“FIRE!” said Delancey and the Rose’s starboard bow-chaser sent a nine-pounder shot hurtling toward the floating barrel that was its target. The shot went wide and Delancey pointed to the port bow-chaser and ordered “Fire!” There was another miss, short and wide, and Mr Lane was told to close the range. It was a brilliantly sunny morning, cold but exhilarating, with startled seabirds circling overhead. The standard of marksmanship was appalling and the fishing boats huddled between the Rose and the Sussex coast had every cause for alarm. The mere fact that they were not the target was no proof, in itself, that they were safe. They would have felt no happier had they known that they were being described in the cutter’s log as suspect vessels which refused to heave-to until shots had been fired across their bows. They had been identified as Shoreham craft on their lawful occasions but they had given Delancey the excuse he needed. The target barrel being unscathed, he sailed closer so as to exercise his men with small arms. This manoeuvre brought him even closer to the fishing vessels whose nets were down and for whom escape was thus impossible. Had one of these craft been captained by a man with a guilty conscience, he might have seen the Rose’s behaviour as an elaborate manoeuvre designed to take him by surprise.
It so happened, that one vessel among the group in sight was, in fact, captained by just such a man with just such a sense of guilt. His three-masted lugger had hidden among the others, always with another craft between her and the Rose. His nerve finally gave way and he ordered his men to make all sail. He fled eastward with a southerly breeze and Delancey ordered an immediate pursuit. Lane went forward with a spyglass and Delancey joined him in the bows.
“Aye,” said Lane finally, “that’s the Four Brothers out of Shoreham, commanded by Jonathan Battersby. The moonshine must be on board or he wouldn’t have run like that. He meant to land it at Rottingdean, seemingly, and was waiting for dark.”
“Are we fast enough to catch him?”
“Not with the wind a-beam, sir. We’ll barely hold our own. Before the wind we can do better with the square mainsail and topsail, having a bigger spread of canvas than he has. We’d come up with him, sir, if the wind veered again.”
“It’s more likely to back. With an east wind we might trap him against the land.”
“You mean, sir, that he couldn’t round Beachy Head on this tack?”
“That’s our best hope, Mr Lane.”
As the chase continued the breeze backed more easterly and both craft, pursuer and pursued, came as close as possible to the wind. They were about a mile apart and the distance between them was tending, if anything, to lengthen. By the afternoon Beachy Head could be seen and with it the last chance, probably, of making a capture. This wind was south-easterly and backing still, the lugger’s sails flapping as she tried to hold her course. At last the moment came when she was fairly taken aback while the Rose further seawards held her wind and was beginning to close the range. To tack would have brought the lugger across her pursuer’s bows, a good target for gunfire. Rather than do that, the Four Brothers went clean about, turning towards the land, and headed due west with the wind nearly abaft. The Rose lost ground in following suit and lost more still in setting her square mainsail. Delancey knew that he should set the square topsail as well but felt that there was no time for that. He steered a converging course under square mainsail and gaff topsail and was glad to see that Lane was right. Before the wind his was the faster vessel and there was soon less than half a mile between them. Delancey ordered his men to man the bow-chasers and the starboard battery. If only their standard of gunnery were higher! They were actually within range now but Delancey thought that the target was still too distant for the gun-crews he had. Nor did he want to damage a vessel he already classed as a prize.
Suddenly the lugger tacked, heading eastwards again, and came within easy range while doing so. The Rose came foaming down on her prey and Delancey dared not tack while the range was lessening.
“Look, sir!” said Torrin, “She’s putting her cargo over the side!” He handed the telescope to Delancey, who saw in a flash what was happening. He was also faced with the need to make an instant decision. If he held his course he would recover the cargo, which seemed to be floating. If he tacked he might catch the smuggler but with no material proof by then that he had been smuggling. His one chance of securing both criminal and cargo was to cripple the lugger before she could escape. He altered course slightly so as to bring his broadside to bear and then ordered Torrin to open fire. “Aim high!” he shouted. “Bring a mast down!” The idea was sound but the chances of success were remote. Range and bearing were altering quickly, the sea was lively and the aim indifferent. The first scattered broadside produced holes in the lugger’s sails and one or two shrouds gone. There were six guns to fire and the next broadside was hardly more effective although three guns were aimed by Torrin and the other three by Delancey himself. This time the lugger’s mizen sail was fairly riddled but without more than trifling damage to the mast. The range had lengthened before they could fire again and the action ended with some last ineffective shots from the bow-chasers. As the floating kegs were recovered—the revenue men were expert in this—the Four Brothers disappeared round Beachy Head. Delancey’s prey had escaped him.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Lane, “You were quite right to prefer the brandy to the lugger. This way we’ve got something. T’other way we should have had nothing.” Delancey did not encourage comment of this sort but he could not resist asking the question which worried him.
