The Contraband Shore Page 7

  It was imputed by his political enemies that, to the detriment of the nation and having raised taxes on imported goods, he hated to spend so much as a penny when a farthing might serve. His response, as reported – for he was a lively debater both inside and outside parliament – was to term them corrupt spendthrifts, many of whom had lined their own pockets from wartime contracts, while others had been openly sympathetic to the American rebels.

  ‘I hope that my elder brother, being a civilian, can constrain the excess, for he will not be swayed by sentiment or the pleading of admirals. I know it will be seen as nepotism and that does concern me, but King George is with me on this. There are many things we must get a grip on and the Navy Board, along with the Admiralty, are but two.’

  The voice altered slightly to become less friendly, more pointed, while his look at Brazier was fixed. ‘He will, of course, not act in a high-handed fashion. My brother knows he will be required to take advice from his naval colleagues when it comes to appointments.’

  ‘Very wise, sir,’ Brazier replied, draining his goblet, to hide the fact he was somewhat put out by the tone; it implied he declined to intervene in such matters and this for a fellow not asking for any favour. He shifted in his seat preparatory to moving on. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, I have matters to attend to.’

  ‘You may know, Captain, I come to Walmer Castle for the sea air. Feel free to call while I’m in residence. My younger sister, Lady Eliot, is soon to arrive to take the air for her condition of pregnancy. She will do the honours at my table and is an avid seeker of new sources of conversation, of which the Kent coast has something of a dearth for me.’

  ‘That is kind of you, sir, though I fear I might bore her.’

  ‘Nonsense; having smoked your name, I can now recall it was worthy of a Gazette for Trincomalee, and in recounting that alone you will entertain her.’

  ‘I have no idea how long I will be in Deal, but if it is of length and time permits, I will certainly request permission to call.’

  Once outside the private room, Brazier felt he had just played a bad hand, indeed he had been foolish: he should have jumped at the chance to visit Walmer Castle, for who could say where it could lead? When Pitt alluded to his elder brother Chatham seeking naval advice, he had reacted in the wrong way. He should have had a refill and talked of something else to kill the impression he was seeking an intercession on his behalf. That accepted, the offer to visit had seemed genuine.

  Garlick, once more at his place, got a black look and a sharp instruction to deliver dinner to Brazier’s rooms at three of the clock.

  Daniel Spafford was eating in his isolated farmhouse outside Worth, with him the man he held as his right hand. He and Daisy were again discussing the events of the morning, which had been a disappointment. The idea, a false one, that Spafford was ill enough to be at risk of dying, had been thought up by Trotter as a notion to appeal to their rival.

  Being obsessed with his own health, forever intoning the doom-laden words that he reckoned to be not long for this world, Tulkington might fall for the notion that Spafford was in worse straits, as well as be attracted to the idea of seeing off competition in the long run. On reflection it could be seen as desperate from the start, a case of hope and need overcoming common sense.

  ‘I hope you has some other thought in that head of yours, Daisy,’ Spafford growled. Being in rude good health, he cut into his beefsteak with gusto, meat to be washed down with a tankard of porter, part of a jug brought to him from the local tavern. Speaking through a mouthful of both rendered his words indistinct. ‘I cannot abide that matters should rest as they are.’

  ‘I could just seek to knife him, Dan – be a pleasure to.’

  ‘What makes you reckon you’d get close? I wouldn’t let you within ten feet if I thought you might blade me, which is why it took you near a month to even get to talk to Hawker.’

  Trotter’s thin frame swelled at those words for he was proud of his reputation, one that made most men cautious when he was close by. How often had he been asked the number of souls he had seen to perdition? The questioner would get nothing but a wolfish grin, along with an invitation to make up their own number, he saying he could not rightly recall. That was more of a scare than any figure.

  Trotter and Spafford had known each other for over a quarter of a century, meeting as ship’s boys, sailing mates on the Baltic run where they had bonded to be something akin to brothers. The seal of friendship came when Daisy had, one dark night, knifed a huge brute of a bastard who was seeking to prey on Spafford, then a young and comely lad.

