Devil to Pay (14 page)

Sam Carter welcomed them aboard the
Dove
with elaborate irony. He was short and stout with greying hair, a soft voice and just a trace of a Cornish accent.

“Good evening to you, Mr Torrin. I hope I see you well? And this is your new captain? Glad to make your acquaintance, sir! I did not know that we were to be honoured by the sight of the King's uniform. Captain Delancey, is it? Your servant, sir. Perhaps you would care to join me in the cabin? Mr Torrin, I fancy, has business in the hold. Why not leave him to his rummage while we have a glass of toddy? This way, Captain, and mind your head as we go below. In this lugger we have little headroom between decks.”

The cabin was small but clean and tidy. There were glasses on the table with lemons, sugar, a brandy flask and a steaming jug. Delancey was offered a chair and his host did the honours with smooth formality.

“When pouring I have to remember that this liquor is above proof; purchased, of course, at the Custom House auction. Use the sugar-crusher, sir. . . . A little lemon? Now, for a toast. . . . Shall we drink to the recovery of Captain Ryder?”

Delancey barely sipped the drink but looked about him with interest. This was not the pirate ship of any ballad or story. It was all too depressingly normal.

“I was greatly relieved,” Carter went on, “when I recognized the
Rose.
My fear was at first that you were a French privateer. That's why I tried to escape. You will think me foolish, perhaps? I
am
a little nervous, I must confess, but I have been fired on too often and sometimes in error. Yes, sir, I almost took you for the enemy.”

“So you were naturally relieved to find yourself among friends and neighbours. I assume that Mr Torrin will find nothing?”

“We sailed, alas, in ballast.”

“From Alderney?”

“From Alderney, yes. I had hoped for a cargo of seaweed there but was disappointed.”

“Seaweed?”

“Yes. It is of value, I am told, to farmers.”

“Including those round Sandown Bay?”

“No, I called at that place on an errand of mercy. A friend of mine there was worried about the health of his father, who lives in Alderney. I was able to assure him, in a written note, that the old man is on his way to recovery.”

“So you are bound now for Poole?”

“No, for Cowes.”

“And so back to Alderney, perhaps?”

“That depends upon what cargo I am offered.”

“No doubt. Allow me to propose a toast in my turn. To the
Dove!
May she and her crew have all the good fortune they deserve!”

“To the
Dove!
I can certainly drink to that. And some better fortune would be welcome, for the present voyage will have earned us little.”

“I am sorry indeed to hear it and sorrier to suspect that it may, for all I know, have earned you nothing.”

“Don't say that, sir. I may at least have earned the gratitude of my friend in the Isle of Wight.”

“A thought which does you credit, Captain. And here, I think, comes Mr Torrin.” There was a clatter on the companionway and Torrin joined them, accepting a glass of toddy and apologising for having given so much trouble. He reported to Delancey that the
Dove
's hold was empty.

“You will understand, sir, that I have to do my duty,” he concluded, “even when the vessel is well known to us.”

Carter protested that there were no ill feelings and called in his chief mate to join them. He turned out to be a slight dark man called Evans, who said very little. Then the party broke up, Torrin draining his tumbler but Delancey leaving his glass almost untasted on the cabin table. As they went on deck Carter said that he hoped they would meet again—ashore, perhaps, in Cowes.

Oddly enough, Delancey had the feeling that the invitation might have been genuine. Carter was a man for whom he had a certain instinctive liking and he felt that the liking was returned. Delancey had won the first game but this was partly because he had unexpectedly replaced a bad player, taking up the cards before his own skill had been assessed and looking privily at his opponents' cards before they even knew that he was playing. All that advantage of surprise had now gone. The next game would be on more equal terms and Delancey remembered what Mr Payne had said—that he would never succeed in bringing Sam Carter to justice.

