THERE CAN BE no doubt that many of the Poole merchants were strictly honest but the topography of the harbour did nothing to make honesty inevitable. The proper and normal approach to Poole is by the Swash Channel, which lies between North Haven Point and Brownsea Island and curves westward between mudflats bringing the homeward bound ship to the quayside at Poole, which is still dominated, very properly, by the Custom House. Nothing could be more respectable than the old town of Poole, built in a warm red brick and centred upon the Market House which had been built in 1760 by the grateful Mr Joseph Gulston, elected then for the fourth time as Member of Parliament for the Town and County. From much the same period date the handsome town houses from which the shipowners went forth each day to business. Theirs was a profitable business, the cod they brought from Newfoundland being sold in Spain or Portugal, the return cargo comprising (among other things) wine. Many of the cargoes landed were dutiable and the collector’s business was to see that the duties were paid. This was Poole as seen from the Custom House windows. But Poole Harbour could be looked at from another point of view. It was and is a complex of channels and creeks, accessible to small craft manned by men with local knowledge. A vessel which happened to enter the harbour at night could turn aside from the main channel and enter the South Deep on the flood, unloading illegally at Goathorn Point or Green Island. Another, more daring, might enter the Wych Channel and land her cargo on the north shore of Brownsea Island. Good use could also be made of Studland Bay or Swanage, Lulworth Cove or Ringstead. Brownsea Island actually stands between Studland Bay and Poole, rising high enough to screen the activities which might surround a vessel in the South Deep. The professional smuggler, as opposed to the merchant skipper who occasionally yielded to temptation, found Poole Harbour almost ideal for his purpose, especially if he had set up a signal station on Nine Barrow Down. It would be wrong to say that the merchants of Poole were all engaged in smuggling but most of them knew what was going on. To have prevented it altogether, with the men available, was hardly feasible and would have been highly unpopular. The collector’s policy had been to let well alone, making an occasional seizure but preferring to be ignorant of practices which were known to everyone else.
It was a fine day at the end of February when the Rose entered the Swash on the flood. There was an easterly breeze with a lively sea and the Needles were clearly visible in the sunlight. Delancey took his cutter up the main channel and finally laid her alongside the quay at Poole. He went ashore and reported his arrival at the Custom House. The collector was not there, being said to be unwell, but the comptroller received him politely and congratulated him on the Rose’s recent success. Mr Elisha Withers, a red-faced convivial man, evidently addicted to the bottle, was assisted by Mr George Miller, a more sober and abstemious character, who was present throughout the interview. Miller was small and thin with a sharp nose and a continual sniff, saying little but noticing everything down to and including Delancey’s cheap shoe buckles. On him, as the deputy comptroller, the work of the office had mostly fallen, Mr Withers being ineffective and the collector, Mr Rogers, being seldom there. Delancey came straight to the point by asking whether Samuel Carter was known to the Customs officers.
“Carter?” said Withers. “Carter? Yes, to be sure. He trades between here and the Channel Islands. His lugger, the Dove, is registered here at Poole and he lives, when ashore, at the old George Inn or rather in a building behind it which belongs to John Scaplen. Do you want to see him?”
“No, sir. I believe, however, that he is a smuggler.”
“Samuel Carter? Surely not! No case has ever been brought against him.”
“Would you say, then, that this port is free from illicit traffic?”
“Not entirely free,” replied Withers reluctantly. “But the trade is on a very small scale as compared with that which persists, say, in Sussex. Did you hear that a hundred and fifty smugglers were caught the other day by the Newhaven riding officers and the crew of the Seaford boat? A hundred and fifty! We have nothing like that round Poole. A few kegs are landed sometimes by fishermen but they soon give themselves away. Our merchants are all known to us personally and have a good reputation in the County. Men in a sufficiently big way of business will scorn to save money through petty evasions of the law. Many of them, moreover, have held office as sheriff or mayor.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Delancey, “but I have reason to believe that the Dove is being laden with contraband at this moment and that the run will take place in a few days’ time.”
“Where?” asked Miller, speaking for the first time.
“At Lulworth Cove, I have been told.”
“You may have been misled,” said Withers. “The real culprit (if there is one) may be another man, landing his cargo at some other place.”
“That I accept. Should you have any better intelligence I shall be glad to act upon it.”
“No, we have heard nothing,” replied Withers. “And Carter’s name has never been mentioned to us in this connection.”
