Dancing E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Kent, England, 1762.  Bloody smuggling wars are raging on England's southern coast. It's a time of daring men and bold women, and deadly skirmishes between rival gangs and the law.

John Smith, a man both hanged and drowned, returns to his home village, swearing vengeance on the landowner who killed his father. There is no quarter asked or expected when Smith begins to carve out his place among the Free Traders of Kent.

With guile and violence, he is determined to make his mark. What he doesn't know is that the Preventative Service has sent Ambrose Grant - their most effective man - to hunt him down. Soon, the two cross paths with life-changing consequences.

A riveting adventure set in mid-18th century England, Dancing is the first book in Malcolm Archibald's The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker series.

Leseprobe

Dancing

The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker Book 1

Malcolm Archibald

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Brice Fallon

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For Cathy

ChapterOne

Kent Coast, England

FEBRUARY 1762

When the storm subsided, a litter of wreckage spread for a mile along the shore; an ugly reminder of the power of nature over man’s creations. Among the spars and cordage, the fragments of shattered timber and personal possessions, a scattering of seamen proved the human cost of shipwreck. On one particular stretch of shingle, three bodies lay side by side, with the final vestiges of the wind pushing little wavelets to break around them.

Of the three, the central man was the slightest, a man in the early years of maturity, bearing scars on his back and a single brass ring in his left ear. He lay on his face, with both hands curled into the shingle and without a stitch of clothing covering him.

A lone seagull circled above the three bodies, then landed on the naked back of the man in the centre. The bird looked around before hopping onto the beach and pecked at the weather-tanned body.

“Get away,” the naked man slurred the words, tried to rise, and spewed a pint of seawater onto the beach. The gull flapped a few yards away before it stopped. The man pushed himself to his feet, swore, stamped his bare feet, and stooped to inspect the men on either side.

“Both dead,” he said.

“Did you know them?” A tall woman stood on the shingle, a step above the high tide mark. The wind whipped dark blonde hair across her face as she gazed at the naked man with no hint of unease.

“This fellow was James Hicks, Able seaman.” The naked man turned Hicks onto his back. “He was a good sailor.”

“And the other?”

The naked man prodded the body on his left. He hesitated before he spoke. “This fellow was Abel Watson, foretopman.”

“Did you know them all?” The woman nodded along the shore, where each successive wave brought more wreckage and more bodies.

“Yes,” the man crouched for a moment to clear his head. “They were shipmates.” He unfastened Watson’s trousers, dragged them from the dead man’s legs and pulled them on before removing and donning Hicks’ canvas shirt.

The survivor walked along the beach, checking each body. Once, he stooped to remove a belt with a sheath knife from a man’s waist, and twice he muttered a brief farewell. The woman followed ten steps behind, watching everything.

“Who are you looking for?” Her voice was calm. Living beside the coast, she had seen other shipwrecks, seen the sea give up other dead men, particularly in this year of 1762, when half the world was at war.

The survivor did not reply. He crouched beside a naval lieutenant, with the early morning sun gleaming from the gold on his sodden blue coat.

“What are you doing?” the woman asked.

Sliding a hand inside the officer’s jacket, the man removed a small leather purse, weighed it in his hand, and nodded. “I’ll have this,” he said. “Here,” extracting a gold sovereign from the purse, he flicked it to the woman. “Now go away.”

The woman bit the coin to test the purity of the gold, turned, and walked away. She did not look back.

The man waited for a few moments, drew his new knife, and cut the gold buttons from the officer’s coat. “Any pawn shop will give me a few coppers for these.”

“What the devil?” The lieutenant stirred.

“No devil,” the man said. “Only me.” He placed his knife against the officer’s throat and pressed, slowly slicing open the flesh. The next wave washed away the blood as the survivor stood and walked on. He continued to scour the beach, removing a few coins when he could and murmuring a final farewell to men he knew.

The pawnshop owner knew by the man’s appearance that he was a seaman. If the checked shirt and canvas trousers had not given him away, the pigtail that extended halfway down his back would have been evidence enough.

“And what do you want, Tarry Jack?”

“A fair deal,” the man said.

The pawnshop owner’s eyes narrowed. “What are you pawning, Jack?”

“These.” The man dropped half a dozen golden buttons onto the counter and waited for the valuation.

“An officer’s buttons,” the dealer said, lifting the first. “Pinchbeck, unless I am much mistaken. That’s an alloy of zinc and copper mixed to resemble gold.”

The man leaned across the counter. “You are much mistaken,” he said. “These buttons are gold. Try again.”

The dealer opened his mouth to protest, looked at his customer’s bitter eyes and took the path of discretion. “I may be wrong,” he said. “Times are hard. So I won’t be able to pay as much as you hope.”

“You don’t know how much I hope,” the man said. “Make me an offer.”

