The banging at the cottage door was insistent, impatient—as were the voices of my confederates.
“Open up, Josiah. It’s us. Open up, Man, the moon’s full on. The wagon’s ready. It’s time to get to work.”
Swallowing hard, I laid my clay pipe by the grate and got up from my rocker. The bangs continued but I ignored them, peering worriedly through the dusty glass at the full, fat orb blazing high in the sky, its brilliance pushing back the darkness.
It was as bright a night as I could ever remember; an unwelcome amount of illumination for the furtive task we had to perform.
“Please, my love, don’t go. I’m begging you.” Mary’s voice was taut, eyes moist in the candlelight. “Tell them you want no part of this. They can keep the money. We’ll make do, scrimp and sacrifice a little more. We’ll get by somehow.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to allow our children to go hungry another day; to pretend not to notice as Mary, gaunt and weary, took what meagre victuals were on her plate and stuffed them in the mouth of our youngest. I wasn’t prepared to go on confronting my haunted face in the looking glass, the expression of self-loathing and helplessness tearing my soul apart.
They said the famine was an act of God and no man should feel he’d failed, but that didn’t make me feel any less wretched. What pathetic kind of man couldn’t provide for his family? I had to do something, even if it was against the law and risked me dangling at the end of a noose.
Besides, even if I had wanted to pull out, I couldn’t. Not with these stone-hearted men. My new companions weren’t the kind you let down. I had only been acquainted with them for a few days, knew them only as Daniels and Lafferty, but in that time I’d witnessed enough to comprehend the unspeakable pain and cruelty they could inflict if I displeased them.
“I won’t tell you again, Farm Boy. Don’t vex me. Open up or we’ll break this bloody door down.”
Squeezing Mary’s sagging shoulder, I pulled back the metal bolt and let in the sharp, dry, Autumn air.
“What’s your game, Matey?” Daniels pushed his gangly frame past me and grinned darkly at Mary, making no attempt to hide his appraising gaze. “What kept you? Having some slap and tickle with the lovely wife?”
“No,” Lafferty corrected, slamming the door shut behind him. “He got cold feet. Thought he’d just leave us outside and we’d quietly go away. That it, Carrot-cruncher? Planning to welch on your side of the bargain?”
I gasped, unprepared for the beefy fingers that grabbed my throat and dug in viciously.
“Nooo... no... it wasn’t like that,” I tried to say, but the pressure was agony, my neck burning, my tongue tasting coppery blood as I spluttered and coughed.
“Cos we’d take it right badly if that’s what you thought, friend.” Lafferty’s plump unshaven face came close and I was assailed by the stench of raw onion and cheese. “There’s too much at stake,” he hissed, “to let some frightened, gutless bumpkin ruin it for us.”
“I wasn’t backing out, I promise...” My words rasped, barely comprehensible, yet the trepidation they contained seemed enough to satisfy him. With a shove, he released his grip and I dropped to my knees, retching.
“You are nothing but villains, cowards— “ Mary cried, but I signalled her to be silent. Defiance could only make things worse. After an anguished moment, she acquiesced, but stared at both with undisguised loathing, fists balled.
“Ma-ma, what’s going on? What’s all the noise? Who are these strangers?”
My heart chilled. I’d prayed that the children would stay deep in slumber in the other room. Tom rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, frowning, as he came fully into the front room.
“It’s fine, Lad,” I told him. “Go back to bed, Son. This doesn’t concern you.” But he remained rooted to the spot, puzzled, blinking at me prone on the floor.
“What’s wrong with Pa-pa? Is he ill?”
“Tom, do as you’re told. Bed. Now.” Mary bustled towards him anxiously, shooing the child away.
Daniels bared his tobacco-stained teeth in a snigger, waving his hands in a mocking pantomime of Mary’s gesture.
Yet, Lafferty didn’t laugh. He remained deadly serious as he took a step to block her and commanded: “No, wait. Let me look at the boy.”
Taking Tom firmly by the chin, he jerked my son’s face to the side and grunted. Then he felt Tom’s arms.
“Seems a strong lad,” he murmured, in a tone that increased my dread. “How old are you, Boy?”
