warning shot rang out. The men on the beach had been working quickly before, but now there was desperation in their movements. The rowers set off back to their ship, leaving the land party to salvage what they could and make themselves scarce. Some of them carried what they could inland, or on to the marshes to the east of the village, others whipped up the horses and left with carts only half-loaded. There were still a few men on the beach when a party of dragoons, led by a Captain and a Customs Officer, appeared on the lane and began firing on the stragglers, who fired back. Pippa, her heart in her mouth, watched the skirmish, her frozen toes forgotten. She dare not move.
Some were injured and were hauled away by their mates, others ran, dodging the bullets. One of the dragoons was winged, resulting in a more frenzied attack of retribution. It was too much for the remaining smugglers and they threw down their weapons. As Pippa watched they were roped together none too gently by their captors. There were six of them and a boy. Some of the dragoons stayed to guard what contraband had been left behind, others marched the prisoners off the beach, prodding them with their riding crops to hurry them along. It was then Pippa recognised her cousin, Benjamin, dressed in a dark belted tunic and breeches, his face smeared with dirt. Fifteen years old and he had been caught smuggling! Her first impulse was to rush out and try to reason with his guards, but common sense prevailed. She would not save him that way and might very well be taken up herself. She watched them go, unable to move until the coast was clear. Then she ran.
Hampered by her skirts, she raced up the lane and along the coastal path to Windward House, which stood on a slight promontory at the north-eastern edge of the village. She must find Nat. Her brother would know what to do. He would find out where the prisoners were being taken and speak for Ben, who was only a boy looking for adventure and hadn’t realised the seriousness of what he was doing. There was no one abroad in the village, either on foot or driving horses and carts. The houses, cottages and hovels were dark, their occupants seemingly abed. The land party had arrived and disappeared like ghosts. The captured seven would pay for the crimes of fifty. Out at sea the smugglers’ cutter had sailed off and was disappearing over the horizon.
Philippa Kingslake, twenty-six years old, unmarried and, in her Aunt Augusta’s eyes, unmarriageable on account of the life she led, was also known in the literary world as Philip King, whose adventurous stories were avidly read by all and sundry, especially by young lads like Benjamin, who had no idea their author was a woman. Had she inadvertently led him into danger, writing tales with heroes he might aspire to emulate? Aunt Augusta would almost certainly think so.
The lane from the village to the house dwindled into a track as she began the uphill climb to the house, arriving so breathless she had to stop and lean against the stable wall to recover before going indoors. The horses were restless; she could hear them snorting and pawing the ground. Had they been startled by the shots which must have been heard clearly by everyone in the village? She went into the stable where her own mount and Nat’s, together with two carriage horses, were housed. Going over to stroke and calm them, she realised they were sweating. They had been out recently and there was only one place for them to have gone. The sheer impudence of the smugglers astounded her. Where was Joe, the coachman, who had quarters above the stables? Had he been sleeping so soundly his charges had been led out under his nose? Or was he involved? Was he even in his bed? Torn between finding out and reporting Ben’s arrest to Nat, she chose the latter and hurried indoors and up to her brother’s room.
And then she was in for another shock. He was not in his bed, had never been to bed by the look of it. Had he also been out with the smugglers? She had not seen him, but then she had not dared show her face—recognising anyone would have been impossible. He had certainly not been one of the seven who had been arrested and herded so close to where she was hidden. Now she was in a quandary. Should she wait until Nat came home or alert her aunt?
She went back to the stables and climbed the ladder to Joe Sadler’s quarters, banging on his door loudly enough to rouse him. After a few minutes he opened the door. He was wearing a hastily donned nightshirt over his breeches, his hair was ruffled and he was pretending to yawn as if woken from sleep. She was not deceived; the bottoms of his trousers were wet. ‘Miss Kingslake!’ he exclaimed, genuinely surprised. ‘What are you doing up in the middle of the night?’
‘Never mind what I am doing. Do you know where my brother is?’
‘No, ma’am. Is he not in his bed?’ ‘No. Was he on the beach with you?’ ‘On the beach?’ he queried, feigning ignorance. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not stupid, Joe. I know what has been going on. I saw you all down there, unloading cargo.’ ‘You should have stayed indoors, ma’am.’ ‘Then I would not have known what had happened to Ben, would I?’
‘Ben? Master Whitehouse?’ ‘Please do not be obtuse, Joe, you know whom I mean. He was taken by the dragoons along with six others. I need to rescue him and I cannot find Nat. Am I right in thinking he was one of the land party and he sanctioned the use of the horses?’
‘Oh, Miss Kingslake, you was never supposed to know about any of it. Someone tipped off the Customs and we had to scatter. Mr Kingslake will be home d’rectly.’
‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, you had better rub down the horses and settle them before the Customs come searching for goods and see they have been out.’ She paused as a new thought struck her. ‘You are not hiding any of the contraband here, are you?’
‘No, Miss Kingslake.’
She was not sure whether to believe him or not, but went back into the house. It was beginning to get light and Mrs Sadler, Joe’s mother, was busy in the kitchen, raking out the fire, ready to cook breakfast.
‘Lord a-mercy, Miss Pippa,’ she said as Pippa entered from the yard. ‘Whatever are you doing up so early?’
‘I went out to watch the boats come in.’
‘You never did! Whatever next! Don’t you know no one goes out on landing nights unless they have business with the free traders? They’d as soon kill you as let you go …’
‘The revenue men and dragoons came upon them with half the cargo still on the beach. Seven of the landing party were arrested …’
The plump woman, whose apple-red cheeks came from constantly working over a kitchen fire, turned pale. ‘Joe …’
‘He is home. I’ve just seen him.’
She let out a long breath. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘But my brother is out and my cousin has been arrested.’
‘No?’ She crossed herself. ‘Oh, Lord have mercy, for the justices won’t.’
‘We will have to get him out somehow. I was hoping Nat would be back by now. I wish I knew what had happened to him. I cannot believe he would leave Ben to his fate.’
‘He would not, Miss Pippa, you can be sure of that. Something prevented him.’
It was that which was worrying Pippa as she climbed the stairs to her aunt’s room to break the news to her. Where was Nat? Was he holed up somewhere safe, waiting for the furore to die down before coming home, or was he lying bleeding, perhaps dying, in one of the numerous channels across the marshes, unable to move? She dreaded the confrontation with her aunt, who would undoubtedly blame Pippa and Nat for the arrest of her beloved son.
The widowed Mrs Augusta Whitehouse had come to live at Windward House six months after Pippa’s parents had died leaving a seventeen-year-old Philippa and thirteen-year-old Nathaniel
