“I shouldn’t worry,” said Hugo, with only the most cursory glance at the damaged boot. “I daresay Polyphant will know what to do. Can we get into this place?”
“No, we can’t, and as for not worrying, anyone can see you wouldn’t, but I’ll have you to know—” He stopped, suddenly, and, as Hugo turned his head to look enquiringly at him, ejaculated in an altered tone: “By Jupiter, I believe that’s—No, it ain’t, though!—Yes, by Jupiter, it is!”
With this disjointed utterance he made his way across the street, sweeping off his hat, and executing a superb bow to a blushing damsel in a print dress, and a straw bonnet tied over a mop of yellow curls, who was coming down the street with a basket over one mittened arm. “La, Mr. Darracott, to think of meeting you!” she said coyly, dropping him a curtsy. “And me on my way to the chandler’s, never dreaming you was in the town! Well, I do declare!”
“Allow me to carry your basket!” begged Claud gallantly.
“How can you, Mr. Darracott? As though I’d think of such a thing!”
“At least you won’t refuse me the pleasure of escorting you!” said Claud.
Perceiving that the lady had no intention of refusing him this pleasure, the Major seized the opportunity to make good his escape, tolerably confident that Claud would be happily engaged in flirtation for some time to come. The yellow-haired charmer spoke in far from refined accents, but the Major felt no surprise at his elegant cousin’s effusive behaviour, for he had discovered Claud two days previously, trysting with the blacksmith’s pretty daughter. Claud’s disposition was mildly amorous, but as he was terrified of falling a victim to a matchmaking mama, he rarely attempted to flirt with girls of his own order, indulging instead in a form of innocuous dalliance (which made his more robust brother feel very unwell) with chambermaids, milliners’ apprentices, village maidens, or, in fact, any personable young female of humble origin who was ready to encourage his attentions without for a moment imagining that those were serious.
So the Major deserted him with a clear conscience, and explored the town by himself. At the end of Watchbell Street he fell into conversation with a venerable citizen, who gave him much interesting information about Rye’s history, not all of which was apocryphal, and directed him to the Flushing Inn, which was the scene of the murderous butcher’s last drink before his execution. The Major thanked him, but preferred to visit the church, after which he wandered on until he found himself at the end of the town, in front of the ancient Ypres Tower, which provided Rye with its jail. Close by it the town-wall had been breached to allow those wishing to reach the quay below to do so by way of the Baddyng Steps. The Major walked towards the steps, and reached them just as Lieutenant Ottershaw arrived, somewhat out of breath, at the top of them.
The Lieutenant stared for a moment, and then saluted the Major, who greeted him pleasantly, and said, looking over the low wall at the precipitous slope of the hilclass="underline" “A stiff climb!”
The Lieutenant agreed to this monosyllabically, and hesitated, as though he were in two minds whether to continue on his way, or to linger. Hugo settled the matter for him by nodding towards the rugged jail, and saying: “I take it that must have been a mediaeval Martello Tower. I’ve been talking to one of the inhabitants of the town, and from what I could gather—but my ear’s not used yet to the Sussex tongue!—the Frogs made a habit of raiding Rye.”
“Yes, sir, I believe they did land here on more than one occasion. Is it your first visit?”
“Ay, it is. I was never in Sussex, think on, before I came to stay with my grandfather. I don’t know Kent either, beyond what I saw when I was at Shorncliffe, and that wasn’t much. Are you a native of these parts?”
“No, sir. I was born in London, but my father’s people were from Yorkshire,” disclosed the Lieutenant.
“No, is that so? Ee, lad, that’s gradely! Is ta from t’West Riding?” exclaimed Hugo broadly.
The Lieutenant’s severe countenance relaxed into a reluctant grin. “No, sir—North Riding, not far from York. I was never in Yorkshire myself, though.”
Hugo shook his head over this, and by dint of a few friendly questions succeeded in thawing some of the ice in which the Riding officer seemed to wish to encase himself. Ottershaw ventured, in his turn, to enquire after Hugo’s military service; and in a very short while had relaxed sufficiently to perch beside him on the wall, listening with keen interest to what he had to say about the war in the Peninsula, and allowing himself to be beguiled into talking a little about his own career. It was evident that he had chosen his profession as the next best to joining the army; he spoke of it in a defensive manner, as though he suspected Hugo of despising it; whereupon Hugo said, with his slow smile: “From all I can discover, yours is a harder job than any I ever met with, and a thankless one, too.”
Ottershaw gave a short laugh. “It’s thankless enough! I don’t care for that, but these people—in Kent and Sussex both: there’s nothing to choose between ’em!—well, sir, they say Cornish folk are double-faced, but I’ll swear they’re nothing to what I’ve met with here! You saw that barrel-bellied fellow who doffed his hat to me a minute ago, and smiled all over his oily face? To hear him talk you’d think he ought to have been a Preventive himself, while as for the way he begs me to come and take my pot-luck at his house whenever I choose—” He broke off, his jaw hardening. “One of these days that’s what I will do—when I’m sure I’ll find pot-luck there!” he said. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a tavern down there, on the quay—the Ypres: I was coming away from it when I met you. I know it’s a smugglers’ haunt, and I’ll take my affidavit there’s no one they want to see inside it less than me, but I’ve never been there yet but what the rascally ale-draper that owns it is all smiles and welcome! He thinks he’s tipping me a rise, but I’ll catch him redhanded if it’s the last thing I do! I’ll tell you this, sir: the whole town’s abandoned to smuggling! Ay, and the Mayor, and the , winking at what goes on under their noses!”
“Where does the stuff come from?” asked the Major.
Ottershaw shrugged. “Most of it from Guernsey: that’s the biggest entrepôt; but some of it is run straight over from roundabout Calais.”
“Don’t they get intercepted at sea?”
“Sometimes, but, to make the naval patrol effective, double—three times!—the number of vessels is needed. Even then—with the whole coast to be watched, and the tricks that are employed being past counting—I doubt if it could be done. It’s not only a matter of false bulkheads, and suchlike, sir. There’s no question but that the smuggling craft slip through time and again because they get signals warning them where there’s a Revenue cruiser or a sloop lurking, from vessels no one would suspect.” He nodded to where a fishing smack was drawing clear of the harbour. “That craft, for instance. She may be innocent, but the chances are that if she sights a patrol-boat some damned hoverer will have her bearings before nightfall.” He paused, as though deliberating, and then said: “You can’t signal every craft you see to heave-to, sir, let alone board them. People don’t like it—very naturally, if they’re going about an honest business, such as that smack out there may be, or perhaps cruising for pleasure, as Mr. Richmond Darracott does.”
“They wouldn’t, of course,” agreed the Major.
“However, there’s one thing you can be sure of,” said Ottershaw. “The blockade’s in charge of a man who means to stamp out smuggling, no matter how many people he offends. Ay, and so does the Government! Time was when they were pretty lukewarm in London, but since the war ended there’s been so much smuggling done that if it isn’t stopped things will get to be as bad as ever they were when the Hawkhurst Gang was ruling Sussex. That’s something that those who protect the Gentlemen, as they call them, maybe don’t realize, but it’ll be as well for them—and I name no names!—if they—”