“Sir?”
“What is your age?”
“Ten, Sir. Ten years and eight months.”
I leapt to my feet. “Leave him be!” I ordered, sounding more brave than I felt.
Lafferty made a sour face. “I’m simply showing an interest, Friend Josiah,” he said, feigning innocence. “Almost eleven, hmmm? Nearly a man. And keen for some adventure, eh Sonny?”
Tom nodded slowly, uncertain how to respond.
“Then you shall have it, Fair Lad. Tonight you shall accompany your father as he helps us carry out our lucrative chore. Another pair of hands could be of great benefit.”
Mary stiffened, mouthing: “No!”
“It’s out of the question,” I barked. “He is not to be part of this. I forbid it.”
In an instant I realized resistance was useless. Lafferty didn’t answer, but slowly let his greatcoat swing open to reveal the flintlock tucked in the waistline of his britches.
“Please!” I looked deep into his unyielding eyes, trying to discern any glimmer of mercy or understanding. “He’s my only son. He is precious to me. My greatest joy.”
“And that’s why he shall accompany us, to guarantee your full co-operation.”
He paused for a heartbeat. “Unless you’d prefer Daniels to remain with your wife while we toil. I’m sure he’d find that a very appealing notion.”
His rat-faced sidekick winked lewdly.
I let my head droop. “There is no need for that,” I mumbled. “Tom will come. We’ll do whatever you say.”
Ignoring Mary’s pleading look and distressed intake of breath, I told my son: “Go dress, and be swift about it. And wrap up well—it’s as cold as charity out there.”
The wagon bounced roughly over the rutted ground, as we travelled through the empty, dormant streets. No-one spoke, careful not to waken those in the many thatched cottages that lay between us and our goal—the deep, wide village pond. We couldn’t allow anyone to witness our deeds, lest they question why we were abroad at such an ungodly hour, or why our heavy cart was loaded with long, large wooden rakes.
Being jostled in the back, I pulled Tom tight to me, hoping beyond all hope that the night’s nefarious business would pass without calamity.
For the umpteenth time I asked myself why I had been so unforgivably reckless as to let these rogues talk me into this madness. Had it only been a short week ago that I’d encountered them? It seemed like they’d always been part of my life, like a gnawing ache.
I’d been in the tavern in the nearby town, half drunk, trying to find solace in the bottom of an ale glass, when they’d approached and asked how well I knew the community of Devizes.
Foolishly I’d blurted out that it was an amazing coincidence, for didn’t I hail from that very village—born and brought up these 40-odd years in the Wiltshire hamlet.
They’d already known that, of course, and had been watching me all evening, waiting until I was addled before making their move.
“I hear times are harsh round here, my friend,” Lafferty said, all bonhomie as he pushed another foaming pint under my nose. “Folks are suffering right severely, barely able to put enough food on the table.”
I’d snorted, and told him he didn’t know the half of it. I’d not worked in months, the barren fields testament to the blight that had ruined the crop and left us farm labourers bereft and desperate.
“Well, this could be your lucky night,” he confided, with a mischievous grin. “Because I and my companion have work—good paying work—for the right man. Someone who isn’t afraid to bend his back, who can keep his mouth tight shut and knows Devizes and all the quiet lanes and byways leading from it.”
Even in my stupor, I sensed that this work was trouble; that the kind words pouring from their lips like over-ripe honey were dangerous lies.
But the money... oh Lord, the thought of sovereigns in my money bag, paying my mounting debts, was all it took to overcome my apprehension and niggling doubts.
They described themselves as transporters of rare and much sought-after wares, but I knew they were smugglers. In a conspiratorial whisper, Lafferty explained that they’d been due to collect a consignment of contraband French brandy being brought up secretly from the South coast by mule train. The handover was to have been just five miles from my home. From there, it was to be ferried North by wagon, to the sprawling, thirsty towns of the Midlands, the casks hidden under a deep coating of straw.
Without paying the hefty duties charged on such imports, my newly acquired comrades were guaranteed to make a comfortable profit.