The dealer pursed his lips, looked at the expression in the man’s eyes and said, tentatively, “Ten shillings.”

“Is that each?” The man asked.

“No, that’s for the lot.”

“Two guineas,” the man said, “and you’re getting a thief’s bargain.”

“One guinea,” the dealer countered, “and that’s more than you’ll get elsewhere.”

“One guinea and that pair of shoes there,” the man indicated a pair of metal-buckled shoes the dealer had displayed behind his counter. “And a hat.”

“We agree,” the dealer produced a pawn ticket. “What name shall I write?”

“Smith,” the man replied immediately. “John Smith.”

He left the pawnbroker with his new shoes uncomfortable on his feet and found accommodation in a cheap lodging house a score of yards from the sea.

“No dunnage, Jack?” The lodging house keeper ran his gaze over Smith’s spare body and ill-fitting clothes.

“No,” Smith said.

“Threepence a night paid in advance,” the keeper held out a grasping hand.

Smith counted out ninepence. “Three nights,” he said.

“What are you staying for?”

“A burial,” Smith told him.

The row of newly-dug graves occupied one side of the graveyard. All boasted a simple cross at the head, with the inscription. “A drowned mariner, known only to God.” They lay under the whip of the wind that carried sea-salt air fresh from the Channel and within the shadow of an elder tree that raised naked branches in supplication to the closed eyes of God.

“And we consign his body to the care of the Lord.” The Reverend Edmund Hood gave the signal, and the gravediggers lowered the final corpse into the grave. A handful of local people watched, with one woman surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eye, possibly in memory of a loved one the sea had taken in some half-forgotten tragedy. As the gravediggers shovelled soil into the grave, a tobacco-chewing carpenter banged in his final cross. The name Abel Watson was neatly carved into the crosspiece, with the date 2nd February 1762.

St Bride’s Day, Smith thought. He stood at the gateway of the graveyard with his arms folded and a battered tricorn hat pulled low over his head. When the reverend glowered in his direction, Smith removed his hat and held it in front of him.

“You are the only person from outwith the parish who turned up,” the reverend said. “Do you know this man?”

“I do,” Smith said. “That’s me you have just buried.”

The reverend looked confused. “Who are you?”

“I am nobody. I have no name; I don’t exist.” Smith’s smile held a vestige of humour. “After all, you have just buried my body.” He placed his hat back on his head and adjusted the brim until it concealed the upper part of his face. “As I no longer exist, therefore no laws or rules apply to me.”

“God’s laws are above the laws of man,” the Reverend Hood said, but Smith had already left.

The Reverend Hood watched as Smith stalked long-striding along the coast, with his hair — newly short of its pigtail — short and dark brown, and his back proudly erect. He walked with the peculiar gait of a seaman, as if he was compensating for the eternal swing of a ship, but with more purpose than a man casually passing his days. Hood watched for a moment and then sighed and returned to the duties of his parish.

Smith walked on, following the curve of the coast as he headed east, automatically watching the sea with its busy ships. He stopped once to lift a piece of driftwood, which he fashioned into a staff with his knife, and walked on, relentless.

The singing stopped the second Smith entered the Dancing Horse Inn. A dozen faces turned to look at him as he stepped inside the door.

“Who the devil is that?” A man asked.

“The tide must have thrown it up,” another replied, and a woman laughed, high-pitched and short.

Smith looked around, taking in the predatory eyes of the customers and details of the inn. The floorboards were of oak, possibly taken from a wrecked ship, while the walls were of lathe and plaster. A small fire burned in the far corner of the taproom, with an empty table on one side. On the other side sat an old man, holding a glass and scrutinising the newcomer through basilisk eyes. The scattering of men in the taproom all bore the stamp of the sea, with tarred canvas trousers or jackets, checked or striped shirts, and bright neckcloths. Some had brass or silver earrings, and two wore the old fashioned Monmouth cap. None made any move to welcome the newcomer.

Smith approached the counter, noticing the banner of a dancing white horse against a red background that hung above an array of bottles and kegs.

“Do you have a room?”

“The landlady deals with the rooms.” The barman eyed the stranger up and down.

“Fetch her.”

“Who the deuce are you to order me around?”

“Fetch her.” Smith did not raise his voice.

“I’m here.” The landlady emerged from the cellar beneath the taproom. She examined the stranger from the soles of his scuffed boots to the top of his battered tricorn hat. “You look like a seafaring man,” she said, noting the weather-darkened face and the stern eyes that returned her gaze.

“Do you have a room?”

“How long for?” The landlady had spent her life dealing with men of all types. One more stranger could not unsettle her.

“Until I no longer need it.”

“I’ll need payment in advance.”

In reply, the stranger extracted a half-sovereign from his leather purse and pushed it across the scarred oak of the counter.

The landlady lifted the gold. “And I’ll need your name in case a Riding Officer asks for you.”

