to the house at Number 18. We-Mr. Perkins and I-were much annoyed by these who trooped after us, most of them drunk, all of them ill-behaved. Yet far more than we, the horses we led resented their presence-and the mare, led by Mr. Perkins, most of all. She pranced and danced, so that she was difficult even for him to hold. And at one point, she planted her front hooves and kicked back with her rear. Yet she made no contact with man nor woman, which was just as well, for Mr. Perkins had told me that he had known of people who were crippled for life from the kick of a horse.
Mr. Sarton, no doubt troubled by the noise of the crowd, seemed to take a specially long time to unlock the door; he had insisted upon hearing from both his constables before showing his face. When he did, I saw Sir John to his rear, listening closely to all that was said.
And what had been said? Mr. Trotter, the senior constable, stepped forward and gave to Mr. Sarton a full report, including the number captured and the number escaped, and the fact that one of the prisoners had suffered a gunshot wound.
“Well then,” Mr. Sarton had said, ”you must get a surgeon to treat it.”
“Soon as we’ve got them put away at the inn, I’ll send off for Mr. Parker.”
“Yes, the inn,” Mr. Sarton had said in dismay. ”Ah, for a proper jail, eh, Mr. Trotter?”
“Aye, sir. Quite right, sir.”
So it was that Mr. Perkins, as the junior of the Deal constables, came to be chosen to search out and bring the surgeon, Mr. Parker, to the Good King George. They could have chosen better. Though Mr. Perkins was given an address and rough directions, he had not been in the town of Deal for a dozen years or more. He found the place much changed. And I, of course, could be of little assistance, for I was but a visitor.
The address he had been given was one in St. George’s Road. Yet in giving directions, Mr. Trotter carelessly pointed us south instead of north, starting us off in the wrong direction. Thus we began wandering about the town, looking for Mr. Parker’s surgery precisely where it was not.
Mr. Perkins was quite exasperated by the time we had searched near half an hour and found naught nor no one to
show us the way. It was by now far too late to find anyone on the street in that part of town.
“Now, this is damned annoying, Jeremy, old chum,” said he. ”I listened careful to him. I could practically repeat what he told us word for word.”
“Little good it would do,” said I, ”for he clearly misinformed us. You don’t suppose he did it a-purpose, do you?”
“No, not a bit of it. I fear it’s just that our Constable Trotter an’t too bright.”
“We must have walked up and down every street this side of Deal.” I sighed and sought to think of something which might engage him more than my comments upon our fruitless search. Surely there was something I might ask to divert him. Then I remembered the question which had been paramount in my mind when we began this bootless enterprise.
“Mr. Perkins, I’ve a matter at which I’ve wondered ever since you jumped up and ran down that hill of sand and began yelling and shouting at the smugglers down at the water.”
“Well and good,” said he. ”What is it had you wondering?”
“Why did you do it, first of all?”
He chuckled. ”Why indeed,” said he. ”1 daresay you remember my grumbles and my protest to Sir John that the plan they had devised
“I remember. And you did then say you might do a bit of improvising when the time came.”
“So I did. And what did you think of the show I put on?”
“It was quite … quite … impressive. Not something I’ll be likely to forget. How ever did you think of doing that?”
“Back when I was fighting in what they called Pontiac’s War-’twasn’t but an uprising, really, but it had its frights-they’d send us out on picket duty to guard the en-campment. That made for some pretty wild nights because the Chippewas had a practice of sneaking up close as they could, then jumping up and yelling the awfullest war cries, then running at our picket line and throwing one of their hatchets at the handiest target, then disappearing from sight. They didn’t do all that much damage, but they sure scared the devil out of us.”
“So you were trying to scare them?”
“No, more than that. I was trying to catch their attention and keep it. Y’see, those boats on the shore gave our fellows good cover to hide under, but it’s damn difficult to get out from under them. See what I mean? I gave them time to get out from under by getting the attention of the owlers, creating a diversion, y’might say.”
“You certainly did hold them,” said I. ”They stared at you like you were an Indian yourself, just suddenly come to life in Kent.”
He laughed at that. ”Yeah, they did, didn’t they?”
At least I had succeeded in raising his spirits a bit. ”Did the two constables have anything to say about that?” I asked.
“No, but between them they gave me some mighty queer looks.” Again, he laughed, but suddenly he stopped. Clearly, something had occurred to him. ”Jeremy,” said he, ”do you remember the name of that church at the other end of High Street?”
“Well … no, I fear I didn’t give it proper attention.”
“Nor did I, but … could it have been St. George’s?”
“Certainly it could, and St. George’s Road would likely be found near it,” I suggested.
“We can only hope.”
It took us no time to find our way to the church and thus to St. George’s Road. Waking the surgeon, however, was quite another matter. It seemed to take minutes of beating upon the door and calling out his name before his head appeared, thrust out of an upper-story window. There were then more minutes until he appeared dressed, after a fashion, with his bag of tools in hand. As we three walked along swiftly to the inn, we found little to say. The only sound was that of our footsteps upon the cobblestones and the menacing rattle and clank of saws and knives inside the surgeon’s bag.
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?”
