Cinque Ports—lined the southeast coast, at Hastings, Dover, Sandwich, Romney, and Hythe, with the towns of Rye and Winchelsea vying with them for prominence, and these too had garrisons of soldiers at the ready.
All this vigilance, all this preparedness, the Peninsula Campaign, and the Russian winter—added to the fact that the Strait of Dover, also referred to as “England’s Moat,” was not known for its easy navigability—had proved sufficient in keeping Bonaparte from launching his soldiers from Boulogne or Calais.
It was not, alas, sufficient in preventing inventive English smugglers from accumulating small fortunes plying their trade from Margate to Bournemouth, almost without intervention.
Using long-forgotten sea lanes, the smugglers, known as the “Gentlemen,” did a roaring trade in untaxed medicine, rope, spices, brass nails, bridal ribbons, brandy, silk—even tennis balls. So widespread was the smuggling, and so accomplished were the Gentlemen, that even the Comptroller of the Foreign Post Office sanctioned the practice, as it brought French newspapers and war intelligence reports to the island with greater speed and reliability than any other, more conventional methods.
But, the Comptroller’s protestations to one side, there were the Customs House officers to be considered. The smugglers may have been helping the war effort in some backhanded way, but they were also making the customs and revenue officers a redundant laughingstock, as the flow of contraband into England was fast outstripping the amount of legal, taxable cargo landed on the docks.
Many customs officers, loyal and hardworking, employed the King’s men in forays against the smugglers. Many more did not. A few slit throats, a few bludgeoned heads—these were ample inducement for most customs officers to keep their noses tucked safely in their ale mugs on moonless nights, when the Gentlemen were apt to be out and about. Besides enhancing the possibility of living to a ripe old age, turning one’s head was a good way for customs officers to increase their meager salaries, for the smugglers were known to be extremely generous to those who were good to them.
Popular sentiment as well was on the side of the Gentlemen, whose daring at sea demanded admiration—and supplied the locals with a wide variety of necessities and luxuries without the bother of the recipients having to pay tax on the goods.
As late as July of 1805, Lord Holland, during a Parliamentary Debate, conceded that: “It is impossible to prevent smuggling…. All that the Legislature can do is to compromise with a crime which, whatever laws may be made to constitute it a high offence, the mind of man can never conceive as at all equalling in turpitude those acts which are breaches of clear, moral virtues.”
All in all, it would be easy to believe that a, for the most part, comfortable bargain had been struck between the Gentlemen and the rest of the populate, but that was not the case. As the war dragged along, the unpaid taxes on contraband goods were, by their very absence, depleting the national treasury and war coffers, making the customs officers the butt of scathing lectures from their superiors in London.
The coastal forces, made up mostly of young men who had joined the military for the fun—the “dash” of the thing—only to be denied the clash of battle with the French, were itching to do battle with anyone. The Gentlemen and their nocturnal escapades were just the thing to liven up the soldiers’ humdrum existence.
But most important, the Gentlemen, who were extremely profit-oriented, were lamentably not the most loyal of the King’s subjects. Contraband was contraband, and money was money, no matter whose hand had held it last. Along with the spices and brandy and silk, there was many a French spy transported across England’s Moat, carrying secrets that could conceivably bring down the empire.
All this had served to complicate the Gentlemen’s position, and by 1813 the many small dabblers in the art of smuggling had called it a day, and the majority of the contraband was brought to the shores by highly organized, extremely unlovely gangs of cutthroats, villains, and sundry other souls not averse to committing crimes “equalling in turpitude those acts which are breaches of clear, moral virtues.”
THERE WAS A LONG, uncomfortable silence in the main drawing room of Seashadow, broken only by the light snoring of the napping Mrs. Biggs, whose impressed services as vigilant chaperone of Elinor Dalrymple’s reputation left much to be desired.
“That was a most edifying dissertation, Lieutenant Fishbourne—even if the bits about Cromwell and the Regent did not necessarily relate to the Kentish coast. But it begs me now that you have concluded—you have concluded, haven’t you?—to ask how all this pertains to me,” Elinor Dalrymple inquired wearily as she poured the young man a second cup of tea—for his lengthy, dry-as-dust dissertation on the history of England and smuggling must surely have caused him to become quite parched. “Or should I say—how does all of this pertain to Seashadow? Surely you haven’t had reports of smuggling or spying along our beaches?”
Lieutenant Jason Fishbourne, attached to the Preventive Service by the Admiralty and stationed these past eighteen months in the port of Hythe, leaned forward across the low serving table to utter confidentially, “Have you ever heard of the Hawkhurst Gang, Miss Dalrymple?”
Elly’s voice lowered as well, one slim white hand going to her throat protectively, as if she expected it to be sliced from ear to ear at any moment. “The Hawkhurst Gang? But they are located near Rye, aren’t they—if, indeed, that terrible gang is still in existence.”
The Lieutenant sat back, smiling, as he was convinced he had made his point. “There are many gangs about, Miss Dalrymple,” he intoned gravely. “Each one more bloodthirsty and ruthless than the next, I’m afraid. And yes, madam, I do suspect that one of them is operating in this area—very much so in this area.”
Elly swallowed hard. Smugglers operating near Seashadow? Spies? And she had been walking the beach every day—sometimes even at dusk. Why, she could have stumbled upon a clutch of them at any time!
“What—what do you wish for us to do?” she asked the Lieutenant, who now commanded her complete attention. “We have only been here a few weeks, since just before the memorial service for the late Earl, as a matter of fact, but we intend to be contributing members of the community. I, in fact, have been searching for a project to occupy my time. Could I serve as a lookout of sorts, do you suppose?”
“Indeed, no, madam, I should not dream of putting you in any danger.” Lieutenant Fishbourne rose to his not inconsiderable height, smoothing down his uniform over his trim, fit body before donning his gloves. “I ask nothing of you—your King asks nothing of you—save that you report any strangers to the area and any goings on that appear peculiar. You and the Earl are not to involve yourselves directly in any way, of course. I only felt it fair to warn you about the shore, so that neither of you is inadvertently taken as one of the Gentlemen by my men, who on occasion will be, with your kind permission, patrolling the area at night.”
“I would not think to take on the daunting project of trying to capture an entire band of smugglers, Lieutenant. But if, as you suggest, there could be a spy—or even spies—operating near Seashadow, it would be my duty to do my utmost to capture him—or them!”
“Miss Dalrymple,” the Lieutenant reiterated, “we have everything well in hand. Please, ma’am, do not involve yourself. If anything should happen to you because of my visit, I should never forgive myself. If you see anyone acting suspiciously, just have one of your servants summon me.”
Reluctantly nodding her agreement, Elly escorted the Lieutenant to the door, past Lily, who was making a great fuss out of dusting a gleaming brass candlestick as she watched the handsome tall, blonde officer.
Before the man could retrieve his hat from the table, the young girl had snatched it up, dusting it thoroughly before handing it to him with a smile and a wink. “There you go, you lovely man,” Lily cooed sweetly. “Oh, you are a tall one, aren’t you? Drop in any time,” she added with a wink before Elly pointedly cleared her throat and the young girl scooted for the safety of the kitchens.
“She belonged to the late Earl,” Elly explained, only to amend hastily, “That is, she was a servant in the household when my brother