Devil to Pay (11 page)

We sing a little, we laugh a little,

And work a little, and swear a little

And swig the flowing can!

Standing on a bench to sing, Molly made a striking figure. She was dark-haired and bright-eyed with a full figure and white skin, aged 25 or less. In vigorous action, manning the deck to clear the wreck, she displayed herself to some advantage, gaining tremendous enthusiasm over the last verse:

But yet think not our fate is hard,

Though storms at sea thus treat us,

For coming home, a sweet reward,

With smiles our sweethearts greet us!

Now too the friendly grog we quaff,

Our am'rous toast,

Her we love most,

And gaily sing and laugh:

The sails we furl

Then for each girl

The petticoat display;

The deck we clear

Then three times cheer

As we their charms survey.

The last line was given special emphasis and the company present was privileged to see rather more of Molly before joining in the final chorus:

And then the grog goes round,

All sense of danger drown'd.

We despise it to a man;

We sing a little, we laugh a little,

And work a little and swear a little

And swig the flowing can.

Flushed and panting, Molly jumped down from the bench, blew her admirers a kiss and vanished. Delancey, who was fond of music, endured the discordant singing and was glad only when it finished. All others were happy in the knowledge that Molly would sing again later and probably with more abandon. Some minutes after Molly's act Delancey made an excuse to leave the room. Returning from his visit to the backyard, he made to climb the stairs but found his way barred by a formidable matron who asked him where he thought he was going. “I have a message for Miss Molly,” he explained. “I fancy her room will be up there.”

“Maybe it is,” said the frowning hostess. “And maybe it isn't. But I'll give her any message that is proper for her to receive.” This was the moment, as Delancey knew, when a half guinea would have solved the problem. His fortune was now to be counted, however, in pennies, which would help him not at all. “I am here on behalf of my master,” he explained. “A gentleman of great fortune and estate. He wishes to pay his respects to Miss Molly and asks whether one day next week will serve.” Met with a frankly incredulous stare, Delancey went hastily into greater detail, making his master a baronet and a colonel, adding to his property and giving him a town house and his own stables at Newmarket. The pity was that so fine a gentleman should be still a bachelor. All this might have been in vain so far as his hostess was concerned but Delancey's voice had been heard on the floor above. Molly appeared on the landing and asked what the noise was about. “Here's a man, Miss, whose master, he says, wants to see you next week. I am just about to send him about his business for I don't believe a word of it.” “But wait, cousin,” said Molly, “it may be a gentleman who has been here before.” “No, alas,” said Delancey, “Sir Edward has not so far had the pleasure of your acquaintance. He wishes, however, to make himself known to you.” There was some further conversation and Molly proved easier to convince. “Very well,” she said finally. “I'll see Sir Edward on Thursday afternoon at four of the clock.” This announcement alarmed the older woman who hurried upstairs, bidding Delancey to wait. When she eventually returned it was to say that Thursday and Friday were out of the question but that Miss would be free to receive Sir Edward on the Monday following. Any day last week would have served, and indeed the week before, but the coming week was more difficult. Delancey confirmed the appointment and returned to his friends in the tap-room. It turned into a riotous evening, enlivened by song, and Delancey—who had no head for such revelry—was sick before it ended. He slept that night on the tap-room floor.

After sin comes the time for repentance and the next day, Sunday, was most suitable for this purpose. The church bells rang for morning prayer at the chapel of ease—Cowes being at this time no more than an offshoot of the parish of Carisbrooke. A few carriages headed in that direction. Folk more conspicuous, however, for their piety than for their high social position made their way on foot to one or other of the two nonconformist chapels, one for the Independents and the other for the Wesleyan Methodists. For Delancey the choice was already made, for Hartley was a Wesleyan and it was after the Methodist service that Delancey hoped to meet him again. The atmosphere of this place of worship was highly conducive to penitence and Delancey, with a hangover from the previous evening, looked even more penitent than he felt. The sermon was long and fervent, punctuated at times by the groans of sinners remembering their past misdeeds. Seated in one of the free pews at the back of the chapel, Delancey modelled his own penitence on that of an oldish man who might once, perhaps, have been a receiver of stolen goods. Sighing aloud at what he hoped were the right moments and exclaiming, “Ah, to have seen the light!” or “What bliss to be saved!” Delancey managed to convey his sense of sin and redemption and was kindly addressed afterwards by several members of the congregation.

After a conversation during which Hannah asked some penetrating questions, the Hartleys finally invited him to join them at dinner. Hungry and penniless, he was glad to accept this invitation and that for more than one reason. He ended by wondering whether any information had ever been bought at so high a cost.

Dinner at the Hartleys began with a long-winded grace, continued with a detailed inquiry into his spiritual life and ended with several more prayers and a hymn. It was only afterwards, while inspecting the garden, that Delancey was able to question Isaac again. Once more he professed to be in need of counsel. Granted that smuggling were a sin—a point on which he was now convinced—he was wondering whether it was as sinful to assist the free-trader indirectly. He was under pressure from some friends, he explained, who wanted him to place some lanterns in position after dark, lighting them at a certain hour and extinguishing them again before daybreak. They were mere aids to navigation, he emphasised, a help to the mariner when homeward bound. He could not imagine that there could be anything illegal in merely placing a lantern in a gateway and another on a rock a third beneath a tree and a fourth beside a bridge. Could there be anything sinful in that? It was no more, after all, then saving life at sea. Those served might be smugglers but they were as liable to drown as anyone else, leaving them without time in which to repent.

