Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

L ionel observed the Lark as it rested at anchor. His vantage was an earth dike built to keep back the waters of the Thames and the smaller Lea from flooding into the flat ground to the east of the Lea and north of the Thames. A sour smell of mud and stagnant water rose from the marshes around him, regularly flooding at high tide despite the precautions. In the distance, golden light glittered in the windows of the West Ham Abbey. That golden light was reflected in the rigging of the Lark, a brig with two masts, square sails furled. The holds of that ship would be substantial and, according to Lennox, were full of men and women, enslaved in Africa and only halfway in their journey into servitude. He knew that England was far from being in the majority among the nations of the world in her abhorrence of slavery but, it seemed to him, they were in the vanguard. The very idea was repugnant and it fuelled his hatred of Thorpe and Knightley.

The latter was a man who tried to force himself onto women. The former, someone who thought to kill and steal. Men walked the decks of the Lark. Through the looking glass, Lionel could see that they carried muskets, pistols, and cutlasses. Beside him was Menzies Lennox, while on the other side was Lieutenant Algernon Marshall of His Majesty's Custom and Excise. Lionel had a rifle strapped across his back, a Baker manufactured not far away in Enfield. He had little experience of the kind of hand-to-hand combat the excisemen were used to and carried no blade. Fencing had never been a sport he excelled at either. But he was an excellent shot with the rifle. The weapon across his back had been a gift from Arthur and was kept in meticulous working order for just this day.

"A small rowing boat approaching the vessel, sir," said one of the excisemen, crouching beside his Captain on the sodden ground.

Lionel tracked his looking glass to the left as he caught the bobbing light in his peripheral vision. Captain Marshall did likewise. Lionel frowned, trying to get a good look at the two men sitting in the boat. But the lamp which was hooked to a mast in the middle of the boat did not give enough light. They wore hats and overcoats. However, their approach produced something of a commotion on the deck of the Lark. Lionel saw a man emerge from below decks and immediately recognized Sir Gerald Knightley. There was another man beside him and the two spoke with their heads together for a few moments. The other man stood just outside the pool of light which conveniently illuminated Sir Gerald, and Lionel could not discern much about him other than the fact the two men were of the same height.

"That man in the light is Sir Gerald Knightley," Lionel whispered to Marshall.

"Indeed. The name is known to me," Marshall whispered back.

He was a hard-faced, serious man with a scar beside his right eye which he'd received courtesy of a smuggler. He took his work as an excise officer seriously.

"Known how?" Lionel asked.

" Suspected would be a better word. We have suspected him of financing a number of ships smuggling across the channel for a while. We have never had the proof to prosecute before."

The man to whom Sir Gerald had been talking had walked away. Lionel could discern the shape of him on the other side of the ship, leaning against the rail.

"When will you make your advance?" Lionel said quietly.

"When those two men in the boat are aboard. If this is what I suspect, then I want to catch them red-handed."

Lionel nodded grimly. He unlimbered the rifle, checking its breach which was wrapped with string and oiled cloth to protect it against the damp.

"You won't need that, Your Grace. I won't allow civilians on a raid," Marshall began.

Lionel snorted. "And I will not miss this opportunity. I've been waiting a long time."

Marshall looked at him, then nodded. "As you wish, Your Grace," he muttered.

Lionel did not care in that moment if he would be in the way of Lieutenant Marshall and his excisemen. He cared deeply that he be on the deck of that ship when Sir Gerald Knightley was taken. Knightley was a man who had only recently entered into Lionel's sphere of awareness as an associate of Lord Thorpe. But now that he was there, Lionel was determined that he would not escape. If Knightley was to be the weak link, then Lionel would be the one to smash that link and break the chain. Through the looking glass, he saw the rowboat draw alongside the Lark, and a stair of rope and wood was lowered to meet it.

"I do not recognize the passengers," Lionel murmured as the two men stepped into the light.

One was rotund with gray hair. The other was tall and spare with dark hair. Both wore dark clothes, knowing that they were about a clandestine business.

"The large fellow looks like Sir Brendan Cawley, MP. The other I do not know," Lieutenant Marshall whispered.

A chill wind was blowing across the marshes, bringing the stench of rotting vegetation and the bitter tang of thick mud. Lionel's position was kneeling in sodden grass before a rotten fence post. His looking glass was balanced across the single remaining horizontal bar of that post. He did not move or acknowledge discomfort, though he had been in that position for the better part of an hour. It did not matter. Physical discomfort was superfluous to him. Cold, hunger, thirst. None of these sensations registered for Lionel any longer. He was dimly aware of Lieutenant Marshall taking a canteen from the ground and uncorking it, taking a draught. It was held out to Lionel who ignored it. Cecilia came into his mind but only fleetingly. Lionel had convinced himself that she would approve of his actions, that it would be done before she noticed he was gone.

Activity was taking place on the deck of the ship. Sir Gerald was talking and gesturing expansively. One of the deckhands opened a hatch, and then a procession of naked men and women were led out in chains. All were dark-skinned, with heads and shoulders bowed. They walked with the painful motions of those who had been confined for a long period of time.

Bile rose in Lionel's throat at the sight, even as triumph roared in his mind. Lieutenant Marshall was snapping his own spyglass closed and getting to his feet. In the gloom, he would be invisible to those on the ship, especially as they had the bright light of lanterns all around them. Still, speed was of the essence. The ship could go nowhere, even with the entire crew aboard. The tide on the Thames was against her and there wasn't sufficient wind to carry her downriver against it. But that would not prevent many of the men from dispersing and getting away if confronted.