That had been their plan. However, it had all gone awry. Acting on intelligence, His Majesty’s Customs men had been scouring the countryside, backed up by troops from the Fifth Company of Foot.
“The fools we were supposed to meet caught sight of the Revenue men, panicked and dumped the barrels,” Daniels said in angry disbelief. “Rolled them straight into your damned village pond.”
“And now we need to recover the submerged casks,” Lafferty went on. “And you, Josiah, are going to assist us.”
I gasped as the icy water surged up my thighs. Shivering, I halted, balking at wading farther out into the dark, chill foulness.
Feet away, I heard Daniels curse, as he too was soaked through.
“What’s the hold-up?” Lafferty hissed from his dry vantage point on the bank. “Why have you stopped, you imbeciles!”
“It’s perishing,” Daniels snapped back, teeth chattering. “It’s bloody freezing in this God-awful piss-hole. I’m going to catch my death.”
Until this point I had thought of them as brothers in crime, inseparable. Now I realized their bond was only financial, lacking any vestige of camaraderie, as the large man scowled and replied ominously: “If you don’t stop screwing around and get the barrels sharpish, I’ll make sure that you do.”
Daniels jerked as though slapped, before spitting into the water and staggering onwards, muttering as he grasped his unwieldy rake even tighter.
I followed, carrying my rake carefully across my body for balance, swaying with each slow, precarious step into the deepening pond. I didn’t need to be threatened. I could see Tom huddled on the wagon’s running board, alarm on his face, hostage to my good behaviour.
Soon Daniels and I were up to our chests, feet squelching in the soft, treacherous sludge. Without warning I felt something hit against my leg, the object big and hard.
“I’ve found them,” I declared.
Splashing awkwardly, Daniels came to my side.
He kicked the barrel, then grinned and gave Lafferty the thumbs-up.
We plunged the unwieldy poles under the surface, the teeth of the rakes scratching across the wood as they sought for purchase.
I tugged and felt the submerged barrel start to turn, but it didn’t dislodge. I pulled harder, putting all my strength into it, but it still refused to budge.
Daniels swore, having the same problem.
“What is it now?” Lafferty demanded.
“The bloody tubs won’t move,” his accomplice explained, giving another nerve-stretching pull. “They’ve stuck fast. The mud’s holding them tighter than a miser’s purse.”
“Then pull harder!”
“I’ve tried, damn you. They won’t give. Ask the bumpkin, if you don’t believe me.”
“He’s telling the truth,” I agreed. “The ooze has them in its grasp.”
I willed the crooks to accept that it was hopeless and cease their futile enterprise. But, in my soul, I knew it was a vain hope. There was too much gold at stake.
It would require more power to break the casks free and I supposed that the scoundrels would have to return another night with more men, and chains to tie around the heavy containers. Chains that could be attached to the horses, employing their strength to haul the barrels to the surface.
However, the fat man had other ideas.
“The boy,” he said.
“What!” The word exploded from my lips.
“We’ll use the boy. He can dive under the water and dig them free as you pull with the rake. He has nimble fingers. He’ll have no trouble breaking the suction.”
“No,” I snarled. “It’s too perilous. I won’t allow it.”
I felt confident. Lafferty couldn’t risk using his flintlock. The noise would attract unwelcome attention.
The sharp pain in my side told me I’d underestimated the pair. Daniels had a switch-blade, pressed hard against me, the point digging in. He’d moved more swiftly than I’d have dared imagine. His rake, now abandoned, floated idly, bobbing on the angry ripples dancing under the moonlight.
“We aren’t asking for your permission,” he growled. “Tell the lad to get into the water. Quick now, before I slice you up like a pig.”
“He’s a poor swimmer,” I protested.
“Then this will be a good opportunity for him to improve.”
“It’s okay, Pa-pa. I’ll do it. I don’t mind,” Tom whispered, but I knew it was bravado. Fear made his voice shake.
A shove from Lafferty, an explosion of spray and Tom was in, crossing the murky surface in short, laboured strokes.
“It’ll be fine, Son,” I said with a reassuring nod, as he approached. “Just take a deep breath and hold it as long as you can.”
With that, he was gone, head ducked under and feet kicking, pushing downwards.
