Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

“Why not wait for me?” said I to my guide. ”I cannot suppose this will keep me here long.” He was years younger than I, and appeared sickly. I saw no cause for him to tramp the stairs unneedful.

He nodded and took a place by the door which he had pointed out to me. I knocked upon it, and it was opened by Dick Dickens himself. Saying not a word, he beckoned me inside and closed the heavy oaken door after us.

“You know all about this?” he asked as I passed him the letter from Sir John.

“I do now,” said I. ”I was present while the details of the plan were fixed, and I took in dictation the letter you now hold in your hand.”

“And do you think it will work?”

I was somewhat surprised by the question. What should it matter to him what I thought? Perhaps he was as unsure as I.

“I think it may if the information we’ve been given is correct; if the men in the wagons do not greatly outnumber us; and if Mick Crawly does not betray us.” I said nothing of my uncertainty about Dickens himself.

At that he laughed. ”You need not worry about Mick,” said he, ”nor about the quality of the information. I stand firmly behind both.”

He then took but a moment to read quickly over the letter; then did he surprise me again by handing it back to me.

“You do not wish to keep it?”

“No, I have the contents firmly in mind. Better that you have the letter. It would not do to have it found here or on my person.”

And so I took it and buried it deep in my pocket. Then did I bow my goodbye to him. I was out the door and, with the aid of my guide, out the castle in not much more than a minute.

We rocked easily in the interior of the hackney coach as the horses proceeded up the hill at a walk. There were five of us. Apart from Sir John and myself, I counted the three constables who had come down from London-Messrs. Perkins, Patley, and Bailey. Earlier in the evening they had made the rounds in Deal, giving special attention to Alfred Square, hoping to give the impression that there was naught different about this night. Now all had gathered together, mounted into the hackney, and rode in silence up through the highlands to the place Mr. Crawly had judged the best to stop the train of wagons on their way to London.

As Sir John had explained earlier that evening: ”Smuggling goods from France-or anywhere else-can only be successful if you get the smuggled goods up to the market. And the best market is not down here in eastern Kent but in London. Whatever has been landed here must be brought up there for the job to be completed. We may either try to cut off the traffic as it is put ashore, or on the road leading to London. We have information of a large shipment-at least three wagons full-to be brought north. The shipment will be made up of the usual luxury goods-wine and brandy from France, and perfume, as well; tobacco from Turkey; and even fine linen and lace from Flanders. If we can stop the shipment, then we can deal a telling blow to the smuggling trade here-not perhaps the deathblow I would like, but one that will certainly wound.”

And so it was to be a roadblock, one set up at some back-country crossroads of Mick Crawly’s choosing. The idea was to halt them whilst the King’s Carabineers rode up from their rear to cut off a possible retreat. How did we know the owlers’ train of wagons would go up this particular road? And how could we be sure that they would not leave till after midnight? These were essential questions, of course. Yet they were questions I could not answer; nor was I even certain that Sir John could. In short, this seemed to me to be a good enough plan yet one based upon information of questionable worth-a sound structure built upon an uncertain foundation. I had hinted as much to Sir John upon my return from Deal Castle, yet I drew no response from him-no, none at all.

It should be evident from what I have written thus far that I was uneasy and somewhat agitated regarding that which lay ahead. What I felt was not so much fear as it was a heightening of the emotions, a quickening of the pulse, as I prepared myself for battle-or so I told myself. In any case, the slow pace of the horses pulling the hackney in no wise matched the racing of my heart. Oh, how I wished Mr. Crawly would drive the horses faster! Yet he had said as we began our journey that it would be best to go slowly, so as not to attract attention so late at night. All that was understood and agreed upon, yet now that we were beyond the town, must they plod as old plow horses? Unbeknownst to me and unintended, my left foot had been tapping at a quick, steady pace upon the floor of the coach. Indeed I knew not how long it had done so, for it seemed to have a will and a mind of its own. I was only made aware when Sir John placed his hand upon my knee until my foot was still, then put a finger to his lips, asking for silence. The three constables were quiet as could be. Mr. Perkins and Mr. Bailey, who sat across from us, rode along, bouncing and jostling with the movement of the coach. Their eyes were shut so that I supposed them to be nodding with sleep. But could they be praying?

At last we did reach the crossroads which Mr. Crawly had designated as the most likely spot to halt the owlers’ caravan. I had to admit that it was well chosen. There, two country roads merged into a single high road which led northward to London. We climbed down from the coach, taking with us the musketry and cutlery which had been on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. In addition, each of us, except Sir John, wore a brace of pistols and carried powder and shot enough for a sustained battle. Once the coach was positioned well across the London road, Mr. Crawly, aided by Mr. Perkins, unhitched the team of horses and led them behind a copse of trees, to give them fair protection when the bullets began flying. Mr. Crawly and Sir John would remain there with them. Mr. Bailey took a place in good cover about three or four rods down the road where the owlers were expected to appear. Mr. Perkins took another on the other side of the same road about three rods beyond that. That left Mr. Patley and I to establish our position upon the roof of the coach. In a way, we were quite exposed. Because of that, we prepared a barricade there atop the coach-Sir John’s portmanteau and my valise, each stuffed with bits and pieces of heavy clothing. In addition, there were two cloth bags filled to bursting with sand; these had been supplied by Mr. Crawly. We were to lie behind them. Constable Patley was to do the shooting with the two guns we held between us, and I the loading. I had practiced it in a prone position with him until I managed to do it (an accomplishment in itself, it seemed to me) in about half a minute. Try as I might, I seemed unable to manage it any faster. One of these weapons was his alone-a musket with a rifled barrel, with which, according to Mr. Bailey and others, Patley could hit a target a hundred rods distant. It took a bit of doing for us to establish ourselves, and for that matter, we two were the last to settle into position, but eventually we were also ready. We had planned for a three-wagon train. Mr. Patley and I would be responsible for the first of them, Mr. Bailey for the second, and Mr. Perkins for the third; if there were a fourth or even a fifth, it would be the responsibility of the King’s Carabineers. We felt we were ready for them.

We waited. Time passed slowly, so slowly that it seemed a very eternity since we had taken our positions. I wondered at that.

“Have you some idea of the time?” I asked Mr. Patley in a whisper.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said he. ”I’d judge it to be about half past midnight, give or take a bit.”

“Only that?”

“Well, let’s see what my timepiece says.” All the Bow Street Runners carried them as necessary equipment.