“In that event, sir, the Rose will appear off Lulworth Cove at the proper time. I have to request that a troop of cavalry should act in concert with me and I have further to request that you put out the story that I expect a run to be made in Studland Bay.”
“A clever idea, Mr Delancey, but I think I can improve upon it. A ball is to take place tomorrow night at the Market House. I shall be glad to take you there as my guest. Among other gentlemen present there will be Captain Molyneux of the 4th Dragoons. You can talk with him there without anything being noticed. You can take the same opportunity to spread what story you like about your immediate plans. Your name is known and many will be eager to make your acquaintance.”
Delancey accepted this invitation with inward dismay. He might, in other circumstances, have enjoyed the ball but he wondered whether he might not find himself unpopular. There could, he knew, be no better way of concerting measures with the cavalry—nor could there be a better company in which to plant a rumour. He would need his wits about him, though, and would be glad when the affair was over.
In the meanwhile he walked round Poole and made himself familiar with the place. His thoughts as he did so were tinged with anxiety. He had walked into the lion’s den, planning the lion’s discomfiture. Could he assume, however, that the lion would tamely await his first move? Was it not probable that Mr John Early, having heard of his activity, would move against him straight away? He put himself in Early’s place and considered the courses that would be open to him. He could direct someone to force a quarrel on him and so prepare the way for a duel. He could provide Delancey with false intelligence. He could damage the Rose in a collision. He might pester Delancey with a lawsuit or bribe his seamen to mutiny. He could counter-attack in a dozen different ways but it was Delancey’s guess that he would not be too drastic at first. It would not be his aim to declare a war to the death. All he wanted, surely, was for Delancey to accept the official theory that smuggling in Dorset was practically unknown.
It was while pondering the situation that Delancey nearly had a collision, not in the tideway but in the middle of the High Street. The young lady into whom he had nearly blundered uttered a little cry of dismay and dropped her parasol and gloves. With her other hand she clutched the arm of another and older woman, looking as alarmed as if Delancey had assaulted them both. He hastened to apologize and restore the parasol and gloves, seeking at the same time to find some excuse for his absence of mind. The young lady was quite attractive, a brunette in her early twenties, and he supposed the older woman to be a housekeeper. He blamed himself for his clumsiness and hoped that the young lady was unhurt. She forgave him prettily and admitted that she was as much to blame as he.
“I suspect, sir, that you are the naval officer in temporary command of the Rose.” Delancey introduced himself and learnt that the young lady was Miss Louisa Hill. She was a little more forward than Delancey expected, perhaps out of curiosity, and she quickly explained that she had come from Dorchester to attend tomorrow’s ball. Would Mr Delancey be there? He replied untruthfully that he was looking forward to it and added some hint of his wish to see her again. She said that she would keep a dance free for him but warned him not to be jealous of her other beaux. She had a weakness, she admitted, for handsome men in naval or military uniform. She allowed Delancey to escort her to her aunt’s house, No 30 in the High Street, easily recognizable by the door and the fanlight, both of a pattern which characterized the taste of the previous reign.
After this encounter Delancey went on board the Rose and explained the situation to Lane and Torrin. The Dove would attempt a run at Studland Bay but the story to circulate was that the run would take place in Lulworth Cove. Each officer would repeat this cover story, in strict confidence, to one other person ashore. Going on deck after a brief conference, Delancey spoke again about Lulworth Cove, this time in the hearing of Mike Williams, but Lane reminded him of the need for secrecy. He swore softly and moved out of earshot. If all went well, the signal party would thus hear the same story from the Custom House and from Williams, with other rumours perhaps to the same effect. The Dove would be warned in time and would head towards Poole, there to fall into the jaws of the Rose. Delancey was convinced by now that the smugglers had an accomplice at the Custom House, but who was it? Withers did not look the type and Rogers was evidently ailing and old. Withers he had at first suspected because of the letter which had been intercepted but Delancey now inclined to believe that it must have been relatively innocent, mere gossip addressed to a local squire whose respectable character was assumed. For present purposes it could be taken for granted that anything known to the Customs officers was soon passed on to the smugglers. When Sam Carter appeared off Durlston Head he would be advised by signal that the Rose was off Lulworth Cove and that Studland Bay was wide open. Thus would the trap be set.