Next morning the
Rose
was back in Sandown Bay. After taking repeated and careful bearings with the sextant, Delancey brought the cutter to anchor at a point on Shanklin Chine, the very place where the
Dove
had first been sighted the night before. “Lower the boats, Mr Lane, and search the bottom with grapnels.” At this point, however, the patient chief mate felt bound to protest.

“Beg pardon, sir, but what's the good? The boatmen will have come out from Sandown while we were chasing the
Dove.
They will have done their creeping while we were off Bembridge.” Delancey felt the implied rebuke in this. Following Lane's principle, he should have gone after the consignment of brandy and let the lugger go. After all, she would have jettisoned the rest of her cargo before she could be overtaken. This was what had happened and heads were being shaken in the forecastle over a navy man's ignorance.

Delancey was adamant, however. “Make a careful search, nevertheless. You'll find bottom in about six fathoms.”

There followed an hour or so of tedious search, the boats rowing back and forth and the seamen muttering about the futility of it all. They were kept at it, nevertheless, and the mates were quick to notice any slackening of effort. Then there came a shout from one of the boats. “Grapnels caught on something!” There was much heaving and cursing, the guess being that they had hooked an old anchor, but Delancey told them to row to the cutter and pass their line on board. From this steadier platform, with the capstan to help, the line was pulled in and the first keg came in sight. There was a cheer from the boats and the other kegs appeared, one after another, roped together with stone weights in between each. They were hauled on board to the number of forty. That completed the chain and ended the search. The boats were hoisted in, the anchor broken out and a course set for the Needles and so back to base. So far Delancey's reputation was made.

Over dinner in the cabin Lane and Torrin expressed their surprise along with their congratulations. “Can't understand it, sir,” said Lane. “The Sandown gang had all night to find that lot, and there it was in the morning!”

“Perhaps they looked in the wrong place,” said Delancey innocently, intent on his meal.

“But the place must have been arranged beforehand. They fix it by bearings taken in daylight and then place lanterns on shore at night which give a cross-bearing on the very spot. It is merely a question of cruising around until the lights are in line, two and two. A child could do it and these are men who have done little else for years.”

“How very disappointing for them,” said Delancey. “The pea-soup is excellent.”

“But we saw the lanterns, sir!” protested Torrin. “They even had red lights to avoid confusion with lamps or candles in the cottage windows.”

“It would change the situation, of course,” said Delancey thoughtfully, “if someone had shifted the lights.” “But who could have done that?”

“Well, you never know. The idea might have occurred to my friend, Mr Edgell.”

“The riding officer? But how would he have known where to place them?”

“Let's suppose that he had taken his dog out one afternoon and was on the hillside behind Shanklin. From there to his surprise he would see the
Rose
in Sandown Bay. When she fired three guns—almost for all the world as if it had been a signal—he could (with the help of a friend) knock in four white pegs which would be visible in the dark.”

“God almighty!” said Torrin, “and all he and his friends had to do last night was to shift the lanterns from where they were to where he had driven in his pegs!”

“He could have done that,” admitted Delancey, “supposing that he was out for a walk after dark. He goes out sometimes, I am told, when unable to sleep. It must be very annoying for his wife.”

There can be no doubt that Delancey enjoyed this little scene, which clinched his reputation in the revenue service. But he despised himself afterwards for playing to the gallery. How easy it was to win the hero worship of these simple men! He had merely played the few cards he had in his hand and they thought him a magician. It would not be so easy another time. He reminded himself savagely that his proper career was in the navy and that his real opponents were the French. He had antagonists there of a very different calibre, as ruthless as they were cunning. His war with the smugglers was a mere game, a mental exercise. In fighting the French, by contrast, he would be fighting for his life. The whole atmosphere of war was changing. There had been a time when there was a sense of chivalry. He could remember talking with officers during the last war—or, rather, listening to them—who thought of the French as worthy opponents, as gentlemen who happened to be on the other side. Old Lord Howe must have been chivalrous towards the enemy in those days and Lord Rodney perhaps still more so. Even Sir Edward Pellow was inclined that way, it was said, but there were younger men now who thought differently. Theirs was becoming a war to the death. One could not reason with revolutionaries. One could not plan to be friends with them when war was over. They were men who had to be killed. These smugglers were almost innocent by comparison, offenders merely against the law. More than that, they were probably patriots in the last resort. A man like Sam Carter would never be an actual traitor. There would be small satisfaction in having him thrown into jail. He would some day be wanted, rather in the navy, where he would be promoted master's mate on joining and given a commission, perhaps, within a year. Sam was a man to have on one's own side.

