Lionel 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 couldsee 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.
“Suspectedwould 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 singleremaining 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 answeredby 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 aimat 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.