Poring over the chart and tide-table, Delancey had now to decide on the precise date and hour. Carter was at Alderney or Guernsey. How long would it take him to ship his cargo? There were unknown factors here for the speed of loading would depend on the quayside labour available and that again on the number of other craft that might be there. But Carter’s run would also require a high tide and a dark night. Weighing the different circumstances, Delancey decided that the likeliest date would be March the fourth and the probable hour would be between 1:00 and 3:00 A.M., allowing the Dove to be over the horizon again by daybreak. The ball was to be tomorrow, March the first, which would allow time for the cavalry to march; supposing, of course, that Molyneux was ready to cooperate. Delancey had a vague idea that horses were apt to go lame or have glanders and that cavalrymen hated to move at night.
He wondered again whether his guess was correct. Would not Sam Carter have made the same calculation, choosing the fourth as the best date—and then decided against it as the night when his run would be expected? Although this was a distinct possibility it would not pay to be too clever. Senior officers had warned him against it and he had come to see that cleverness must often frustrate itself. No, his plan was made, and he would adhere to it. The fourth should be the night and Studland Bay would be the place. If no smugglers appeared the same arrangements would be repeated on the fifth and sixth, the Rose to be out of sight in daylight. If and when the whole plan failed, Delancey would have to think of something else.
On the night of the ball Delancey dressed carefully and went ashore, calling as arranged at Mr Withers’ house in Market Street. He was introduced to Mrs Withers, as also to Mrs Rogers, whose husband was still indisposed. He guessed that Mr Rogers had remarried late in life for the lady must have been his junior by many years. His hostess was nondescript and rather dull but Mrs Rogers was more lively and addicted, she said, to the whist table. Delancey was asked whether he knew many people of the neighbourhood and had to confess that he knew nobody. He then corrected himself and mentioned the name of Louisa Hill. “Ah—Mr John Early’s niece!” said Mrs Rogers, “I heard she was in town but have not seen her yet. She is here for the ball, no doubt, and will be staying with her aunt, Mrs Waterford.”
“You have wasted no time about it, Mr Delancey!” said Withers. “Miss Hill is much admired by the young men of this town. She is not Mr Early’s niece, however, but a cousin, I understand, and rather a poor relation.”
“She has no fortune,” Mrs Rogers admitted. “And Mr Early has three sons and a daughter to provide for. But Louisa is a pretty and lively girl and quite a favourite with her aunt.”
“Will Mr Early be at the ball himself?” asked Delancey but nobody seemed to know. He was a busy man, it seemed, and an active magistrate, and had small leisure for merely social occasions. He would be there, no doubt, if he could spare the time but he was the sort of man who would arrive late and leave soon. He owed his wealth to his enterprise rather than to his inheritance, and it was his business connections which brought him quite often to Poole.
When the party left the house and walked up the street Delancey was thinking quickly about the tactics he was to pursue. He had wondered what Mr Early’s first move would be but he need wonder no longer. The meeting with Louisa Hill had been no accident, but what had she been told to do? To trick him into a quarrel with some other man, a known duellist and a dead shot with the pistol? Or was she merely to discover his plans or comment on his character? As regards his abilities as a tactician it was possible, though unlikely, that Sam Carter had already made a report. Delancey decided to assume that Early knew little about him and that he could now be given the wrong impression.
“We have no Assembly rooms,” Mr Withers was saying, “But the first floor of the Market House answers the purpose very well. The far end is screened off for the card-players and there is a platform for the musicians.” Indeed the place was a scene of festivity. The curved steps which led up to the main doors were well lighted and there was a great bustle as the gentlefolk arrived. Urchins were earning pennies by opening carriage doors and bystanders were holding horses while the ladies alighted. Most of the town gentry arrived on foot like the Withers’ party and such carriages as there were served the better to emphasise the consequence of their owners. From inside, as they ascended the steps, came the sound of music, suggestive of festivity and romance.
