The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) (8 page)

The convoy from England docked in late June and Tom
received a packet from his correspondents in England; his goods had been
received and put to auction, the tobacco, best snuff, particularly
well-received, as the discounted Bills of Exchange enclosed would testify.

Tom sat to his account books, all payments made and
commissions paid, and calculated that he had cleared eleven pounds on each ton
of tobacco, thirty shillings a ton on the furniture wood and eighteen pence on
each of the four hundred beaver pelts, a little less than three thousands,
which was good money, but only a quarter of it from Joseph’s legitimate
trading. It was obvious where his endeavours must most sensibly be directed.
Bob was asked to lay his hands on another four hundred tons, at least, of
tobacco, as quickly as might be.

“Less easy than last time, Tom – the coastal waters
can’t be used, due to the navy getting efficient in its blockading. It would
have to be overland all the way – American wagons north to the extent of their
influence, then ours across the debatable areas and through the English
controlled lands. They would have to be escorted – a troop of irregular
cavalry, I suspect – they have no uniforms and can belong to either side at
need. It would demand more of cash down, I think.”

“Who needs be paid, Bob?”

Bob reeled off a list of names – a general and three
lesser officers on the British side, four Americans and one Frenchman to the
south and west and the ‘colonel’ of a troop of militia operating in the forest
lands to the west of the colonies.

“An unpleasant man, Tom, one who has fought for both
sides, occasionally at the same time, but he has some control of the larger of
the backwoods trails, and if he did not escort our convoys, he would raid them,
so there is little choice. Colonel Henry J. Miller will cost us some three
hundreds in gold, I believe, but will provide us with sixty men for a month,
them to see a guinea a week, him two guineas a day. We can use river-boats for
part of the journey through the colonies, ox-wagons for the run north, fifteen
miles a day they will make. It will be best if you see Miller yourself, for
otherwise he will have doubts – there are those in the Army who might wish to
do him down. Major Jackson will provide us with passes through the British
areas, if he is still available – he lost every penny of the five hundreds you
dropped him - fortunately for him, paying off his most pressing debts first. I
believe he has begged his brother to arrange his transfer to the Ordnance Board
in England – where fortunes can very easily be amended, they having control of
all of the Army and Navy’s contracts for great and small guns and powder and
ball; but he will remain here for at least another six months, even if he is
successful in achieving his wish.”

“Will he survive so long?”

“Not without access to at least another thousand,
Tom.”

“He will need to provide a lot more than a
safe-conduct for so much, Bob.”

Bob nodded, said that he would broach the question
with the major, endeavour to discover what he could offer, if anything.

Major Jackson was desperate, having become aware,
belatedly, of just how insecure was his hold on life; he was willing to promise
anything for the chance of even a few hundreds of pounds; neither Bob nor Tom
trusted him to be able to deliver, however.

“Gentlemen, I can arrange to buy wheat and corn from
the farms down the coast, as well as consignments of beans and brewing barley
and best hay and wheat-straw. There will be five hundreds of wagons moving
every day, in all directions, and insufficient cavalry squadrons to escort each
convoy. It should not be impossible for you to bring a consignment to a given
farmstead and for my wagons to pick it up in the ordinary nature of things. The
areas where we forage are, in the nature of things, separate from the main
theatres of war, and there are no more than troops of irregulars to be found
there.”

They accepted his proposals, but arranged for half
of their consignments to be run under the aegis of Colonel Miller – he would be
slower, but they suspected he might be more reliable.

Joseph continued to buy in timber and furs and a few
hides, a legitimate cargo to provide cover again.

Harvest came home and the Commissariat wagons went
out to buy grain, as Major Jackson had promised, and after a week, five or ten
wagons a day turned up at Tom’s warehouse, offloading as scheduled. A fortnight
of profitable activity came to a sudden halt when the Major appeared,
unheralded, at Tom’s office door.

“We have a problem, Mr Andrews!”