The stranger heard the guffaw of laughter from the taproom and knew that no Customs and Excise officer would be welcome in the Dancing Horse. Riding Officers was a polite name for the Excisemen; Smith had heard them called a great deal worse. “I’ve come to the right place then,” he said. “My name is Smith. John Smith.”

“A fine name to hide behind,” the landlady said. “Up the stairs and first door on the right.” She handed over a heavy key.

Smith sensed the gaze of every man in the taproom following him as he ascended the stairs. He did not care. Let them look to their heart’s content, for they will see a lot more of me in future.

The room was small, dark, and stuffy, yet compared to the fo’c’sle of a man-of-war, it was the palace of a king. Smith dragged open the internal shutters and opened the multi-paned window to allow fresh air and light inside. From the window, Smith had a view down the main street of the village of Kingsgate to the harbour, where the masts of coasters punctured the heavy grey sky. A single cart negotiated the ancient High Street, with the driver hunched forward, allowing the horse to pick its way along a road it had probably known all its life.

The bed was hard, with a straw mattress under a threadbare grey wool blanket. Smith removed the mattress, guessing it would harbour colonies of unwelcome vermin. The planks beneath were sound, and Smith folded up his cloak as a pillow, lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of revelry from the taproom below.

“Time to dance,” he said, lifted the naval officer’s purse and extracted two sovereigns. The purse, with its remaining contents, Smith placed under the cold ashes in the fireplace.

“Here is Mr Smith,” a gaudily dressed woman said when Smith appeared in the taproom. “What’s to do, Mr Smith?”

“You tell me,” Smith said. More people had arrived in the short time he had been upstairs. There was now a score of men present, primarily lean, weather-scoured seamen with stony eyes, plus half a dozen women. Smith marked three men as natural leaders, while the rest were followers, which was roughly the proportion he would expect.

“What ship?” One of the three, a pock-marked seaman, asked.

“No ship,” Smith said.

“You have the look of a seaman,” Pockmark observed.

“As have you.” Smith ordered a tankard of beer, tasted it, wiped the froth from his upper lip, and turned away.

The second of the three, a man with broad shoulders and a broken nose, blocked Smith’s path.

“A seaman without a ship, in an inn, and paying with gold,” Broken-nose said. “You are a man of mystery.”

“I am a man who desires to be left alone,” Smith stepped to one side, waited until Broken-nose shifted in front of him, then resumed his original path, leaving Broken-nose floundering in his wake.

The third of the three, taller, leaner and quieter, pulled his tricorne hat low over his forehead as he placed a hand on the counter in front of Smith. “That’s not very neighbourly,” he said.

“I’m not a very neighbourly person,” Smith replied.

“Mebbe somebody should teach you manners,” the lean man dropped a blackjack from his sleeve into the palm of his right hand.

Without waiting for the lean man to move, Smith punched him in the throat, sidestepped the inevitable rush from Broken-nose, and tripped him as he blundered past. Pockmark was a fraction quicker than Smith had expected, and the cudgel caught Smith on the left shoulder. He winced, rode the pain, turned, blocked the next blow with an upraised arm, and punched Pockmark with an uppercut to the groin.

As Pockmark doubled up, Smith made sure he remained down by bringing his knee up into the man’s face. By that time, Lean-man had recovered, and Broken-nose had regained his feet. Lifting the cudgel that Pockmark had dropped, Smith thrust the end into Broken-nose’s mouth, smashing two teeth.

“Enough!” the landlady screamed. She pointed the business end of a pistol at the battling men. “Fight if you must, but take it outside, and don’t destroy my inn!”

Smith rapped the cudgel on the palm of his left hand. Two of his adversaries were down, and the third looked disinclined to continue the contest.

“I do believe our dispute is over,” Smith said. “Unless this fellow,” he indicated Lean-man, “wishes to continue?”

In reply, Lean-man turned and strode out of the inn.

“That ends it, then,” Smith said. He ran his hands over the suffering Pockmark, found his purse, and emptied it on the counter. “Take what you need from that to pay for the damages,” he said, “and have a shilling to buy these unhappy fellows a drink.”

“You’re very generous with other men’s money,” the landlady said, sliding three shillings into the palm of her hand and returning the remainder to Pockmark.

“I am.” Smith threw back Pockmark’s coat, saw the butt of a pistol in his waistband and lifted it. “I’d advise you not to point your cannon at me again.”

“Why is that?” the landlady asked.

“Because if you do, I’ll kill you,” Smith said, checking the lock of his new pistol and feeling the sharpness of the flint. “Now, madam, who did these three work for?”

The landlady began to shake her head, recognised the expression in Smith’s eyes and stopped. “Who says they work for anybody?”

“They don’t have the brains to organise anything,” Smith eased the pistol into his belt. “Yet this inn is the centre for free trade in the village.”