After cloaks had been shed and the room admired, the Withers introduced Delancey to a number of their friends. Some, like Mrs Rogers, moved at once towards the card-room. Delancey might have joined them but dared not, for fear of missing Captain Molyneux. He attached himself to a Mrs Hardcastle, a widow, whose sole concern was to watch over her young daughter for whom this ball was her very first. Delancey sat with this lady while Arabella danced and so had to listen to a mother’s commentary on her child’s popularity and appearance. “She is in very good looks tonight, don’t you think? That blue gown suits her well and everyone must allow that she dances to perfection. The young man she is dancing with is Mr Samuels, junior partner in one of the merchant houses—one in a rather small way of business. He is rather plain too, though very well mannered, I daresay. You will see the difference, Mr Delancey, when she dances with Ensign Wadsworth, who holds a commission in the Yeomanry—a very fine young officer, almost elegant one might say and heir to a very pretty estate. Ah, the air now being played is one of Arabella’s favourites. She is smiling you can see, and telling her partner that the air is one she likes. I have forgotten its name but I have heard her speak of it on many occasions. She is, I always say, a natural dancer. . . .”
This monologue left Delancey with the easy role of agreeing absent-mindedly from time to time while watching the new arrivals. He felt that he was excused from dancing—of which he had much to learn— by the fact that he was providing company for Mrs Hardcastle. It is true that she could as easily have addressed her remarks to the lady sitting on the other side of her. That would have compelled her, however, to take her turn and listen to the other lady’s comments on her own two daughters; which could reasonably have taken twice as long. Things were better as they were and Delancey ended with an enviably complete knowledge of Arabella’s wardrobe and hair-style, her musical preferences and personal dislikes. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a young officer in cavalry uniform. “This,” he said to himself, “is Captain Molyneux.” This guess was quickly confirmed by Mrs Hardcastle who added that the captain was a very genteel young man, the younger son (she had been told) of a baronet and just the sort of dance partner that Arabella preferred. The uniform, she pointed out, did much to add to the elegance of his figure—did not Delancey agree?—although, she added belatedly, a naval uniform looked well, too; in, of course, a quieter style. She was sure that Captain Molyneux would ask Arabella to dance, and Mr Delancey would see then how well they suited each other.
Suit each other they might but Molyneux’s first partner was not Arabella but Louisa Hill, who must have arrived at the same time. When the country dances ended Molyneux went to fetch some refreshment for Miss Hill. Excusing himself, Delancey went over to her and reminded her that they were already acquainted. After a few minutes of polite conversation he asked whether Mr Early was expected. “My uncle will be here later, I believe, Mr Delancey, but you won’t see him on the floor. He’s only interested in cards.”
When Captain Molyneux returned, Louisa introduced him to Delancey with some pretty hesitation as to which was the senior. At that moment she was distracted by Mr Wadsworth asking her to dance and Delancey was able to ask Molyneux whether he could have a word with him in private. He explained quickly and quietly that he wanted help against a gang of smugglers. Where could they meet without being overheard?
“In ten minutes time at the Angel—on your right as you leave the ballroom.” Saying this in a hurried whisper, Molyneux went on more loudly: “A pleasant occasion this, very. Some devilish pretty girls around, eh? Have you met Miss Hardcastle?”
They parted a minute or two later, moving in opposite directions, and Delancey brought a glass of negus to Mrs Hardcastle and then chatted with the Withers. He slipped out unnoticed when the dancing began again.
Over a glass of wine, Delancey explained the position to Molyneux. For a baronet’s son the cavalryman was surprisingly businesslike. “Let’s agree first on how we share what we capture. If the lugger is taken at sea, will you give us a quarter of the value of the cargo?”
“Agreed,” said Delancey, “but if you find the cargo on the beach or inland, you should give us half. Remember, it is I who am providing the intelligence on which we act.”
“I suppose that is fair,” sighed Molyneux. “What about the lugger herself?”
“We’ll give you a quarter if she falls to us and will accept a quarter if she falls to you—which is not very probable.”
“Agreed—and I drink to our success! The fact is that I have been unlucky of late at cards. I am deucedly short of money and that’s the truth. So you want me at Studland Bay on the night of the fourth, in two days’ time?”
“The night after next, between midnight and four.”
“Will one troop of dragoons be enough?”
“Quite enough. I don’t suppose they will fight. The crew of the lugger number about twenty but only half of them will go ashore. The cargo handlers on land will number about 24, with as many pack-horses. That is no more than a guess.”
“Ah! Will you agree that the pack-horses are ours?”
“Less a quarter—as with the lugger.”
“Very well. You drive a hard bargain, though!”
“I too have been unlucky.”
“Let’s hope for better luck this time. Now I’ll tell you what I mean to do. I’ve a troop of horse quartered at Wareham, about fifteen miles from Studland. It’s rather under strength, with some horses lame, but I think that we can ride with about 22 in all.”
