Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

“Mr. Fowler,” said she, ”I wonder if you would clear up a few things for me.”

“I’d be happy to try, Miss Clarissa,” said he.

“That last walk I took round the estate …”

“Ah, I was thinkin’ you might get to that sometime this evening. What is it you want to know?”

“Well, a number of things, really. For instance, I believe I fainted whilst out alone in the night, though I’m sure I was grabbed from behind.”

“You was grabbed from behind, true enough, by a guard put out to keep all away from the chalk mine.”

“And did I faint, or was I somehow sent into an unconscious state?”

“Both, I fear. You fainted, p’rhaps from the shock of bein’ grabbed so rough. But then they, not knowing what to do with you since they was aware you was with Sir John, put a sponge to you which put you to sleep till I was sent for and came.”

“What was in the sponge that kept me asleep so long?”

“It was a potion, so to speak, of all the worst, such as squeezed mandrake root, opium-if you know what that is-and the whole of it soaked in wine. It kept you sleeping for the better part of an hour whilst I was sought out and summoned. They’d no idea of the plan of the house and must have wakened half the household staff before finding me.”

Clarissa giggled, something she didn’t often do. ”It must have taken you half that time to get out of that silly ghost costume and get the paint from your face.”

He looked at her oddly. ”Pardon? I remembers you had something to say about the ghost, but I put it all to that potion you’d been given.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said she. ”I assure you that I saw you dressed up as the ghost in that silly last-century costume. I know it was you.”

“Miss Clarissa,” said he. ”I assure you it were not.”

“But he looked like you,” she protested. ”Quite like you.”

“Be that as it might …” But then did he hesitate. ”P’rhaps I should confess to you something of my family’s history. You see, Sir Simon and I share the same great-grandfather. I carry the family face better than he does. You remarked upon it once yourself.”

“ A bar sinister! ” She fairly shouted it. Heads turned, and Mr. Fowler looked away as if to deny his part in this conversation. Clarissa, on her side, clapped her hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes in shame. To me she muttered, ”When will I ever learn?”

There was little more to say to Mr. Fowler. (I’m sure he thought she had said quite enough already.) And so, for a lengthy period of time she remained unusually quiet. Then, of a sudden, as if the thought had just struck her, she turned to me with an expression I might call stunned. Then did she say to me in a whisper: ”Good God, Jeremy, do you realize what this means? I’ve seen a ghost.”

A good deal of the talk round the table that evening had far greater import. As an instance of this, Mr. Bilbo fell into discussion with Mr. Dickens and learned from the latter than an awkward situation had developed with the prisoners held in Deal Castle. They had to be moved to London at once, or his chief, Mr. Eccles, would discover their presence, listen to his old friend, Sir Simon Grenville, and set them all free. He was capable of such treachery. The difficulty was this: They had not transportation sufficient in Deal to move so many. Mr. Bilbo asked how many there were and was told that there were over forty, if they were to include the Frenchmen from the ship. ”Why not include them?” Mr. Bilbo was heard to say. ”I can take them all. We’ll lock them in the hold, and they’ll make good ballast.” His offer was then passed on to Sir John; he liked it so well that he asked if he and all the rest of the London-bound party might also come along. Nothing could have pleased the old privateer more.

“I should make it clear,” said Sir John, ”that this will include our hostess, as well.”

He spoke loudly so that all at table might hear, and in response, Molly Sarton gave a broad smile, which seemed to include both Clarissa and me.

“Then you told him of her situation?” said I to Clarissa.

“At the first opportunity,” said she.

Speaking in the same loud voice, Sir John announced that Molly would, for a time, be serving as our new cook there at Number 4 Bow Street. ”She deserves better and will get it soon at one of the great houses, but this will give her a chance to find her way in London, and also in the meantime, to pass on her kitchen secrets to Clarissa.”

And so it seemed that all had been arranged. Two days later we left Deal. All but one of the prisoners were locked away in the hold; those who were not in irons were bound with rope and would, Mr. Bilbo assured us, cause no problems. The extra day gave Sir John a chance to dictate a letter to the Lord Chief Justice and explain the outcome of the events he had described in his earlier letter; he also requested that transportation be provided from the dry-dock to Newgate Gaol. The dry-dock in Wapping was specified because Mr. Bilbo announced that he would be claiming La Belle Voyageuse and towing it up the Thames to Wapping for repairs and sale. Clearly, he had no intention of losing the opportunity to benefit monetarily from his trip to Deal.

The extra day taken by them before their departure also gave Molly Sarton time to put her affairs in order. She took along with her little more than the clothes on her back- and a frock or two in her portmanteau. Most of the furniture in the house in Middle Street had belonged to its former owner, Mr. Kemp. But there were keepsakes and a few pieces of her own which Molly stored in the cellar of Mrs. Keen’s tearoom. Though the two veterans of service in the Grenville household had a tearful parting, Molly was adamant that she had no desire to remain in Deal. In a way, I thought she was wrong in that, for even though the circumstances in which I had come to know the town were far from ideal, there was much about it I had come to like. Yet of course I had not endured there what she had.

There was, as earlier indicated, one smuggler who had managed to avoid imprisonment with the rest in the hold of the Indian Princess , and that one alone was Marie-Hélène, the Lady Grenville. This was partly out of respect to her sex, of course, though for the most part, I think, it was because Black Jack Bilbo had taken a liking to her. He had provided her with a cabin (his own) and given her the freedom of the ship-with the exception of the hold, of course. She was not to talk to the prisoners through the grate or air holes, nor in any way attempt to communicate with them by letter, or by note, or by sign. These prohibitions seemed to bother her not in the least. She wandered about the vessel, speaking with whomever she would in accented English which set some laughing and charmed the rest. Clearly, Mr. Bilbo was one of those charmed. He managed to spend a good deal of time with her, in spite of the demands upon his attention as captain of the ship. And Clarissa pointed out that he always seemed to come away from such encounters with a smile upon his face.

My chum, Jimmie Bunkins, acknowledged, with a sigh, the accuracy of her observation.

“An’t it so,” said Bunkins with a troubled look. ”Seems these Frenchy blowens got a certain way with the cove. Been so as long as I knew him.”

”He’s certainly interested,” said I, meaning to imply with that a good deal more than mere interest.

“I fear that if he were any more interested, we would never reach London,” Clarissa commented dryly.

“Least this one’s got a proper cut to her jib and a pair of bollocks would do any man proud.” At that point he halted and looked uneasily at Clarissa. ”Beg yer pardon,” said he to her.