“Is it?” the landlady asked.

Smith touched the silk scarf around the landlady’s throat, then pointed to the keg of French brandy that stood, half-hidden in a corner. “It is.”

The landlady raised her eyebrows. “They work for Richard Blackwell. Captain Richard Blackwell.”

Smith nodded. “Pray inform Captain Richard Blackwell that I wish to see him.”

“I’ll pass your message on,” the landlady promised.

In the far corner, the old man looked away. For a moment, his eyes had sparkled as though the altercation in the taproom had revived a long-dormant fire. When Smith left, the old man returned to contemplating the contents of his tankard.

ChapterTwo

Smith stood under the wind-twisted apple tree, staring out to sea. Over there, less than thirty miles away, the French coast marked the frontier of continental Europe. The narrow English Channel acted as a defensive moat between the two landmasses but also as a highway between two nations, Great Britain and France. The two cultures were more similar than either would care to admit, with a shared history of violence and conquest. The people of both nations owed allegiance to a man claiming royal blood, both had a crust of arrogant aristocracy, both lived by trade, and both competed for colonies across most of the nations of the world. Given all these similarities, combined with their proximity, it was natural that the two countries were rivals and enemies.

Ignoring the wind that drove cold rain against his face, Smith scanned the early morning sea, recognising the purpose of every vessel, from the fleet of local fishing boats to the Royal Navy frigate hurrying on its ceaseless patrol. Shifting his gaze, Smith looked down on Kingsgate, with the two inns set on opposite sides of the High Street, the ancient church, and the houses that straggled down to the harbour.

On one side of the High Street, the Dancing Horse was a traditional oak-framed Kent house, with a central hall now used as the taproom and diagonal bracing supporting jutting eaves. A lookout tower thrust from one side, a virtual guarantee that smugglers used the inn as a rendezvous. Behind the inn, and accessed by a high-arched gateway, were stables for any passing traveller. Across the road from the Dancing Horse sat the larger, brick-built Hounds Rest, the coaching inn for Kingsgate, with a large courtyard at the back where horses were the innkeeper kept horses for the stagecoaches that rattled along the coast to London.

Smith nodded. The two inns encapsulated the division in Kingsgate, with the respectable establishment of the Hounds Rest and the more disreputable Dancing Horse, a centre for the broken people and those outside the framework of the law.

Smith contemplated the village. “I’m back,” he said, “but I’m not me.”

The memories returned, as they had so often. Smith recalled the betrayal, the humiliation, the frustration, and the sense of defeat. His hand moved automatically to his throat and fiddled with his neckcloth before he forced it back down.

Smith altered his stance under the tree and looked further inland, where Kingshunt Manor stood on its knoll, surrounded by a belt of woodland, groomed policies, and avenues of trees. Even from this distance, Smith could sense the aura of wealth, privilege, and power emanating from Kingshunt. He studied the outline of the house, noting the belvedere turret that the owner had recently added and the broad sweeping view inland.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Smith said. “We’ll dance, Sir Francis, you and I.” He felt the anger rise within him as a montage of memories ripped through his mind. Once again, his hand moved towards his throat.

“No,” Smith shook himself back to the present. “This is not the time to think backwards.” He looked out to sea, nodding in satisfaction.

The two-masted lugger lay a mile offshore, backing her sails against the now fluky wind.

“You’ll do,” Smith said.

That evening, the High Street was quiet, with rain weeping from the roofs onto the ground and people huddled against the cold wind. Smith walked through the village until he arrived at Hop Lane that extended at right angles to the High Street. A man lounged at the entrance to the lane, shielding the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe as he contemplated the view to the sea.

“It’s a fine evening,” Smith said.

“It’s a bit cold,” the man said, removing the pipe from his mouth.

“The moon will be out tonight,” Smith said.

“Three-quarters moon, I reckon.” The man replaced the pipe with his deep brown eyes never straying from Smith’s face.

“Light enough for a run.”

The man puffed blue smoke. “It could be,” he agreed.

Smith lifted his head to test the wind. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked while a farrier hammered out a horseshoe. “With this breeze and the way the tide runs, Spike Cove would be an interesting place to visit.”

“It may be,” the man removed his pipe again, adding tobacco to the bowl.

Touching his hat with his forefinger, Smith strolled back along the High Street and leaned against the wall of the inn. As he had suspected, the man with the long-stemmed pipe vacated his position and walked casually down Hop Lane.

“Right to the Preventative men,” Smith murmured in satisfaction.

The dog had stopped barking now as the farrier gave a final few blows to his horseshoe. Quiet returned to Kingsgate, the peace before the storm struck.