“That should be quite sufficient. All depends, however, on our secrecy. I am letting it be known that the run is expected at Lulworth Cove. Would you be good enough to drop some hint of that to Miss Louisa Hill—in the strictest confidence?”
“Why Louisa?”
“She might mention it to her friends.”
“Why not Cathy Neave in that case? She would tell everyone in the room.”
“Then our plan would fail.”
“Because the rumour would seem to have been planted? I see what you mean. Very well, then—a hint to Louisa but to nobody else. You seem to be a good hand at this sort of plot, Mr Delancey.”
“If I might make the suggestion, you might consider leaving Wareham by the road which leads to Lulworth. . . .”
“That’s a deuced clever notion. You mean through East Holme? It would add three miles to the distance but it might be worthwhile. I’ll think it over. And now I think we should return to the ballroom before people begin to wonder about us.”
The ball continued and Molyneux danced with Louisa. Delancey later did the same but the dance was new to him and the girl was glad to sit down again.
“I think, sir,” she laughed, “that you are more used to the quarterdeck!” Delancey made his apologies, confessing that he had never been able to learn the steps.
“Never mind,” she replied, “you’ll know better what steps to take at Lulworth.” These last words were uttered behind her fan as from one conspirator to another but Delancey merely looked bewildered. He had never so much as heard of the place. Was it the home, he asked, of some young lady—one he was expected to know? He begged Louisa to remember that he was almost a stranger in Dorset. She might have said something more but at that moment she caught sight of some new arrivals and exclaimed, “And here, at last, is my Uncle John! Come and meet him, Mr Delancey. He is a justice of the peace, you know, and quite as interested in smuggling as you can be!”
Delancey allowed himself to be led across the floor and presented to John Early. He was surprised to find him so little like a criminal in appearance. If he had once been an attorney, as Delancey had been told, he had lost all trace of professional character. He was tall, florid and elderly, very much the county magnate and just such a squire as might preside at any Petty Sessions. He looked Delancey over with benign patronage and asked him presently whether he played whist.
“Only for low stakes, sir.”
“You must join me then for a friendly game after supper.”
Delancey was uncertain whether this was more than a polite gesture but it was renewed after supper and Delancey found himself being introduced to Colonel Garland and the Reverend George Tory. All agreed to play for merely nominal stakes and the game began.
Delancey had been planning his tactics while he was at supper. His cue, he had decided, was to appear slightly drunk. He wanted Early to think of him as an insignificant opponent, indifferent as a whist player and talkative in his cups. As against that, he could not afford to lose money, not even in small silver. He had, altogether, a difficult hand to play. He had the clergyman as partner, a better player (luckily) than the colonel. Affecting to be careless and talkative, Delancey’s most difficult task was to play badly, losing at first, and making his recovery seem to be a mere matter of luck. He was aware that Early was watching him closely and with all the knowledge of one whose own play was masterly. In the end he displayed his stupidity less by his actual play than by his comments after each game. “We had the worst of that, partner—and the colonel had the ace of hearts all along!” “Well done, sir—I had no idea that you were so strong in spades!” They changed partners after the rubber and Delancey now had to play with Mr Early. In the ordinary way their superiority over the other two would have been obvious but Delancey tried to make his play mediocre if not exactly stupid. It was an exhausting evening, one way and another, and Delancey was glad when the clergyman said that he was tired and must leave the table.
As they stood for a few minutes in conversation, Mr Early said to him, “After that bad start, Mr Delancey, you are lucky not to be out of pocket. But I daresay that you could win back at sea more than you lost on land.”
Delancey looked rather taken aback and said, after a pause, that smugglers were not easy to catch. “It’s the early bird . . .” he began and then paused in apparent confusion while his opponent went on to finish the proverb: “It’s the early worm,” he suggested, “that gets the bird. Or that, perhaps, is what you hope?”
