Jack Frake (30 page)

“I’ll write a letter that will exonerate you of any charges of adventurism, Major, and account for all your ordnance and more. I, too, carry a commission, from Pelham himself, as you saw.” Pannell smiled. “Your country and King will be more grateful than you can now imagine. This is no little favor I ask of you, and my gratitude — not to mention the King’s — will be commensurate, I can assure you.”

Pannell did not wink at him, but the major got the impression that he had. “You present one with a difficult decision, sir,” said the officer, angry that he had been trapped by this man.

“Doing one’s duty when it arises should not ever be a difficult decision to make, sir.”

The major grimaced. “All right. Where are your rascals? And how many of them are there?”

“Near Marvel,” said Pannell breezily. “The whole gang is there. No more than twenty, I’d say. Probably just now returning from a contraband run near Portreach.” He nodded to the column of soldiers, and barked a laugh. “They won’t be expecting anything like this!” He added, “I see there is an ordnance wagon, and that your pieces are field-ready, Major. We’ll need them.”

The major allowed himself a slight smile. “It’s a bother, but the gun crews could use some practice.”

* * *

“They should have been back hours ago,” said Redmagne.

“They were told to join us at Portreach when they were finished,” said Skelly.

Skelly had planned to accompany Henry Naughton, the pilot of
The
Hasty Hart
, on the sloop’s return trip to Styles. But he had changed his mind and boarded the last galley that carried what remained of the contraband he brought from Guernsey. His men were busy now unloading the five borrowed carts and relieving the fifteen ponies of their burdens. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Skelly stood outside one of the two eastern entrances to the caves, watching his men lug crates and sacks of goods inside. Chester Plume, the bookkeeper, was in the storage cavern, making a record of the goods and supervising their stowing.

“Send someone to Penlilly to see what’s awry,” said Skelly.

“I’ll go,” said Redmagne.

Skelly shook his head. “No. Hopfius doesn’t know you. He’s tight-lipped and won’t believe you’re with me. Send Tobie Robins. He repaired the rudder of his fishing ketch last month.” Robins was by trade a carpenter. Hopfius was the village leader.

“All right,” said Redmagne. He went to find Robins.

Robins returned to the caves three hours later, long after the borrowed carts and ponies had been returned and just as the men were finishing dinner. His mount was in a lather and Robins was exhausted from the ride. Skelly took him to his quarters. Redmagne joined them. “Well?” asked Skelly.

“They’re dead, sir!” stammered the man. “Except for Jack and Richard! And soldiers are out there —!”

Skelly frowned and gave the man the mug of coffee he had brought with him. “Have a swig, son, and catch your breath.”

Robins gulped down the mug’s contents, then reported everything he had learned. “Hopfius didn’t see the fight,” he concluded. “I mean, there couldn’t have been a fight, because Fineux and the rest didn’t even have swords.”

“And only Jack and Richard were alive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One or both of them talked,” remarked Redmagne.

Robins said, “Hopfius says it was Richard. He helped put him on a cart with Fineux and the others, and he said Richard was raving and spouting the Bible and all. He said Jack looked like he’d been beaten. But Pannell was alone with Richard for a while.” He paused. “Then the soldiers came up the road. Half a regiment, he said, regulars and grenadiers. They was hauling guns. The Revenue men went with them. I passed them on my way back, just two miles from here. I had to go around them!”

“All right, Tobie,” said Skelly at length. “Go and get something to eat before Mr. Tuck chucks the pot.”

Robins left. Skelly said to Redmagne, “Let’s take a look outside.”

At the eastern entrance, they peered into the darkness and saw lights where none had been before. They thought they caught the sound of voices on the drift of the wind, overlapping a strange rumbling.

“When do you think they’ll attack?” asked Redmagne.

“Tomorrow morning, at first light, after they’ve rested,” said Skelly.

“They’ve got guns.”

Skelly shrugged. “The Army has been recalling all the ordnance that was used to fortify the port towns down here. But I don’t think Pannell has any special influence with the Army, other than its supplying him with dragoons, when they can be spared from Kent or Sussex. He’s simply having a run of good luck.”

“Could these caves withstand a siege?”