At one time, the Spike had been an important, though small, manor house. Local legend claimed that its origins extended to the days when the Jutes had first landed on Britain’s southern shores, centuries before England existed. Smith did not know if local lore was correct. Nor did he know that the Spike had flourished in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The owner had chosen the losing side in the Civil War, and now the Spike was a ghost of itself; a sad, wind-buffeted ruin that overlooked Spike Cove. Only furtive lovers and stray sheep used the crumbling stones for shelter, but that evening Smith settled himself in a corner of tumbled masonry and watched events unfold.

First to arrive were the Riding Officers, the mobile strike force of the Excise Service that patrolled the coast watching for signs of the Free Traders. They rode with their cloaks billowing behind them, and their hats firmly pushed down on their heads until they took up position in Kittiwake Wood to the east of the cove. When a stray gust of wind nearly blasted the leading rider’s cloak, Smith saw the holstered pistol at his saddle.

“Three men, well mounted, but insufficient for the task in hand,” Smith said to himself.

Hurrying behind the riding officers were a group of tidewaiters, the foot soldiers of the Excise.

“Underpaid, overworked, and never appreciated,” Smith murmured. “You are the front line and the most vulnerable of the Excise.”

Next to arrive were the infantry, King George’s final say in maintaining law and order in his realm. Half a company of redcoats, each man with a long-tailed coat on his back and a Brown Bess musket pressed against his shoulder.

“Fifty men, well-drilled, but slow-moving and with rigid discipline long since removing any flexibility of mind,” Smith said.

After the infantry came the Collector, fresh from his home and headquarters in Hop Lane, riding with his Churchwarden-smoking assistant at his side.

“Two men dedicated to collecting taxes for the king’s revenue,” Smith told himself. “One an incomer to the village, the other a paid informer, a local man without friends.”

Behind the Excisemen rode their escort of five dragoons, with their equipment jingling and their horses’ hooves churning mud from the track.

“Five proud horsemen, sabres at the ready, happy to cut and thrust,” Smith said. “Heavy men on heavy horses, with heavy blades.”

Behind the dragoons rode a tall, vibrant man. He sat upright, with a pair of pistols at his saddle and a whip in his hand.

“And there rides the squire,” Smith felt the hatred build up inside him, “the brains and the heartbeat of the king’s presence in Kent. Sir Francis Selby, squire of Kingshunt Manor.” For the next few minutes, Smith studied Selby, committing every detail of the squire to his memory, from the square jaw to his seat on the high-stepping brown stallion.

Twenty minutes after the squire’s arrival, a slow convoy of wagons lumbered from the village and surrounding countryside, rocking and jolting on the rutted road.

“The carriers,” Smith said. “Transport for the law-breakers, the lifeblood of free trade here in the deep south. Fifteen wagons, drawn by twenty-nine horses, all empty and all hoping to return full.”

Lastly, a small body of country folk and villagers arrived, some on foot, a few mounted, with the three principals well-known to Smith. They followed the wagons down the steep track to Spike Cove, which sheltered in a gap between hundred-foot-high cliffs.

“Now, all we need is Captain Blackwell and his lugger,” Smith said, “and the stage is set for the dance.”

As the sun set, the lugger unfurled her topsails and eased towards Spike Cove, where the wagons congregated to carry away her cargo. Men clustered, smoking and talking, some chewing tobacco, others sitting on rocks. One extended a brass telescope and watched the lugger ghost landward. They were relaxed, with nobody thinking to post a sentry and one man even scraping out a tune on a fiddle.

Perched in his eyrie at the Spike, Smith watched as the redcoats emerged from Kittiwake Wood and marched across the fields, scattering the sheep. They formed a semi-circle quarter of a mile from the cove and rested on their muskets, a thin scarlet line waiting for orders. Only when they were in position did Sir Francis Selby and his retinue, including the Riding Officers, leave the wood to ease down the steep track to Spike Cove.

“The musicians are tuning up,” Smith murmured. “The band is ready.”

Although gathering darkness hid much of the drama from Smith, he could judge what was happening from the sounds that drifted towards him. He heard the bellow of a command and the high, surprised shouts of defiance as the Free Traders refused the order to stand.

“Stand in the King’s name!”

“Bugger off!”

“Run for it, lads!”

The crack of a pistol startled the night, followed by a ragged volley and the hollow drumbeat of hooves as the dragoons cantered across the foreshore to the landing spot. Smith heard more shooting, with the flash of the muzzle flares bright in the night, and then, dimly, he saw a confusion of men hurrying on the track from the cove, with unladen carts and wagons among them. Carters used their whips as they strove to escape the forces of authority, with the sound of sporadic gunfire coming from the shore.

ChapterThree

The landlady passed across Smith’s tankard without a word and glanced fearfully at the door. Three women sat in the taproom, trying to comfort a fourth who wept uncontrollably. The old man in the corner watched everything, said nothing, and sipped at his beer.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Smith said.

“Didn’t you hear the news?” The landlady snapped.

“What news was that?”

