The sound of booming cannon came from a distance, though not a great one, as great fountains of water erupted all round the smugglers’ cutter. That possibility for which I’d hoped had suddenly become a probability! Another barrage from the mystery ship, and it hove into view flashing flame. My wish had been granted, my hope fulfilled: Black Jack Bilbo had made a most dramatic entrance.
“Sir John,” said I, ”I believe it’s Mr. Bilbo come to save us.”
“You believe so, do you? Well, it had better be him and not some other pirate.”
There was a flurry of disordered activity aboard the smugglers’ ship.
Seamen raced about the deck, attempting to weigh anchor while at the same time others were attempting to get off one last shot from their cannon at us up on the hill. Rushed as they were, they aimed false and fired from the trough of a wave, utterly destroying one of the wagons on the beach and wounding, perhaps killing, a number of those who had sought cover behind it.
But now at least the ship was free, anchor aweigh, able to attempt an escape from a larger, potentially faster ship, one that had them outgunned (I later learned) thirteen cannon to seven. It wouldn’t be easy, though it might be possible. The captain of the smugglers’ ship tried a daring maneuver, tacking into a light wind and proceeding parallel to the sandbar. In such a way, he might just manage an escape.
But Mr. Bilbo was not to be so easily outdone. He, too, threw the
An audible groan was heard from the owlers. They had left the shelter of the wagons and lined the beach in order to watch the action in the Channel waters. What were they to do? Must they surrender?
Mr. Bilbo’s
All this I had described to Sir John as it was happening. And at this point I had a surprise for him.
“You may not credit this, Sir John,” said I to him, ”but Lieutenant Tabor is now riding down upon the owlers to demand their surrender.”
“At last, eh?”
“Indeed, he-” I broke off sudden, for I had seen something that disturbed me. ”Sir, the man you told me to watch-the one who was on horseback-he seems to be getting away.”
And indeed he did! He had moved stealthily through the clustered owlers, seeking the darkness at the south end of the beach. He blended in well with the rest. He might well be gone before his absence was noted.
“Then after him, Jeremy,” said Sir John. ”Shoot him in the leg, if necessary, but you must not let him escape!”
That was all that I needed to hear. I was up and over our sand wall and running down the hill of sand so swiftly that it seemed for a moment or two that I must tumble heels over head to the bottom of it. I went fast as I could then, close behind him but aiming at a point ahead where our paths would intersect. He was in no wise capable of besting me in such a footrace. He must have known that, for when I was close, he suddenly stopped, threw back his cape, and drew a pistol. My momentum carried me all too near: He could hardly miss at such a space. What was I to do?
I ducked, scooped up a handful of sand, and threw it in his face just an instant before he fired. Yet in that instant, his hands-including the one which held the pistol-had gone up involuntarily to protect his eyes. The pistol shot sailed above my head.
Before he could recover and perhaps draw another pistol, I had wrestled him down to the sand and was fighting to keep him down. He, on the other hand, was trying with all his might to bring up the empty pistol and knock me unconscious with it. He was no match for me. I pinned his left arm with my right knee, then I used both hands to take the gun from him (easily done: the wrist is the weakest part of the arm). It was mine now to do with what I wished, and what I wished most was for this fellow to stop thrashing beneath me like some wild brute. I beat upon his head with the butt of it until he lost consciousness. At last I could know who he was.
I jerked off his hat, unbuttoned his cape collar, and pulled it down. Who then was revealed? Why none but Sir Simon Grenville, Baronet.
ELEVEN
It seemed that only I was surprised to discover that the man I had picked out as leader of this band of smugglers turned out to be Sir Simon. Certainly I thought he had acted peculiarly from the very beginning. There were so many unexplained mysteries surrounding that house of his that I should have simply guessed that he was the malefactor and kept an eye open for clews and evidence which would support such a supposition. As Sir John might have said to me (though he did not), I had no theory of the case. Why was I so reluctant to suspect Sir Simon? Clarissa did, right enough, as she soon revealed to me. And Molly Sarton was certain that the great landowner meant no good to her or her husband right from the start-and she had known him best and longest. I can only say for myself-not so much in my defense as in explanation-that at that time in my life I was a bit too respectful of tides and of those who displayed the outward signs of wealth. It is a fault which I have since overcome (or pray God I have).
It was Sir John, of course, who explained it all to me, tying together the bits we had learned and seen along the way so that they told a continuous story. This took place after Sir John, as acting magistrate, had devoted a whole day to a single session of the magistrate’s court, which was held for convenience in Deal Castle. All who had been placed under arrest during those two successive nights (with the exception of those subjects of France who were held whilst their status was negotiated) were bound over for trial in London. This was a considerable number, and hearing each man’s statement, managing the paperwork, et cetera, took a considerable amount of time. I could not remember Sir John ever working as hard or as long as he did that day. Yet the dinner prepared for him by Molly Sarton did rouse him from his torpor, and rather than retire immediately thereafter, he chose to sit for a bit in the little room off the hall which Mr. Sarton had called his study. It was there that I approached him. And it was there that I heard his account of events which led up to the battle on Goodwin Sands and began well before our arrival in Deal.
“It all goes back,” said he to me, ”to his second marriage. As I understand from Molly Sarton, the death of the first Lady Grenville came of pneumonia following the coldest and the wettest winter they’ve known here in Kent in many a year. There was one child, a boy named Robert, who boards year-round at the Cathedral school in Canterbury. Somehow, the first Lady Grenville had exercised some restraint over her husband whilst she was alive. Now that she was gone, he was free to pursue a course he had considered, even planned, for years. Not content with the rents he gathered each year from his thousand acres, he wished to take part in the most lucrative trade of all in this region, which is, of course, smuggling. He intended to enter at a high level and organize all under his direction. He would turn a simple trade into an industry.
“How would he go about this? First of all, by marriage. He arranged a match with the daughter of one of France’s oldest families-in the smuggling trade. Marie-Hélène’s family, the Casaleses, had contacts among wine-growers, weavers, lace-makers, tobacco-traders, all of those suppliers of goods which the aristocracy, and the merely prosperous, felt they could not live without. The Casaleses also owned vessels with which they might move their goods across the Channel. It seemed quite like a perfect arrangement-and it might have been, had he not wished to take the matter even further.
“Was there any safe way to engage in the smuggling trade? To be safe-that is, from detection and prosecution? Why yes, if he were the magistrate of Deal, then he would certainly be safe. The only difficulty there was that Deal had a magistrate, old Mr. Kemp, and he could not be persuaded to step down. And so, Sir Simon had him murdered. You know how it was done, Jeremy: Sir Simon appeared at the magistrate’s window in the