I gave Daniels a long, threatening stare. “You’d better pray that he comes to no harm,” I warned.
He had a sneering reply ready, but didn’t get to utter it. His mouth fell open as he glanced at something over my shoulder and went rigid at the very moment that I heard several loud clicks—familiar clicks—the unmistakable sound of musket hammers being cocked.
“Well, well, well. Here’s a picture to behold. What do we have here?”
Spinning round, I saw the owner of the voice. He was short, dressed in a full-length riding coat, scuffed, dirty boots, and a three-cornered hat. He had no weapon, but the Revenue Man didn’t need one. The ten tall soldiers by his side in their red tunics had more than enough firepower, rifles raised and ready.
Horrified, I watched Lafferty’s hand instinctively go towards his own gun, then let out my breath in relief as his movement froze just an inch from the handle.
Like me, he’d rapidly analyzed our predicament, deducing that to resist was suicide. He might bring down one or two of our ambushers but there’d be a replying salvo of lead, cutting us to pieces.
“I asked you, what do you think you’re doing?” the Customs man repeated, irritation clear.
My head whirled. I had to think of an answer, some plausible innocent explanation, before my accomplices tried to bolt, or blurted out something that would condemn us.
I opened my mouth, not sure what words would pour out: “My Lord, don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. We’re honest men, simple farm labourers.”
The Customs Inspector grunted. “I didn’t ask who you were, Oaf. I asked what you were doing.”
“Fishing, Your Honour.”
“What!”
I don’t know who was more surprised, the Excise official or the smugglers, who glared at me as though I’d lost my senses.
“We be fishing,” I said, making my rural twang more pronounced, and giving him a wide, foolish grin.
“In a village pond? Don’t talk soft. What kind of fish do you cretins think you’ll catch in a mud pool?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, suspicion obvious. “Unless, of course, you are fishing for something more valuable. Like some smuggler’s booty.”
I frowned, and flashed him a bemused expression, as though the very idea was beyond reason.
“Booty? Smuggler’s booty? Oh Sir, I don’t know what you’re referring to but it sounds fanciful indeed.”
I was about to say more but a petrifying thought struck: Tom. In the commotion, I’d forgotten about my son. He was still under the water!
Frantically, I scanned the still pond. He should have surfaced by now! I gulped back the bile filling my throat.
My instincts clashed. I yearned to dive down and rescue him, but another part of my brain—rational, emotionless, calculating—counselled that to do so would doom us all to the gallows.
Abruptly, Daniels flinched, jerking his head towards a faint disturbance in the water behind him. Lord be praised, Tom’s small head popped up, eyes wide in panic, mouth open and greedily gulping air. I almost swooned, but my joy disappeared as the smuggler reached backwards and grabbed Tom by the hair, forcing him back under before the child had chance to make a sound.
It was over in a heartbeat, so fast that our captors were unaware what had transpired.
Guts twisting, I spoke to the Revenue man with renewed urgency, holding my hands wide in submission. “Truly, Sir. I cannot fool you. You have seen through our harmless deception. There are certainly no fish to be caught in these waters. We be after a much bigger prize.”
And lifting my rake, I dragged it across the pond towards the ball of light shimmering on its surface.
“The moon,” I announced. “We be after capturing the moon.”
The night echoed with laughter. Even Lafferty and Daniels, stunned and unable to comprehend what gibberish I was uttering, chortled.
The Customs official doubled over, slapping the side of his britches, tears of mirth rolling down his wrinkled cheeks.
“See, see,” he spluttered to the troopers. “I told you. I told you these yokels were witless buffoons. Capturing the moon! Ha, I’ve never heard anything so idiotic in all my life.”
I feigned puzzlement and annoyance. “Your Honour, I don’t see why you should find such merriment in our enterprise. It will make us all rich men. There are many grand ladies and fine men who will pay handsomely to own this wondrous white globe. Even his Majesty the King would surely desire to have it hang behind his throne.”
This made all laugh even louder.