The landlady busied herself in polishing a pewter tankard. “Sir Francis Selby and the Excise men rounded up most of the village.”

“Why would he do that?” Smith sipped at his ale.

The landlady stared at him for a moment before she replied. “Sir Francis thinks they were running a cargo ashore.”

“And were they?” Smith asked.

“Yes.”

Smith nodded and took another swallow before he spoke again. “What happened to the villagers?”

“They’re in the squire’s lock-up.”

“Is that why that woman’s upset?” Smith nodded to the crying woman.

“Yes. Sir Francis has taken her man.”

Smith took another drink. “Where is Sir Francis’s lock-up?” He asked as if he did not already know the answer. “Is it in Kingsgate?”

“No,” the landlady shook her head. “It’s the Chapel Prison, on Sir Francis’s land, close by his house of Kingshunt Manor.”

Smith finished his ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded. “Who’s the turnkey?”

The landlady frowned. “Will Archer. He’s been there for years.”

Smith knew the name. “We’d better see about releasing the lads, then, before Sir Francis recognises them.” He stamped both feet on the sawdust-covered wooden floorboards. “He’ll have them hanged, else, or pressed into the Navy, and then you’ll have no customers.”

“What?” the landlady looked up in astonishment, but Smith was already stepping outside the inn. The woman continued to weep, with her friends trying to console her with a glass of gin. The old man in the corner put his tankard on the table and followed Smith outside.

The memories returned as Smith strode through Kingsgate and onto Sir Francis’s land. The squire had built a tall wall to keep the villagers off his property and doubtless had at least one gamekeeper on patrol, but Smith slipped over the wall with ease. Although it was well over a decade since Smith had last been on the Manor’s lands, the area was familiar, and he strode forward without hesitation until he reached the lock-up. The building was ancient, a mediaeval chapel that the Selbies had grabbed during Henry VIII’s purge of the Roman Catholic Church and subsequently abandoned. Sir Francis’s father had strengthened the building and used it as the parish prison. Drunkards, poachers, wife-beaters, petty thieves, and smugglers knew the inside of these walls before Sir Francis’s men transported them to the Maidstone or Rochester Assizes for trial and sentence. As the local justice of the peace or magistrate, Sir Francis would try the lesser cases himself, pronouncing instant and stern justice.

While the exterior of the lock-up was unprepossessing, rubble-built stone unrelieved by any surviving window, the interior was worse. Smith remembered the sour stench, the rustle of rats on damp straw, and the pervading atmosphere of gloom. The shadow of the lash, the pillory, or the noose encircled the thoughts of every prisoner.

Smith shook off the old memories as he surveyed the Chapel Prison, as the locals termed the building. He walked quietly, sure of the route, knowing the layout of the policies and the location of every building but watchful for gamekeepers and mantraps. Twenty yards from the Chapel Prison, the turnkey’s cottage squatted beneath a pall of blue smoke. The house was close enough to the lock-up to be handy yet sufficiently distant for the turnkey to separate himself from the stench and misery.

Smith grunted. He knew Will Archer was a nocturnal animal, a man who seldom ventured outside during the day but infested his cottage and emerged only to lock the prisoners up and occasionally feed them. After an evening check to ensure the Chapel Prison was locked, Archer sat by his fire, reading his Bible and muttering the passages to himself.

“Praying to God to give him the strength to harass his prisoners,” Smith said. “I know you, Will Archer.”

Without hesitation, Smith cut a wedge of turf from immediately outside the lock-up and hoisted himself onto Archer’s cottage roof. He placed the turf on top of the squat chimney, blocking the passage of smoke and slid back to the ground. Ten minutes later, the cottage door opened, and the turnkey staggered out, coughing and enveloped in smoke. Smith was waiting beside the door with his pistol in his hand. As Archer emerged, Smith smashed his pistol barrel on the man’s head, knocking him to the ground.

“Are you conscious?” Smith kicked the turnkey in the ribs. When the man did not stir, Smith dragged him back inside the cottage. The interior was austere but surprisingly neat, with a table and chairs, a box bed, and a bookcase replete with religious books. One wall held an assortment of manacles, chains, and heavy padlocks, together with a whip. Smith grunted, remembering that the turnkey also performed the task of village flogger when Sir Francis ordered such a punishment. Beside this grim array was a large bunch of keys.

“Right, you bastard,” Smith said, pulled Archer’s hands behind his back, and handcuffed his right wrist to his left ankle and left wrist to his right ankle. Removing Archer’s boots, Smith gagged him with one of his socks. “Lie quiet now, and I hope you choke.”

A glance at the bookcase revealed a leather-bound account book. Smith opened it and scanned the pages until he found the names of all Archer’s prisoners, with a column noting their sentences.

Lifting the book and the keys, Smith left the cottage and shut the door, trying each key until he found one to lock the turnkey within his home. Cursing his soft heart, he scaled the roof again and removed the turf so the turnkey would not choke to death.