The Rose sailed the following day and Delancey set a course for Lyme Regis. It was a long beat against a stiff westerly breeze and the late afternoon found him no further west than Bridport. He turned back at that point and spent the night on a slow cruise along the Chesil Bank. He put in next day (March the fourth) at Weymouth, where he called on Mr Hayes, the collector, and received fresh confirmation that the smuggling on that coast was directed from a centre in Dorchester. “We can’t prevent smuggling,” Mr Hayes, admitted, “but we can curb it.” The time had come to make an example, for the evasion of the law had become too blatant of late. It was easy to catch the small men, mere fishermen and farmers. The difficulty was in seizing an important cargo owned by some man of local consequence; and even such a seizure would not lead to the exposure of the man himself. There were troops stationed at Dorchester but they seemed unwilling to assist the riding officers. The rumour was that the officers’ mess was supplied with liquor at a special price.
Delancey sailed that evening after dark and cruised with a light following wind towards St Alban’s Head. The dragoons should have marched from Wareham by now and would be on their way to Studland. If all went as planned the Dove would be caught red-handed before the morning.
The Rose was off Old Harry just before midnight and Delancey began a slow patrol backwards and forwards between there and Canford Cliffs. The cutter was cleared for action with guns loaded and small arms ready to issue. On the first sweep southwards Delancey took the cutter fairly close to the beach. Even on this dark night he could see the line of the breakers and the gleam of the white cliffs at the Foreland. There was no sign at first of any other vessel but a light was glimpsed about an hour later and it turned out to be placed in the bows of a six-oared rowing boat. The Rose was hailed by the boatmen, who turned out to be from Swanage. The coxswain carried a letter to Delancey bearing the seal of the Poole Custom House. Having delivered it, he extinguished his lantern and headed back whence he came. Delancey went below and opened the letter in his cabin. It read as follows:
Custom House
Poole.
March 3rd 1795
Urgent
Dear Sir,
I have requested H.M. Collector at Swanage to endeavour to see that this letter reaches you without delay and in time, I trust, to facilitate the interception of an illicit cargo which you formerly had reason to expect would be landed at Lulworth Cove on the night of March the fourth. It has come to my knowledge that you have now altered your plan and expect the landing to take place at Studland. From a letter which I now enclose, written by an informant whose past information has proved reliable, you will conclude that no landing is to be expected at either Studland or Lulworth. I have to request, therefore, in the Collector’s absence, that you act on this more recent intelligence and use your best endeavour to seize both vessel and cargo.
I have the honour to be, sir,
Your obedient servant,
George Miller
The enclosure was addressed to the Collector at Poole and was dated from Corfe Castle on March the second.
Dear Sir,
Rumour has it that a cargo is to be landed illegally at Studland two days from now and that the Rose has been given orders accordingly. I think it my duty as a law-abiding freeholder to make it known to you that this cargo is in truth to be landed at Mudeford near Christchurch. I also have good reason to believe that the vessel concerned will not sail again from Mudeford before four in the morning of March the fifth which gives me the more reason to hope the preventive cutter will be there in time.
I have the honour to be, sir
Your ob’t ser’t
James Weston
Delancey read these documents a second time and then more slowly again, and the more he studied them the less he liked their contents. The Rose did not, of course, come under the orders of the Custom House at Poole so that he could ignore the request if he chose. But should he do so? With his head in his hands he began to puzzle out what had happened. First of all, his deception plan had failed. If the informer knew that Studland, not Lulworth, was the place where he expected the landing, a warning must have reached him. It seemed likely, in that case, that the smugglers had also been warned and that a signal would have directed Sam Carter to some other point, probably Lulworth. But what about the signature? If Withers’ signature had been forged before, might not this letter be another forgery, the work of the same hand? If so, what was the object? The Dove was presumably at Lulworth and would be gone before the Rose, beating to windward, could arrive there. But somebody still wanted the Rose out of the way, presumably because there was another smuggling vessel expected. The aim would be to lure the Rose well to leeward of the point at which this other landing was to be made. Where, then, would it be? Presumably in Poole harbour itself. All this, however, was sheer guesswork. Perhaps the Dove’s run had been delayed for a day and would take place at Studland after all. . . . Whatever he did now might be wrong and it would be sheer luck if his guess were to prove correct. The probability was that he would be made to look ridiculous by the morning—the keen young naval officer whose knowledge was not quite equal to his zeal. All the gossip in Market Street, Poole, would be about the way he had tried to trick the smugglers and had been tricked himself. Delancey came on deck and paced up and down for five minutes. Then, abruptly, he made his decision and began to issue his orders. “Hands to go about!” was the word and the Rose made a course for Poole harbour.