“Why didn’t they fire back?”
“What good would it have done?” asked Lane. “The game was over. To cripple us would have made no difference—we couldn’t continue the chase, not with this lot to pick up, and it would have done us no good if we had.”
“But what if we had fired into them?”
“They’d have had to reply so as to confuse our aim. As things were there was nobody hurt, which is just as well. They’ll have made no profit on this voyage, though, and we now have something to share.”
“Well done, sir!” said Torrin, coming up in his turn. “The men are all asking how you knew that the lugger was there?”
Delancey decided that his reputation would grow more rapidly if they continued to wonder. “I was not born yesterday, Mr Torrin.”
Within minutes of hauling the last keg on board Delancey set a course of south sou’-west by west and explained that he meant to visit Sandown Bay before sunset. With this wind they should make it easily, keeping well away from the English coast. “It may be supposed in Hampshire that we are still off Beachy Head.”
Late that afternoon the Rose completed her sixty mile run before the wind and finally brought to and dropped anchor off Shanklin. She was right over a sandbank called Shanklin Chine and the Rose’s crew, mystified already, were still more surprised when their eccentric commander set another barrel afloat and announced a competition between the two bow-chasers. Each would have one shot at two hundred yards and the winning crew would have a prize. Neither crew scored a hit and Delancey himself then aimed the starboard gun and shattered the target into drifting firewood. Apparently satisfied by this result, Delancey took a few bearings with his sextant and (half an hour later) made sail again to the westward, setting a course to round Portland Bill. Next day he was off Lyme Regis and Bridport and cruising slowly along the Chesil Bank. That evening, Wednesday, he set a course for St Catherine’s Point from St Alban’s Head. The wind was westerly again and warmer, the night was dark but clear, with starlight enough to distinguish the Needles.
Delancey paced the deck, wondering whether his calculations had been correct. If they were, Sam Carter’s lugger, the Dove, was simultaneously heading for Sandown Bay. If Madden had responded to Delancey’s suggestion, the Rapid was closing in from the eastward, placing the Dove in a trap. But what if the calculation were wrong? It all rested upon his discovery that Molly Brown was not available on the coming Thursday and Friday. He had assumed that those days were kept for Sam Carter, Thursday as the day after the run and Friday in case the run were delayed. He had next assumed that cargo would be sunk in Sandown Bay well before midnight on Wednesday so that the main consignment could be delivered at Poole in the small hours. It would not be Poole itself, he knew, but some creek adjacent (and there were any number of these, to judge from the chart). That would not affect the timing, however. The weakness of his plan derived rather from the bold guesses on which it was based. What if Molly kept Thursday for somebody else? What if Sam Carter varied the pattern by going to Poole first and to Sandown Bay afterwards? What if he had taken alarm from hearing of the Rose’s activity? There were a score of ways in which the Rose’s commander could be made to look foolish. In one respect he had been sensible, though— he had told nothing of his plans to Lane or Torrin. His attempt might fail without his crew knowing what had been attempted. There was some consolation in that. . . . Slowly and quietly the Rose was approaching Sandown Bay. She was cleared for action with guns loaded and run out. There were flares ready to light when the moment came.
“There’s a craft at anchor off Shanklin, sir.” It was Torrin’s voice, hoarse with excitement, and Delancey sighed with relief. Perhaps the gamble had come off after all! He could at first see nothing himself but there were lights ashore in the village and they were disappearing in turn as the bearing altered. There was a dark shape between the land and the silent watchers in the revenue cutter. Higher than the lights of the village were some scattered lights further inland and further to the east. Four of these glowed red and Torrin, pointing this out, could not imagine why.
