It took another hour to come to land, by which time it was dark. Not completely, for the clouds had mainly rolled away and the moon, though on the wane, was good. They had seen the lugger go down a long but narrow water that ended, Eaton said, at an old ramshackle shed among the coarse marsh grass, where she would dry out in half an hour so the men could carry the Katharine's goods ashore. He directed them down another, smaller creek they having dropped the sails and masts some time before where they found a small lagoon to tie up in, with a hundred feet of shallow mud to wade through till they hit the hard. They left 'the Rat' Josh Baines to mind the boat and keep her floating by whatever means, in case they had to pull out in a hurry.
To the surprise of Will and Samuel, there was a small town not far away they saw its outskirts as Eaton led them along the marshy tracks he said would take them to the smugglers' landing den. Tom Tilley and Behar looked hungrily towards the outlined buildings, asking if there were taverns they could get a glass at, and showing unafraid when Samuel faced them down. As they got nearer to the shore again all talking died away, and they found themselves an elder clump from which to spy the men who toiled from the building to the lugger and back. Within five minutes they had counted eleven.
"Well, here's a bastard," Sam whispered, cheerily. "That's two to one and extra, and only three of us with guns. Thank God John Behar can use a cutlass and Tom's a giant! I say we pen them in their shelter and let off a shot or two, to make them think we are an army of dragoons. Then Will or me can cover them while you boys tie 'em up. What say you, Mr. Eaton?"
"I say let's give it up," muttered Tilley, through his twisted mouth. "Get to an alehouse and drown out the world. What difference?"
The cunning look on Behar's face got more pronounced, but Will, without a thought, had taken out his pistol. He checked the pan. The boatswain's mate shook his head.
"No shots, sir." A slight grin creased his face. "Whether it's to fear the traders or Behar and Tilley here it would be the end. They go armed for a certainty, and we're much too near the village. One report would be enough if we're unlucky. They're all in it, hereabout, and they're always on the watch. Not only menfolk; the maidens, wives, the children, all. If we can't pen them in without a shot, I say we'd best forget it."
"Hah!" went Tom Tilley, and suddenly stood up, a great grey shape against the moon. As he lumbered forward, driven by his impatience or his thirst, they could see the last man of a line go into the wooden hut, with no one left outside. Sam leapt up to follow, casting a look of exhilaration back across his shoulder.
"Good man!" he hissed. "Will, Behar, Mr. Eaton! Quick we have them caught like rats in traps! But fast!"
They did go fast, but as they neared the hut a young lad who'd been on watch quitted his bush much faster. He swerved like a frightened dog, shouted once, and darted off into the reeds. Behar without a word went after him, his lanky frame crashing through the bushes, his heavy club balanced like a projectile set to be thrown. One of the smugglers appeared in the doorway, but before he could raise the blunderbuss full to his shoulder, the form of Tilley hit him like a ram. The gun went off with an enormous bang and flash, but when the rest of them reached the door Tilley was scrambling to his feet while clawing off the gunman's clinging arms. Two more men leapt at him, while another two with pistols raised them to face off the intruders and a third scrambled through an opening in the rear wall to get into the night.
"Hold in the name of the King!" Sam shouted, levelling his pistol, and a gun in front of them threw a jet of smoke and fire at his face. Just behind him, William was aware that Shockhead Eaton had spun on his feet, assuming with a shock that he'd been hit. Sam had not and nor had he, and before the other man could fire, Tilley was interposed between them, with one of his assailants swinging through the air gripped by the upper arm in an enormous paw. What part of him hit the threatener they could not see, but his long horse-piece flipped above Tilley's head into a corner.
"Tilley! Leave them be!" Will shouted. "They're beaten, man. I have them in my sights!"
"Look out!" roared Holt and thrust him to one side, hard enough to knock him over. As he did so there was a flash and bang in front of Will, at the back window, and he heard a thud behind his head as the ball hit wood. On the instant Sam fired, then dragged his cutlass out while running for the door.
"Eaton should have cleared that up," he said. "Cover them, Will, I'll not be long."
More a case of saving them, at that moment. Tilley had been breaking arms it seemed, for the hut was filled with screaming of an agonising kind. The blunderbuss attacker had definitely been done, his right arm was snapped and angled horribly. The others had been backed into a corner, one crouched over on his knees and keening, the others trying to shield their heads. Tilley had picked up a horse pistol by the barrel and was using it as a hammer. One of the victims had a smashed and bloody face.
"Christ man, stop!" shrieked William, but Tilley did not. Oh Christ, thought Will, I'll have to kill him, too! He had seen this thing before, men blinded with their own rage, or power, or drunkenness of blood. Then the gun in Tilley's hand discharged itself and he hopped backwards like a giant frog with a shout of astonished fright that was almost comical, spinning the hot barrel away from him as if it were alive. He had picked up the wrong one, for a club, and the ball had missed him by a miracle. Not that, in later times, it made him noticeably more devout.
Sam was in the doorway, in the smoke, but he'd missed the comic act. His face was anxious, tight.
"There are horsemen coming. Eaton's disappeared, Behar ditto, and I missed the fellow out the back."
"Eaton? But he's shot."
"He's run. I didn't have him for a coward, neither. Listen. What to do? We haven't any time."
"But who's on horseback? It may be the militia."
"Aye shit, and so it may!" It was Tom Tilley, apparently in anger. "Well I'm off, then! Shockhead said we'd get a drink, the bastard!"
In the time it took to reach the door, he'd gone. Will looked after him with an open mouth, amazed.
"Muzzle up," said Sam, almost gently, touching Will's firearm. "If you hit the floor, we're both dead men."
The free traders, in the hiatus, had seized the opportunity to edge apart. Even the bloody one had a sardonic face.
"You'd better shoot one," Sam said, not meaning it, Will guessed. But no, thought Will, not in cold blood. I never, ever, will do that.
"Should we go?" he said.
Samuel shook his head. They could hear hooves drumming. They could feel them through the earth. The smugglers who weren't in agony were almost smiling.
"We'd better take pot luck," he said.
Seventeen
Unlike young Cecily, whose mouth healed rapidly, Mistress Wimbarton suffered a putrefaction that starting slowly seemed set to reach a gallop. Throughout the time her features, unlike Cecily's, were full and uncollapsed, but the very fullness became a horror to her as soft tissue swelled and brightened to a smarting glossy red. By the sixth day after her operation, when she called her husband in, she was in constant pain (beyond the agony of mind), and stank of dying flesh. When he had gone, to set the hunters on for Marcus Dennett, she called for water and a bowl from Dorothy, and spat out seven teeth, all pretence forgotten.