“Mr Lane—I shall want two boats manned and armed, with a lantern in the six-oared gig. I am going to close in with Studland Bay. Start sounding in five minutes, I want a reliable man in the chains.”
“Aye, aye, sir. The ebb has begun, though.”
“I know that—Mr Torrin!”
“Sir?”
“I shall want you to take the gig into Studland Bay. Show your lantern and you will be challenged by some dragoons who should be posted there. I shall give you a letter to Captain Molyneux but I want you to know the situation in case he asks questions. My guess is that tonight’s run is taking place in the South Deep. I shall take the other boat in and will head for Goathorn Point. I should be greatly obliged to Captain Molyneux if he would, therefore, block the landward exit from that peninsula, covering the paths between Newton and Newton Copse.” Going below with the chart and map, Delancey explained his plan in detail, allowing Torrin to believe that he was acting upon information rather than upon mere guesswork. After making contact with the dragoons Torrin was to bring the gig up to the harbour entrance and mount guard there from midnight until the other boat came out again. Mr Lane, with the Rose herself, was to cruise as far as Christchurch, returning to the Swash next morning to pick up the boats, together with any capture they might have made.
Torrin’s boat went into Studland Bay and the Rose, half an hour later, was near the entrance to Poole harbour. The larger boat was lowered there and manned with eight men and the coxswain. Delancey quitted the Rose last, leaving Mr Lane, with the boatswain and four hands, to take her under easy sail towards Christchurch. There was little Lane could do if he fell in with any smuggling craft but Delancey hoped that the gesture was sufficient. The ebb was running fast but Delancey hoisted a lugsail on his boat and was off North Haven Point in half an hour. To enter the South Deep meant lowering the sail and rowing almost into the teeth of the wind. There was over a mile to cover and it was half past two before the water deepened and the channel curved northward. It was hard work for the oarsmen and was as difficult a piece of navigation as Delancey could remember, but the South Deep was marked by stakes and the coxswain had been there repeatedly in daylight. With muffled rowlocks the boat began its cautious approach to Goathorn Point. Downwind (thank God!) came the sound of voices, the creaking of a tackle and, just audible, the whinny of a horse.
“Quiet!” hissed Delancey, priming his pistols. The boat edged silently towards a small jetty from which came the sound of barrels being rolled along planks. Against the starlit sky Delancey could just make out the two pole masts of what was probably a lugger and certainly not the Dove. Slowly and gently the boat came alongside the vessel, covered by the noise of her unloading. “Four with me,” whispered Delancey. “Coxswain, take the boat and land with three men at the other end of the jetty. Leave one man in charge of the boat.” Silently he swung up the side of the lugger and saw that the deck was dimly lit by a lantern wedged in a corner where the light could not be seen outboard. There were five men on deck, two working a hoist and the others on the gangplank. Several more could be heard moving on the jetty, one of them whistling as he did so.
“Stop that noise!” said a voice of command and the whistling stopped.
“Is that the lot, Ned?” came another voice from the jetty.
“Only six more,” came the voice again of the man who had called for silence.
Delancey realised that he had to act at once. Glancing round to see that his men were behind him, he fired a pistol into the air and called out, “Stay where you are in the king’s name. You’re all under arrest!” He then strode across the deck and placed himself on the gangplank, his men with him, their pistols levelled.
The smugglers’ immediate reaction was so prompt and expert that it had evidently been rehearsed. Someone blew a long blast on a whistle. The lantern was extinguished. The men on the jetty ran shorewards, leading their packhorses. Of the men on deck three managed to scramble to the jetty and run after the others. Two were immediately secured, and a third was trapped in the hold. From the shoreward end of the jetty came the sound of a skirmish, where the coxswain and his men were trying to stop the fugitives. Horses could be heard cantering on the peninsula and, more distant still, came the sudden shrill note of a cavalry trumpet. So the dragoons were there.
Looking about him Delancey saw that his capture was a vessel he had never seen before. “What’s the name of this craft?” he asked the man with the whistle, who replied, “The Mary Ellen of Weymouth—damn you.” He and the others were placed under guard in the cabin while Delancey went ashore to see how his coxswain had fared. Two packhorses had been secured together with a boy who had led one of them. The rest had escaped in the darkness, where the dragoons were presumably hunting them. Delancey had only moderate hopes of success ashore—the smugglers would know Newton Heath better than the soldiers could.
