Race Before the Wind

Copyright © Jill Salkeld 1988

Part Two: 1816-1822

The Venturer's Agent

Chapter Six

They rode out at noon, slightly hungover and not too wideawake. Escapade had not reached Lymington until dawn.

Before they had gone a mile,Tom was reassured on one point. However little time Louisa Fordyce had spent in the saddle lately, she was more at home there than Sophie. Gaspard's wife had a deep mistrust of horses, and Tom suspected that she had only come in the hope of playing matchmaker.

They galloped across heathland aflame with gorse, taking care to avoid the bogs, and then down into damp woodland. Tom was riding Conqueror, bought from Gaspard the previous year, and he and Louisa left the others far behind.

"Shouldn't we....don't you think we should wait?" the girl asked.

"We'll explore, then, while they catch us up."

They led the horses to a river shaded by beeches, with great knotted roots groping the banks. There was a grassy place, smooth and springy with moss, and Tom threw himself down, leaning on one elbow and beckoning. Louisa knelt, cautiously in her best riding habit, aware that the grass was damp and would probably stain.

"There", he said, turning to point down into the sundappled water. "See the fish?"

They were only minnows; a flickering, darting shoal. Louisa smiled, enchanted; until he grabbed her arm, squinting intently upriver, compelling her attention. Louisa glimpsed a dark, sleek back, streaming ripples, before the animal swam out of sight.

Tom turned over and gazed up into the maze of young leaves, hands clasped behind his head. "Otter," he said, with satisfaction. "First one I've seen in years."

Studying him shyly, Louisa thought how extraordinarily brown he was, darkly tanned by hours at sea in wind and April sun. She knew very little about him; although for two years he had inhabited her dreams, cast as the hero in every novel she had read.

Gathering all her courage, she said, "Sophie told me....last night....that your mother died, the day you came to Lymington. Is your father dead, too?"

"Mm. Four years last February. Seems longer."

"You're an only child, like me, Sophie says."

He turned his face towards her, drowsily amused. "Sophie has been very talkative."

Louisa felt her cheeks burning. "I'm sorry - I did not know you would mind, it was just -"

"That you're a busybody," he said, grinning, "like the rest of us. "Don't look so stricken, Miss Fordyce, I don't care what you ask me. Besides, I've heard a bit about you, now and then, from Eddie Verity. Might as well even the score. What d'you want to know, then?"

"Well......everything."

He clapped a hand dramatically over his eyes, then parted the fingers cautiously. A blue eye glimmered. "My child", he said piously, "Think what happened to Eve."

But he did tell her, in the end; the barest facts, flippant and unembellished. Louisa had heard of his broken engagement, of course, jilted bridegrooms being a rare treat for the gossipmongers. The news had lent a pale gleam of hope to her lonely existence; but inwardly she had condemned Miss Tandy, who she had never met. The passage of time had not altered that opinion.

Louisa was not yet practised at concealing her thoughts, Tom said, frowning, "Listen, you mustn't think badly of Jess. I don't know how she put up with me for so long."

"I don't believe," Louisa murmured, "that you could be unkind to anyone."

"Oh, Miss Fordyce." His voice held reproach, regret, a touch of irony. He sat up, hugging his knees. "So smugglers are not heroes any more. Just saints."

Louisa was silent, not knowing how to reply.

"Jess....Miss Tandy and I were partners," he said, "until I lost faith in the 'marriage of true minds', Wiser than Shakespeare - how's that for arrogance, eh?"

Louisa was not sure that she understood him; but she thought her heart must break with knowing that he loved Miss Tandy still.

"Well," he said, with a grin to dismiss the past, "So much for my sins. Do you like forest rides, Miss Fordyce, or would you rather be at home reading The Mysteries of Udolpho?"

"No," she said, blushing helplessly. "I would rather be here, sir, with you."

The look in the girl's eyes gave Tom a severe jolt. Met at last by Gaspard and Sophie, he made certain not to wander off alone with Louisa Fordyce again. It would not do to let her imagine any romantic inclinations of his part.

And yet, riding home that evening, he felt a sense of achievement; for he and the Vaillants had begun to show Miss Fordyce that real life need not always be lonely, dull or cruel. She would not be so shy with them, next time.

Gaspard, heavily involved in his new business venture, could not give much time to chaperoning Louisa Fordyce; but Sophie was glad to oblige, delegating the care of Raoul to her mother-in-law and a nanny. As a result, Tom saw the girl every fortnight or so, taking pleasure in the gradual change in her; the awakening of self-confidence, as Louisa found that neither he nor Sophie Vaillant would scorn her opinions or treat her with contempt.

