Upon our arrival, Mr. Perkins gave a stout single knock upon the door of the inn. He might have beat longer and louder upon it, but it was hardly necessary, for the door unexpectedly flew open. There was only silence from inside. Mr. Perkins and I exchanged looks of concern. He drew his pistol as I did mine; Mr. Parker, the surgeon, shrank back.
Then, as near together as was possible, we leapt into the darkened taproom, diving to the floor on opposite sides of the door. Then did we wait tensely for some sign of what we might expect. It soon came. The long barrel of a fowling piece pushed its way over the bar and seemed to be pointed in my direction. Or was it? Perhaps it was simply aimed at the open door. I wanted to move, but I was fearful that if I did so, I would certainly make plain my location.
“All right,” came a voice from behind the bar, one husky with fright, ”I know where you are, so you better just get on out of here. I don’t know why you come back, but if I pull this trigger, you’ll be sorry you did.”
“It’s me, Oliver Perkins,” came the response. ”I’m stayin’ here at the inn. You know me, don’t you?”
Silence; then: ”Well, maybe I do. What room you in?”
“Number six on the second floor. It’s kind of an attic. Only one other room up there.”
“Well, I suppose that’s right.”
“And I just started on as a constable here in Deal.”
“Oh, I guess I did hear that.” Then, reluctantly, he said, ”All right, get up and come ahead slow.”
Tucking away his pistol, Mr. Perkins rose with exaggeratedly deliberate movements. He came forward with his hand open, showing that he had no weapon.
”I was sent out to fetch a surgeon,” said he.
“That’s good. We’ve need of one.”
“You mean for the wounded prisoner?”
“Oh no, he’s gone with the rest of them.”
The innkeeper raised himself and placed the great, long fowling piece upon the bar. At the same time, I holstered my pistol and got up from the floor.
“Wait a bit,” said the innkeeper to me, ”who’re you?”
“Never you mind that,” said Mr. Perkins. ”What’s this about ‘gone with the rest of them’? Mr. Parker, come ahead. He says there’s need of you.”
The surgeon put his head timorously through the doorway and, seeing there was no danger, entered cautiously.
Mr. Perkins turned back to the man behind the bar. ”Now, tell me what happened.”
“Well, they just crashed in here so fast. I thought they was you two returning with the surgeon. They held a gun to my head and threatened me. I didn’t have any choice at all. I had to tell them what room the prisoners were in. No choice at all.”
By the time the innkeeper had exonerated himself of all blame in the matter, Mr. Perkins was running for the stairs and pulling the surgeon after him. I followed, and the innkeeper, grabbing up his fowling piece, trailed along behind.
The scene which greeted me on the next floor was surely one of the most dismaying that ever I have viewed. Mr. Trotter, the senior constable, knelt by the other constable (I blush to say I never learned his name), supporting him at the shoulders, thus providing what comfort he could. If not dead already, the poor fellow on the floor would soon be gone: he had a great gaping hole in his chest which certainly could not be mended. Constable Trotter, far from unscathed, held his free arm at such an awkward angle that it was evident that he had taken a bullet there, one that had probably broken his arm, as well. There was a good deal of
blood upon the floor, yet it was not easy to tell from which of the constables it had come; perhaps from both. The surgeon gave his attention to Mr. Trotter. When the senior constable sought to persuade Mr. Parker to treat the other first, he seemed unable to speak above a whisper—probably weakened from loss of blood. In response to Mr. Trotter’s urging, the surgeon simply shook his head: his meaning was clear—the man was beyond saving. He said something over his shoulder to Mr. Perkins, who passed the order on to the innkeeper:
“Get us a bottle of gin, and be quick. We’ve got to get this man drunk right away.”
The innkeeper ran downstairs, apparently eager to do as he had been told.
“We must have him in a bed if I’m to get that pistol ball out and his arm properly set,” said Mr. Parker. ”You, lad,” said he to me, ”grab his feet. I’ll lift him beneath his arms, and you, constable, hold his arm steady, but be careful with it. I’m sure it’s broken above the elbow.”