“Looks like some form of signal, sir. It’s also strange that a craft should lie at anchor just there—far to the south of the usual anchorage. She is very near the place where we were at target practice only yesterday.”
Delancey agreed that this was indeed an odd circumstance. He then lowered the Rose’s sails and allowed her to drift, waiting to see what the other vessel would do. At last came the unmistakable sounds of a vessel being pulled up to her anchor. She was about to sail and the Rose had crept up, unnoticed, to a point within half a mile. The time had come to identify the stranger, which was done by lighting a blue flare. By its light every detail was visible for a split second. It was enough, for Lane at once called from the bows that the craft making sail was the Dove of Poole.
She steered away to the east and south and the Rose followed on her best point of sailing. Following the trend of the land, the Dove then headed for the area where the Rapid should be waiting for her. Delancey lighted flare after flare so that Madden could see the Dov’s silhouette. At last he was answered by another flare to the north and knew that the smuggler was fairly trapped between two cutters and the land. She stood in for Bembridge under easy sail and finally hove to while Rose and Rapid closed in on their prey. After a minute’s hesitation Delancey put on his naval uniform before rowing over in the gig, taking Torrin with him and ordering Lane to keep the lugger covered by the Rose’s broadside. He should, strictly speaking, have sent Lane and remained on board himself but he wanted to see the Dove and also her captain. There were a number of lanterns lit and he was able to see both.
Sam Carter welcomed them aboard the Dove with elaborate irony. He was short and stout with greying hair, a soft voice and just a trace of a Cornish accent.
“Good evening to you, Mr Torrin. I hope I see you well? And this is your new captain? Glad to make your acquaintance, sir! I did not know that we were to be honoured by the sight of the King’s uniform. Captain Delancey, is it? Your servant, sir. Perhaps you would care to join me in the cabin? Mr Torrin, I fancy, has business in the hold. Why not leave him to his rummage while we have a glass of toddy? This way, Captain, and mind your head as we go below. In this lugger we have little headroom between decks.”
The cabin was small but clean and tidy. There were glasses on the table with lemons, sugar, a brandy flask and a steaming jug. Delancey was offered a chair and his host did the honours with smooth formality.
“When pouring I have to remember that this liquor is above proof; purchased, of course, at the Custom House auction. Use the sugar-crusher, sir. . . . A little lemon? Now, for a toast. . . . Shall we drink to the recovery of Captain Ryder?”
Delancey barely sipped the drink but looked about him with interest. This was not the pirate ship of any ballad or story. It was all too depressingly normal.
“I was greatly relieved,” Carter went on, “when I recognized the Rose. My fear was at first that you were a French privateer. That’s why I tried to escape. You will think me foolish, perhaps? I am a little nervous, I must confess, but I have been fired on too often and sometimes in error. Yes, sir, I almost took you for the enemy.”
“So you were naturally relieved to find yourself among friends and neighbours. I assume that Mr Torrin will find nothing?”
“We sailed, alas, in ballast.”
“From Alderney?”
“From Alderney, yes. I had hoped for a cargo of seaweed there but was disappointed.”
“Seaweed?”
“Yes. It is of value, I am told, to farmers.”
“Including those round Sandown Bay?”
“No, I called at that place on an errand of mercy. A friend of mine there was worried about the health of his father, who lives in Alderney. I was able to assure him, in a written note, that the old man is on his way to recovery.”
“So you are bound now for Poole?”
“No, for Cowes.”
“And so back to Alderney, perhaps?”
“That depends upon what cargo I am offered.”
“No doubt. Allow me to propose a toast in my turn. To the Dove! May she and her crew have all the good fortune they deserve!”
“To the Dove! I can certainly drink to that. And some better fortune would be welcome, for the present voyage will have earned us little.”
“I am sorry indeed to hear it and sorrier to suspect that it may, for all I know, have earned you nothing.”
“Don’t say that, sir. I may at least have earned the gratitude of my friend in the Isle of Wight.”
