Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

If he was right in his reasoning.

A far-off animal cry startled him but almost immediately his senses came to a full alert. There was movement. He could not hear a thing but he knew in his bowels that somebody was abroad.

His eyes tried to penetrate the gloom: a luminous shimmer was beginning to assert itself, the prelude to moonrise. It would not be long now.

Kydd was just beginning to make out the sky as a loftier glow above the blackness of the earth when a sinister shadow passed noiselessly across his vision, followed by another and then another.

Down at the river there was low murmuring, whispers. He couldn’t make his move just yet – he wanted to take the smugglers as well, and a false move might cause them to scatter and get away.

It was lightening by degrees as the moon began to lift, tingeing leaves with silver, a dancing glitter on the water, and down at the landing stage shadowy figures stood silently. If any of the Fencibles coughed or fidgeted, their quarry would melt into the night.

One of the figures moved out onto the landing stage. He reached the end and lifted the unmistakable spout lantern, carefully aiming it out into the blackness. Kydd tried to follow the direction and, before long, saw a dark blotch intrude on the moon-path. The boat.

Tense, he remained still as it drew nearer, then angled in, direct to the shadowy group. Fingering his boatswain’s call, he waited until a line was thrown ashore when all eyes would be on the boat, then raised it to his lips and gave a fearsome single blast.

After a split second, the scene dissolved into chaos, shouts of rage mingling with whoops of satisfaction, vague shapes barrelling into the undergrowth. To Kydd’s gratification, a hoarse bellow came that he recognised instantly, Tovey the blacksmith roaring into the night that they’d been betrayed and to run for their lives.

In the darkness it was impossible to make out how many they’d succeeded in apprehending. ‘Round ’em up and secure them well,’ he told the lieutenant. ‘I’ll be back.’

Kydd made his way to the Ivybridge smithy, slipped into the workshop and waited. Nearly an hour passed before he heard cautious steps approaching. There was the tap of steel on flint and a lantern threw out a fitful glow, revealing the dishevelled figure of Tovey, who set down the light with a sigh of relief.

‘A shabby night’s work,’ Kydd said, stepping out of the shadows.

Tovey wheeled round, staring at him.

‘Not to say paltry, as you’re all taken up and must suffer at the assizes.’

There was no fear in the man’s eyes, only a calculated wariness.

Kydd was ready for him. Before the big hands closed over a hammer shaft, he brandished a heavy hand mandrel. ‘I’ve downed Frenchies twice your size,’ he said, in measured tones.

‘There’s only the one o’ yez.’

‘For a reason.’

Tovey paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh?’

‘You’re headed for chokey, so your wife and little ones will go on the parish. You’re not a bad ’un and I’d wish it were the other. And I’ve a mind to make it so.’

‘What do ye mean?’

‘I’ll swear that no Frenchy ever stepped into that boat. In the eyes o’ the law it was floating about in the river just at the same time you were taking the evening air. No one can prove you were doing anything else – what the Frenchmen were up to is their business.’

‘Why are doing this’n?’ Tovey said carefully, his voice low. ‘Nothin’ I can do back.’

‘Yes, there is. You’ll swear to me that you’re done with this business for ever and all.’

The blacksmith remained silent.

‘And tell me who’s giving you your orders,’ Kydd added.

Tovey looked away, still saying nothing.

‘Else you bear all the punishment and he gets away with everything. Who says one has to take all the risks and the other none?’

The eyes dropped.

‘Besides which, you tell me and none’s to find who said it, for no one knows you spoke to me, do they?’

Chapter 8

The lieutenant of the Sea Fencibles was exultant. ‘A splendid haul, Sir Thomas. All but one, who got away. We have five absconding French officers and the smugglers – you were right to station the launch and carronade behind Beacon Point. Took the lugger and then—’

‘So you’re now taking your haul in irons to the Wembury garrison?’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Then please to lend me a few men, there’s unfinished business.’

With a petty officer and three others close behind, he hurried through a sleeping, silent Ivybridge until he reached a house at the end of Fore Street, set back from the road. There were lights ablaze inside and Kydd sent a pair of men to the rear.

When they were in position he went to the door and gave a thunderous knock. ‘Open! Open in the name of the King!’

Voices rose in protest and died. He hammered again and the door opened.

‘Mr Morton?’ he said, before the little man could speak. ‘I’m taking you in charge. Aiding and abetting the King’s enemies, a capital felony, sir.’ Kydd was not certain this was true but he needed to bring pressure to bear.

Morton fell back in dismay. ‘Y-you’ve no right to—’

Kydd gave a cynical smile. ‘As squire of Knowle Manor and justice of the peace, I’ve every right. My men will now search your residence. Stand aside, please.’

‘No! You can’t—’

‘Sir, I nabbed this ’un taking a run out the back.’ The petty officer held a sullen-faced man secure, like a press-gang catch.

‘Well, well. I think we’d better have a talk, sir. Inside?’

The furnishing of the drawing room was quite out of keeping with the prospects of a village merchant, and Kydd had no compunction in setting out the man’s probable fate.

‘Sir, you face the full rigour of the law. I cannot hold out hope for you in any wise.’

At the door a woman shrieked and fell senseless to the floor.

Chalk-faced Morton asked, ‘How did you …?’

‘You were informed upon, sir. I have many to swear in court to your complicity in these treasonous acts.’ He let his gaze rest on the unfortunate man in weighty silence.

‘Sir, I beg you, is there something I might do that … that …’

‘Um. Attempting to bribe an officer of the law? This will not help you, sir.’

‘Then?’

‘A special plea in the higher court may answer.’

‘Yes?’

‘As will reduce your sentence to transportation to Botany Bay – for life.’ Kydd felt a stab of guilt. The man was only a pawn in the hands of whoever was organising the escapes, but he had to get through to the principal by some means.

‘There is, of course …’

‘Yes?’

‘You may wish to consider an alternative that may see you respited – even restored to liberty.’

‘H-how?’

‘By entering King’s evidence, Mr Morton. If now you are open with me, uncover the workings of the arrangements, provide names, details, as shall put a stop to this iniquitous trade, then I’m sanguine you’ll have nothing further to fear.’

When it came out, it was a wondrous tale.

Morton was one of a number of agents whose task was to find and cultivate a string of inns, coach drivers and others to pass along the absconders. The parole-breakers would be made to pay for their freedom and the agent, after seeing those involved were well rewarded, would pocket the remainder.

It was well organised. Instructions would come to him from the parole towns as French officers came forward to the organiser to buy themselves liberty, a line of escape then needing to be activated. This would come by secret means – in the case of Morton, he was to place a case of Flete Abbey tonic wine on the Tavistock stage once a week for the fraternity of French officers. It was in the empty bottles on return that his instructions would be concealed.