“You’ll keep until later,” Smith said as he strode to the Chapel Prison.

Without the moon, the darkness was intense, and only the call of an owl and the distant hush of the sea pierced the silence. Smith glanced over in the direction of Kingshunt Manor, momentarily tempted to walk over.

“No,” he told himself. “Time enough for that later. You will keep, Sir Francis, until I decide what is best.”

He arrived at the Chapel Prison, with the studded, arched door locked before him. He tried three of the larger keys before finding one that fitted the lock.

“Is there anybody in here?” Smith shouted as he turned the key. The response came in half a dozen voices, mostly obscene.

Smith placed the book against the wall and stepped inside, rattling the keys. “Lie quiet, boys,” he ordered. “We don’t want to alert Sir Francis.” He felt along a shelf beside the door until he reached a tallow dip. “There must be a strike-a-light here somewhere.” His fingers found a tinder box in the form of a pistol. It was the work of an instant to pull the trigger and create a spark to light the dip, and by its flickering light, he looked around the interior.

A score of men and three women slumped on the stone-slabbed floor, staring at him but unsure who he was in the semi-darkness.

“Out you get, people,” Smith ordered, putting the tinder box in his pocket, “unless you wish to enjoy more of the squire’s hospitality.”

Two men remained in the lock-up once the remainder rushed outside.

“What’s to do?” Smith lifted the dip higher, so yellow light pooled onto the prisoners.

In reply, one of the men rattled the chains that secured him to the wall. His eyes glittered like a fox as Smith stepped closer.

“Let me see,” Smith said.

The links were rusted and old, while a heavy padlock fastened them together. When the prisoner looked up hopefully, Smith recognised his old adversary with the pockmarked face.

“We’ll soon have you out,” Smith said. The fourth key opened the padlock. “You’re free,” Smith said. “Did Sir Francis get your name? Or would he recognise you?”

“No,” Pockmark shook his head. “It was dark, and he was too busy. He said he’d attend to us all tomorrow.”

The second chained prisoner was the lean man. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am John Smith; who are you?”

“Ebenezer Skinner,” the lean man rubbed his wrists when Smith removed the rusted manacles. “Why are you helping us?”

“That’s my business. Remain here if you wish, Skinner. Sir Francis will either create some false charge to have you hanged at the assizes or send you to the Navy for smuggling.”

Skinner nodded, threw Smith a sidelong look, and slid out of the building. Smith followed, lifted the book, and tossed the bunch of keys into the quiet waters of the River Spike. He began to head back to the village, but on an impulse, he altered direction and walked towards Kingshunt Manor.

The nearer Smith came to the Manor, the more groomed the surroundings until he walked on close-cropped grass that felt as soft as a Turkish carpet. The mansion loomed ahead in an array of windows and smooth walls. Two towers thrust to the sky; a dominant tall turret from where Sir Francis could survey his lands, and a smaller belvedere tower, where he could entertain his guests.

Scattered around the grounds were marble and bronze statues, some ancient souvenirs of Sir Francis Grand Tour of Europe, and others more recent. The Classical gods and goddesses appeared relaxed in the prosperous surroundings as if Kingshunt Manor was a second Mount Olympus.

Smith stood beside a marble Venus in the centre of the lawn, looking at each window in turn, wondering which one looked out from Sir Francis’ bedroom.

“Where are you, squire,” Smith said. “Where is your lair?”

He paced around the house with his emotions burning within him, a mixture of anger, frustration, and hatred that he knew impaired his ability for rational thought.

Calm yourself, Smith thought. You’ll gain nothing by acting on impulse.

When a curtain twitched in an upstairs room, Smith stood still and stared upwards. For one moment, he saw a face peering out. It had been a decade, ten hard years since Smith had last seen her, but he immediately recognised the face. He gazed at her, absorbing every detail of her features, from the broad brow to the firm chin, and then she was gone. Smith stood forlorn on the vast green lawn, with the statues mute witnesses to his discomfort.

I haven’t forgotten, Smith told himself. I will never forget.

He turned and stalked away with his heels leaving distinct impressions on the grass. Only then did the old man shift from his position under the trees. He rubbed a hand over the grey stubble on his chin, pulled a pipe from his pocket, and chuckled.

“I don’t know who you are, mister, but you’re not a Preventative man. I’ll bet my boots on that.” Skinner pushed a tumbler of gin over to Smith.

“Your boots are safe,” Smith said. “I’m neither a Preventative man nor an Exciseman.” He tasted the gin.

“You locked the turnkey in his house and freed the lot of us,” Skinner slurred his words as a river of alcohol took control of his speech. “Sir Frankie will be apoplectic.”

“I hope so,” Smith sipped at his gin. “Did Sir Francis see any of your faces in the dark?”

