Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

“To Mick Crawly, hackney coach driver extraordinary, who took our little force up the hill to the crossroads where the first battle was fought. He did this at some risk to himself and to his fine team of horses. And he generously permitted us to make use of his coach to block the road to London. It might have suffered considerable damage, yet miraculously it did not.”

I wondered that I myself might well be tipsy once all the toasts had been drunk; there were ten besides Sir John at the table, after all.

“To Oliver Perkins, Benjamin Bailey, and Will Patley, three trusty members of my London constabulary, the Bow Street Runners. They came here to Deal without condition and proved invaluable each time they were called upon. I owe so much to them and their fellows, I know that I shall not begin to be able to repay the debt, except with my deepest thanks.”

Here Sir John paused as we drank. His forehead then wrinkled in a frown.

“John Bilbo,” he called out. ”Are you here, Mr. Bilbo?”

“I am, sir. I’m here at the other end of the table, a bit below the salt.”

“Where you belong! I had not heard you say a word for a bit, Mr. Bilbo, and I wondered perhaps you’d slipped out without my knowing of it.”

“Little chance of that, Sir John, so long as there’s a bit of that roast beef left.” Mr. Bilbo then laughed heartily at his own joke.

“Then let us, one and all, drink to him, ladies and gentlemen, for without him, his sloop, his cannon, and his seamanship, most of us would not be here at all. We had heard rumors of Black Jack Bilbo, of his shady past. Stories were told that he was a pirate, and others that he was a privateer, yet on one point they did all seem to agree-that he was a fine commander and a great seaman. Well, that was demonstrated in the waters just off Goodwin Sands two nights back. He is a grand fellow and a great one on whom I knew we all could depend. He is a friend and will ever be-I give you, Mr. John Bilbo.”

“Hear, hear,” was heard from Mr. Perkins, and a scattering of applause came from his fellows. They held up empty glasses. I grabbed a bottle from the sideboard and rushed to provide remedy.

“And now,” said Sir John, ”we come to Jeremy Proctor.”

He caught me offguard. I had not by then recovered my place at the table. I could not do so at that moment, and so I simply stood rooted by the sideboard with what I’m sure must have been a look of surprise upon my face. I knew not what to expect.

“Oftentimes,” he continued, ”Jeremy is denied his due. This, I believe, is because I have come to think of him as a son. If he were my son, I should think of him as satisfactory in every way, yet I would still deny him his due. This is unfair of me, I know, yet it is how I myself was brought up. My father was a military man, and he was always sure that whatever was good could be made better. I entered the Royal Navy as a midshipman and found that the same rule applied. And so I, the prisoner of my past, have tended to treat Jeremy as I was treated. And in this instance-I might say, in these two instances-he deserves better than that. In the battle at the crossroads, at considerable risk to himself, he protected our sharpshooter, Mr. Patley-”

”Saved my life, he did!” Mr. Parley called out, interrupting.

“So I understand,” Sir John agreed. ”And the next night on Goodwin Sands, when Mr. Bilbo’s successful attack upon the smuggling vessel had ended the resistance of those on shore, their leader, Sir Simon, thought to escape, undetected and unidentified. It was Jeremy detected his escape and identified him to me as the leader. I sent him to capture him, not realizing that I could have been sending him to his death. Yet he acquitted himself just as well in that instance as he had earlier, catching Sir Simon and, braving a shot aimed point-blank at him, overcoming the smuggler chief. So let us drink also to Jeremy Proctor, who did wonderfully well, though I suppose he could have done better-yet I can’t, for the life of me, think how.”

Having spoken thusly, he extended his glass in the ceremonial gesture toward me, then brought it back and sipped from it whilst those at table mimicked the gesture. For my part, I burned with embarrassment; my eyes filled with tears. Will Patley led a round of applause. Somehow I found my way back to my chair and sat, quite overcome, yet forcing a smile.

“Now then,” said Sir John, ”have I slighted any? Is there one, or even two, here this evening whose part in this has not been recognized?”

There were calls from Mr. Crawly and Mr. Fowler, repeating Clarissa’s name.

Then did Molly Sarton make her voice heard above the rest: ”Just like a man to fail to give a female rightful credit. Yes indeed, Clarissa! — the girl who served you your dinner. Does that count for so little?”

“Not at all, not at all!” cried Sir John. ”Let it be known to one and all that I am second to none in my appreciation of that young lady and well she knows that, or so she should. Let me make amends by offering this toast:

“Gentlemen, I give you Mistress Clarissa Roundtree. Let it be known that she is much in her own right-secretary to Lady Fielding, poet, a writer of romances yet to be written, and incarnate proof that women are, in ways yet uncounted, equal, if not superior, to men. Her contribution to the victories we celebrate here may not be material, nonetheless it was real enough and can be measured. Her insatiable curiosity set her wandering about Sir Simon’s estate, making discoveries of perfume, wine, and a corpse that kept alive my suspicions of him. Thus, her misadventures provided the impulse which drove forward my investigation. Also consider her influence upon Jeremy …”

At that there were a few chuckles heard from that corner of the table where sat the three London constables. Sir John ignored them.

“Could he have accomplished the feats which I have described, without her womanly inspiration?”

There was laughter all round the table at that. It rose in volume and pitch as Sir John bellowed forth:

“Surely not!” He raised his glass to Clarissa and drank, as did the rest.

Then, reader, as if I were not sufficiently chagrined by all this merrymaking at my expense, Clarissa, who sat next to me, leaned over and planted a hearty buss upon my cheek. Then did the table go quite mad with foolish laughter. Alas, even I, in spite of myself, did join in; it would have taken a more sober-sided individual than I to have resisted.

In all, though we were at table well over an hour more, Sir John’s toasts to one and all there at dinner provided the climax to a jolly evening. We were perhaps a bit rowdy, yet harmlessly so. And there was to the occasion also something a bit melancholy, for I believe that all who were there realized that in spite of the abundant good feeling, this would almost certainly be the only time we would all sit together at the same table. For those of us who knew the late magistrate-and for Molly most of all-there was the added disappointment that Albert Sarton was not present to celebrate the fruition of his work in Deal.

With those melancholy circumstances no doubt in mind, Clarissa began a conversation with Mr. Fowler which had a most surprising result. He sat, as I believe I have already mentioned, across the table from us. And the hum of talk around us was such that she was obliged to speak up a bit in order to be heard. Yet all the rest were so absorbed in their own conversations that none but I paid them much attention. I know not if I can quote them exact, yet I shall try, knowing full well that any mistakes I make will certainly be corrected.

I recall that she waited till Mr. Fowler had concluded with Mr. Dickens on his right when Clarissa called out to him and gained his attention.