Feb 28

Feb 28 Dancing (The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker Book 1) - Malcolm Archibald

Dancing (The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker Book 1) by Malcolm Archibald

Book excerpt

KENT COAST, ENGLAND

FEBRUARY 1762

When the storm subsided, a litter of wreckage spread for a mile along the shore; an ugly reminder of the power of nature over man’s creations. Among the spars and cordage, the fragments of shattered timber and personal possessions, a scattering of seamen proved the human cost of shipwreck. On one particular stretch of shingle, three bodies lay side by side, with the final vestiges of the wind pushing little wavelets to break around them.

Of the three, the central man was the slightest, a man in the early years of maturity, bearing scars on his back and a single brass ring in his left ear. He lay on his face, with both hands curled into the shingle and without a stitch of clothing covering him.

A lone seagull circled above the three bodies, then landed on the naked back of the man in the centre. The bird looked around before hopping onto the beach and pecked at the weather-tanned body.

“Get away,” the naked man slurred the words, tried to rise, and spewed a pint of seawater onto the beach. The gull flapped a few yards away before it stopped. The man pushed himself to his feet, swore, stamped his bare feet, and stooped to inspect the men on either side.

“Both dead,” he said.

“Did you know them?” A tall woman stood on the shingle, a step above the high tide mark. The wind whipped dark blonde hair across her face as she gazed at the naked man with no hint of unease.

“This fellow was James Hicks, Able seaman.” The naked man turned Hicks onto his back. “He was a good sailor.”

“And the other?”

The naked man prodded the body on his left. He hesitated before he spoke. “This fellow was Abel Watson, foretopman.”

“Did you know them all?” The woman nodded along the shore, where each successive wave brought more wreckage and more bodies.

“Yes,” the man crouched for a moment to clear his head. “They were shipmates.” He unfastened Watson’s trousers, dragged them from the dead man’s legs and pulled them on before removing and donning Hicks’ canvas shirt.

The survivor walked along the beach, checking each body. Once, he stooped to remove a belt with a sheath knife from a man’s waist, and twice he muttered a brief farewell. The woman followed ten steps behind, watching everything.

“Who are you looking for?” Her voice was calm. Living beside the coast, she had seen other shipwrecks, seen the sea give up other dead men, particularly in this year of 1762, when half the world was at war.

The survivor did not reply. He crouched beside a naval lieutenant, with the early morning sun gleaming from the gold on his sodden blue coat.

“What are you doing?” the woman asked.

Sliding a hand inside the officer’s jacket, the man removed a small leather purse, weighed it in his hand, and nodded. “I’ll have this,” he said. “Here,” extracting a gold sovereign from the purse, he flicked it to the woman. “Now go away.”

The woman bit the coin to test the purity of the gold, turned, and walked away. She did not look back.

The man waited for a few moments, drew his new knife, and cut the gold buttons from the officer’s coat. “Any pawn shop will give me a few coppers for these.”

“What the devil?” The lieutenant stirred.

“No devil,” the man said. “Only me.” He placed his knife against the officer’s throat and pressed, slowly slicing open the flesh. The next wave washed away the blood as the survivor stood and walked on. He continued to scour the beach, removing a few coins when he could and murmuring a final farewell to men he knew.

***

The pawnshop owner knew by the man’s appearance that he was a seaman. If the checked shirt and canvas trousers had not given him away, the pigtail that extended halfway down his back would have been evidence enough.

“And what do you want, Tarry Jack?”

“A fair deal,” the man said.

The pawnshop owner’s eyes narrowed. “What are you pawning, Jack?”

“These.” The man dropped half a dozen golden buttons onto the counter and waited for the valuation.

“An officer’s buttons,” the dealer said, lifting the first. “Pinchbeck, unless I am much mistaken. That’s an alloy of zinc and copper mixed to resemble gold.”

The man leaned across the counter. “You are much mistaken,” he said. “These buttons are gold. Try again.”

The dealer opened his mouth to protest, looked at his customer’s bitter eyes and took the path of discretion. “I may be wrong,” he said. “Times are hard. So I won’t be able to pay as much as you hope.”

“You don’t know how much I hope,” the man said. “Make me an offer.”

The dealer pursed his lips, looked at the expression in the man’s eyes and said, tentatively, “Ten shillings.”

“Is that each?” The man asked.

“No, that’s for the lot.”

“Two guineas,” the man said, “and you’re getting a thief’s bargain.”

“One guinea,” the dealer countered, “and that’s more than you’ll get elsewhere.”

“One guinea and that pair of shoes there,” the man indicated a pair of metal-buckled shoes the dealer had displayed behind his counter. “And a hat.”

“We agree,” the dealer produced a pawn ticket. “What name shall I write?”

“Smith,” the man replied immediately. “John Smith.”

He left the pawnbroker with his new shoes uncomfortable on his feet and found accommodation in a cheap lodging house a score of yards from the sea.

“No dunnage, Jack?” The lodging house keeper ran his gaze over Smith’s spare body and ill-fitting clothes.

“No,” Smith said.

“Threepence a night paid in advance,” the keeper held out a grasping hand.

Smith counted out ninepence. “Three nights,” he said.