“A thought which does you credit, Captain. And here, I think, comes Mr Torrin.” There was a clatter on the companionway and Torrin joined them, accepting a glass of toddy and apologising for having given so much trouble. He reported to Delancey that the Dove’s hold was empty.
“You will understand, sir, that I have to do my duty,” he concluded, “even when the vessel is well known to us.”
Carter protested that there were no ill feelings and called in his chief mate to join them. He turned out to be a slight dark man called Evans, who said very little. Then the party broke up, Torrin draining his tumbler but Delancey leaving his glass almost untasted on the cabin table. As they went on deck Carter said that he hoped they would meet again—ashore, perhaps, in Cowes.
Oddly enough, Delancey had the feeling that the invitation might have been genuine. Carter was a man for whom he had a certain instinctive liking and he felt that the liking was returned. Delancey had won the first game but this was partly because he had unexpectedly replaced a bad player, taking up the cards before his own skill had been assessed and looking privily at his opponents’ cards before they even knew that he was playing. All that advantage of surprise had now gone. The next game would be on more equal terms and Delancey remembered what Mr Payne had said—that he would never succeed in bringing Sam Carter to justice.
Next morning the Rose was back in Sandown Bay. After taking repeated and careful bearings with the sextant, Delancey brought the cutter to anchor at a point on Shanklin Chine, the very place where the Dove had first been sighted the night before. “Lower the boats, Mr Lane, and search the bottom with grapnels.” At this point, however, the patient chief mate felt bound to protest.
“Beg pardon, sir, but what’s the good? The boatmen will have come out from Sandown while we were chasing the Dove. They will have done their creeping while we were off Bembridge.” Delancey felt the implied rebuke in this. Following Lane’s principle, he should have gone after the consignment of brandy and let the lugger go. After all, she would have jettisoned the rest of her cargo before she could be overtaken. This was what had happened and heads were being shaken in the forecastle over a navy man’s ignorance.
Delancey was adamant, however. “Make a careful search, nevertheless. You’ll find bottom in about six fathoms.”
There followed an hour or so of tedious search, the boats rowing back and forth and the seamen muttering about the futility of it all. They were kept at it, nevertheless, and the mates were quick to notice any slackening of effort. Then there came a shout from one of the boats. “Grapnels caught on something!” There was much heaving and cursing, the guess being that they had hooked an old anchor, but Delancey told them to row to the cutter and pass their line on board. From this steadier platform, with the capstan to help, the line was pulled in and the first keg came in sight. There was a cheer from the boats and the other kegs appeared, one after another, roped together with stone weights in between each. They were hauled on board to the number of forty. That completed the chain and ended the search. The boats were hoisted in, the anchor broken out and a course set for the Needles and so back to base. So far Delancey’s reputation was made.
Over dinner in the cabin Lane and Torrin expressed their surprise along with their congratulations. “Can’t understand it, sir,” said Lane. “The Sandown gang had all night to find that lot, and there it was in the morning!”
“Perhaps they looked in the wrong place,” said Delancey innocently, intent on his meal.
“But the place must have been arranged beforehand. They fix it by bearings taken in daylight and then place lanterns on shore at night which give a cross-bearing on the very spot. It is merely a question of cruising around until the lights are in line, two and two. A child could do it and these are men who have done little else for years.”
“How very disappointing for them,” said Delancey. “The pea-soup is excellent.”
“But we saw the lanterns, sir!” protested Torrin. “They even had red lights to avoid confusion with lamps or candles in the cottage windows.”
“It would change the situation, of course,” said Delancey thoughtfully, “if someone had shifted the lights.” “But who could have done that?”
“Well, you never know. The idea might have occurred to my friend, Mr Edgell.”
“The riding officer? But how would he have known where to place them?”
“Let’s suppose that he had taken his dog out one afternoon and was on the hillside behind Shanklin. From there to his surprise he would see the Rose in Sandown Bay. When she fired three guns—almost for all the world as if it had been a signal—he could (with the help of a friend) knock in four white pegs which would be visible in the dark.”
“God almighty!” said Torrin, “and all he and his friends had to do last night was to shift the lanterns from where they were to where he had driven in his pegs!”
“He could have done that,” admitted Delancey, “supposing that he was out for a walk after dark. He goes out sometimes, I am told, when unable to sleep. It must be very annoying for his wife.”