“Very likely. If we were military men, we could make the best of it,” said Skelly with a sigh. “But, we are not military men, and a siege, with or without artillery, isn’t going to make a difference in the end. We could be starved out. Or a single volley, or a single charge by those grenadiers, would finish us.”

“I know.” Redmagne was quiet for a while, as was his friend. “I don’t think Jack betrayed us,” he said at last.

“It was Mr. Claxon who told Pannell. But Hopfius said he was feverish. His leg was broken in more than one place, apparently. I know what that can do to a man’s mind. I won’t say Mr. Claxon betrayed us.”

“We must tell the men.”

“If they don’t already know.” Skelly looked at Redmagne. “If we stay, John, you know this will be the end of us. We couldn’t hold out. If you want to go, go now. There’s Miss Morley in your future — and more long novels for you to write. But if you stay… ”

“I’ll stay, Augustus,” said Redmagne. “But let me try to rescue Jack and Richard. Alone.”

“And why would you want to rescue them? So they can share our fate?”

“No. To set them free.”

“You don’t know whether they’re with the army down there or in Gwynnford. They could be anywhere, John. And wherever they are, they’ll be under a strong guard.”

“I know. I want to see if it’s possible. That’s all.” Redmagne paused.
“Whether it is or not, I’ll be back to stand with you and the rest.”

“All right.” Skelly closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Call a meeting.”

Skelly stood at the head of the long table in the dining hall. He apprised his men of what had happened at Penlilly and of the peril. His speech was short, almost gruff, and he did not invite discussion. “I won’t hold any of you here. You’re free to go, as you always have been. Those who wish to leave, and who helped with today’s run, will be paid, and without prejudice. God knows, there’s a chance you may be able to start normal lives elsewhere. Those who choose to remain, do so with the knowledge that this is the end of the Skelly gang.” He paused. “Think on your decision, gentlemen. Think hard. Then come to my quarters, each of you, when you’ve made up your minds. That’s all.” He turned without further word and left the hall.

An hour after the meeting, Charles Ambrose, the deserter, was the first to come to Skelly’s quarters. Skelly was not surprised to see him. Ambrose left the Army because, as he explained to Skelly years ago, “I refuse to fight for foreign princes. It’s as simple as that. Our own are bad enough. So why should an Englishman die for the right of some royal bugger to sit on a throne and diddle with his people and the folks next door? Presumptuous lot of snollygosters, our Crown, and I don’t like being presumed.”

Ambrose said now, as he stood not quite at attention in Skelly’s quarters, “I’ll stay, sir. You’ll need someone to hold the line.”

Skelly smiled. “Why, Mr. Ambrose?”

Ambrose smiled, then took Skelly’s hand and shook it. “You’re a prince among men, sir, and the only one I’d risk my prat for — excuse my language, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambrose.”

“I’ll see to what we have in the way of weapons and powder.” Ambrose turned to leave, but stopped. “I was thinking, sir. It’s too bad we haven’t any colors to fight under or mark our position. That Customs jack on the mess wall would do. It’d give Pannell pause for thought out there. Permission to hoist it, sir.”

Skelly said, “But it bears the King’s arms, Mr. Ambrose.”

Ambrose chuckled. “I’ll blot it out somehow. It’s as much our flag as theirs.”

“Permission granted.” Skelly paused. “Mr. Ambrose, if there’s a fight, are you certain you’d be able to fire on other Englishmen?”

Ambrose looked perplexed, as though the question contained the answer. “Sir, other Englishmen have been firing on me nigh on ten years now. That’s the way I look at it.”

There were only seventeen men left. Of these, four humbly informed Skelly that they would leave the caves. Skelly did not reprimand them, did not lecture them, and did not sneer at them. He questioned neither their fears nor their greediness to live, for they had lived in the caves with him for years. The men who came to him to say they had chosen to stay could not imagine living in any manner other than as free men. The one group he envied; the other group he cherished.

Close to midnight, Charles Ambrose and others were taking stock of the weapons they had at their disposal, when they felt more than heard a thud shake the caves’ walls. Chester Plume came running down from the “crow’s nest.” “They’re firing on us!” he said. “They’ve set up a gun on the Villers grounds — I saw the flash — and there’s lights in the house!”