“No, but he knows who we are.”

“If the squire didn’t see you, he can prove nothing,” Smith said. “First thing tomorrow morning, I want you to report that a gang from another village stole all your wagons. Act as indignant as you can, request that Sir Francis organises a search for the raiders and offer the services of all the village to help the squire.”

Skinner raised his eyebrows. “Do you wish us to act the injured innocents?”

“That’s correct. Bluff him. How many men did the soldiers shoot?”

“They killed one man.”

“Say he was the only villager to join the smugglers. What happened to the famous Captain Blackwell?”

“He got away, but we lost all the cargo. All of it.” Skinner banged a hard hand on the table in frustration.

Smith noted that Skinner trusted him sufficiently to admit they were free traders. “Where is the cargo held?”

“In the King’s Warehouse, down by the harbour.”

Smith finished his gin. “Thanks for the drink. Retrieve your wagons, then get the cargo back out.”

“It’s the King’s Warehouse,” Skinner repeated. “With a military guard.”

“Are you scared of a few lobsters?” Smith allowed the question to hang in the air as he stood. “Let me know when you grow a backbone.”

“Where are you going?” Skinner asked.

“To bed,” Smith told him. “I have a busy day tomorrow.” He was aware that the landlady watched as he climbed the creaking stairs. The landlady was the lynchpin of the Dancing Horse. Smith knew that if he won her trust, he had made a significant step forward.

That process could begin the following day.

ChapterFour

“She’s a Froggie, right enough.” A man with a lined face sat at the lookout with the telescope fully extended and focussed out to sea. “I know that by her lines.”

“A Frenchie? What the devil does she want here, Hargreaves?” Captain Blackwell asked.

Down in the taproom, Smith listened to their conversation as he scanned the newspaper and puffed smoke from his pipe.

“It’s a raiding party, sure as death,” Hargreaves said. “There’s a second ship to the west.”

“Well, rot me,” Blackwell said. “Where’s the Navy we pay so much in taxes for? How did the French get past the blockade and evade the frigates?” He shook his head. “No matter. Call out the men, Hargreaves.”

“Are we going to fight them?”

“You’re damned right we are,” Blackwell said. “I want every able-bodied man gathered on the green, with whatever weapons they can find.” When Blackwell ran down the stairs, shouting for his crew, Smith ascended to the lookout. He lifted the telescope and focussed on the two approaching vessels before returning to his position in the taproom. The old man in the corner watched Smith for a moment before stiffly rising to his feet.

“You’ll need me, Captain Blackwell,” he said.

“Sit down, you doddering old fool,” Blackwell snarled. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

Smith sensed the old man’s disappointment as Blackwell stood in the centre of the room.

“Muster every man jack at the village green,” Blackwell shouted. “Where’s Skinner? Where’s that lazy bugger?”

“He’s at home with his wife,” Hargreaves said.

“Kick his arse and send him to Marsham,” Blackwell ordered. Marsham was about twice the size of Kingsgate and lay three miles to the east. “Tell the army to come here fast. It’s only a militia regiment, but the French don’t know that.” He turned to Smith. “And you — Smith, isn’t it?”

“John Smith,” Smith agreed, nursing his tumbler of rum and wondering if this new development would hinder his plans for the day.

“I want you as well. You have a pistol, so you can shoot a Frenchman.”

Smith sipped at his tumbler. “You can go without me.” He did not look at Blackwell, although he assessed Kingsgate’s leading smuggler. Tall, with a strong face, Blackwell was undoubtedly a forceful man, with bright blue eyes and the look of a seaman.

Blackwell’s face coloured. “You yellow bastard! Won’t you fight for your country?”

Smith put his rum on the table. “I’ve had my share of fighting for King Geordie.”

“You’re a coward,” Blackwell said with contempt.

Smith smiled, still refusing to meet Blackwell’s gaze. “Maybe a coward, but not a fool.”

“I’ll see off the French,” Blackwell promised, “and then I’ll return for you, cully.”

“You do that,” Smith said, sitting still while nearly all the men and many of the women left the inn. Only the old man remained behind, looking wistfully at the door.

“You’re smiling, Mr Smith,” the landlady said, polishing a glass. “Are you not going to fight the French?”

“I’ve already fought them,” Smith finished his rum.

“Do you intend to sit there all day?”

“No.” Smith held out his glass for a refill. “Do you have a hiding place here?”

“A hiding place?” the landlady repeated, with a trace of anger in her voice.

“You won’t keep free trade goods in open view in case the Excise calls, and you’ll have somewhere to conceal seamen when the Press comes,” Smith explained his reasoning.

A look of contempt crossed the landlady’s face. “I didn’t expect that from you.” She poured out Smith’s rum. “I thought better of you when you freed the prisoners from the Chapel Prison.”

Smith ignored the insult. “How many men can your hidey-hole hold?”