The three of them sailed to Yarmouth once, on the packet-boat, for this was the closes Isle of Wight town to Lymington. Louisa, leaning on the guardrail to watch a distant fleet of yachts, confessed to a secret terror of the sea.

"No shame in that," said Tom. "She commands respect, that's for sure."

"We are all afraid of something," said Sophie.

"But such power.....and you all love her so much. I've seen it in your eyes, Mr. Elderfield, when you turn your face to the wind and say, "We'll have a rough crossing tonight,' or 'the breeze is set fair for Vigilant, and if this weather holds it'll be the worse for us.' The sea and the weather govern your lives."

He nodded, thinking of Jessica. Perhaps Louisa Fordyce was right; perhaps a man who lived by the sea's bounty was never free of her, but was shackled as securely as any land-bound farmer to a domineering wife.

"What governs our lives is the Government," he said wryly. "The Navy is releasing God knows how many warships to stamp out smuggling for good. The garrisons aren't in venturers' pay these days. Hurst was taken over by coast guards who couldn't be bribed, even before I moved down here."

"If the Free Trade dies, whatever will become of you?"

"Well, fashionable folk have started coming here for entertainment and the good of their health, what with the spas and bathing machines, and the Regent joining the Yacht Club. There's talk, too, of a steamboat company to compete with the Southampton sailing packets. Plenty of opportunities for seamen. Don't you worry, Miss Fordyce, I won't starve."

"No, indeed," put in Sophie, with caustic humour. "Be assured, Louisa, here is a rogue who will set a course for the sunrise."

"No," he said, laughing. "One has to move with the times, that's all."

Louisa seemed relieved, and Tom was amused, as often before, by her ambivalent attitude. She took delight in being acquainted with a high-ranking smuggler, but hated to think he might go on risking his life indefinitely - or until he lost it. Her parents' view was in a way similar. Walter Fordyce bowed to his wife's judgement, and that lady wanted to see her daughter married to a man of ambition, who might advance the family's position in society. Elizabeth Fordyce would overlook the means by which Mr. Elderfield was making a fortune and a name. Venturers' agents had, in the past, become venturers themselves, and influential in the community.

Tom could not bring himself to make allowances for Mrs. Fordyce. H was embarrassed by her habit of flirting with him, in front of her husband and daughter. It appeared that, having married a man of independent means, some twenty years older than herself, Elizabeth Fordyce needed constant reassurance that she was still attractive to younger men.

Clearly she was jealous of Louisa, and resented having to be seen in public with a grown-up daughter. Tom gritted his teeth, was unfailingly polite, and concentrated on showing Louisa that she was worthy of someone's regard, whatever her mother might say or do.

At sea, he was obliged to forget the girl's troubles. The Revenue Service was trouble enough. Summer arrived, yet the smuggling runs continued. Short, moonlit nights, calm seas, soft breezes; all were guaranteed to help the men of Hurst garrison, and the look-outs aboard Vigilant and Rose, Hicks was under pressure from Jack Bezant and Gospel Deacon to maintain a year-round service; for since the arrests and the clash with Vigilant, Nell's cellar, full of 'dosed' liquor, had been raided. The old woman had pleaded senile ignorance, and been let off with a warning; but the wages of the beachmaster and all four skippers varied according to the profits. Tom had noted before that Hicks seemed half afraid of Bezant and Deacon. A compromise has been reached; the ships would operate throughout the summer, but not as a convoy to attract unwelcome attention. The cannons of Bold Intent were obsolete; pitched sea battles belonged to the vanished Golden Age, and could only enrage the new breed of coastguards, Preventive men and judges.

At two o'clock one June morning, in dense fog, Marshlight crept past the Needles without a glimpse of the lighthouse. Sliding in towards Pennington Creek, none of the crew had seen Bezant's signal; but the coast was clear, the gigs launched and waiting. The beachmaster had not let them down. Marshlight's anchor chain was let out quietly, muffled with rags. The men whispered, aware of how their voices might carry through the fog. Tom moved among them, softly giving commands.

"Cargo at the ready. Gigs on port bow, two hundred yards."

The tiny craft came alongside. The goods were passed down from hand to hand, the operation smooth and hushed. For men used to winter storms, this was a picnic by comparison.