Thus we managed, with a minimum of pain to Mr. Trotter, to move him through the open door and onto one of the two beds in the room wherein the prisoners had been held. Just about then, the innkeeper returned with the bottle of gin.
“I could use a drink,” said Mr. Trotter in a choked, husky voice.
“Take as much as you’re able. It’ll dull the pain.”
The innkeeper pulled out the cork and passed the bottle to the constable. Trotter took it and drank a dram-sized gulp. He came up panting.
“Go ahead, take another,” said Mr. Parker, and the constable obliged. And then to me and to the innkeeper: ”All right, you two, get out of here now. The one-armed constable will give me all the help I’ll need. Your name’s Perkins, is it not? Show them out, Constable Perkins.”
Once sure that he would not be made a target, Mr. Parker
felt in his element. He organized things well and gave orders in a crisp, authoritative manner that proved that at least he was now fully awake. I wondered if perhaps he had a naval background.
Mr. Perkins herded us to the door and out into the hall.
“See what you can do to get this poor fellow’s body out of the hall, would you?” said he to the innkeeper, indicating the dead constable. ”Put him up in my room, if you must.” And to me he whispered: ”Jeremy, find out what you can from him about what happened here. You’re going to have to make a report of some sort to Sir John and to Mr. Sarton.”
And so as we temporarily disposed of the body in the hall and mopped up the blood from the floor and washed it down, I questioned my coworker in detail regarding what had happened. His answers, together with what Constable Trotter later told us, provide the basis for the account which I provide below.
After Mr. Perkins and I had been let out to fetch the surgeon, Mr. Trotter returned to his place outside the room where the prisoners, still tied each to each, had in addition been secured to the bed. As he left the taproom, he advised the innkeeper that we would be returning soon with help for the wounded prisoner.
Thus the innkeeper did not hesitate to open the door when a group of men appeared shortly after our departure, for he thought them to be we two come back with the surgeon and a surgeon’s helper. There were, in any case, four at the door when he threw it open to let them in. He did not notice until they swarmed upon him that all wore masks of one sort or another. A pistol was put to his head and cocked, as he had told, and he did indeed tell them where they would find the prisoners and their guards. This brief interrogation was conducted in whispers, and though he recognized none because of the masks, two of the four had
voices that he was sure he had heard before. (And another detail: the leader of the gang took them directly to the stairway to the floor above, though it was not immediately in sight; he clearly knew his way about the inn.) They forced the innkeeper to accompany them. When the two constables above became uneasy at the sound of so many footsteps in the taproom, they called down to him asking who was with him there; he answered them reassuringly, even told them that the surgeon had come to care for the prisoner. That last, reader, seemed inexcusable to me.
Yet the two constables were sufficiently suspicious that, in spite of the innkeeper’s assurances, they had drawn their pistols and cocked them, expecting the worst—and the worst was what they got. As the masked party reached the top of the stairs, they immediately began shooting. The constables returned their fire. One, hit in the chest, fell immediately. Mr. Trotter shot off his two pistols and inflicted a wound on one of the attackers before he, too, fell wounded—though not mortally.
After that, there was nothing nor no one to keep them from the prisoners. They threw open the door to the room, cut the bonds that held them, and made ready to go. Yet before they did, the leader of the masked band walked over to Constable Trotter in the hall and gave him a kick in his bleeding arm. He then said coldly, with an unmistakable threat in his voice: ”You may tell them all that
we
run the owling trade in Deal. There will be no more doubt of it when we finish tonight.”
Not another word passed between them. Quick as they had come, they went, though it was later learned that they had reclaimed the cargo carried by the smugglers’ boat. The innkeeper promised that he would somehow find help, but once he was downstairs and behind the bar in the taproom, it seemed to him necessary to have a bit of rum to fortify himself for the journey. He was just finishing it,
ready to pour another, when Mr. Perkins knocked once upon the door, and it swung open.
Whilst the tale was told me, there were a few cries of pain from within the room, but when Mr. Perkins emerged, he said that Constable Trotter had done well.
‘“Twasn’t taking the bullet out that hurt him so,” said he, ”but setting his broken arm—that’s what set him going. The gin didn’t help much there.”