There can be no doubt that Delancey enjoyed this little scene, which clinched his reputation in the revenue service. But he despised himself afterwards for playing to the gallery. How easy it was to win the hero worship of these simple men! He had merely played the few cards he had in his hand and they thought him a magician. It would not be so easy another time. He reminded himself savagely that his proper career was in the navy and that his real opponents were the French. He had antagonists there of a very different calibre, as ruthless as they were cunning. His war with the smugglers was a mere game, a mental exercise. In fighting the French, by contrast, he would be fighting for his life. The whole atmosphere of war was changing. There had been a time when there was a sense of chivalry. He could remember talking with officers during the last war—or, rather, listening to them—who thought of the French as worthy opponents, as gentlemen who happened to be on the other side. Old Lord Howe must have been chivalrous towards the enemy in those days and Lord Rodney perhaps still more so. Even Sir Edward Pellow was inclined that way, it was said, but there were younger men now who thought differently. Theirs was becoming a war to the death. One could not reason with revolutionaries. One could not plan to be friends with them when war was over. They were men who had to be killed. These smugglers were almost innocent by comparison, offenders merely against the law. More than that, they were probably patriots in the last resort. A man like Sam Carter would never be an actual traitor. There would be small satisfaction in having him thrown into jail. He would some day be wanted, rather in the navy, where he would be promoted master’s mate on joining and given a commission, perhaps, within a year. Sam was a man to have on one’s own side.
Pacing the cutter’s deck, with few paces to go in either direction, Delancey took himself to task for his complacency. How easy it was to become over-confident after even the smallest success! He was already in a chastened mood when he went ashore at Cowes and almost diffident when he made his report on Friday to the collector.
“You have done well,” said Mr Payne finally. “I think you are to be highly commended for your activity and enterprise. What do you plan to do next?”
“I had thought, sir, of paying a visit to Poole.”
“I see. . . . Perhaps I should tell you, in that case, that there was recently an incident which has given me cause for concern. A smuggler arrested here last month had on him (I cannot think why) a letter addressed by one Mr James Weston to Mr John Early. Early’s name is known to all but there is no Mr Weston in this vicinity. On the other hand, the handwriting of the letter is a little like that of Mr Elisha Withers, the comptroller at Poole. The letter contained detailed information about the military forces stationed in Dorset for the suppression of illicit trade. It may be that there is some explanation of this. Mr Withers might be able to explain how he came to write such an imprudent letter—if indeed he did so. In the meantime, be on your guard. Even the Custom House at Poole may not be on your side. The collector there, Mr Edward Rogers, is a friend of mine but too old, I fear, for the work. I suspect that he must leave things to others.”
“Thank you, sir, for the warning. If the smugglers have their spies and informers, even within the revenue service, it is unfortunate that we seem to have no agents working within the smugglers’ organization. One spy well placed, a man of great ability, would be worth fifty tidewaiters and riding officers. Given a secret service we might yet have Mr Early facing his trial at the Assizes.”
“We have informers, sometimes. They come to us after there has been a quarrel among the smugglers themselves. There is jealousy over the leadership, perhaps, or over a woman. But these informers are the least intelligent of the gang and their lives are apt to be brief. For setting up a proper intelligence system we lack the money. The smugglers are engaged in a business which is highly lucrative, so much so that the loss to the revenue has been computed as amounting to no less than two hundred thousand pounds a year. Out of that sum a mere one per centum would give them enough to corrupt men highly placed. The rewards we can offer are trifling by comparison. We shall not bring John Early to justice and if we did, his place would be taken by someone else. No, Mr Delancey, the man I should like to expose is the traitor to our own service; the man, whoever he is, who is working against us at Poole.”
Delancey came away from this interview with the idea in his mind that smugglers and revenue officers must come to resemble each other in the process of conflict. If the moonrakers murdered anyone it would be one of their own number, the traitor to the gang. And the revenue men were as cool about the business, angry only at the thought of betrayal by a brother officer of the service. Mr Payne had been only mildly interested in Delancey’s success. His first sign of emotion was over the thought of a possible treachery. Was his concern, even then, over another official gaining, by devious means, a higher income than his own? Delancey put that thought from him but decided to abandon any plan that would be too ambitious. To bring all local smuggling to a standstill was out of the question and apparently undesirable; the revenue officers had their livings to earn. To make an example of John Early—the spider at the centre of the Dorset web—was similarly out of the question. There was no money to pay that sort of informer.