The discussion which followed was largely theological but Isaac clearly knew how cross bearings could be used to mark a position at sea. He would not agree that it had anything to do with the mariner's safety. It was merely a way, he insisted, of concealing contraband. To play any part in it was to commit a sin and, incidentally, a crime. “What would you say,” he asked, “if a riding officer found you placing a lantern on Wroxhall Hill or Culver Cliff?” “Is that where I should be told to put it?” asked Delancey innocently. Isaac explained that there was a useful sandbank in Sandown Bay. It was on a bearing between Wrox-hall and Culver and the other bearing was between Lake and Newchurch. “To place those lanterns and light them, to douse them and bring them away would take you from midnight to five, and all for what?” Delancey was more obstinate this time, asking how he could earn half a guinea in any other way. It was not, after all, as if there were dragoons on the island. “It is what God sees that matters!” said Isaac finally and Delancey had to admit that the deity might well have the last word. He promised to avoid even this marginal involvement in crime. A brand from the burning, he was allowed to sleep that night in the Hartleys' outhouse and was even provided with a mattress and blanket.

On Monday Mr Payne received him politely and listened with interest to his tale of espionage.

“Yes,” he said finally. “You know something of the business and you have certainly wasted no time. All I can add is this: the man they call Sam is almost certainly Samuel Carter, a notorious smuggler, and comes of a well-known smuggling family in Cornwall. He lives now at Poole and owns a vessel called the
Dove
of near two hundred tons, as fast a lugger as you would ever see.”

“I shall do my best, sir, to bring him to justice.”

“Of that I am sure. I take leave to question, however, whether you will succeed.”

“Why so, Mr Payne?”

“Because Sam Carter knows more about smuggling than you do. Indeed, he knows nothing else. So the trade will go on, I suspect, for as long as any goods are heavily dutiable.”

“If you were to give me three well-manned cutters, sir, I would undertake to prevent the passage of contraband on this station.”

“I daresay you might. Then the trade would shift to the east and west.”

“Not, surely, sir, if others were as vigilant?”

“You are new to the preventive service, Mr Delancey. There is much you have still to learn.” Mr Payne paused and took snuff, as if deciding where to begin or indeed how much it would be proper to reveal. When he finally spoke again it was with evident reluctance.

“What I am going to say is entirely unofficial, you must understand, and strictly between ourselves. Preventive men, whether seamen, boatmen or riding officers, have a living to make and families to support. Their wages are modest but they are augmented from time to time out of their share in the contraband they may seize. So their interest lies in the interception of smuggled cargoes, not in the entire suppression of illicit traffic. How would they make a living if the trade were suppressed? They would have only their daily pay and that only until their services were found to be needless.”

“We could use them, sir, in the navy.”

“What—in time of peace?”

“Well, no, sir. In time of war, however—”

“In time of war, Mr Delancey, the principal attraction of the revenue service lies in the fact that its men are exempt from impressment. We cannot flog men, sir, for insolence or neglect of duty but we
can
threaten to dismiss them and turn them over to a man-of-war. And that—if you'll forgive my saying so—is the one thing they dread. The idea that smuggling should be suppressed has never entered their minds but the possibility—were it mentioned—would fill them with dismay.”

“I understand, sir. They expect the traffic to continue but they demand their share of the profits.”

“No, no, Mr Delancey. That is too crude a description of a long-established and complex state of affairs. I am bound by my office to discountenance any illicit trade and prosecute all who cheat the revenue. Heaven forbid that I should fail in my duty! My officers and men, however—and I am speaking, remember, in strict confidence—regard their activities as a kind of game, like cricket; one in which they hope to score but one which should never involve the destruction of the opposing team. Men like yourself, Mr Delancey, depend upon the French for your employment. You find yourselves on the beach— forgive my putting it bluntly—when the French refuse to play. In much the same way, all preventive men depend for their living on the smugglers.”

“Are they not tempted, then, to make a direct contract with them, accepting a regular share and agreeing otherwise to leave them alone?”

Mr Payne was genuinely shocked at this suggestion and his reply was uttered in terms of pained surprise: “Really, sir, I hope you do not regard the men of the revenue service as
dishonest?
I never heard of such an infamous agreement being made or even proposed. I would have you know, sir, that our men have a strict sense of duty. They will put to sea in the teeth of a gale. They will engage their opponents with resolution. Many have been killed in action and others, more fortunate, have lived to receive the commendation of the Board for their loyalty and courage. We have good reason to be proud, sir, of the men who are employed by the Commissioners of Customs.”

Delancey hastened to assure Mr Payne that he was filled with admiration for the revenue men and that he looked forward to serving alongside them. He realized that theirs was an arduous and hazardous service and one of great importance to the realm. Mr Payne was presently mollified and induced to go into practical details. Delancey would be sworn at once, the lawyer attending for the purpose, and this was done. It was agreed that he should take over the command at midday and that he should receive an immediate advance of twenty guineas; enough at least to provide him with cabin stores. It was agreed, finally, that he should sail almost immediately for Portsmouth where he needed to collect his gear and give up his lodging. That done, he would take his cutter to sea, cruising towards Beachy Head. Delancey did not reveal his plans in detail, not even to the collector. After being shaved at the barbers he kept an appointment made for him by Mr Payne with Mr Robert Edgell, Supervisor of Riding Officers. That worthy turned out to be an ex-corporal of Dragoon Guards, surly at first but responsive to the idea of making some money. Delancey told him no more than was necessary but spoke frankly about his sources of information. “You've done very well, sir, if I may say so,” said Edgell finally. “You mind me of Mr Buckley, who always knew what he was about. But how will you board the cutter without anyone seeing you?” Delancey had overlooked this problem but realized that his plan would fail if Harry Stevens was to realize that his boon companion of Saturday night was commander of the
Rose
by Monday afternoon. There was still time for Sam Carter to receive warning and make his run at another place on another night. Edgell solved the problem by lending Delancey the sort of costume a riding officer would wear; a dark cloak, spurred riding boots and a low-crowned hat to pull down over his forehead.