  The two had just managed to toss his weighty bulk over the side into the German Sea and, being a bully to all aboard, few asked where he had gone, even with his blood staining the deck. Never mentioned was why Trotter had acted as he had, when he himself was suffering no oppression. But from then on he was never far from Dan Spafford’s side.

  The move into smuggling had come naturally to a pair grown to be prime seamen and coming into their late twenties. This was at a time when, with a war on, sailing to the Baltic risked being taken by French or Dutch privateers, villains as like to slit your throat as take you for a prisoner. Spafford had been in receipt of a small windfall, enough money to put down for the hire of a lugger, the precursor to the two he now owned.

  When England was at war normal trade was impossible, so the profits were high and the number of buyers abundant enough to allow for competition with Tulkington. Not any more; the coming of peace and the difficulty of contending with his rival’s smooth operation had, over three years, dented what had become a far-from-deep Spafford purse, this to the point where it was becoming bare.

  To trade at all he now had to sell much lower to undercut the competition, and while the gang of a dozen souls he led were loyal, it was only because he had kept them sweet. Without support he could not operate at all, which meant, as of now, too much of what profit he made was going to them. In the presence of the only person with whom he could share his concerns, he was obliged to mull over what to do next.

  Every leader needs an ear to which he can open up without concern, as well as a voice to warn him, one not afraid to speak openly, when he might be approaching shoal water. Daisy loved him and that had, from their early years, been his shield, not broken in any way by the disinclination of Spafford to oblige his cravings. The other protection was simple: Jaleel Trotter was not called Daisy for nothing. He was no leader of men, as well as no Hector with his fists or a sword, while being more dangerous to himself than others with a pistol. Dan Spafford had grown from that slight and put-upon lad, to become a rough-and-tumble bruiser no one would dare seek to bully.

  ‘You would have knifed him if you’d been in that carriage, Daisy, had you been there to hear him. Can’t think of a time when not havin’ a weapon hurt so much. He talked to me like I was shit on his shoe.’

  ‘He sees a gent when he passes a mirror glass.’

  ‘An’ I see a turd in fine cloth,’ Spafford spat, simultaneously stabbing at his meat as if it was his rival.

  ‘Yet one who can bear his costs and easy.’

  The nod was a weary one, Tulkington being able to maintain his enterprise in a way Spafford could not. The sod had been at the game all his adult life, as had his father before him. Years of cross-Channel dealing meant he had contacts a bit of a johnny-come-lately could not match, as well as the use of larger vessels he seemed to have no need to own.

  He also had something of a lock on the town of Deal as well as the charitable ear of those who held official office, many fellow Freemasons, men who had benefited over years from the Tulkington family’s largesse. If many of his contributions were to municipal causes and above board, there existed the gifts he and his father before him had made to men supposed to uphold the law, from loans at questionable rates or in some case outright bribes, which put them under his power.

  Not that any real pressure was required when it came to trafficking contraband. Above anyt
hing else the Mayor and Jurats of Deal abhorred disturbance and, living cheek by jowl with easily aggrieved boatmen, violent demonstration and disturbance – which included house burning – was always on the horizon. The making of anything even close to a living was fraught with difficulty and nothing led to unrest quicker than scarcity of income, so smuggling and the monies generated and spread was reckoned a keeper of the peace.

  A blind eye to the smuggling trade, from which, in some way, all drew benefit, was seen as good for the prosperity of the town, certainly for the tavern and alehouse owners, as well as the various trades that dealt in common commodities. It was all very well for the likes of William Pitt and a few moneyed souls in London to rail against it, but they would not suffer the consequences of interdiction. Unless they were prepared to provide an alternative way of fashioning a living, it was something, to the more prosperous folk of Deal, best left alone.