Pacing the cutter's deck, with few paces to go in either direction, Delancey took himself to task for his complacency. How easy it was to become over-confident after even the smallest success! He was already in a chastened mood when he went ashore at Cowes and almost diffident when he made his report on Friday to the collector.

“You have done well,” said Mr Payne finally. “I think you are to be highly commended for your activity and enterprise. What do you plan to do next?”

“I had thought, sir, of paying a visit to Poole.”

“I see. . . . Perhaps I should tell you, in that case, that there was recently an incident which has given me cause for concern. A smuggler arrested here last month had on him (I cannot think why) a letter addressed by one Mr James Weston to Mr John Early. Early's name is known to all but there is no Mr Weston in this vicinity. On the other hand, the handwriting of the letter is a little like that of Mr Elisha Withers, the comptroller at Poole. The letter contained detailed information about the military forces stationed in Dorset for the suppression of illicit trade. It may be that there is some explanation of this. Mr Withers might be able to explain how he came to write such an imprudent letter—if indeed he did so. In the meantime, be on your guard. Even the Custom House at Poole may not be on your side. The collector there, Mr Edward Rogers, is a friend of mine but too old, I fear, for the work. I suspect that he must leave things to others.”

“Thank you, sir, for the warning. If the smugglers have their spies and informers, even within the revenue service, it is unfortunate that we seem to have no agents working within the smugglers' organization. One spy well placed, a man of great ability, would be worth fifty tidewaiters and riding officers. Given a secret service we might yet have Mr Early facing his trial at the Assizes.”

“We have informers, sometimes. They come to us after there has been a quarrel among the smugglers themselves. There is jealousy over the leadership, perhaps, or over a woman. But these informers are the least intelligent of the gang and their lives are apt to be brief. For setting up a proper intelligence system we lack the money. The smugglers are engaged in a business which is highly lucrative, so much so that the loss to the revenue has been computed as amounting to no less than two hundred thousand pounds a year. Out of that sum a mere one per centum would give them enough to corrupt men highly placed. The rewards
we
can offer are trifling by comparison. We shall not bring John Early to justice and if we did, his place would be taken by someone else. No, Mr Delancey, the man I should like to expose is the traitor to our own service; the man, whoever he is, who is working against us at Poole.”

Delancey came away from this interview with the idea in his mind that smugglers and revenue officers must come to resemble each other in the process of conflict. If the moonrakers murdered anyone it would be one of their own number, the traitor to the gang. And the revenue men were as cool about the business, angry only at the thought of betrayal by a brother officer of the service. Mr Payne had been only mildly interested in Delancey's success. His first sign of emotion was over the thought of a possible treachery. Was his concern, even then, over another official gaining, by devious means, a higher income than his own? Delancey put that thought from him but decided to abandon any plan that would be too ambitious. To bring all local smuggling to a standstill was out of the question and apparently undesirable; the revenue officers had their livings to earn. To make an example of John Early—the spider at the centre of the Dorset web—was similarly out of the question. There was no money to pay that sort of informer.

The
Rose
was in need of some minor repairs, enough to keep her in port for two days. So Delancey resolved to revisit the Rose and Crown but this time in uniform. All talk died away as he entered the tap-room but the silence was broken by Sam Carter who greeted him in the friendliest fashion.