The Blighted Cliffs (2 page)

Had
I been Ned of the Navy, or even the late Horatio, I would no doubt
have burst from my hiding place there and then, stolen a cutlass and
despatched those ruffians to their dismal fate with a dozen steely
blows. Unfortunately for my country, I was Martin Jerrold: freezing,
outnumbered and certainly not that drunk. And although I had no
evidence, I suspected that they would kill as efficiently as they
laboured. I stayed tight against the cliff, and prayed they came no
nearer.

They
must have unloaded about half their stock when suddenly a shot
exploded into the night, the echo reverberating off the cliffs. I
ducked instinctively, though it was clear almost immediately that it
had come from the cliff-top. It was as well I did, for a narrow beam
swept around the beach and passed straight over my head.

'Wassat?'
someone hissed. From the general consternation, I guessed they were
as surprised as I, though with my head down I could see nothing.

'Danny's
up there,' came the reply - a deep, growling voice.

'Musta
seen somethin' 'e didn't like.'

This
was hardly reassuring, but then another shot sounded, again
from above. My knees were pressed so tight into my belly I thought I
would vomit. Only the terror prevented me.

'Danny's
not answerin',' muttered the deep voice. 'Best stow it, an' quick.
Meet at the bitch's head.'

I
heard some movement: the soft rasping of wood on stone, and a few
splashes in the surf. Then nothing. And then, just as I began to
uncoil, a loud thud, as though something hard had hit the beach. A
falling rock? Had I survived my encounter with the pirates only to be
crushed under a landslide? But no more stones fell, and I dared not
leave my refuge with the smugglers still abroad.

I
stayed hedgehogged in my ball, listening for movement and trying to
ignore the cramp in my legs, the ache in my gut and - encore the
throbbing in my temples. There was no sound save the waves, and
eventually I convinced myself that the pirates had gone.

Besides,
the light had come up now, and I was hardly invisible. If they were
there, they would certainly have seen me by now. I lifted my head.

The
beach was empty, save for a shapeless bundle on the tidemark which I
took to be some forgotten contraband. I was elated: I had survived
the ordeal, and would not be found floating face down in Dover
harbour. My powers of dissimulation, so odious to my uncle, had
triumphed. I stood up, groaning at the pain in my thighs, and hobbled
out. Every step was agony, but soon I would be back at

the
inn and in a steaming bath, looking forward to a stout breakfast and
strong coffee. Then, suitably attired, I could stroll down to the
docks and pay my respects to Captain Crawley. I might even be on
time.

My
reverie ended with the sound of shouts from around the next bend in
the cliff. I started back for my hide, but my legs were too stiff. I
had covered less than half the distance when the new arrivals burst
into view, twenty of them at least. Cutlasses flashed in their hands,
and it seemed I had merely swapped one gang of cutthroats for another
until I saw their short jackets and trousers. The navy.

'Get
'im,' bellowed one, a huge man with a small whistle about his neck.

I
turned to see whom he meant, before the pair of seamen sprinting for
me clarified the meaning.

'Oh
no you don't,' I shouted, as dignified as I could manage. Not very, I
suppose, but my commanding manner must have sown confusion among men
expecting to apprehend a common pirate, for they paused. I pressed my
advantage. 'Allow me to introduce myself,' l continued, pompous as
George. 'Lieutenant Martin Jerrold, of his Majesty's cutter
Orestes
.
At your service.' I fear I might have given a small bow.

A
shorter man, with close-cropped hair and a narrow face, pushed to the
front. His dress was that of a gentleman, but there was no decoration
on his blue coat.

'What's
that?' he asked. 'Lieutenant Jerrold, you say?'

'None
other. But you have the advantage, sir. May I enquire ;"

He
raised a hand as a voice shouted from behind him. 'Cap'n, sir! 'Ave a
look at this.'

The
men parted, and through the gap I could see a sailor standing by the
bundle on the sand. My jaw sagged as I looked more closely: two
unmistakable legs protruded from one end, and an arm flopped
lifelessly at its side. It was a man, or had been. From the skewed
angle of the neck, and the way the gulls picked at him, I judged him
quite incontrovertibly dead. The officer wandered over and kicked
him, but only the birds moved. Then he turned to face me, and I saw a
wolfish grin.

'So,
Lieutenant Jerrold, it seems you have some explanations to give.' He
must have mistaken the horror on my face for offended gentility. 'But
of course, I'm forgetting myself. Jeremiah Crawley, Captain.' He
fixed his eyes hard on mine. 'Also of his Majesty's cutter
Orestes
.'

I
retched.

2

THE
HUGE MAN WITH THE WHISTLE - DUCKER, THEY CALLED HIM, the
quartermaster - led me back to Dover; Crawley stayed to examine the
body. The pebbles on the beach were slick from the tide and shifted
treacherously with every step, giving me the miserable sensation of
constantly tumbling forwards. Several times Ducker had to grip my arm
to keep me upright. My legs bent and splayed like saplings, and there
was a void in my stomach that screamed for wine - or better yet,
brandy - to dampen my incessant shivering.

