Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

“Take as much as you’re able. It’ll dull the pain.”

The innkeeper pulled out the cork and passed the bottle to the constable. Trotter took it and drank a dram-sized gulp. He came up panting.

“Go ahead, take another,” said Mr. Parker, and the constable obliged. And then to me and to the innkeeper: ”All right, you two, get out of here now. The one-armed constable will give me all the help I’ll need. Your name’s Perkins, is it not? Show them out, Constable Perkins.”

Once sure that he would not be made a target, Mr. Parker felt in his element. He organized things well and gave orders in a crisp, authoritative manner that proved that at least he was now fully awake. I wondered if perhaps he had a naval background.

Mr. Perkins herded us to the door and out into the hall.

“See what you can do to get this poor fellow’s body out of the hall, would you?” said he to the innkeeper, indicating the dead constable. ”Put him up in my room, if you must.” And to me he whispered: ”Jeremy, find out what you can from him about what happened here. You’re going to have to make a report of some sort to Sir John and to Mr. Sarton.”

And so as we temporarily disposed of the body in the hall and mopped up the blood from the floor and washed it down, I questioned my coworker in detail regarding what had happened. His answers, together with what Constable Trotter later told us, provide the basis for the account which I provide below.

After Mr. Perkins and I had been let out to fetch the surgeon, Mr. Trotter returned to his place outside the room where the prisoners, still tied each to each, had in addition been secured to the bed. As he left the taproom, he advised the innkeeper that we would be returning soon with help for the wounded prisoner.

Thus the innkeeper did not hesitate to open the door when a group of men appeared shortly after our departure, for he thought them to be we two come back with the surgeon and a surgeon’s helper. There were, in any case, four at the door when he threw it open to let them in. He did not notice until they swarmed upon him that all wore masks of one sort or another. A pistol was put to his head and cocked, as he had told, and he did indeed tell them where they would find the prisoners and their guards. This brief interrogation was conducted in whispers, and though he recognized none because of the masks, two of the four had voices that he was sure he had heard before. (And another detail: the leader of the gang took them directly to the stairway to the floor above, though it was not immediately in sight; he clearly knew his way about the inn.) They forced the innkeeper to accompany them. When the two constables above became uneasy at the sound of so many footsteps in the taproom, they called down to him asking who was with him there; he answered them reassuringly, even told them that the surgeon had come to care for the prisoner. That last, reader, seemed inexcusable to me.

Yet the two constables were sufficiently suspicious that, in spite of the innkeeper’s assurances, they had drawn their pistols and cocked them, expecting the worst-and the worst was what they got. As the masked party reached the top of the stairs, they immediately began shooting. The constables returned their fire. One, hit in the chest, fell immediately. Mr. Trotter shot off his two pistols and inflicted a wound on one of the attackers before he, too, fell wounded-though not mortally.

After that, there was nothing nor no one to keep them from the prisoners. They threw open the door to the room, cut the bonds that held them, and made ready to go. Yet before they did, the leader of the masked band walked over to Constable Trotter in the hall and gave him a kick in his bleeding arm. He then said coldly, with an unmistakable threat in his voice: ”You may tell them all that we run the owling trade in Deal. There will be no more doubt of it when we finish tonight.”

Not another word passed between them. Quick as they had come, they went, though it was later learned that they had reclaimed the cargo carried by the smugglers’ boat. The innkeeper promised that he would somehow find help, but once he was downstairs and behind the bar in the taproom, it seemed to him necessary to have a bit of rum to fortify himself for the journey. He was just finishing it, ready to pour another, when Mr. Perkins knocked once upon the door, and it swung open.

Whilst the tale was told me, there were a few cries of pain from within the room, but when Mr. Perkins emerged, he said that Constable Trotter had done well.

‘“Twasn’t taking the bullet out that hurt him so,” said he, ”but setting his broken arm-that’s what set him going. The gin didn’t help much there.”

Mr. Parker had abundant instructions for the care of Constable Trotter. The question was, who would stay with the patient to carry out the instructions? When the surgeon put the matter to the innkeeper, the latter insisted that, much as he would like to nurse the constable back to robust health, he must be free to run the taproom below.

“There is a possibility, however,” said he after giving some thought to the problem. ”Perhaps the dull-witted girl who sweeps and mops the place in the mornings might be persuaded to sit with him through the rest of the day.”

“But you call her ‘dull-witted.’ Would she know enough wit to change the bandage each day and to administer a chemist’s potion at regular intervals?”

The innkeeper scratched his head. ”Probably not.”

“Sir,” said I to the surgeon, ”I know of such a girl. She is able and dependable.” I had Clarissa in mind, of course.

“Yes, but she is not here now. How am I to instruct her? Can she read?”

“She would spend all her time with books, if given the chance.”

“Ah, well then, innkeeper, if you will provide pen, ink, and paper, I will write out what must be done.”

Mr. Perkins stepped forward. ”And I’ll remain here with Trotter until she comes,” said he. ”The lad must be off to make a report of all this to the magistrate.”

“Well enough then, do it as you like. All that matters is that he be given proper attention. He’ll be going into fever by the end of the day.”

Mr. Perkins gave me a wink and a nod, which I took to mean that I might leave now. I answered with a nod of my own.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said I to Mr. Parker, ”I’ll be on my way.”

With that and a bobbing bow, I left the room. It so happened, though, that the cowardly innkeeper was below, assembling the writing materials the surgeon had called for. He raised a hand to me, beckoning me to him ere I walked out the door. I went to him. Apparently he wished to tell me something, but knew not quite how to do it. He made a false start or two.

“Perhaps you could … I would like to explain … that is to say…” Then did he stop altogether and collect himself before proceeding. ”I would ask, lad, that you not judge me too harshly. What I told you is the truth, no less than if I’d given it under oath. Mind, I’m none too proud of my behavior, as I’ve described it to you. Nevertheless, I’d have you know that I was afeared for my very life. I vow that I’ve never been so close to death before. You do understand, don’t you?”

I knew not what to say. If he were asking for my approval, I would certainly withhold it. If he were asking for absolution-forgiveness-as those in the Romish faith are said to ask it of their priests, then I could not grant it, for such power had not been given me. Yet the innkeeper was asking for much less, was he not? He wanted only my understanding, and that much I could certainly offer him.

“Yes,” said I, ”I do understand.”

Then did he look me in the eye for the first time since he had beckoned me over. And quite at a loss for something more to say, he simply nodded.