The Rose was in need of some minor repairs, enough to keep her in port for two days. So Delancey resolved to revisit the Rose and Crown but this time in uniform. All talk died away as he entered the tap-room but the silence was broken by Sam Carter who greeted him in the friendliest fashion.
“Welcome aboard, Captain! I hoped to see you here while we were both in port. I hear that the Rose needs a new topsail yard and a new port lid for the starboard bow-chaser. Allow me to stand you the toddy you failed to finish when last we met—nay, sir, I insist! George—one of my usual for the captain here, and pour it while we watch. No short measure for the revenue service!”
The pot-man obeyed orders and Delancey could see that nothing was added. He thanked Sam and proposed a toast to the king. “God bless him!” said Carter, raising his glass without reluctance. “I should like you to meet some friends of mine—Mr Henry Stevens, Mr Will Grubb and—come over here, Dan—Mr Daniel Palmer.” Dan emerged unsteadily from a corner of the room and said he was proud to make the captain’s acquaintance. He looked puzzled, however, and said finally, “Haven’t we met before?” “Very likely,” said Delancey. “Were you ever a preventive man?” This question produced a roar of laughter. No one else recognised Delancey and the party was resumed, with a certain restraint.
“You hurt my feelings, Captain,” said Sam, “when you wouldn’t touch the toddy I offered you.”
“I didn’t know you then, Captain.”
“I’ll lay you didn’t. We are up to all sorts of tricks in this game but I wouldn’t play that one.”
“Why not?”
“Why, because I have to meet you again. Here we are at Cowes. Next week it may be St Peter Port or Lyme Regis. How would it be if I couldn’t look you in the eye?”
“So we play fair?”
“Why shouldn’t we? We know the rules and there need be no hard feelings—not even when someone shifts a few lanterns.”
“Fair it shall be; and it’s for me to call the next round. George! Same again. But there’s a question I’d like to ask. You drank the king’s health just now. Would you have drunk the health of Robespierre? I mean, while he was alive?”
“Robespierre? No, not I. My trade depends upon the French, mind you—that can’t be gainsaid. There’s no fetching brandy from anywhere else but France. So I know the French coast from here to the Spanish border and have friends in every port—all in the way of business, mind you. But it’s our fleet I’m backing against theirs. I want to see the
Frenchies beat! What’s more, I’ve fought against them and would do so again.”
“Were you ever in the navy, then?”
“Not me! But I’ll tell you a story—one these other men have never heard. I once came upon a revenue cutter in action with two French privateers. Off Jersey it was, back in ‘82. Well, the cutter was in bad shape and would soon have had to strike her colours. Seeing that, I sailed in with the old Falcon—that was the craft I commanded then— and beat off the Frenchies. They sailed back to St Malo with their tails between their legs and glad I was to see them go. Well, that was long ago, before the revolution—but I’d do the same today. I don’t like to see our enemies getting the best of it.”
The evening went well after that and Carter eventually proposed that they should go on to the Pig and Whistle. Delancey drew the line at this but walked with Sam in that direction. The rest of the gang stayed where they were for the time being and Delancey, having said goodnight, doubled back to the Rose and Crown. The place was noisier now and some old man-of-war’s man was singing a song of which Delancey could distinguish the words:
Smiling grog is the sailor’s sheet anchor,
His compass, his cable, his log.
Though dangers around him
Unite to confound him
He braves them and tips off his grog.
Tis grog, only grog is his rudder,
His compass, his cable, his log.
The sailor’s sheet anchor is grog.
There was loud laughter following this (perhaps the singer had fallen off the table) but the last verse was sung by everybody.
What though his girl who often swore
To know no other charms
He finds when he returns ashore
Clasp’d in a rival’s arms?
What’s to be done? He vents a curse
And seeks a kinder she,
Dances, gets groggy, clears his purse
And goes again to sea.
