sky showing a mass of stars, mixed with broken clouds, he took off his sword, which interfered with his movement, to slowly and carefully move both barrels to the edge of the now deserted path.
By its side a gorse bush was used to hide both him and the ends of the slow match. With the minimum of light spill, he unshaded his lantern, using the flickering tallow to set the flammable cord fizzing. A boot was then used to kick the powder barrel onto the path, where he prayed it would roll down: the other barrel he intended should stay where it was. The length of match he had calculated gave him time to get away and, lantern in hand, he moved quickly, running uphill, hoping his feet would find flat ground.
He didn’t find any before the gunpowder exploded, a huge flash of orange flame, which went up to the sky above and surely reflected off the few clouds close to passing over, also sending out a shockwave which came close to knocking him over. Next, the powder atop the turpentine went up, a lesser flash but it set light to the highly combustible liquid. In quantity, it too was explosive, if not as much as gunpowder, but it sprayed out to cover and set alight the surrounding gorse.
Brazier, moving as fast as the light would allow thought, if that did not panic everyone into fleeing, he could not think of what would. But uppermost was something Marker had said about John Hawker: he would be the last to leave the tunnel system, because he would not do so until he was sure all the entry points and exits were sealed off. And Brazier also knew, from the same source, where he would finally emerge.