As the gigs made their second trip ashore, the fog began rolling gently away eastward, the sky brightening towards dawn. The sea was flat calm, reflective as a lake. The lugger was as exposed as a fly crawling on a window pane.

It was Jem Lomer who spotted Vigilant sailing from behind Hurst Spit. The tubmen had seen her, too; but they were already beached. Only Marshlight, with a third of illicit cargo still on board, was in danger. The Excisemen knew their quarry; they only wanted evidence.

Tom rapped out orders, swiftly obeyed. Marshlight weighed anchor and trimmed her sails for Lymington - but there was no hope of outrunning Vigilant. The flood-tide through the Hurst bottleneck carried her towards them at four knots, with the merest breath of wind.

Tom spoke softly to his crew. "Jettison cargo. On the lee side, where you won't be seen. Use lead ballast if there's time." He glanced up at the hollow spars, now stuffed full. "Forget the tobacco. They won't find that."

Working with his men, Tom did not notice at first that Trekker was missing. The discovery surprised him, for Eddie Verity was no shirker. He looked up - and saw his friend standing in the bows, gazing back at Vigilant.

Tom strolled casually across to him. "We need another pair of hands," he said.

Eddie Verity chewed at his lip. "You be a first offender, in the eyes o' law. I got six months afore. What d'you think What do' you think he'll be, for this? Transportation?"

"Not if we get the cargo overboard."

"No time to weight he. They'll see the stuff floating, add two and two. They'll take I away from Marshlight.... from all this." He looked at Tom with haunted eyes. "I hate gaols."

The captain of Vigilant, within hailing distance now, shouted, "In the king's name...." And Tom glanced at the advancing ship. Eddie Verity vaulted over the rail and into the tranquil sea.

Tom whipped round, but too late. On Vigilant a man yelled in anger and frustration, sure of the crew's guilt, "Sit-in the water - look there!" Several muskets were raised.

Tom shouted, "We're not your prisoners. Hold fire! Hold fire!"

His words were drowned in a volley of musket fire - aimed not at Marshlight; but at the young man swimming strongly for the beach. The smugglers heard no cry; but they saw Trekker fling up an arm in dreadful parody of a carefree farewell, before he sank beneath the calm surface. Aboard both ships, there was a moment's tense silence. Vigilant's captain had a hand across the muzzle of his lieutenant's gun, as if regretting the command to fire on an unarmed and possibly innocent man.

Into the hush, Tom said loudly, "Search my ship, and welcome!" Then he dived overboard and struck out for the place where Trekker Verity had disappeared.

This time, no gunfire. The captain, it seemed, was unwilling to repeat his initial mistake. Easier to justify one murder than two, maybe. Tom was too anxious about Trekker to feel more than fleeting relief.

The jettisoned barrels, designed with air pockets and false bottoms, to enable them to float behind a gig, bumped against him' the linking ropes tangling with his legs. He paused to tread water, yelling hoarsely, "Trekker!"

Twenty yards away, a hand clawed the top of a keg, and slid helplessly out of sight.

Within seconds Tom reached the barrel, and dragged at the limp figure clinging to a section of rope below the surface. Eddie Verity lay face down, only his shoulders and the back of his head visible. "Trekker, help yourself, for Christ's sake...."

No reaction; but when Tom pulled his friend's head up, Trekker gave a choking cry of pain and started swearing and coughing up salt water.

"Where are you hit?" Tom asked urgently.

"Straight...through the heart," said Trekker, vaguely indicating a ragged hole in his jerkin, above the left breast. "Mortal."

"Doubt it," said Tom; but the position of the wound worried him a great deal. "Reckon you can swim?"

"Not...to bloody Marshlight."

"No. To West Mills. Come on, mate, it's not far."

It took half an hour, with Tom doing most of the work, before they staggered up the beach at last and collapsed on the shingle. Trekker lay like a dead man. Tom, panting for breath, dragged at his arm.

"Come on. Just over the bank. No distance."

By the time they reached the cottage. Trekker seemed barely conscious; but having been dropped on to his own creaking mattress he revived to some extent.

"We be rats, " he said groggily, deserting the sinking ship."

"No solid evidence. The tide will take the kegs." Tom's hands were busy, ripping his friend's shirt to expose the wound. "If there's trouble for the men. I'll sort it out. The Excisemen might be interested in whether you're dead though, and what sort of guilty conscience made you jump ship like an idiot."

