the details of your trade. But I must tell you I saw a flock of birds leave your lugger
… just before I took you and your passenger aboard. Having seen… a similar flock elsewhere recently, I am quite certain that the birds were pigeons. Carrier pigeons, Mr. Dunaway, I would guess, being brought over from France.
'I have my doubts about your man Jamie and his bona fides. The jabber he talked to me was supposed to be London cant, but it was nothing but gibberish. I think he was no Englishman, Mr. Dunaway.'
Hoare paused. Dunaway reddened and looked pensively out the window beside them. At length, he returned his gaze to Hoare.
'If 'twere not for the debt I owe you, sir, I'd as lief lie, to be square with you. But I'll not, for my life has been in your 'ands. An' the thing will never come to pass again, any gate.
'French 'e was, indeed, part of a package give me by a lass in Arromanches. Nay, I lie; she were no lass, but a comfortable armful. Besotted, I were, an' ready to do aught she asked of me. So, when she asked me to bring over that lad Jamie an' his coteful of pigeons, I thought nowt of it but took him aboard.
' 'Tweren't till we was well into mid-Channel that I found Master 'Jamie' was no more an Englishman than he was a blackamoor. Frenchman, more like, for all his London cant, or mebbe one of them Irish followers of Wolfe Tone. An' no sailor any gate, as me an' poor Jethro learned to his cost. So I resolved to 'ave nowt to do with him an' his pigeons, more'n land 'im wherever I could, as soon as I could.
'Well, sir, as it coom out, 'twas you as landed 'im an' not me. I never saw 'im again, nor wanted to.
'I'd not do it again, Mr. Hoare. I'm a loyal Englishman, I am, and I'll have no trook wi' treason. God save King George! Poor loony that he is. That's what I say. That's me word, and me word's me bond.'
To put an end to the topic, Dunaway hailed the White Hart's greasy potboy and ordered another round. Thinking on the smuggler's straightforward tale, Hoare felt compelled to believe it. In his judgment, there were honest criminals and dishonest ones, and he had known his share of both. For certain, Abel Dunaway was one of the former.
'I'll drink to your decision, Mr. Dunaway,' he whispered, and kept his word.
Refreshed, Dunaway cocked an inquiring eye at Hoare.
'And the question you had for me?' he asked.
'About the Nine Stones Circle, Mr. Dunaway. Captain Popham of the excise cutter Walpole…'
Dunaway chuckled.
'The ol' rascal'll 'a' told you we be friends for donkey's years, 'e and I. 'E's won some; I've won some. More than 'e might know of, I'll warrant.'
Hoare burst into one of his rare fits of silent laughter. He had once overheard a Portsmouth popinjay remark about Hoare's laugh that it 'sounded like one hand clapping.' The concept, especially coming from such a source, had left Hoare bemused for some days.
'He used almost the same words about you, if you'd like to know,' Hoare said. 'In any case, Popham tells me you know the Nine Stones Circle better than most.'
'I'd warrant 'e's right, Captain. It makes for a good place to break up cargo, bein' out in the open as it is, where a man's not easy crept up on. Though it's been known.
' 'Appen Popham will 'a' told you 'ow 'e and his men nabbed me and mine, full fair.'
'He told me he had done so, but not how.'
'Well, 'twere this way. Look 'ere. These crumbs be the stones, see?'
With crumbs, forks, and a saltcellar, Dunaway took Hoare through the moonlit encounter, showing him where the excisemen had lain in wait; how, all unsuspecting, he had led a caravan of laden ponies into the Circle; how the other, smaller caravans he was to meet had arrived; and how, as the work was in full swing, Popham, who had hidden his excisemen in a fold of the down, had sprung the trap on him.
' 'E gathered in most of the goods that time, an' a good half of me boys to boot. 'E be a smart one all right, Popham be, an' he showed it that night. But he never would ha' twigged to us but for a dirty little man what got greedy an' blew the gaff.'
Hoare was not certain he wanted to hear what happened to the greedy little man.
'Mislaid his bollocks, 'e did.' Dunaway fixed Hoare with a meaningful eye. ' 'Is dollymop, what led him astray in the first place, found 'em on 'er doorstep one mornin', stuck in his mouth.
'She weren't 'alf-surprised,' he said in conclusion. 'Picked up and run off to London, I 'ear.'
The greasy potboy made to wipe the Nine Stones Circle away with a grubby cloth, but Hoare forestalled him. 'Will you sketch that out for me?' he asked.
When Dunaway assented, Hoare had the boy bring paper and writing materials. Dunaway laboriously copied his work, his tongue writhing about as he drew, as if he were the child Jenny struggling with forming her letters.
'Tell me,' Hoare asked, 'do you know where I might conceal a party of my men on the way to the Circle-a dozen of them, say?'
Dunaway thought, but not for long.
'Why, yes,' he said. 'I've a barn-a smallish one an' poor, for I farm very little these days-t'other side of my land at Langton Herring. Yer welcome to shelter yer men there, so long as ye'll give me yer word they'll not be used against me or my lads.'
'You have my word once again, Mr. Dunaway,' Hoare replied. 'I still care less than nothing for your men's doings, so long as they do not aid the King's enemies.'
Hoare had Dunaway draw another map.
'When will ye be wantin' the place?'
'There's a difficulty there, sir, for I cannot now say. I may have no word of any doings in the Stone Circle before it's too late to pass you the word…'
Hoare took breath.
'… What then? What if your lads and mine were to find each other there the same night?'
Dunaway chuckled. 'That would make a fair do, wouldn't it, now?'
Again he ruminated, long enough, this time, to empty his tankard.
'Tell ye what. We've a signal. Since yer a master of odd noises, no offense meant, sir-'
'And none taken. So I am, I trust.'
'Well, here 'tis.' Pursing his lips, Dunaway made a rattling sound rather like the call of a corncrake. He made it again, in a higher register. Hoare noticed that the publican's ears seemed to prick up.
'Try it yerself.'
On Hoare's third try, Dunaway deemed him proficient enough.
'Mind you,' he said, 'we change our signal every month or so, lest it leak out to the wrong folk. So ye'll need to pass this way at least that often, as long as yer likely to need it.'
'It will be my pleasure,' said Bartholomew Hoare.
At last, he let the potboy bring a stirrup cup and give rein to his unwonted sense of order by erasing the Circle of crumbs. The stirrup cup drained, the two dissimilar seamen parted with a firm seamanly handshake and what Hoare felt to be a mutual esteem.
Hoare and Thoday dined together, in almost complete companionable silence, at and on the Dish of Sprats. Thoday was unique in Hoare's experience. He was obviously well educated as well as arrogant. Hoare thought him most likely a Papist, which, of course, debarred him from commissioned rank in His Majesty's service. Why had he chosen to enlist? For it was most unlikely that a man of his education, and one of Sir John Fielding's men at that, would have been pressed. Family troubles, perhaps? In any case, Thoday's manner was not one that encouraged intimacy, and besides, it was none of Hoare's business.
Their two rooms at the top of the inn adjoined. Through the thin wall, just as he was composing himself for sleep, Hoare heard the plaintive sound of a violin, expertly and tenderly played. Listening, he drifted off. Tomorrow was Sunday; he would be in Eleanor Graves's company once again.
As Hoare descended the stairs the next morning, Titus Thoday was finishing his breakfast in the inn's common room. Hoare helped himself from the sideboard and joined his colleague.
'Was I dreaming last night, Thoday, or did I hear the sound of a violin coming from your room?'