The
footing improved as we reached the town, rounding the cliff under the
famous castle and finding the road: here the shingle stones had been
hammered into cobbles, but I felt no less wretched, for now there was
an audience to witness my misery. The narrow street, as skewed in
daylight as it had been in the dark, was thronged with people going
about the trades of the town: bakers and coopers and fishwives and
their custom, all staring as the quartermaster navigated us through.

I
must have made quite an impression with my state of undress, my
untied hair and the vomit spilled down my shirt front, for I soon
caught the corners of many eyes flickering over me, and heard the
turnouts begin to grind. Had there been a shipwreck? people asked,
wondering whether they might put to sea and earn some salvage, or was
it a dangerous lunatic apprehended on the shore? Then someone said
the words 'French spy', and a murmur passed through the crowd. I felt
a tightening of breath all around; now they did not look away when I
caught their gaze, but stared with unabashed hostility. Their voices
rose, and their faces hardened. It recalled the mood at a hanging I'd
once attended: not some gentleman-of-the-road or cutpurse, cheered
even on the gallows, but a child killer, a notorious man of vile
tastes whom the mob would have torn apart like furies had it not been
for the militia. But I had no company of dragoons to protect me that
morning, only Ducker, and he was finding it ever harder to push us
through. Elbows and shoulders jabbed into me with careless
antagonism, and I guessed that one overzealous shove from the
quartermaster would be all the provocation they needed to far greater
violence.

Ducker
looked over his shoulder, and I could see the tension in his broad
face. 'Not to worry, Lieutenant Jerrold, sir,' he called loudly.
'We'll soon 'ave you back at
Orestes
.'

I
managed to nod my sagging head, desperately hoping that Crawley would
not arrive with the corpse before we were through the crowd. But
whether Ducker's little ploy had placated them, or whether they lost
interest in my pathetic figure, our path became clearer, and our pace
quickened. The business around us began to feel more purposeful, and
the stevedores who manhandled their cargoes along the street seemed
less inclined to break their work for the sake of a bedraggled
stranger and his guardian. A file of soldiers marched past and I felt
a sudden, insane flash of security, though whether they'd risk their
lives firing into a riot on my account I very much doubted.

We
came out onto the quay on the western side of the inner basin, a
harbour choked with every manner of small craft. Their decks thrived
with the labours of commerce, but I had little time to admire the
scene for Ducker had opened the door to a lime-washed building next
to a warehouse, and was ushering me into a square little room. Small
windows were set high into its white walls, but the mournful light
they admitted did little to cheer the air.

'You
wait 'ere for the cap'n, sir,' Ducker told me, his voice giving
nothing away. Then the door was shut and he was gone. I slumped into
a chair behind the empty desk in the middle of the room. I felt weak
from my ordeal: the terror of the smugglers, the ghastly meeting with
Crawley, and then the hostility of the townspeople. My wet shirt
seemed colder than ever, and its constant stench under my nose only
inclined me to spoil it further. Glancing down, I thought I could see
a few lumps of the previous night's fish pie clinging to it; I looked
about for a cloth or handkerchief to wipe it, but the stark room held
nothing save a few pieces of plain wooden furniture, and I did not
care to be found rifling through Crawley's desk when he arrived. God
alone knew what he already thought of me.

Still,
the disgust of my superiors had been something of a feature in my
professional life, and as I reflected upon my predicament, my spirits
rose. Meeting one's commander under such circumstances might be
unfortunate and embarrassing, but as I'd not yet reported on board he
could hardly have me up for indiscipline. True, I'd been in
uncomfortable proximity to the smugglers, but nobody could think that
I had managed to gain their employment after just a few hours in the
town. And as for the unfortunate corpse, well, whether he was a
victim of the smugglers, an inconveniently timed suicide, or simply a
morning rambler who'd put a foot wrong, I knew nothing and cared
less. I doubted I'd be commended for discovering him those who find
trouble never are - but I could hardly be blamed for his demise. And
what of the danger to me, I realized, puffing with indignation. There
were plenty of stories in the navy of men killed by their shipmates
falling from the mastheads and striking them down on deck. If the
idiot had decided to take his own life, I thought, he could at least
have had the courtesy to examine the ground below, rather than risk
taking an innocent soul to oblivion with him.

As
if someone had been reading my uncharitable thoughts, the door
suddenly banged open, and I looked up guiltily to see Crawley
striding in. Since I had seen him on the beach he had donned a coarse
wig, in the old style; it sat uncomfortably over a face that was
lined with frustrations well in advance of his forty-odd years. In
those rare moments when he relaxed his gaze, his eyes could seem
almost kind; otherwise they would tense with an almost wounded
suspicion. As he entered he was scowling, and his humour was not
improved at the sight of me.

'Out
of my chair, if you please, Mr Jerrold,' he snapped.

I
banged my knee on the desk as I jerked upright, and shuffled around
to sit in the chair opposite.

'And
you'll sit when I ask you,' he added, equally sharply.

I
rose again and stood there awkwardly, waiting for his invitation.
Instead, he opened a drawer and shuffled through some papers inside,
finally extracting one stamped with the large Admiralty seal. Holding
it close to his face, he read it intently for several minutes while I
shifted uncomfortably on my feet. It reminded me all too much of my
school days; nor, from the unruly look in his eye, could I be
confident that he was not about to reach for a cane.