Dennis Wheatley - The Launching of Roger Brook

"My lads would be again' it. They know the quality be our good friends, but they'd be strong against the likes of 'e bein' let into the secrets o' the game."

"Please, Dan," Roger begged. "The making of such a trip would be a vast boon to me. 'Twould give me just the chance I need to prove myself before entering the Navy."

"Nay, Master Roger, 'tis too great a risk to take. Were anything to happen to 'e I'd have half the gentry o' the county down on me."

"Why should anything happen—unless we're all caught. And in such a case having me with you would prove to your advantage. The Justices would never convict if it involved sentencing Captain Brook's son to transportation."

"Aye, there's something in that. Still, I'm agin' it."

"Look!" said Roger suddenly, "I'll make it worth your while, Dan. I'll pay you a five-pound bounty to take me on the trip."

The smuggler's dark eyes showed a gleam of cupidity. In spite of the good profits he made after each successful run he was by no means a rich man. Periodically he was compelled to jettison a cargo from fear of capture, and each time that happened it robbed him of the earnings of many months' hard and dangerous work. Owing to Mr. Nixon's vendetta against him it was much longer than usual since he had made a trip and he was only driven to it now by the grumbling of his penniless crew. He had to pay cash for his goods on the other side and being in low funds himself was not taking over as much money as he could have wished; so an additional five pounds would come in very handy. Yet he still hesitated.

Seeing his hesitation Roger leapt into the breach. "Please, Dan! I beg you to. If 'tis as you say and the sea no rougher in mid-channel than off the island, a voyage to France and back is the very thing I need to give me confidence. 'Twould make a world of difference to me when I join my first ship this autumn."

Dan Izzard was a good-hearted man and deeply touched by the appeal. It overcame the last scruples of his better judgment, and he said: "So be it then. I'll take 'e. But no skylarkin', mind. 'E'11 not be young Master aboard the Sally Ann, but do as 'e's bid."

"I will, Dan; I will. I promise," agreed Roger enthusiastically.

"Then be down by Nothover's quay sharp on midnight," Dan added. " 'Tis from there we sail, an' time an' tide wait for no man."

The matter now being agreed the smuggler finished his drink, pulled the tassel of his woollen cap a little further over his left ear, and, with a gruff word of good-bye to Roger, left the inn.

Roger's eyes were still shining from his success in having persuaded the smuggler to take him, as he was confident the trip would prove the solution to the problem that had been worrying him so much. The French authorities, he knew, were entirely indifferent as to if cargoes of spirits shipped from France were for legal or illegal tender when they reached England. Therefore it was certain that Dan would pick up his shipment quite openly in one of the French ports—probably the great city of Le Havre. They would be there for a full day at least, and Roger felt that there should be no difficulty in his going ashore and disposing his treasure to a French goldsmith in the town.

Every Englishman of good appearance and address was, he had often heard, regarded as a fabulously rich Milord in France, so his possession of a pocketful of jewels would not excite the same suspicion there as it was likely to do in England. Moreover, even if the gold­smith to whom he offered them did suspect that they were stolen goods, he would see at once that they were of English origin and, having nothing to fear from the English law, have no hesitation in buying them, provided that he could make a profitable bargain.

Already Roger saw himself safely back in England on the coming Saturday night with several rouleaux of gold coin that he could place with a banker in London for safe keeping on the following Monday. Congratulating himself on this excellent stroke he summoned the maid, paid her eightpence for the drinks and left the "Angel."

He had been considering what he should do with himself for the next few hours when Dan had come in. As he could hardly remain in the tap-room till nightfall and had no wish to spend the time loitering about the town, in case he should run into someone from home who would tell him that his father was seeking him, he decided to go into hiding. The woods outside the town offered a score of good places where he could lie up but he did not wish to go too far afield and unnecessarily fatigue himself with a longish walk back after dark, so it had occurred to him that the churchyard would be a good place to conceal himself during the long summer evening.

Having walked back along the High Street, he turned into it and found, as he had supposed would be the case, that it was completely deserted. Making his way to its extreme end he selected a grassy dip between a large box-like stone tomb and the hedge, and settled himself down there. For a little he thought about Georgina, then, tired out with the excitement of the day, he fell asleep.

He awoke with a start to find it quite dark. As the rendezvous he had made with Dan flashed back to him he stumbled to his feet in panic, fearing that it might now be so late that he had missed it. A moment later the bell of the Town Hall clock began to strike. Anxiously he counted the strokes and sighed with relief when they ended; it was only a quarter past ten.

A little shiver ran through him and he was suddenly conscious of an eerie feeling from being there alone, at night, in the graveyard. Vaguely now he could see the white tomb stones, and each one seemed like a ghost. Hastily stumbling between them he ran back to the road, arriving in the High Street quite breathless and with his heart beating like a hammer. The street was empty; most of the townsfolk had been in bed for the past hour and the only light that was to be seen came from an upper window in Monmouth House, on the corner of Church Lane.

When his breathing had eased, Roger crossed the street and made his way along it, past the bow windows of the now shuttered shops and the few private dwellings interspersed among them; but some way before reaching the Town Hall he turned right, entering a narrow gap between two buildings. The alley, known as Aishley's Lane, was less than a hundred yards in length but continued as a footpath which led straight down the hill between an open field on the one hand and the meadow and walled kitchen garden of his own home on the other.

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the semi-darkness of the summer night he could make out the square pile of the house rising from the lower ground and the outline of the tall trees beyond it. Two minutes' walk brought him to the end of the footpath and into the road on to which the stable gates of the house opened. They were locked, as he expected, but he made short work of hoisting himself up on them and dropping down inside. As he did so the Town clock chimed the half-hour.

Curly, the Irish wolf-hound, came out of his kennel and growled ominously. Roger spoke to him softly and at the sound of the well-known voice the dog fell quiet, shook himself with a rattle of his chain, and retired once more to his kennel. Tip-toeing across the yard Roger entered the garden and, taking to the grass, began to make a cautious circuit of the house for any signs of wakefulness of its occupants.

As he came out on to the lawn he saw, to his intense annoyance, that there was a light behind the curtains of the library window. Evidently his father was waiting up for him. He stood there irresolute for a moment, the terror of what would happen to him if he were caught by his infuriated parent surging through him. He positively dared not go in, yet, somehow he had got to get hold of his money-box before midnight. The only thing to do was to wait a while and hope that his father would go to bed.