In this rugged stretch of coast he could think of one that stood out from the others, which he knew well – the place he’d landed all those years ago with the young Lieutenant Binney, who’d then travelled overland to Plymouth to discover the truth about the great fleet mutiny.
The lieutenant was native to these parts and, taking a ship’s boat, they had landed unseen, not far from Ivybridge, up from the mouth of the Erme.
It made a great deal of sense: the other two possibilities, Bigbury and the Yealm estuary, were overlooked by villages.
But if the Revenue didn’t want to be involved, who was he to take action? If he were aboard Tyger it would be quite another matter. Could he call out the military? There was an army post at Wembury, he recalled, but files of redcoats, floundering about in the dark, was not the answer.
Just beyond Yealm Head, though, there was a small company of Sea Fencibles. A form of naval militia, they’d been originally created to stand against the waves of Bonaparte’s invasion barges and still remained at their posts, for the threat had not gone away. Consisting of fishermen and others with sea experience, they trained weekly and, for their pains, were protected from impressment.
Chapter 7
The day before the planned run Kydd reconnoitred the area. It all came back: the meandering path through thick woodland to the water’s edge where the rickety landing stage still existed; the Erme river, some hundreds of yards of placid water, with its right-hand bend leading a full two miles further to a bar before the open sea.
Kydd saw how the escapees could be brought down the path and assembled by the landing stage while the man with the spout lantern would stand at its end to sight and bring in the smuggler’s boat.
The next day, as dusk drew in, Kydd had his men in place, well back from the path, out of sight in the undergrowth and armed with cutlass and pistol. The Sea Fencibles lieutenant stood with him. It was a cool evening, still and quiet. The moon would not rise for an hour – at this moment the smuggler would be ghosting inshore to lie off clear of the bar, then getting his boat in the water for the pull up the Erme shallows.
If he was right in his reasoning.
A far-off animal cry startled him but almost immediately his senses came to a full alert. There was movement. He could not hear a thing but he knew in his bowels that somebody was abroad.
His eyes tried to penetrate the gloom: a luminous shimmer was beginning to assert itself, the prelude to moonrise. It would not be long now.
Kydd was just beginning to make out the sky as a loftier glow above the blackness of the earth when a sinister shadow passed noiselessly across his vision, followed by another and then another.
Down at the river there was low murmuring, whispers. He couldn’t make his move just yet – he wanted to take the smugglers as well, and a false move might cause them to scatter and get away.
It was lightening by degrees as the moon began to lift, tingeing leaves with silver, a dancing glitter on the water, and down at the landing stage shadowy figures stood silently. If any of the Fencibles coughed or fidgeted, their quarry would melt into the night.
One of the figures moved out onto the landing stage. He reached the end and lifted the unmistakable spout lantern, carefully aiming it out into the blackness. Kydd tried to follow the direction and, before long, saw a dark blotch intrude on the moon-path. The boat.
Tense, he remained still as it drew nearer, then angled in, direct to the shadowy group. Fingering his boatswain’s call, he waited until a line was thrown ashore when all eyes would be on the boat, then raised it to his lips and gave a fearsome single blast.
After a split second, the scene dissolved into chaos, shouts of rage mingling with whoops of satisfaction, vague shapes barrelling into the undergrowth. To Kydd’s gratification, a hoarse bellow came that he recognised instantly, Tovey the blacksmith roaring into the night that they’d been betrayed and to run for their lives.
In the darkness it was impossible to make out how many they’d succeeded in apprehending. ‘Round ’em up and secure them well,’ he told the lieutenant. ‘I’ll be back.’
Kydd made his way to the Ivybridge smithy, slipped into the workshop and waited. Nearly an hour passed before he heard cautious steps approaching. There was the tap of steel on flint and a lantern threw out a fitful glow, revealing the dishevelled figure of Tovey, who set down the light with a sigh of relief.
‘A shabby night’s work,’ Kydd said, stepping out of the shadows.
Tovey wheeled round, staring at him.
‘Not to say paltry, as you’re all taken up and must suffer at the assizes.’
There was no fear in the man’s eyes, only a calculated wariness.
Kydd was ready for him. Before the big hands closed over a hammer shaft, he brandished a heavy hand mandrel. ‘I’ve downed Frenchies twice your size,’ he said, in measured tones.
‘There’s only the one o’ yez.’
‘For a reason.’
Tovey paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh?’
‘You’re headed for chokey, so your wife and little ones will go on the parish. You’re not a bad ’un and I’d wish it were the other. And I’ve a mind to make it so.’
‘What do ye mean?’
‘I’ll swear that no Frenchy ever stepped into that boat. In the eyes o’ the law it was floating about in the river just at the same time you were taking the evening air. No one can prove you were doing anything else – what the Frenchmen were up to is their business.’
‘Why are doing this’n?’ Tovey said carefully, his voice low. ‘Nothin’ I can do back.’
‘Yes, there is. You’ll swear to me that you’re done with this business for ever and all.’
The blacksmith remained silent.
‘And tell me who’s giving you your orders,’ Kydd added.
Tovey looked away, still saying nothing.
‘Else you bear all the punishment and he gets away with everything. Who says one has to take all the risks and the other none?’
The eyes dropped.
‘Besides which, you tell me and none’s to find who said it, for no one knows you spoke to me, do they?’
Chapter 8
The lieutenant of the Sea Fencibles was exultant. ‘A splendid haul, Sir Thomas. All but one, who got away. We have five absconding French officers and the smugglers – you were right to station the launch and carronade behind Beacon Point. Took the lugger and then-’
‘So you’re now taking your haul in irons to the Wembury garrison?’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Then please to lend me a few men, there’s unfinished business.’
With a petty officer and three others close behind, he hurried through a sleeping, silent Ivybridge until he reached a house at the end of Fore Street, set back from the road. There were lights ablaze inside and Kydd sent a pair of men to the rear.
When they were in position he went to the door and gave a thunderous knock. ‘Open! Open in the name of the King!’
Voices rose in protest and died. He hammered again and the door opened.
‘Mr Morton?’ he said, before the little man could speak. ‘I’m taking you in charge. Aiding and abetting the King’s enemies, a capital felony, sir.’ Kydd was not certain this was true but he needed to bring pressure to bear.
Morton fell back in dismay. ‘Y-you’ve no right to-’
Kydd gave a cynical smile. ‘As squire of Knowle Manor and justice of the peace, I’ve every right. My men will now search your residence. Stand aside, please.’
‘No! You can’t-’
‘Sir, I nabbed this ’un taking a run out the back.’ The petty officer held a sullen-faced man secure, like a press-gang catch.
‘Well, well. I think we’d better have a talk, sir. Inside?’
The furnishing of the drawing room was quite out of keeping with the prospects of a village merchant, and Kydd had no compunction in setting out the man’s probable fate.
‘Sir, you face the full rigour of the law. I cannot hold out hope for you in any wise.’