Jan Needle
THE WICKED TRADE
A Sea Officer William Bentley — 2
For my Uncle Les,
who brought me stories
from the Seven Seas,
and all the other Brices,
young and old.
One
The two men, Yorke and Warren, were talking in comfort the evening they were taken, when they'd thought at last that they could see an end in sight. Their mission had been long and arduous, their need for secrecy a constant strain. But earlier that day, on the shores of Fareham Creek, they had met a man and made an offer, and backed it with a string of names. They were venturers, they said, and they wished to join the trade. They had information that they'd gathered in dire secrecy, and they used it as a lure. Now, feet into the fireplace, Mrs. Cullen preparing them a meal, they were contented.
"He said his name was Saunders," said Charles Warren, musingly. "But it is not, it is George Felton, his home is in Cowplain. But Saunders is a name I know from Kent, one of the eastern crews. I wonder what significance there is in that?"
Charles Yorke was comfortably amused. He selected a new clay from the table rack, and began to pack it, for after dinner. Mrs. Cullen had provided them with fresh tobacco, in a box, and boasted, with fetching naivety, that it was 'from the trade'. Whatever, it was good tobacco, lately cured.
"None at all, I doubt," he said. "A name he plucked from out the air. Although Saunders may well have been high up in his mind, if we are right about the Kentish men. Perhaps it was a test, to try us for reaction. I suppose if you had let on that you recognised it, that could have set suspicion in his head."
Charles Warren was fifty-six years old. He was a stocky, quiet, sombre man, with eyes of fierce intelligence.
"No, I think the time for tests is past," he said. "I think tomorrow or the next day we will get to see the men we need. Let's hope they don't demand the stake in sovereigns, there on the table. If they make me turn my pockets out, the very fluff would cry out my true profession!"
He was a riding officer in the normal way and if success was paid in bounties, was deserving to be rich. But his wage was tiny of itself, hardly enough to keep him in the class of horse he favoured good horses were his only weakness, it was said. His origins were humble, also, which was why Charles Yorke, at barely twenty-five, was in command of him. There were ways to get wealth while doing Customs work, but Warren shunned them vehemently. Officers who accepted gifts instead of blows could wear good cloth and ride fine horses; also stay alive. Charles Warren, it was known, would court death, rather.
Yorke, hungry but impatient, leaned into the fireplace and took out a glowing stick. It was a warm evening, almost summer still, but the smouldering logwood enhanced the parlour and gave off a pleasant smell. He felt the brand's heat on his cheek as he sucked the clay. Truth was, he'd smoke while eating, if he fancied it; he was fanatick for the weed.
"We're businessmen," he said, around the pipe stem "To make free with our money in a trade like this, unless we had an army at our back now that would be suspicious, with brass knobs! No, we'll deal in talk and promises until we've met them, to the very top. Then the gold will hit them, like a ton of bricks. Ah Charles, we're getting close to it, I really feel we are. Today I had a premonition, a solid premonition. I think that we are coming very close."
The men were friends, despite the social gap and protocols of service and command. For two months or more, on this occasion, they had quartered this stretch of coast not as riding officers but in the utmost secrecy, from east of Selsey to beyond Keyhaven in the west. Before that they had wormed deep into the eastern mysteries, from whence the threat was being made. Warren, too, had felt excitement mounting in the past few days. His circumspection, though, was stronger than Charles Yorke's.
"Aye, aye," he said. "At the very least I think we're closing in. This inn is good and secret, Mrs. Cullen's lack of curiosity is capital indeed. However" he cleared his throat, as if to give a shout. "However she could be a little prompter with her suppers!"
Outside the low, dark room there were noises. Horses stamping in the yard, and voices. There was a sudden spattering at the thick window glass. Rain had been in the air all day, despite the warmth. It had arrived.
"They've timed it well for shelter," Warren said. "In Hampshire, tell me, does it always rain?"
"I am a Surrey man," Yorke chuckled. "Let it come down!"
Then the door crashed open, and four men burst in, preceded by a wave of brandy, a veritable sea of stench. Outside there were more voices, male and loud, and a brief woman's scream as Mrs. Cullen rushed from her kitchen to see what might be going on. Yorke caught a glimpse of her, white kerchief at her ample bosom, white features flushed and anxious, as she was pushed behind a door unceremoniously. A large and ruddy man had pushed her, a man with whiskers and a pigtail like a seaman, although his coat was tailed and upon his head a shallow, curl-brim hat. He held a pistol in his hand, a long and wicked thing, with a semi-bell.
"My God," said Warren. "We are discovered, Mr. Yorke. We are betrayed." His voice was low, filled with anxiety. But then he rapped out, in a hard and fearless tone: "Quit off from here instanter, you drunken sots! We are armed!"
The men were also armed. More pistols had appeared. A knife. Two more pushed in, one with a cutlass. Warren and Yorke who had not produced their weapons stood watchfully, and waited. The smell of brandy was underlaid by damp clothing, sweat, of man and horse. No fear, though. The ruffians did not smell of fear.
"You are Customs men," said one. He was small and bright-eyed. "You have come to spy on us. We have found you out."
From outside, strangely, there came a high-pitched, shaking scream. Then muffled shouting, and the screaming stopped. One of the interlopers lifted his arm, and in his hand a bottle. He raised it to his mouth and drank.
Yorke spoke. His voice was brazen. It rang in the low room like a bell.
"We have come to meet your masters, fool," he said. "We are the reverse of Customs, we are venturers from London, come to help your trade."
Desperate times need desperate remedies, thought Warren, at his side. Saying the unsay able to unknown men with guns. They were not impressed, apparently. The body of them surged forward, and their looks were bestial. It was clear that they had been drinking for a good time, and with purpose. Now there were seven in the room, and the door was bursting with the weight outside. Yorke reached for the inner pocket of his coat, wherein he kept a pistol, always primed. It was a Cyrus Rollins, made for him especially, bespoken by his uncle and protector, with a special cover on the priming pan, a neat device that made said Cyrus Rollins misfires history.
But Warren saw the movement, and spoke so only Yorke would hear, with calm authority.
"No. They will kill you if you touch it, they are beyond control. Leave it, Mr. Yorke."
Into Yorke's head came the thought that, drunk, mad or sober, the open barrel with its promise of a monstrous ball of lead might act as a bucket of cold water in their faces. If it came to shooting matches they would win, that was not in dispute. But one of them would die first. Who would be the one to risk it?
"Charles," he said, but hesitated, and they were lost. There was a surge, apparently involuntary, a group movement that occurred without an order being given. Two tables squawked as their legs scraped across the flags behind the weight of men, and a heavy settle went over backwards with a bang.