Delancey entered the tap-room unnoticed and stood near the door. The singer, as he had guessed, was a man-of-war’s man; not a prime seaman, he guessed, but a character in his own right who could hold the attention of the room. All eyes were fixed on the singer and Delancey was able to observe without being seen. Harry and Will and Dan were in a group round a table with two others known to Delancey by sight, but they had been joined by one more—yes, by Mike Williams of the Rose! There was no mistaking the man and no question that he was a friend of the others. He was sitting next to Dan and resumed conversation with him as soon as the song ended and the applause died away. There was undoubtedly something furtive about his manner. There was no reason, of course, why he should not be there. He had leave to go ashore, like the rest of his watch, and there was no law to forbid his frequenting that particular ale-house. There was no reason why he should not talk to Dan—after all, they were related. But there was something odd about the meeting for all that and “furtive” was the only word to describe it. Delancey went out again, closing the door quietly, and was sure that no one had even looked in his direction. He walked back to the quayside, hailed the Rose where she lay at anchor and was rowed out to her. All was in good order aboard and there was a man on duty as anchor watch. Delancey went below where he found Torrin reading a news-sheet.
“There’s been rough weather down at Plymouth, sir. The Falcon revenue cutter was all but wrecked on the west mud but Fraser got her off and she’s now in dock.”
“Is that all the day’s news?”
“There’s little else.”
“Tell me then, did Mr Ryder issue any positive order to the crew about avoiding the Rose and Crown?”
“No, sir. He let it be known that it was a place to avoid and they all took the hint. They mostly go to the Worsley Arms where the landlord is an old preventive man.”
“Very right too. Has the new topsail yard arrived?”
“It’s on the deck, sir. We’ll sway it up in the morning.”
“I’ll turn in then. Goodnight.”
The Rose had her full complement next day but some men of the starboard watch were something the worse for wear, Williams especially so. Delancey spoke to him sharply and asked where he had been the night before.
“At the Worsley Arms, sir.”
“Nowhere else?”
“Oh no, sir, I was with my mates.”
“Try to keep sober next time.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Delancey was now virtually certain that Williams was in the smugglers’ pay, but what information had he to give them?
He knew nothing of importance, so what had he to sell? Delancey realised that he now had the chance to give the local gang (and through them, Sam Carter) such false information as might suit his own plan. What was his plan to be?
Delancey had one more day to spend in Cowes and he used the afternoon to renew his acquaintance with Isaac Hartley. He called at Isaac’s shop, where business was still far from brisk, and explained that he had been guilty of an innocent deception. He was the temporary commander of the Rose and had needed information about the local gang of moonrakers. The result had been a minor success, the Dove losing a cargo, of which part had been found and confiscated.
“I heard about that,” said Isaac, “and I wondered who had given the revenue men the tip. So you were the thief-taker, as you might say, and you made me the informer! Do you understand the danger that now hangs over me? The gang will think that I have gone back on my word and informed against them! I was merely showing Christian kindness to a starving fellow creature, as I thought, and a man who had seen the light. If my Hannah is a widow before the week ends it will be your doing, Mr Delancey—and God forgive you!”
“I must confess, Mr Hartley, that I am not, in your sense, one of the redeemed. I am merely an officer who tries to do his duty; and one of my duties is to protect anyone who has been of service to the Crown—knowingly or even otherwise.”
“But this you can’t do!” cried Isaac in great agitation. “You can’t station a riding officer before my door! Do what you will the gang will murder me!”
“These petty criminals are not as ready as that to risk the gallows. I can assure Sam Carter that you have strictly kept your word. He will believe what I tell him and you will be safe.”
“But is Sam a friend of yours? How can that be?”
“You can sleep soundly at night—after I have spoken to him.”
“And you will?”
“Yes, I’ll speak to Sam but I want you to help me first. There are two things I want to know—”
“Look, Mr Delancey, I have given my word. I’ll not betray anyone. I’ll name nobody. God knows I’m in danger enough as it is. Don’t ask more of me!”
“I shan’t ask you for a name. What I shall ask you concerns Poole, moreover, not the Isle of Wight. What I want to know, first, is this: have the Dorset smugglers a friend in the Poole Custom House— one of the officers under Mr Rogers? I don’t ask his name. All I want to know is whether they have a man there who may help them on occasion.”