Mr. Parker had abundant instructions for the care of Constable Trotter. The question was, who would stay with the patient to carry out the instructions? When the surgeon put the matter to the innkeeper, the latter insisted that, much as he would like to nurse the constable back to robust health, he must be free to run the taproom below.
“There is a possibility, however,” said he after giving some thought to the problem. ”Perhaps the dull-witted girl who sweeps and mops the place in the mornings might be persuaded to sit with him through the rest of the day.”
“But you call her ‘dull-witted.’ Would she know enough wit to change the bandage each day and to administer a chemist’s potion at regular intervals?”
The innkeeper scratched his head. ”Probably not.”
“Sir,” said I to the surgeon, ”I know of such a girl. She is able and dependable.” I had Clarissa in mind, of course.
“Yes, but she is not here now. How am I to instruct her? Can she read?”
“She would spend all her time with books, if given the chance.”
“Ah, well then, innkeeper, if you will provide pen, ink, and paper, I will write out what must be done.”
Mr. Perkins stepped forward. ”And I’ll remain here with Trotter until she comes,” said he. ”The lad must be off to make a report of all this to the magistrate.”
“Well enough then, do it as you like. All that matters is
that he be given proper attention. He’ll be going into fever by the end of the day.”
Mr. Perkins gave me a wink and a nod, which I took to mean that I might leave now. I answered with a nod of my own.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said I to Mr. Parker, ”I’ll be on my way.”
With that and a bobbing bow, I left the room. It so happened, though, that the cowardly innkeeper was below, assembling the writing materials the surgeon had called for. He raised a hand to me, beckoning me to him ere I walked out the door. I went to him. Apparently he wished to tell me something, but knew not quite how to do it. He made a false start or two.
“Perhaps you could … I would like to explain … that is to say…” Then did he stop altogether and collect himself before proceeding. ”I would ask, lad, that you not judge me too harshly. What I told you is the truth, no less than if I’d given it under oath. Mind, I’m none too proud of my behavior, as I’ve described it to you. Nevertheless, I’d have you know that I was afeared for my very life. I vow that I’ve never been so close to death before. You do understand, don’t you?”
I knew not what to say. If he were asking for my approval, I would certainly withhold it. If he were asking for absolution—forgiveness—as those in the Romish faith are said to ask it of their priests, then I could not grant it, for such power had not been given me. Yet the innkeeper was asking for much less, was he not? He wanted only my understanding, and that much I could certainly offer him.
“Yes,” said I, ”I do understand.”
Then did he look me in the eye for the first time since he had beckoned me over. And quite at a loss for something more to say, he simply nodded.
Outside, I saw that there was light in the east and realized I had labored in a good cause the whole night through.
I wondered at the sense of exhilaration which I felt. Whence came it? It had been near twenty-four hours since last I slept—or perhaps even longer. Why was I not tired, exhausted by all I had seen and done? How long could I thus continue as fresh as I might feel had I just rolled out of bed? Though day was breaking, there was yet no one to be seen upon the street. So, since there was neither man nor woman to be seen upon High Street, I gave full rein to these exuberant feelings and began running down the street, my footsteps clattering down upon the cobblestones, my reflection appearing and disappearing in the windows of the finest shops in Deal. Then did I turn down King and up Middle Street. And of a sudden came the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Nay, it was more than a feeling, but rather an awful, frightening certitude. I slowed to a fast walk that I might hear better. And what was there to hear? Naught in that first hour of daylight but a woman’s voice, moaning and softly wailing. I went directly to Number 18, for there was not the slightest doubt but that these sad sounds did come from there. What I saw would be enough to rend any stout heart in two.
The door to the house was wide open, yet the space was filled by the body of Albert Sarton—plainly he was dead. Kneeling above and hugging his inert form to her as best she could was Molly Sarton; she sighed and sobbed in a manner so resigned that it seemed she might never stop. Sir John bent over her, his hands upon her shoulders. Supporting her? Certainly. Attempting to draw her away? Perhaps. I approached them slowly and uncertainly, oddly unwilling to let them know of my presence. It came to me then that, quite unexpectedly, I felt quite tired—truly exhausted.