The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7), Nathan Goodwin [little red riding hood ebook TXT] 📗

down to Dover in one of Ransley’s horse and carts in order to purloin as many compasses and telescopes as the two men could plunder. Sam hoped, as he searched the horizon in the direction of the moored vessels, that the fact that no ruckus or disturbances had so far occurred meant that the two men were being successful in their task. He wondered now, in chilled sobriety, how the men measured their decisions. It had been another night of liquor and debauchery at the Bourne Tap. A night which had seen several barrels of rum, ale and brandy run dry, as was becoming the custom there. At the margin of the gaiety, Sam had studied Ann closely, as she had danced merrily and without inhibition. His scrutiny of her had been laden with an unhealthy amalgam of admiration for her free spirit, an appreciation of her curative talents and, increasingly of late, growing desire. Her coquettish behaviour towards him was, like her entire demeanour, capricious and seemingly governed by whim. One moment she was pulling him into a flirtatious dance, pressing her breasts against him knowingly, while the next moment she was aloof, apathetic. It was all part of her wild existence, he reasoned, her way of resisting the normality of a staid life. Yet he could see that she was becoming restless with this way of life, too, and he wondered where her impulsive internal compass would take her next.

His reveries were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a pistol firing.

Sam’s heart kicked into a higher rhythm as he scanned the coastline for the location of the gunfire. He couldn’t be completely certain, but it had come from the approximate direction in which the two men had headed.

‘Damn it,’ he cursed, withdrawing his own pistol and beginning to load it. He held the weapon unsteadily in his weak right hand and began to jog towards the gunfire.

Another shot resounded loudly.

He was getting close now and so slowed his pace to steady his breathing. A dragging sense of inadequacy diminished his valiant dash towards the confrontation, as violent shaking in his right hand forced him to switch the pistol to his left.

Muffled grunts and the sound of tussling were emanating from the shingle just up ahead. Silhouetted figures—at least four of them—were brawling and shouting at one another.

Sam crouched down and took a moment to allow his eyes to discern any detail from the darkened scuffle. He flinched as another musket pierced the air. Then he saw what looked like a gun tumbling to the ground, then another.

The behaviour of two of the men, whom Sam could now identify as Spence and Brazier, suddenly slackened into compliance, becoming submissive to their captors.

Sam needed to act now to save them or it would be too late.

Something—whether pure cowardice, an unfavourable appraisal of the potential outcome, or the flashing into his mind of images of his family—entrenched him, making his breathing heavy and his hands tremble.

The striding crunch of the men’s boots away from him chimed perfectly with the weakening of Sam’s resolve to act to save them.

He watched as their shadows melded, shrank and then vanished.

An overpowering shudder coursed across his flesh and he dropped his pistol to the ground.

Sam stood quietly staring into the impenetrable oblivion of where the men had disappeared, as if he could somehow will them to return. But they did not and another shudder, this time streaked with the cold night air, ran down his body.

Stooping to pick up his pistol, Sam turned and slowly trod back to the horse and cart.

The revelries at the Bourne Tap were continuing when Sam descended from the horse and strode into the warm room. Richard Wire was playing on his violin and several dancers—their faces glazed with sweat—were making merry under the gapes of the ale-swigging men and women stood at the edges of the room. Various games of dice and dominoes were taking place on candlelit tables.

‘Oh, look what be here!’ Ann shouted, tossing her head this way and that.

Sam nodded embarrassedly, not liking the eyes of the place upon him.

Ann twirled over to him clumsily, lifted her hand to his face and ran the backs of her hot fingers down his cheek. ‘What be the matter with your cruppish face, Samuel?’ she asked.

‘They be captured,’ he answered quietly. ‘Brazier and Spence.’

Ann’s gaiety dissipated instantly, and he could tell by the change in atmosphere around him that others had heard it too and were now affected in their movements and conversations.

‘What plaguesome news be this, Sam?’ It was Ransley, stomping in from outside.

Sam forced himself to meet Ransley’s glowering face. ‘Preventative Officers tooked Spence and Brazier.’

‘Starf take those tarnal men!’ Ransley bellowed. He blew his cheeks out, sending a mist of fine spittle over Sam. He turned his face and yelled into the corner, ‘Wire! That be enough of that damned infernal racket. All of you—’ he gestured wildly to the room, ‘—be getting on your way.’

The unspoken truth that had existed since the very first days of the Aldington Gang was that the death of a smuggler was infinitely more preferable to capture. A dead tubman or batman could be replaced by any one of a number of eager farm hands; a captured tubman or batman, however, who might be strong-armed into turning King’s evidence could bring down the entire enterprise.

Ransley was breathing noisily, impatiently, whilst he waited for the room to clear. When it was, he spoke quietly to Sam. ‘We be needing to get them out.’

‘From Dover Gaol?’ Sam questioned.

‘That be right. Be thinking on it,’ he said, patting Sam on the shoulder.

Sam said goodbye and strolled back out into the night, his conscience all the heavier for not having offered or received any blame in the night’s unhappy conclusion. As he walked home, he