He walked back to the lugger reflecting on the irony of the situation. His plan to trap Sam Carter had completely failed. He had been fooled by more experienced opponents but one of them had gone too far, using a probably forged letter to send the Rose out of the way. This move seemed quite needless, for the Rose at Studland Bay would have been no real threat to the Mary Ellen in the South Deep. The sole result had been to arouse Delancey’s suspicions and bring him back to Poole harbour. All Delancey’s careful planning had ended in his missing the Dove and capturing another smuggling craft—one of which he had never heard. His main achievement had been in saving his reputation for sagacity.
At daybreak it became possible to take stock of the night’s seizure. Captain Molyneux appeared at the head of his troop and reported the capture of four more laden packhorses and two of the land smugglers. The rest had scattered over the heath and vanished. As for the Mary Ellen, she was a fair prize, caught with the last of her cargo still aboard, but she was not of any great value; an old vessel patched up, not worth a proper repair. Delancey had earned enough to live on for the next few months. Molyneux had something towards his gambling debts. The dragoons and revenue men were happy, having undoubtedly hidden about half the goods they had seized. The smugglers were resigned to their losses, knowing that seizures were bound to take place from time to time. As for the men of the Rose, they looked upon Delancey as an almost legendary hero. Less pleased with himself than the others could realize, Delancey took the Rose and Mary Ellen into Poole with mixed feelings. He now had some business to do ashore.
“Look, sir!” said Lane as they neared the Custom House wharf, “There’s the Dove!” And the Dove was indeed at anchor within a few cables distance. As Delancey went ashore the first man he met was Sam Carter. They both laughed and Delancey asked, “Where did I go wrong?” Sam was still more amused.
“Perhaps you play whist too well!” So Early had not been deceived by the acting. Once he was satisfied that Delancey was really a good player, he had disbelieved the story about Lulworth Cove. Assuming it to be the opposite of the truth he had ordered the signal to be made accordingly. Delancey’s wry reflections on his failure to play his part were interrupted by Sam Carter, who added, “No ill feelings, I hope?”—to which Delancey replied, “I could wish we had been on the same side.”
At the Custom House, Delancey insisted upon seeing Mr Withers alone. When Miller had reluctantly left the room, Delancey produced the letter and enclosure he had received off Swanage.
“Did you know of this letter, sir?”
“No, I was off duty that day.”
“You were shown it, no doubt, on the following day and told of the action that Mr Miller had taken?”
“The incident was mentioned, I think, but I did not see the letter itself.”
“Might I know your opinion of it?”
Mr Withers took up the letter again and examined it more carefully.
“Well,” he said at length. “I should suppose that ‘James Weston’ is an assumed name—one I have heard before in some connection. Letters of this sort come to us fairly often. The writer is himself engaged in illicit trade and has quarrelled with some rival. . . . No, I am wrong there. He has an interest in that craft you captured in the South Deep and wants to lead you away towards Christchurch.”
“And the handwriting, sir?”
“It is disguised.”
“Now compare it, if you will, with the handwriting of Mr Miller’s covering note.”
After a long pause Mr Withers looked up with a dazed expression and said at length:
“I see what you mean. . . .”
“The ‘James Weston’ handwriting is disguised, sir, as you say, but it was done in too much of a hurry. Some letters are still alike—look at the word ‘Studland’ in both of the documents. Look at the capital C in Collector—here—and then at the C in Christchurch, here. I submit, sir, that James Weston—known to be in secret correspondence with John Early—is Mr George Miller.”
Shaken as he was by this revelation, which he had to accept, Withers still had some resolution and dignity left. He sent his clerk to fetch Mr Miller and said nothing more until the deputy comptroller stood before him.
“Mr Miller,” said Withers slowly, “the acting commander of the Rose received yesterday off Swanage a letter from you and an enclosure. Both, in my opinion, are in the same handwriting. Their purpose was to mislead the revenue officers and I have reason to suspect that the writer has been in regular communication with a man to whom the illicit traders look for direction.” There was a tense pause and Withers concluded: “May I have your comment?”
“You may have it this instant, sir,” replied Miller, handing a document over. “I have spent the last twenty minutes in writing my letter of resignation, and I now confirm before this witness that I resign my office from today.”
Miller walked to the door but paused for a moment to add: “I mean to retire, sir. It is fortunate that I can afford to do so.”