Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

“Well and good,” said he. ”What is it had you wondering?”

“Why did you do it, first of all?”

He chuckled. ”Why indeed,” said he. ”1 daresay you remember my grumbles and my protest to Sir John that the plan they had devised might work, but that we had not enough men to be sure that it would work.”

“I remember. And you did then say you might do a bit of improvising when the time came.”

“So I did. And what did you think of the show I put on?”

“It was quite … quite … impressive. Not something I’ll be likely to forget. How ever did you think of doing that?”

“Back when I was fighting in what they called Pontiac’s War-’twasn’t but an uprising, really, but it had its frights-they’d send us out on picket duty to guard the en-campment. That made for some pretty wild nights because the Chippewas had a practice of sneaking up close as they could, then jumping up and yelling the awfullest war cries, then running at our picket line and throwing one of their hatchets at the handiest target, then disappearing from sight. They didn’t do all that much damage, but they sure scared the devil out of us.”

“So you were trying to scare them?”

“No, more than that. I was trying to catch their attention and keep it. Y’see, those boats on the shore gave our fellows good cover to hide under, but it’s damn difficult to get out from under them. See what I mean? I gave them time to get out from under by getting the attention of the owlers, creating a diversion, y’might say.”

“You certainly did hold them,” said I. ”They stared at you like you were an Indian yourself, just suddenly come to life in Kent.”

He laughed at that. ”Yeah, they did, didn’t they?”

At least I had succeeded in raising his spirits a bit. ”Did the two constables have anything to say about that?” I asked.

“No, but between them they gave me some mighty queer looks.” Again, he laughed, but suddenly he stopped. Clearly, something had occurred to him. ”Jeremy,” said he, ”do you remember the name of that church at the other end of High Street?”

“Well … no, I fear I didn’t give it proper attention.”

“Nor did I, but … could it have been St. George’s?”

“Certainly it could, and St. George’s Road would likely be found near it,” I suggested.

“We can only hope.”

It took us no time to find our way to the church and thus to St. George’s Road. Waking the surgeon, however, was quite another matter. It seemed to take minutes of beating upon the door and calling out his name before his head appeared, thrust out of an upper-story window. There were then more minutes until he appeared dressed, after a fashion, with his bag of tools in hand. As we three walked along swiftly to the inn, we found little to say. The only sound was that of our footsteps upon the cobblestones and the menacing rattle and clank of saws and knives inside the surgeon’s bag.

Upon our arrival, Mr. Perkins gave a stout single knock upon the door of the inn. He might have beat longer and louder upon it, but it was hardly necessary, for the door unexpectedly flew open. There was only silence from inside. Mr. Perkins and I exchanged looks of concern. He drew his pistol as I did mine; Mr. Parker, the surgeon, shrank back.

Then, as near together as was possible, we leapt into the darkened taproom, diving to the floor on opposite sides of the door. Then did we wait tensely for some sign of what we might expect. It soon came. The long barrel of a fowling piece pushed its way over the bar and seemed to be pointed in my direction. Or was it? Perhaps it was simply aimed at the open door. I wanted to move, but I was fearful that if I did so, I would certainly make plain my location.

“All right,” came a voice from behind the bar, one husky with fright, ”I know where you are, so you better just get on out of here. I don’t know why you come back, but if I pull this trigger, you’ll be sorry you did.”

“It’s me, Oliver Perkins,” came the response. ”I’m stayin’ here at the inn. You know me, don’t you?”

Silence; then: ”Well, maybe I do. What room you in?”

“Number six on the second floor. It’s kind of an attic. Only one other room up there.”

“Well, I suppose that’s right.”

“And I just started on as a constable here in Deal.”

“Oh, I guess I did hear that.” Then, reluctantly, he said, ”All right, get up and come ahead slow.”

Tucking away his pistol, Mr. Perkins rose with exaggeratedly deliberate movements. He came forward with his hand open, showing that he had no weapon.

”I was sent out to fetch a surgeon,” said he.

“That’s good. We’ve need of one.”

“You mean for the wounded prisoner?”

“Oh no, he’s gone with the rest of them.”

The innkeeper raised himself and placed the great, long fowling piece upon the bar. At the same time, I holstered my pistol and got up from the floor.

“Wait a bit,” said the innkeeper to me, ”who’re you?”

“Never you mind that,” said Mr. Perkins. ”What’s this about ‘gone with the rest of them’? Mr. Parker, come ahead. He says there’s need of you.”

The surgeon put his head timorously through the doorway and, seeing there was no danger, entered cautiously.

Mr. Perkins turned back to the man behind the bar. ”Now, tell me what happened.”

“Well, they just crashed in here so fast. I thought they was you two returning with the surgeon. They held a gun to my head and threatened me. I didn’t have any choice at all. I had to tell them what room the prisoners were in. No choice at all.”

By the time the innkeeper had exonerated himself of all blame in the matter, Mr. Perkins was running for the stairs and pulling the surgeon after him. I followed, and the innkeeper, grabbing up his fowling piece, trailed along behind.

The scene which greeted me on the next floor was surely one of the most dismaying that ever I have viewed. Mr. Trotter, the senior constable, knelt by the other constable (I blush to say I never learned his name), supporting him at the shoulders, thus providing what comfort he could. If not dead already, the poor fellow on the floor would soon be gone: he had a great gaping hole in his chest which certainly could not be mended. Constable Trotter, far from unscathed, held his free arm at such an awkward angle that it was evident that he had taken a bullet there, one that had probably broken his arm, as well. There was a good deal of blood upon the floor, yet it was not easy to tell from which of the constables it had come; perhaps from both. The surgeon gave his attention to Mr. Trotter. When the senior constable sought to persuade Mr. Parker to treat the other first, he seemed unable to speak above a whisper-probably weakened from loss of blood. In response to Mr. Trotter’s urging, the surgeon simply shook his head: his meaning was clear-the man was beyond saving. He said something over his shoulder to Mr. Perkins, who passed the order on to the innkeeper:

“Get us a bottle of gin, and be quick. We’ve got to get this man drunk right away.”

The innkeeper ran downstairs, apparently eager to do as he had been told.

“We must have him in a bed if I’m to get that pistol ball out and his arm properly set,” said Mr. Parker. ”You, lad,” said he to me, ”grab his feet. I’ll lift him beneath his arms, and you, constable, hold his arm steady, but be careful with it. I’m sure it’s broken above the elbow.”

Thus we managed, with a minimum of pain to Mr. Trotter, to move him through the open door and onto one of the two beds in the room wherein the prisoners had been held. Just about then, the innkeeper returned with the bottle of gin.

“I could use a drink,” said Mr. Trotter in a choked, husky voice.