It should be evident from what I have written thus far that I was uneasy and somewhat agitated regarding that which lay ahead. What I felt was not so much fear as it was a heightening of the emotions, a quickening of the pulse, as I prepared myself for battle-or so I told myself. In any case, the slow pace of the horses pulling the hackney in no wise matched the racing of my heart. Oh, how I wished Mr. Crawly would drive the horses faster! Yet he had said as we began our journey that it would be best to go slowly, so as not to attract attention so late at night. All that was understood and agreed upon, yet now that we were beyond the town, must they plod as old plow horses? Unbeknownst to me and unintended, my left foot had been tapping at a quick, steady pace upon the floor of the coach. Indeed I knew not how long it had done so, for it seemed to have a will and a mind of its own. I was only made aware when Sir John placed his hand upon my knee until my foot was still, then put a finger to his lips, asking for silence. The three constables were quiet as could be. Mr. Perkins and Mr. Bailey, who sat across from us, rode along, bouncing and jostling with the movement of the coach. Their eyes were shut so that I supposed them to be nodding with sleep. But could they be praying?
At last we did reach the crossroads which Mr. Crawly had designated as the most likely spot to halt the owlers’ caravan. I had to admit that it was well chosen. There, two country roads merged into a single high road which led northward to London. We climbed down from the coach, taking with us the musketry and cutlery which had been on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. In addition, each of us, except Sir John, wore a brace of pistols and carried powder and shot enough for a sustained battle. Once the coach was positioned well across the London road, Mr. Crawly, aided by Mr. Perkins, unhitched the team of horses and led them behind a copse of trees, to give them fair protection when the bullets began flying. Mr. Crawly and Sir John would remain there with them. Mr. Bailey took a place in good cover about three or four rods down the road where the owlers were expected to appear. Mr. Perkins took another on the other side of the same road about three rods beyond that. That left Mr. Patley and I to establish our position upon the roof of the coach. In a way, we were quite exposed. Because of that, we prepared a barricade there atop the coach-Sir John’s portmanteau and my valise, each stuffed with bits and pieces of heavy clothing. In addition, there were two cloth bags filled to bursting with sand; these had been supplied by Mr. Crawly. We were to lie behind them. Constable Patley was to do the shooting with the two guns we held between us, and I the loading. I had practiced it in a prone position with him until I managed to do it (an accomplishment in itself, it seemed to me) in about half a minute. Try as I might, I seemed unable to manage it any faster. One of these weapons was his alone-a musket with a rifled barrel, with which, according to Mr. Bailey and others, Patley could hit a target a hundred rods distant. It took a bit of doing for us to establish ourselves, and for that matter, we two were the last to settle into position, but eventually we were also ready. We had planned for a three-wagon train. Mr. Patley and I would be responsible for the first of them, Mr. Bailey for the second, and Mr. Perkins for the third; if there were a fourth or even a fifth, it would be the responsibility of the King’s Carabineers. We felt we were ready for them.
We waited. Time passed slowly, so slowly that it seemed a very eternity since we had taken our positions. I wondered at that.
“Have you some idea of the time?” I asked Mr. Patley in a whisper.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said he. ”I’d judge it to be about half past midnight, give or take a bit.”
“Only that?”
“Well, let’s see what my timepiece says.” All the Bow Street Runners carried them as necessary equipment.
He rolled over upon his side and fished out of his waistcoat pocket a fat watch of German make. It opened with a button spring. He held it up and looked at it closely by the light of the moon.
“I misjudged by ten minutes,” said he. ”I have it here as twenty minutes to one in the ay-em. Keeps good time. Should be right.”
I nodded, shifted my position, and waited longer. The moon was nearly full and very bright. In the gap between my valise and one of the sandbags, I looked down the road upon which the wagons were expected to come and was surprised at the clear detail I saw in the scene before me. Each bush, rock, and tree stood out as if in the clear light of day. In a sense, there was not much to see, for the road curved out of sight only about ten rods, or perhaps a little less, from where we were positioned.
“You’ll hear them before you see them,” said Patley.
“What will they-”
”Shhh! Listen! Here they come.”
I attended closely but heard nothing-nothing, that is, of hoofbeats and creaking wheels; I caught only the sounds of the night-the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees, the call of an owl. Were Mr. Patley’s ears so much sharper than mine?
Evidently they were, for in about a minute’s time there came the sound of voices. I had not expected that. Perhaps I had thought the smugglers would be as silent as we. They were not. There was shouting and raucous laughter coming from beyond the bend in the road. I suspected that they had got at the brandy they were hauling and drunk deep of it. They must have contemplated the journey to London as one long drunken ramble.
Thus did they come. Just as the first wagon appeared, one who rode in it burst into song, and two or three of the celebrants joined him. I did not know the ditty, nor could I quite make out the words to it, but it had the sound of a sea shanty, or some sort of drinking song.
It was remarkable to me how close they came to us before noticing that there was something amiss. The fourth and last of the wagons had just appeared at the bend when the first of them at last pulled up no more than ten yards distant from us. It was close enough, in any case, so that I could tell that indeed there was something out of the ordinary about this wagon and team which led the smugglers’ caravan. It was filled not with goods but with men-armed men, whose assigned task it was to protect the three wagons behind them. This they might have done well enough had they been sober, for indeed they outnumbered us four and were heavily armed. Nevertheless, their condition had the effect of making our respective circumstances even. And after all, we would soon have the cavalry galloping to our aid, would we not?
The first wagon had come to a halt so close to our team-less hackney that we could hear its occupants discuss this peculiar situation as they might a felled tree in their path or a flooded river.
“Here, now,” said the driver, who seemed the most sober of all, ”what’s this large thing blockin’ our way? Looks like a coach, so it does.”
“Where?”
“Let’s see.”
“Right up yonder it is.”
“I be damned if you an’t right. It does look like a coach for fair, don’t it?”
By then, all in the wagon were up from the wagon bed and looking at the hackney. One or two had bottles in hand, others pistols; some simply stood empty-handed and stared. There was general agreement among them that what stood before them, blocking their way, was a coach.
“But where’s the team of horses that brought it there? How did it get there?”
“And why did they leave it-that’s what I’d like to know.”
“Well, I’d like to know, too,” said the driver in a manner which seemed to be intended to put an end to such useless commentary. ”But one thing I’m certain about. A couple of you-or maybe it’ll take four-better climb down and move that thing because I can’t get around it on either side. Trees are too thick and close to the road. Just push it over into the ditch, which is where it ought to be anyways.”
The six or eight in the wagon set to arguing amongst themselves as to which of them were to push our hackney off the road. Having worked it out at last amongst themselves, the designated four clambered down from the wagon. Just at that moment a voice sounded forth deep and loud from among the trees; we recognized it in an instant as Sir John’s.
“I am Sir John Fielding. I hold an appointment as magistrate of Deal. I order you to lay down your arms and climb down from your wagons with your hands raised, for you are all under arrest by my order. If you resist, or attempt to flee, you will be shot dead. This is your one and final order.”
The driver of the wagon jumped down immediately and threw his hands up into the air. The four, who were at that moment the most exposed, looked wildly about. The others stood rooted in the wagon.
“Who was it? The magistrate? I thought he was kilt.”
“Where’d that voice come from?”
“That copse of trees behind the coach.”