Skelly went up with Ambrose and the others to see. There were indeed lights in the Villers mansion. Skelly, holding a torch, took a turn around the top of the hill. Ambrose and the others trailed behind him. Below, all around the hill, they could see the flickers of dozens of flameaux and campfires. “They’ve surrounded the hill,” he remarked. Ambrose spotted the cannon ball and a spread of shattered rock. He bent to examine it. “A six-pounder,” he said.

They heard the report of another explosion, then the metallic crack of iron smashing into rock somewhere on the side of the hill. “Another six-pounder,” said Ambrose, pointing to the west. “Set up in the Talbot fields.” He shook his head. “They’re getting their range right, that’s all. They won’t start the real business until daylight.”

There was another report, but no ball came for what seemed like an eternity. Then they heard a massive thump that shook the ground under their feet. Stone disintegrated somewhere and slivers of it pelted them and stung their hands and faces. This was followed by a moan, which ceased before any of them could determine its source.

“The crow’s nest,” whispered Skelly. They hurried back to Chester Plume’s post. One side of the box-like formation of limestone was gone, and lay scattered in pieces all around them. The sycamore trees that grew around it had been stripped of their bare limbs by the blast of the fragments. Beneath one of the larger chunks was Chester Plume, dead, his clothes and face disfigured.

“Lucky shot,” remarked one of the other men. “Unlucky for Chester.”

“Howitzer,” said Ambrose ominously. “They can pound the roof down on us with it.”

Redmagne did not hear the cannon. He left the caves an hour after the meeting, dressed in his finest silks, the suit he had worn to London in July. He rode straight to the main camp of the red-coats, and was challenged by a pair of young regulars. “What is your business here?” one of them demanded.

“I am Squire John Trigg,” said Redmagne. “I have some land yonder” — he pointed vaguely with his riding crop to the north — “just beyond Marvel. I ride at night — don’t you simply love it at this time of day, it’s so peaceful and quiet! — and I heard the commotion you fellows were making, and I thought I’d see what was to do.”

The men frowned and glanced at each other. The sergeant of the guard came from his tent and walked over. “What’s the problem here?” he asked. He held up a flambeau to better see the stranger’s face.

Redmagne introduced himself again. He finished, smiling innocently, “Thought I’d have a spot of tea with your commanding officer. This is the most excitement we’ve seen since the dragoons passed through here ages ago!”

The sergeant’s mouth twisted wryly. The stranger’s clothes, speech, mannerisms — and especially the large mole affixed to his left cheek — suggested that the man was no danger. This was a spoiled fop who probably had some strange personal habits. Still, he was a gentleman, and he could not be turned away. It would serve Major Leigh right, he thought, to sic the dandy on him. “Well, Mr. Trigg, the major may be busy, but his tent is right over there, the one with the drums stacked in front. Let him pass, privates.”

Redmagne doffed his hat to the sergeant. “Thank you, sir. You’re most kind.” He rode directly to the tent, on the look-out for men in blue coats, and for a peasant’s cart.

An hour later, seated at a campaign table with Major Leigh, and on his third cup of tea, he purred, “Most delicious leaf you carry with you, Major! Army life can’t be the horror people make of it, if
this
is a sample of your emoluments!” He made a loud sipping sound on the rim of the cup, then gently set it down. “But, Major, have
you
seen action? I’ll wager you have some exciting stories to tell.”

“No,” said the major, wishing Mr. Trigg would take his leave. The man was, like himself, a gentleman, and deserving of all the courtesies of a visit.
But he could not stand him. “I was assigned to the brigade when it returned from Flanders a few years ago. Most of the officers were killed there. I’ve simply been playing nursemaid to these ruffians, and trying to bring the regiment back up to strength.”

Redmagne clucked his tongue. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, dear fellow! I’m sure the French will raise our hackles again, and then you’ll be off to the Continent before you can buss your Lady Jane good-bye! Why, who knows? Someone may replace
you
when it’s all over!” he added with a gay laugh.

Major Leigh’s eyes narrowed, then glanced down at his pocket watch on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Trigg, I have duties to perform. We’re positioning our ordnance around that hill, and I want to make sure the Commissioner and his men are not up to mischief, and that everything else is just so.” His smile was thin and insulting as he rose. “Thank you for the story of the Villers estate and of your childhood escapades here. It was most entertaining.”