Lionel rose as Marshall picked up a shuttered lantern. He held it high and began opening and closing the shutter. It was answered by corresponding flashes elsewhere in the marsh and on the river, as excisemen acknowledged their officer's silent orders.

Lionel was already running along the top of the dyke heading for a large boat moored at a flimsy jetty. He unslung the rifle and cocked it as he reached the boat, taking a place in the gunwales at the stern. Excisemen filled the rest of the spaces including Marshall. They pushed off from the jetty and two men rowed with long, smooth strokes that cut into the water with barely a splash. He had to wipe his hands on his coat more than once as sweat made them slick. His eyes remained fixed on the Lark and the grotesque activity that was taking place on her decks. A sale of human beings.

They were halfway to the Lark when the alarm was raised. Shouts rang out from the ship and men rushed to the rails. Marshall stood up in the boat and raised a metal cone to his lips, magnifying his voice.

"Excisemen! Prepare to be boarded and do not resist!"

Lionel distinctly heard the voice of Sir Gerald Knightley, before some of the men at the deck rail raised muskets. Marshall's men were quicker and rifle shots sang out in swift, sharp cracks. Each was followed by a man falling back. Some fell to the deck, others toppled to the water. Then his boat was nudging against the other boat which had been tied to the stair, lowered for the earlier visitors. Lionel sprang into action, leaping to the other boat whose rowers lifted their hands above their heads. With his rifle in one hand, Lionel tore up the swaying rope and plank staircase. As a face appeared at the top, he swung the rifle to aim at it and it vanished with a flash of wide eyes. He ducked low as he reached the top and a shot sounded. He felt the wind of a shot sailing over his head.

Sir Gerald Knightley stood in the middle of the deck, holding a smoking pistol. Lionel ran for the cover of a large wooden box marked ‘sails' in black, painted letters. Excisemen in their navy blue and white uniforms and tricorne hats were pouring after Lionel. Grappling hooks appeared on the ship's rails on the far side of the deck, hurled up by the men who had rowed from the other side of the river. Lionel peered around a corner of the sail box and saw Sir Gerald hurriedly reloading. Putting rifle to his shoulder, he slowly made to stand.

"Put the pistol down, Knightley. Or I will put you down," he said, grimly.

Sir Gerald's eyes were wide. The half-loaded pistol fell from nerveless fingers and he slowly raised his hands above his head. A movement behind him caught Lionel's eye.

"Down!" he shouted, as he ducked and ran at Knightley.

The shot sounded as Lionel's shoulder took Knightley in the stomach. Both men went to the deck and the shot that had been intended for one of them missed by mere inches. Lionel looked up, his rifle pinned to the deck by Sir Gerald who lay atop him. A stranger in a dark, oiled coat and top hat pulled low was calmly reloading a rifle. Lionel kicked at Sir Gerald, pushing him aside and trying to bring his own loaded rifle to bear.

At that action, the stranger had looked up and a flicker of lamplight had caught the grin on his face. Lord Thorpe . Lionel knew that he could not get free in time. As Sir Gerald scrambled to his feet, Lionel's rifle was kicked away. Lionel was on his back, fingertips three feet away from the rifle's stock. It might as well have been a mile. His eyes went to Thorpe's.

Once again, he was in the mist-shrouded dell, watching Thorpe step out from behind a standing stone.

"Brother," Lionel said huskily.

There was a flicker in Thorpe's face, he hesitated in the smooth, expert actions of reloading the weapon.

"Yes, I—I know who you are and why you want me dead," he added.

Around them, the crew of the ship were surrendering. A few fought hand-to-hand but were being overwhelmed. Some ran for the sides and splashed into the river below. The slaves cowered or lay prostrate, hands over their heads, not knowing if these new white men were saviors or some new form of devilry to be endured.

"I was born first. Why should you have it all!" Thorpe grated as he finished loading the rifle and raised it to his shoulder.

A volley of musket fire exploded from across the deck and several chunks of wood flew from the rail around Thorpe. The devil's own luck protected him. Not one shot from the volley found its mark, though Thorpe did recoil in pain from a splinter of flying wood, clutching at his face. Lionel looked around to see a ragged line of four excisemen reloading while Marshall tracked the now-running Thorpe with a pistol. He fired but the range was too great. Thorpe leaped over the side. Lionel waited for the splash and didn't hear it. He scrambled to his feet.

"Secure Sir Gerald!" he barked, pointing at where Knightley cowered.

With that, he ran to the spot where Thorpe had leaped from the ship. Beneath was a rope, thick knots tied along its length providing handholds. A small two-man rowing boat was secured beneath and Thorpe was in it. He must have been waiting for pursuit, knowing that Lionel would be that pursuit. He had seated himself in the middle of the boat with feet braced against the sides. His rifle was tight into his shoulder and aimed at the gap in the ship's rail above where the rope was secured.

Lionel had the barest heartbeat to see this as he looked over the edge.

Then Thorpe disappeared behind a cloud of gun smoke, from the middle of which roared a spear of fire.

Immediately, Lionel threw himself back, but not before a searing line of fire scored a burning streak from his temple across the side of his face.

Pain exploded inside his head, followed by the feeling of airlessness and quick merciful darkness.