“Pay handsomely for the moon! Do you hear what he said? It’s hilarious.” The Revenue agent shook his head pityingly. “You bumpkins aren’t even blessed with the common sense the rest of us are born with. It’s no more than a reflection, you clown. You can’t snatch it from the water.”
“Sir? Are you sure, Sir?”
He jerked his thumb upwards. “It’s up there in the sky. See. Miles above us.”
I frowned theatrically, careful not to overdo my performance. “Then what is that?” I enquired. “At the end of my rake. Surely, there cannot be two such dazzling orbs.”
He rolled his eyeballs, muttering: “God almighty, just how pig-shit stupid can these inbred peasants be?”
He came to a decision in seconds.
“C’mon men, we’re wasting our time here,” he declared, his finger mockingly circling the side of his head to signal that I was clearly a lunatic. “They’re obviously too brainless to be smugglers. Our quarry lies elsewhere. We need to get moving. We have a lot of ground to cover before daybreak. We’ll leave our deluded rural friends here to their cretinous endeavours. Much good may it do them.”
I bowed with mock solemnity, as did my two now-smirking companions.
With a last disbelieving backwards glance, the Government man snorted and led the contingent away, back into the darkness from whence they’d come.
For a full, agonizing minute, I watched them go, my whole body trembling, my nerves screaming, wanting to yell with delight and shock that my outrageous dupe had worked.
“You did it, you bloody well pulled it off, Carrot-cruncher. You pulled the wool over their eyes,” Lafferty gasped, heaving with hilarity—this time at the gullibility of those who’d sought to trap us. “They swallowed your fairy tale like babes in arms.”
But there was no time for celebration or back-slapping. I had more pressing business to attend to. Frantically, I surged across to Daniels, hissing: “Let him up. Let Tom up. Take your hand off his head.”
He didn’t reply. Didn’t move.
“I said, let him up, you bastard. Let him breathe.”
Daniels’ pained expression made me gasp, in icy realization. A cry formed in my throat as I saw that both his hands were in clear view—and had been for ages.
I fell to my knees, splashing, thrashing, grabbing through the water like a man possessed, as the single word “Tom!” screeched from my lips.
They say our exploits have become the stuff of legend, the talk of the taverns. Many chuckle, marvelling at our cunning and audacity, and predicting that Wiltshire men will be forever known as Moonrakers.
I care little.
All I know is that night I lost my son and my soul. And learned just what evil and depravity I am capable of...
Mary swore that none of it was my fault, I had no choice and should not blame myself for our darling Tom’s death, but she hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since, or comfort me as I weep.
Every night, I see my son’s poor, bedraggled, frail, drowned body in my nightmares. He is light as I pluck him from the chilly wetness and cradle him to my bosom, squeezing tight... so tight.
I have a hazy recollection of what occurred next that accursed evening; mere glimpses, fragments seen through a crimson mist of violence and rage.
I recall grabbing Daniels with both hands, pushing his foul frame towards the water, intent that he too should drown. Struggling wildly, he cursed and thrashed, fighting to break my inhuman grip as I forced him face first far into the freezing darkness.
However, I was robbed of the satisfaction of watching the precious air leaving his lungs, for a sharp crack exploded near my ear and Daniels shuddered and went still.
The musket ball, meant for me, lay embedded in his broken back, ruby blood dripping copiously into the water.
Letting his dying bulk sink, I began slipping and sliding my way towards the bank, roaring, splashing chaotically. Lafferty, visage pale, nostrils flared, raced to reload. Despite my fury, I made slow progress and the cur must have thought he had time.
But I had Daniels’ knife and years of experience throwing blades at the vermin in the barn.
It landed square between his incredulous eyes and he crumpled to his knees, mouth falling open lopsidedly. He wasn’t dead... not then. That came dozens of frenzied stabs later, as I vented my crazed grief.
Many seasons have passed, the barrels of brandy long since gone, removed and sold, the proceeds the only thing that saved so many families from starvation during that cruellest of winters.
Yet, our village pond still holds secrets.
And each month, I stand alone by its edge and softly say a prayer, staring downwards until I glimpse the bleached, white bones held in the greedy mud—bones that fluoresce and shine, gleaming starkly under the light of the accusing moon.