Tom sat him down, signalled to Joseph for
refreshments, quietly told him to stay in hearing range to listen for anything
the Major chose not to say.

“Forty of my wagons, Mr Andrews, held at a farmstead
just half a day, eight miles, north of the city, carrying the last of your
tobacco, sir. A greedy young man of the Provosts, Mr Andrews, who has decided
to take a share in our profits – five guineas a wagon, he is demanding!”

Tom’s first reaction was that the Major had himself
become greedy, wanted another two hundred in a hurry: no doubt he would ask for
the coinage and volunteer to carry it out himself to pay off this certainly
imaginary Provost officer.

“The young gentleman demands to see my principal, Mr
Andrews, would not accept cash from me, why I do not know, am unable to
imagine! I think it would be best for you to ride out with me immediately.”

It stank – there was something badly astray in
Jackson’s manner and, besides, he should have gone to Bob Chawleigh, not come
directly to Tom. There was false paper enough to cover the stocks in the
warehouse already, but the loads on the road were obviously contraband – a
nasty, suspicious mind might wonder whether Jackson was setting him up,
bringing him into direct contact with goods that he admitted to be his – it
could make a very tidy arrest and conviction, one that all of Bob’s array of
bought interest would be unable to overturn.

“You will have to wait a few minutes, Major Jackson,
I am promised to the master of my ship on the hour, must make my final
arrangements with him if he is to bring his hull to my wharf tomorrow. What is
the time now? Ten of the clock? By half past eleven, Major Jackson, I will be
your man. I have no riding horse of my own, could you hire a buggy, do you
think, from the livery?”

Jackson trotted off to make the arrangements, not
even begging for the monies in advance so anxious as he was to secure Tom’s
company.

“Joseph? Do you know where Bob Chawleigh is likely
to be this morning?”

“Here, Master Tom, I sent the boy running for him
ten minutes since. I been looking out the pistols I gotten hold of as well,
Master Tom, thinkin’ you might have a need for such some day. It cold enough
for a big frieze coat on, Master Tom, and I bring your belt along from the old
Star. Six big hand-guns, Master Tom.”

Chawleigh appeared, listened briefly, swore and left
at a run to fetch his horse from the stables he used, was waiting a furlong up
the road when the Major drove up, the reins in his own hands, no boy from the
livery. Chawleigh was wise in his trade, set off up the street in front of them
– no man looked to be followed from in front – the guilty-minded always checked
their back trail, very rarely took note of the travellers up the road from
them. Joseph accompanied Tom, causing no upset to the Major – a ‘body servant’
made no difference one way or the other, less significant than a pet dog for
being unlikely to bite; he assumed that the bag Joseph carried contained a
snack and a bottle for the road, never demanded to see inside it.

The buildings of the city, still relatively small
and confined to the island, ended abruptly and gave way to the lines of a camp
of Hanoverians, garrison troops and little concerned with apparent civilians
travelling out; their sentries at the roadside demanded passes of the trickle
of traders coming in, but seemed lackadaisical, as if they expected no attack
and really cared nothing about smugglers. The area had been cleared of
civilians in some past time of greater emergency, houses and small farmsteads
that could have covered a besieger burnt down, hedgerows grubbed out – it was
waste, barren, empty, flat and offering no concealment for nearly five miles.
They came to a scattering of small farms and woodland and Jackson turned off
the road onto a track leading to a barn and small, broken-down house, derelict
seeming but with a two acre paddock hidden by the trees and now full of wagons.
Upwards of eighty men, the drivers and their mates, Tom presumed, were sat in a
huddle, guarded by a half a dozen of dismounted dragoons. The troopers’ mounts,
a dozen all told, were tied up to rail by the barn; eleven carried carbine
buckets, the twelfth, a slightly better looking horse, had a richer saddle, was
probably the officer’s charger.

A captain, a young, slender, smartly turned-out
gentleman, seemingly very bored, escorted by a big sergeant and four men,
walked out of the open barn doors, nodded to Jackson.

