11. Chapter 11 #3
“Men, Mr Merry. Prisoners of war, like the officers who recently escaped from Alresford. The man taken up in Dorchester was trying to reach the coast. To get across the Channel so he can rejoin his army. Such people pay well for the help they receive, and some Englishmen have been persuaded to betray their own country for the sake of money. Do you still reckon I am unnecessarily fierce about stamping out smuggling?”
William was lost for words. He recalled what the officer near Alresford had said about smuggler-agents, but it hadn’t occurred to him that such men could be operating from Portland. It was disturbing to think there could be traitors living on the island.
Mr Barrington laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Easy now. It is a pity there are not more outstanding officers like you, keeping their eyes open for the rascals.”
The riding officer gave the slightest of nods in acknowledgement, as if the praise was distasteful to him.
“Cigar?” asked Mr Barrington, opening the box and offering it to William, who instinctively wrinkled his nose in distaste. Drinking brandy he could cope with, but no one was going to make him smoke. Not unless they wanted him to cast up his accounts.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to go outside if you accept, as I don’t let anyone smoke in the house. No exceptions.”
William raised a palm. “Not for me, sir.”
“Wise man. Smoking is a foul habit, best avoided if you don’t want teeth stained the colour of dirt.
Sadly, some of our men come back from the Peninsula having developed a partiality for it, and I choose to accommodate them, out of respect for their service to our country.
Like Mr Jenkin here.” He held the box out to the riding officer.
“Not tonight, thank you.”
Mr Barrington snapped the container shut and returned it to the sideboard. “Saving yourself a damp walk?”
Mr Jenkin bowed his head in acknowledgement.
William was relieved his refusal had caused no offence, and sipped at his brandy, wondering how much had been paid for it. More than if it had been smuggled, no doubt, but far less than if bought in town.
“I’m surprised the free traders find Portland an attractive place to bring their goods,” he said. “The cliffs must be a deterrent.”
“They are,” replied Mr Jenkin, “but these people are determined to flout the law.”
William skirted around the island in his mind. “Where do they land? There is little choice apart from Chesil Beach or Church Ope, though I’ve seen men pull up their boats on the rock shelves near the Bill.”
Mr Barrington drained his glass and poured himself another. “The smugglers won’t risk their precious cargo by navigating any closer to the Shambles than necessary. Many ships have been lost by failing to give the dreaded sandbank a wide enough berth.”
“If they tried to land at Church Ope,” said Mr Jenkin, “we’d be onto them before they could get away. Our men are based down there, checking the merchandise that arrives in a regular way. Not to say they don’t try to evade duty even then by stowing goods beneath a false floor.”
That was a revelation. People were more desperate to avoid paying taxes than William had realised.
“The smugglers usually deposit their cargo on the other side of the island,” said Mr Jenkin.
“They sink it in the Fleet and pull it up when my men are not around. Sometimes, we catch them at it, but folk don’t look kindly on us trying to uphold the law, and as half the locals have some connection with smuggling, they are more inclined to help the free traders than the preventive force. ”
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. A footman entered and presented a note to Mr Jenkin.
“I’ve received word that some intermittent lights have been spotted out at sea on the far side of the island. It might be a smuggling vessel connecting with their men on shore. I will have to brave the rain and check it out. Please give my excuses to the ladies.”
The man was leaving? At this hour? “You’re going now?”
“I must. It is my duty.” With an abrupt bow, he was gone.
William stared at the door that had closed behind Mr Jenkin, his fingers curling into his palms. Duty was not a word he was keen on, especially not when it was directed at him. “What a dedicated officer.”
“An excellent man, if over-zealous at times,” said Mr Barrington. “Not quite up to the mark in social graces. I expect he was glad of an excuse not to stay.”
Nonsense! William was used to studying people’s expressions, and he recognised the tightness of Jenkin’s face for what it was. The last thing he wanted was to leave a potential rival with an open field. Nothing short of the keenest sense of duty could have pulled him away.
Mr Barrington walked to the sideboard and poured himself another glass of brandy.
“It is his overt enthusiasm for his post that keeps me wary. Appearances can be deceiving, and so I keep him close. There is extensive corruption within the preventive service, and I believe our area is not exempt. But I am fair-minded and will not let my suspicious nature get the better of me until it is proved one way or the other. He may be as innocent as I am.”
Jenkin in collusion with the smugglers? What a ridiculous idea. The man was transparent to his artist’s eye. If the preventive officer was a traitor, William would hang up his paintbrush.