Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

“It would seem so, wouldn’t it? In any case, he got it-though not immediately. First the Chancellor of the Exchequer wanted to look him over. He had Dickens brought to him, and he found that he liked a number of things about him-his cheek, first of all; though more than that, he liked his direct, plainspoken manner; and lastly, he liked his youth, for when all this took place, Dick Dickens was but a few years older than you are now. So he made an arrangement with the Lord Chief Justice-not Lord Mansfield, but his predecessor-and had him released into his custody. No pardon was necessary, for Dickens had not yet been tried, though the result was the same. He enlisted him in the Customs Service, put many of his suggestions into practice, then promptly forgot about him. Dickens rose in the service, was given positions of trust and command, and finally was made Customs Officer for Deal. George Eccles secured his post through preferment at about the same time, and almost immediately the two fell into conflict. Eccles tied Dickens’s hands, just as he did the rest of his officers up and down the coast. And so, unable to operate on his own, Dickens put together a formidable intelligence network. He had made this known to Albert Sarton, and the two were beginning to work together when I made my entrance.”

“And so you then continued the collaboration,” I offered.

“You might say so, yes.” He waited for my response. When none came, he asked, ”Are you now convinced of his reliability?”

“I am,” said I, ”though I confess that it is largely because you approve him. You were ever a better judge of character than I.”

“That is because I am older than you,” said he, ”and have been proven wrong often enough that I’ve learned by necessity how to judge men.”

He said not another word on our journey back to 18 Middle Street. I attempted to draw him out on what might be planned as our next foray against the owling trade. Yet he would not be persuaded. He simply smiled and shook his head, altogether unwilling to commit himself.

It was Molly, the widow Sarton, who wakened me late the following morning. I learned from her that Sir John had been gone for some time and taken Clarissa with him. And where do you suppose they had gone?

”Why, to Deal Castle,” said she. ”According to him, you would understand.”

Oh, I understood-indeed I did. I was to be kept in the dark, just as before. Not even to be present during the interrogation of the prisoners-that did indeed exclude me, did it not?

“He said that he had a task for you that only you or one of the three constables could perform,” she continued. ”What sort of task?”

“He dictated a letter to Clarissa and left it for you to deliver.”

Once again, it seemed, I was to play the post boy.

“To whom am I to deliver it?”

“To that young lieutenant. What’s his name? Tabor, I think it is. He said you’re to wear the brace of pistols you wore last night and …” She hesitated. ”And you’re to use them, but only if you have to, so as to protect the letter.”

Well, thought I, this errand may be more interesting than I had first assumed. It may even be of some importance in the grand scheme of things.

“I shall certainly get it out to him. You’ve got the letter, I assume?”

“Right here in my apron pocket.”

“Any specific instructions-that is, any others besides the brace of pistols?”

“Oh yes. First of all, you’re to take Mr. Crawly’s hackney up there to Sir Simon’s and no other. If he’s not available, then wait till he is.”

“All right. That’s understood.”

“Then, second, you’re to wait while the lieutenant reads it through. Tell him to take special note of all the particulars, and then to burn the letter. And if he doesn’t do it, you’re to take it from him and burn it yourself.”

I’m sure my eyes widened a bit at that. I know that my heart pounded an extra beat or two. In my memory, Sir John had never taken such extreme precautions.

The conversation I have just reported took place in the kitchen as I ate a grand breakfast and she did sip at her tea. Molly seemed to relax visibly after she had delivered Sir John’s instructions to me. I, by contrast, had been put into an uneasy state of mind, imagining ills that might befall me on my way to the Grenville estate. Perhaps to divert me from such thoughts, she introduced a new topic of conversation, one which she supposed might cheer me.

“I hear you’re reading the law with Sir John,” said she to me.

“That’s so,” said I. ”I mean to be a barrister.”

“You’ll make a good one, I’m sure. But you’ll make an even better one with a proper law library. I’d like you to go through Bertie’s books and choose whatsoever you will and take as your own.”

She had quite overwhelmed me with her offer. ”Why,” said I, ”I know not what to say.”

“ ‘Thank you’ will do quite nicely,” said she with a wink. ”Shipping will be a bit, but Sir John said that he would cover the cost for those you pick and for Clarissa’s, too.”

“Clarissa?” How did she figure into this?

“Certainly,” said she, rather defensively. ”She had the same sort of choice I’m giving you. Surely you think that’s fair, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes-yes, of course.”

“She had not so many to choose from, naturally, for Bertie wasn’t much for romances. He did like his poetry, though, used to read me some when we …”

There she stopped, quite overcome by the tears that of a sudden welled in her eyes and the trembling in her throat.

“Oh, Jeremy,” she wailed, ”what shall I do with all this furniture? What shall I do with my life ?”

I happened to have a clean kerchief in my coat-Clarissa’s doing-so I offered it to her that she might regain her composure. And gradually, blowing her nose, clearing her throat, she managed to do just that. When, once more, she could converse, I asked her quite innocently if she could not keep the furniture and live in the house. In response, I saw an expression of absolute disgust upon her face.

“In this town of Deal?” said she, wrinkling her nose. ”I would not remain here where Bertie and I were shunned and treated so shabby. You saw a bit of it in the church from the vicar.”

“I thought he behaved shamefully.”

“There was worse,” said she, though she did not care to elaborate. ”Besides, even if I chose to stay here, I could not.”

“Why so?”

“The house belonged not to us but to the town. Mr. Kemp, the old magistrate-him who was murdered before Bertie-left it to the town of Deal that it might provide shelter to all who succeeded him in the office. I’ve already received a notice to vacate.”

I felt a great sadness and sympathy for her, though I could think of no more to say. From what I had heard, Molly Sarton was now in a state in which a great many widows found themselves. Yet she wanted no pity. She reached across the table and gave my hand a squeeze.

“I must beg your forgiveness,” said she in all seriousness.

“Whatever for?”

“For losing control as I did.” She sighed deeply. ”Oh, don’t you worry about me, Jeremy. I’ve been in tight straits before, and I’ve always come out of them well enough, for if there’s one thing I can do, it’s cook. By God, I believe I am the best cook in all of England!”

And with that, she burst out with a triumphant laugh. Her sudden change of heart I found quite contagious: I, too, believed that she would triumph over her circumstances, that she was indeed the finest cook in England. I began laughing, too.

“You’ll show them all,” said I. ”I know you will.”

Yet afterward, there was much to brood upon. Any reasonable view of her situation would have been considerably darker than what we two, in that final moment at the kitchen table, would have allowed. I realized that once I was out of the house and into the street, the letter to Lieutenant Tabor in my pocket and the pistols to keep it safe there belted round my waist.