“Is this our man, Major Jackson?”

“Yes, Captain Dawson, this is Mr Thomas Andrews.”

Dawson turned to Tom, looked him up and down
dismissively - a mere civilian.

“You are owner of the contents of these wagons, Mr
Andrews?”

“I am,” Tom replied, jumping down from the buggy and
loosening his overcoat.

“Then, Andrews, I arrest you for carrying contraband
goods through the blockade and for treasonable dealings with the enemy. Carry
on, sergeant.”

The captain half-turned away, distancing himself
from the trash he had to deal with, wholly un-alert. Tom killed the sergeant
first, expecting him to be the more dangerous man; Dawson screamed once but
made no attempt to fight – he probably did not know how to. Joseph pulled the
old horse pistols from his bag and shot at the four troopers, clustered
together; Tom finished the job and watched as the wagon drivers swarmed their
guards under. The drivers were civilians employed by the Commissary but were
subject to military discipline; Dawson had made the error of informing them
that they were a bunch of traitors and could expect five hundred lashes apiece
at minimum and they were taking their own measures to avert that crippling
punishment.

A rattle of hooves behind him alerted Tom to the
presence of Chawleigh; he glanced up as he reloaded.

“Can we lose the bodies and the horses, Bob?”

“Provided the boy had made no written report of
where he expected to be today, yes. If he’s under orders from his colonel, or
if he’s working with other patrols, probably not.” Chawleigh turned to Major
Jackson, sat unmoving, open-mouthed, horrified, having made no attempt to draw
pistol or sword. “Well, Major Jackson? Was your friend on his own, or was he
under orders, sir?”

“He was not my friend, Bob, not at all. He forced me
to do it! He said he was sure my wagons were carrying contraband, would have
them searched officially and would see me broken. He said he would arrest Mr
Andrews and have him shot when he resisted being taken up or ‘attempting to
escape’, afterwards, and then he would make a big fuss of the wagons full of
smuggled goods, bringing himself to the attention of his seniors, while I sold
off everything in the warehouse and shared it with him. I had to do it, Bob,
had no choice.”

“I’m sure you are right, Major Jackson.” Chawleigh’s
voice was deeply sympathetic, understanding of the poor man’s problems; Tom
caught Joseph’s eye; they winced in unison and turned away as he spoke again.

“So, Major Jackson, did Dawson say there was anyone
else in this with him?”

“No, not at all, I’m sure there is not – I met him
at the Club and he spoke to me there twice, and he said nothing of anyone else.
I know he is somewhat embarrassed for funds and I am certain he would not have
wished to share with another, it was all his idea, though I am not sure how he
knew about me.”

“I expect it was because you told him, Major
Jackson, you conniving little shit!”

Jackson looked quite indignant for the second or so
before Chawleigh shot him.

“I have never been able to tolerate dishonesty, Mr
Andrews – men such as he bring out the Old Adam in me, I fear.”

They buried the bodies below the floor of the barn,
the military saddles with them, then set to pulling dry timber out of the
woods; with eighty men working busily it took very little time to half-fill the
old building and then set it afire, hopefully concealing all traces of their
activities for the immediate future. A dozen of the wagoners tied a riding
horse behind them, a not uncommon practice, and they set off into New York,
offloading before darkness fell.

“Jackson had a daughter, I believe, Tom?”

“Hell, yes! What do we do with her, Bob? Her
father’s dead but I’ll be damned if I kill a young girl out of hand just for
being inconvenient.”

“Move her into your place, Tom. Your Jenny can look
after her, keep her safe, I don’t know how old she is, until you can put her on
a ship back to England. You can’t leave a young girl on her own in this town.”

Miss Amelia Jackson was sixteen years of age,
sheltered, uncertain of herself, alone; told that her father had had to ‘go
away’ and that she must stay temporarily at the home of one of his
acquaintances until she could be sent back to England, she nodded and set about
packing with the aid of the single female servant of the household, a combination
of nurse, housekeeper and general factotum.