  Tulkington himself also benefited from the clandestine income smuggling brought to the town. He owned several enterprises, which supplied both the anchorage and the inhabitants with necessary produce. Less open was the way he drew monies from other sources so he did not just depend on contraband to pay his more numerous hirelings, which he had and could maintain in numbers. Spafford was acutely aware that something had to be done to alter the present situation. It was the means that was lacking, given today’s attempt to delude him had failed.

  ‘We could link up with Romney Marsh,’ Daisy suggested, ‘they’ve no love for Tulkington and would aid us in seeing him off.’

  ‘How long would that last afore they were at our throats too?’ A bit of a sigh and a long chew on his beef. ‘But we can’t just go on as we are, Daisy. If we have to get hostile, let it be so, but it would aid us to be making some money when it happens and there’s only one place that can be got.’

  ‘Am I smoking this right, Dan?’

  ‘You are, Daisy. We’re going to have to lift and sell some of Tulkington’s own goods.’

  ‘How’s it to be done?’

  ‘By bein’ bold, brother; there’s no other way.’

  ‘You has to know he has a cargo due.’

  ‘Easy to sniff that, Daisy, and are we not at a good time of year for calm waters and long nights?’

  It would not have pleased Dan Spafford to have any inkling of the thoughts of Henry Tulkington on the same matter. When he described the man he had met as a pest, it had been in the nature of a householder referring to a mouse, something easily solved by a terrier and, given he was in possession of such an article in John Hawker and the gang he led, not one of great concern.

  Tulkington had always possessed the means to squash Spafford at any time of his choosing. Yet he had good grounds to allow him to trade, though not with complete freedom to challenge his supremacy. It was the same with the opportunist smuggling carried out by the boatmen on Deal beach; they too might sometimes think they were cocking a snook at a superior operation, when in reality they served, for his enterprises, a definite purpose.

  Though by no means able to completely control the Revenue Service, Henry Tulkington had the resources to in some ways bend their activities. It was essential for his prosperity they had more than one target for their efforts. Without multiple potential culprits to chase, they would be obliged to concentrate on his activities, which operated on a much higher plane in both quantity and value.

  It was necessary to ruminate on what Spafford had told him, to first ask himself if the supposed approach of his passing was true: a lie, it could be ignored. Yet if the man was truly on the point of expiry, what he had said about subsequent trouble had the merit of presaging trouble. Son Harry could not exercise control over his own bad habits, let alone the kind of ruffians his father led. It then followed that Spafford’s conclusion also had weight.

  Nothing stimulated Preventative activity like bloodshed and at worst that would extend to the army being called in, as it had in the past, in cases like that of the Hawkhurst gang. Active thirty years past, his father had taken and passed on the lesson of their demise as a telling example. Too successful for their own good, they had not only allowed their smuggling operation to become obvious, their leaders had acted with no sense at all, resorting to bloodshed when the Revenue sought to curtail their activities. It had ended with many of the gang dead, either from a weapon or a rope, and their operations smashed.

  The sprite of violence, once out of the bottle, was impossible to control, especially when folk were disturbed or harmed who should be left in peace. Never a man to act in haste, Henry Tulkington knew he might have to craft a solution. As yet, as a problem, it was not pressing; he had other concerns much closer to home to worry about.

  While Edward Brazier was at his victuals, William Pitt was making his way from the Three Kings back to Walmer Castle, behind him a pair of musket-bearing soldiers, as well as a clerk carrying his papers. There were endless folk prepared to tell him this kind of perambulation was unwise, that he should travel by coach, even more prepared to spit at his passing, for he was singularly unpopular in these parts.

  It upped the abuse, which tended to become highly vocal, when he forced himself to smile at the irate boatmen he passed, some of whom were owners of craft they had been obliged to build as a result of his actions. Pitt cared little for the fact that he was detested, even when informed he had been burnt in effigy in retaliation. He was unwavering in his wish to put a complete stopper, by hook or by crook, to their villainous trade, forever cogitating on ideas or actions that might bring that about.