“What are you staying for?”

“A burial,” Smith told him.

***

The row of newly-dug graves occupied one side of the graveyard. All boasted a simple cross at the head, with the inscription. “A drowned mariner, known only to God.” They lay under the whip of the wind that carried sea-salt air fresh from the Channel and within the shadow of an elder tree that raised naked branches in supplication to the closed eyes of God.

“And we consign his body to the care of the Lord.” The Reverend Edmund Hood gave the signal, and the gravediggers lowered the final corpse into the grave. A handful of local people watched, with one woman surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eye, possibly in memory of a loved one the sea had taken in some half-forgotten tragedy. As the gravediggers shovelled soil into the grave, a tobacco-chewing carpenter banged in his final cross. The name Abel Watson was neatly carved into the crosspiece, with the date 2nd February 1762.

St Bride’s Day, Smith thought. He stood at the gateway of the graveyard with his arms folded and a battered tricorn hat pulled low over his head. When the reverend glowered in his direction, Smith removed his hat and held it in front of him.

“You are the only person from outwith the parish who turned up,” the reverend said. “Do you know this man?”

“I do,” Smith said. “That’s me you have just buried.”

The reverend looked confused. “Who are you?”

“I am nobody. I have no name; I don’t exist.” Smith’s smile held a vestige of humour. “After all, you have just buried my body.” He placed his hat back on his head and adjusted the brim until it concealed the upper part of his face. “As I no longer exist, therefore no laws or rules apply to me.”

“God’s laws are above the laws of man,” the Reverend Hood said, but Smith had already left.

The Reverend Hood watched as Smith stalked long-striding along the coast, with his hair — newly short of its pigtail — short and dark brown, and his back proudly erect. He walked with the peculiar gait of a seaman, as if he was compensating for the eternal swing of a ship, but with more purpose than a man casually passing his days. Hood watched for a moment and then sighed and returned to the duties of his parish.

Smith walked on, following the curve of the coast as he headed east, automatically watching the sea with its busy ships. He stopped once to lift a piece of driftwood, which he fashioned into a staff with his knife, and walked on, relentless.

***

The singing stopped the second Smith entered the Dancing Horse Inn. A dozen faces turned to look at him as he stepped inside the door.

“Who the devil is that?” A man asked.

“The tide must have thrown it up,” another replied, and a woman laughed, high-pitched and short.

Smith looked around, taking in the predatory eyes of the customers and details of the inn. The floorboards were of oak, possibly taken from a wrecked ship, while the walls were of lathe and plaster. A small fire burned in the far corner of the taproom, with an empty table on one side. On the other side sat an old man, holding a glass and scrutinising the newcomer through basilisk eyes. The scattering of men in the taproom all bore the stamp of the sea, with tarred canvas trousers or jackets, checked or striped shirts, and bright neckcloths. Some had brass or silver earrings, and two wore the old fashioned Monmouth cap. None made any move to welcome the newcomer.

Smith approached the counter, noticing the banner of a dancing white horse against a red background that hung above an array of bottles and kegs.

“Do you have a room?”

“The landlady deals with the rooms.” The barman eyed the stranger up and down.

“Fetch her.”

“Who the deuce are you to order me around?”

“Fetch her.” Smith did not raise his voice.

“I’m here.” The landlady emerged from the cellar beneath the taproom. She examined the stranger from the soles of his scuffed boots to the top of his battered tricorn hat. “You look like a seafaring man,” she said, noting the weather-darkened face and the stern eyes that returned her gaze.

“Do you have a room?”

“How long for?” The landlady had spent her life dealing with men of all types. One more stranger could not unsettle her.

“Until I no longer need it.”

“I’ll need payment in advance.”

In reply, the stranger extracted a half-sovereign from his leather purse and pushed it across the scarred oak of the counter.

The landlady lifted the gold. “And I’ll need your name in case a Riding Officer asks for you.”

The stranger heard the guffaw of laughter from the taproom and knew that no Customs and Excise officer would be welcome in the Dancing Horse. Riding Officers was a polite name for the Excisemen; Smith had heard them called a great deal worse. “I’ve come to the right place then,” he said. “My name is Smith. John Smith.”

“A fine name to hide behind,” the landlady said. “Up the stairs and first door on the right.” She handed over a heavy key.

Smith sensed the gaze of every man in the taproom following him as he ascended the stairs. He did not care. Let them look to their heart’s content, for they will see a lot more of me in future.

The room was small, dark, and stuffy, yet compared to the fo’c’sle of a man-of-war, it was the palace of a king. Smith dragged open the internal shutters and opened the multi-paned window to allow fresh air and light inside. From the window, Smith had a view down the main street of the village of Kingsgate to the harbour, where the masts of coasters punctured the heavy grey sky. A single cart negotiated the ancient High Street, with the driver hunched forward, allowing the horse to pick its way along a road it had probably known all its life.

The bed was hard, with a straw mattress under a threadbare grey wool blanket. Smith removed the mattress, guessing it would harbour colonies of unwelcome vermin. The planks beneath were sound, and Smith folded up his cloak as a pillow, lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of revelry from the taproom below.