“You will ask nothing more of me after this?”
“I shall ask only two questions, of which this is the first. I promise to ask nothing more.”
“I have your word, remember. Well, then the answer is ‘yes’—or at least I think so. I would not say that I know it as a fact but I have been told that there is such a man and have reason to believe that there is.”
“Thank you, Mr Hartley. My other question is this: how often do the Poole smugglers make a run?”
“How should I know? It depends on the weather and the whereabouts of the preventive men. I daresay there are six or eight cargoes a month, most of them into Studland Bay, a favourite place when the tide serves. They prefer a spring tide and a moonless night and some of them won’t work on Sundays.”
“Thank you again, Mr Hartley. You can depend upon me keeping my part of the bargain. We had better not meet again—it will be safer for you if we don’t.”
Later that day Delancey was rowing out to the Rose in the six-oared boat. He told the coxswain to steer close to the Dove and, when within hail, told the men to rest on their oars. “Captain Carter!” he hailed. “May I come aboard?” A minute later Sam appeared and hailed back, “Come aboard, Captain.” Within two minutes Delancey was once more on the lugger’s deck.
“Surely you are not going to rummage us again?” asked Sam.
“No, I just want a word with you in private.”
They walked together as far as the stern, out of earshot of the other men on deck.
“You will know by now that I made some inquiries here before anyone knew that I was to command the Rose.”
“I heard about that when it was too late.”
“Well, I had some conversation with Isaac Hartley and I have seen him again today.”
“So I hear. Well?”
“I want you to know that he kept his word to his former friends. He would name nobody and I am sure that he never will. Nor do I expect to see him again.”
“I’ll take your word for it, and I’ll see he comes to no harm. Some day I may ask as much of you.”
“And you won’t ask in vain.”
They parted again in friendly fashion and the Dove sailed that evening, presumably for Alderney. The Rose was to sail next day for Poole and Delancey paced the deck thinking what tactics to pursue. He realized again how little he knew about smuggling and how much there was to know. What would happen if he cruised off Poole until the next run was due? The cargoes would then be landed (or would they?) at Lulworth or Christchurch. But how would they know where he was? Some signal would be made, no doubt, possibly from St Alban’s head. There would be some point in the hills behind there from which there was a view seawards and as good a view, in the other direction, of Poole. The place might be found but the discovery would be useless unless the signal code were also discovered. For this an informer would be needed, and what chance was there of one being found? His only hope lay in using the enemy spies he now knew to be on his own side. Through them he might convey the idea that he was going to do one thing when his intention was to do the exact opposite.
And what, money apart, would have been achieved if he actually won the trick, or even the game? The only answer must be that he would have trained himself to meet more complex problems than would usually confront a junior officer. Some day he might have an independent command or another secret mission, with doubtful allies and a changing situation. He might have to weigh the chances, assess the value of conflicting information, guess at the enemy’s plan and finally stake his reputation on a single decision. The war against smugglers might be trivial in itself but he could regard it as part of his education. Once more he found himself assuming that he was something better than the average, when all his past history pointed to his being rather worse. Was this assumption ridiculous? Here he was a half-pay lieutenant with no certainty—no likelihood, in fact—of ever being employed again; and he was thinking of tactical situations in which the final decision would lie with him. . . . Absurd! Going below and drawing up a chair to the cabin table, he placed a leather-bound volume before him and under the gently swinging lamp read:
“In the first and golden years of the reign of Nero, that prince, from a desire of popularity, and perhaps from a blind impulse of benevolence, conceived a wish of abolishing the oppression of the customs and excise. The wisest senators applauded his magnanimity: but they diverted him from the execution of a design which would have dissolved the strength and resources of the republic. . . .”
If customs duties went as far back as that, they were not going to be abolished now! Mr Pitt, like another Trajan, had reduced them at one time but since had come war and the need to supply the strength of the republic. The duties must be collected, their evasion must be discouraged and it would fall to some men to do this unending and sad but necessary work. Delancey sighed for at the moment he was one of them and this was the duty he had to do.