"D'you think.....the others'll tell my name?"

"Your name's Trekker. They'll look innocent, and say they never heard you called anything else. Long live nicknames."

He rolled the remains of the shirt into a wad, and gingerly nipped the area above the hole where the ball had entered. The wound was still seeping thinly.

"You must have lost a fair amount of blood," he said, "but it looks as if the ball has gone in slantwise, and lodged up by your collar-bone. That accounts for you not being dead."

Trekker squinted downwards. "Can you dig he out?"

Tom paused. "Do you really want me to try?"

"You ain't fetching no quack. I'll tell 'ee that much!"

Tom was saved from an immediate decision. Into the silence came the sound of galloping hooves, brought sliding to a halt near Conqueror's stable.

Trekker looked for the first time close to panic. "Landsharks," he muttered, using the tubmen's name for Preventive men.

"Only one, and he can't arrest us," Tom said firmly, though his heart was thudding. "There's no evidence. Remember that."

Trekker nodded, biting his lip.

The cottage faced eastward. As Tom opened the front door, blinking into the risen sun, a cloaked figure came running and stumbling across the wet grass to the doorstep, her face screwed up in breathless anguish.

"Oh Mr. Elderfield, thank God - I heard someone was killed - "

Tom leaned against the door jamb, exasperated as much as relieved. News, it seemed, travelled fast; the Fordyces' new footman worked for Jack Bezant.

"Miss Fordyce, it's five o'clock in the morning. Do your parents know you're here?

"No, I - I woke early. I heard a sort of commotion by the kitchen door, and went down to see, and our footman said that a man from Marshlight had been shot and perhaps killed."

"No one has been killed." Tom hesitated, unsure what to do with her, and then sighed. "All right, you may as well come in. I don't suppose you know how to get a fire going?"

"I've seen the maids do it." Louisa followed him into the parlour. "Your clothes are all wet."

"A fire," he agreed, "would be nice."

"Where is Edward?"

Tom inclined his head towards the bedroom doorway. "In there, with a musket ball in his shoulder." He smiled sourly at Louisa's gasp of shock. "Your footman got the story half right."

"Shall I go for a doctor? I could make up some excuse to bring him here. I would be most convincing."

Tom grimaced. "Trekker wants me to do the surgery. Actually it wouldn't be difficult. I can see where the ball is lodged - it can't be more than an inch below the skin."

"An inch?....."Louisa swallowed, and straightened her back. "I will stay to help, Mr. Elderfield, if you need an assistant."

"Well.....have you got a strong stomach?"

"Quite strong, thank you." The girl lifted her chin somewhat resentfully, her pride touched. "I have never fainted, either."

"Good, he said dryly. "All right, then, you're always wishing to play the heroine. Now's your chance."

The operation was as straightforward as Tom had hoped: one clean incision with a sharp knife, and he was able to hook out the ball with finger and thumb. All the same, though he managed somehow to keep his hand steady, he was sweating more than his friend as Trekker uttered sobbing curses and writhed under Louisa's restraining hands. Glancing at the girl's pale but calm features, Tom was astonished at her resolve.

When the job was done, and Eddie Verity was sleeping off the effects of the brandy which had been poured down his throat beforehand, Tom left Louisa tidying up. Outside the bedroom, he leaned back against the wall for a moment; then gradually slid down, hugging his stomach, to sit with bent knees and closed eyes, his head tipped back. The hearth spat and crackled resin.

Louisa said uncertainly, from directly above him, "Mr. Elderfield."

"What are you doing? Are you ill?"

"Not really." He drew a deep breath. "It'll pass. Will you get into trouble, riding home for breakfast?"

"I'll use the kitchen door. Never mind that." "She squatted beside him, full of puzzled concern. "Edward is weak from loss of blood, but he will recover. You said so yourself."

"Yes. A few days' rest...."

"Then what is the matter?"

"Maybe," he said, "I'm just not used to putting my best mate through agony."

It was clearly a revelation to her. Tom did not know whether to feel flattered or insulted, that she had assumed he could face such an ordeal with equanimity. The nausea was passing, though.

"You're a remarkable young lady, Miss Fordyce," he said, "and you made my task a lot easier, but now I really do think you ought to go home."

"Remarkable?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Beyond doubt. And if I ever hear you call yourself a coward again, there will be serious trouble."

"Then I shan't", said Louisa, glowing with pleasure, "Not ever again."

Part 2, The Venturer's Agent, Chapter 7

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