  Many would have wondered at his dilemma. He might be the King’s First Minister, but he did not enjoy untrammelled power, his actions dependent on supportive Houses of Parliament and the fragile coalition that made up the Cabinet. He could not call out the army without risking the kind of censure that might bring down his administration, and the navy were able to politely ignore his requests to intervene. The trail of influence and interest worked against an easy solution and many a Member of Parliament shared the common view that taxes were vile and smuggling contraband could never be stopped, so what was the point of trying?

  There was another thought to occupy him, which was the name of the naval captain he had just met. It took him back to the Cabinet at Downing Street in which Admiral Lord Howe had informed those present of the death of Sir Lowell Hassel, the commanding admiral at Jamaica.

  In itself, such a passing was not uncommon; the West Indies were a graveyard for Europeans, and sailors, – if they suffered less than soldiers – were not immune. Yet the manner of the expiry was odd. Even more troubling was the unsigned letter addressed to Howe which had come in the same packet as the Brazier despatch. It made the whole affair much more perplexing.

  ‘Oh yes, Edward Brazier,’ Pitt said to himself, in a non-carrying whisper, ‘I knew your name alright, as well as the responsibilities you took on after Hassel died. The question to which I do not have an answer is the reason the death occurred.

  ‘Was it as your despatch said or was it, as the anonymous letter implied, foul play?

  CHAPTER SIX

  The fellow in question was left to enjoy a solitary meal, which was far from unusual given his rank. Aboard ship he would regularly have his officers to dinner, as well as the ship’s sailing master, and if the vessel warranted one, the surgeon. It was generally a pleasure to do so, yet it was not something to be undertaken every day, so eating alone was part of the loneliness that went with command.

  Such solitude always left him with his own thoughts, and it did so now, on his prospects both romantic and professional, which bounced, as they always did, from the positive to the negative. He was in the latter state when there came a rap on the door and there was Garlick, utterly unabashed, holding a small square of paper in his mitt, showing a bright-red seal.

  ‘Not long come, your honour, from Cottington Court, the lad said.’

  Again there was an air of enquiry, an indication the innkeeper was deeply curious about the contents. Braz
ier took it then gave him a look that brooked nothing other than dismissal. He broke the seal as soon as the door closed, rising to stand by the glass-panelled doors to read Betsey Langridge’s note three times, seeking some warmth in the tone, only to conclude it was utterly formal.

  When to call? It was late in the day but not impossible, for he had been told Cottington was not far off: no more than an hourglass of sand at most when walking, less mounted. But would that show too great a degree of eagerness? If he was keen to meet with her again, he knew that an excess of haste might be unwise. The encouragement he had sensed from the meeting outside the graveyard could be put down to wishful thinking.

  He sat to write and to say that if it was convenient he would call on the morrow mid-morning. Then, too restless to stay indoors and feeling the need for some air, he dressed in civilian clothes, this in order to attract less attention, leaving behind his distinctive naval hat for the same reason, looked at then discarded the notion of wearing his sword, locked the bulk of his coin in his sea chest and essayed out, ignoring his host’s ever-present inquisitiveness.

  With the tide out he chose the foreshore and, it being twilight now, boats that had spent the day plying stores out of the ships were full of human cargo coming ashore, most bearing catcalling sailors prettified up for a night of revelry – nimble fellows who leapt from prow to shingle so as to keep their shore-going shoes and stockings dry. Those of greater standing, ship’s masters and their passengers, conscious of their superior status, were dragged in, their craft hauled up onto the beach and dry pebbles by willing hands, eager for a copper reward.

  The tars quickly disappeared down the numerous narrow alleys. Their talk would be full of excited anticipation, which Brazier knew from his own experiences as a young man were rarely fulfilled. There was no well-found beauty with a heart of gold just waiting for a handsome sailor to carry her off for freely given favours, no tavern owner willing to feed them ale at no cost in exchange for tales of far-off and exotic parts. Likewise the lottery ticket they might buy would not have the numbers to make them rich, indeed it was just as likely to be forged as genuine.