"Judges?" said William. "But surely .. ."
He stopped. There was a silence. Sam scratched the stubble on his chin, quite noisily. He had a fierce black whisker growth, and it was many hours since they had shaved.
"A necessary trade," he said, musingly. "Aye, there's truth in that if not merit, I suppose. Yes judges, Will, and merchants, bishops, Navy officers. Kaye gives smugglers the clearest of clear berths, and it's not just because he likes to drink cheap tea, I fear. This eastern part's too close, too near the Lowlands and the enemy, the trade is ruthless, dangerous, it's protected by the great. If that is not the case in Hampshire, then God preserve it so!"
Will did not know, that was the truth of it. In the part of Hampshire where he lived smugglers had been hanged, but the tales `?.7/' of violence chap men told, or balladeers, tended to come from farther east. He could recall one Customs rider murdered in a churchyard by the sea, but that was a song from long ago, when he had been a child. Broad had not been a violent man, far from it, but surely, if he'd been set upon by officers on land he would have fought, and killed to get away.
"He had a wife and baby child," he said. It was sudden, he had not intended it. Sam cocked his head, no expression on his face, and waited. The opportunity was made for Will to stop. Will sighed.
"I went there once. After Broad was hanged, long afterwards. That was his name," he said. "I went to the place he came from, he and his friend Hardman, who also died. It is a little place, a hamlet at the head of Langstone Haven, I sail the waters in my yawl. I beached there once to mend my rigging."
"By God," said Sam. "What happened? Would not the men have set on you, alone, a Navy officer?"
"No men," said Will. "Just women and small ones. I thought I saw his wife, but I could only guess at that. Fair, and in her twenties, with a boy. The men were ... out fishing, maybe? Or maybe decimated. It was very poor."
"Or out upon the trade!" said Sam, jocularly. "Well, I think you're brave, or else foolhardy. You did not speak? Make yourself known? Perish the thought, I guess, an officer from off the Welfare."
Perish the thought indeed. He had not been an officer by then, at least an active one, for many many months. He did not even know if Broad's existence on the Welfare or his fate as mutineer had been brought to the knowledge of his wife and home. But if any rumours had filtered from the prison hulks he had no doubt they would have blackened him, to hell and further. No one had spoken out for Broad at the court martial, not him, not anyone. That was still in him; deep hidden, but a burning, bitter shame.
"They would not have known me as an officer," was all he said. "I sail not dressed even as a gentleman, I was just a youth. But I did not speak to them."
"And was she very fair?" asked Sam, shifting on the stone step they sat on. "Christ, my bum is sore! Too fair to be a blackguard, is that the root of it! I'll say this, Will, for a chap with such a not-melt-butter look, you have a great eye for the sex! I'd drink to Deborah right now!"
There was nothing Holt would not jest about, however inappropriate, but to Will's surprise this one struck a target in him. He saw Deb in his mind, clear as a picture, first naked then as if he'd censored it dressed in her simple bedroom garb. The pang was fresh and sharp as ever, he ached for her. God, days only but it felt like a year. He'd had his chance and missed it, when might it come again, if ever? They were in a dungeon now, and very far from the Biter, London never mind. To Will, she seemed to fade away, still beckoning. But the hurt was vivid as a knife.
"Talking of blackguards," he said, as if to tear his mind away from her, "what of Mr. Eaton and our gallant boys? That old man on the Katharine called us worse than smugglers, and true it is that lot stood firm together when the game was on. I expected nothing of Tilley and Behar, I suppose, but Eaton is a warrant officer. I thought he had been shot, but he was running! If we had died, it would have been his fault."
The candle end was guttering, but neither of them had thought to put it out. Seeing it flutter to a close made them wistful. Sam's attempt at heart came rather hollow.
"You cannot blame them, when there was a drink about. Blood, Will, they are British seamen! As to Eaton, I'm as lost as you are, I confess it. I've always known him as a fiery little beast. Tom Tilley mentioned drink though, and Shockhead as a part of the same gabble, so maybe Mr. Boatswain's Mate's a slave to it and something was set up. That candle's going soon. Feared of the dark, are you?"
When it was dark, they both lay on the earthen floor to ease their bones, having eased their bladders, reluctantly, into a corner of their not-extensive quarters. Sam talked of drink and maidens for some while, but William made few replies, despite he examined Deborah from every angle in his head for many minutes. He decided, sensibly but with reluctance, that he would never see her again, and convinced himself that he would learn to live with it, it being, after all, an outcome that would greatly please his mother if she ever got to hear of it. Then, deciding he was half delirious or mad, he turned to much more earthy things, like what if Sam were wrong, and they were hanged as would-be murderers? From there to that young officer, shot dead on Katharine by Slack Dickie Kaye. He would have liked to ask Sam's thoughts on that, and if there was likely any chance the law would question their captain on that act, unexplained and inexplicable. But he knew the answer anyway, and Sam might be asleep. He saw Kaye with the pistol's action covered with his hand, and saw his look and heard his voice. The Press was hated worse than any smugglers. He knew the reason why.
He must have slept, because he was awoken with a shock. He was in a black hole, the deck not planks but earth, the smell not He was awake! There was a spill of light at the edge of the door, a man's face peering round. Beside him Sam jerked upright with a gasp, twisted his head, then blinked in a flash of lantern light. A voice then, rough and jovial. A voice they recognised.
"Rouse out, rouse out, sirs! Soon be cock-crow and we've far to go!"
"Bastard!" said Samuel, in complete surprise. "Mr. Eaton, what do you here? We've marked you for a rogue, a bastard, a coward and a poltroon!"
The face beneath the red mop creased in smiles.
"The others would have left you, sirs," he said. "I had to knock Tilley down, which I trust you will remember if my pension's in dispute! Thank God he'd drunk three bottles or he'd've broke my bleeding back. Come on quick, before they kill some bugger else."
"What?" said Sam. "Are they here? Jesus, I'll never have the measure of these men. Did they not run, then? And you? What happened?"
There were noises up above them, some crashes, then a door slamming. Eaton turned, glanced back, then led them off across the outer cellar.
"Oh they ran," he said, 'but not for badness, just for drink, I guess. No, Behar chased the guarding boy then lost him, then Tilley heard you say I'd gone, he says."
"I did," said Sam. "You had, for Christ's sake! Come on, Shock-head, admit it was a ruse!"
Eaton did not deny it, but his face was jovial in the lantern light. He hushed them when they reached the st airhead and all three peered down along the passage to the front door. It was hanging open, despite they'd heard it slam seconds before.