The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) by Nathan Goodwin (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

deliverance of the brandy he would receive no pay. With a renewed determination, Samuel pressed on. At last, the ground beneath him, firmed by sand, mud and sparse vegetation, resisted the heavy footfall of his boots and his progress increased.

The gunfire behind him had at last abated, but now he could not see which way to go. Searching the darkness for direction, Samuel caught sight of movement up ahead—another of the smugglers—and moved towards him. He ignored the deep aching in his chest and pushed on faster, drawing alongside the two men. One was Quested, his left arm around the waist of a limping tubman. Samuel could see from the man’s blood-drenched breeches that he had sustained an injury to his leg.

Quested glanced at Samuel. ‘We just need to be a-getting to Lydd. I got carts a-waiting at Scotney Court Farm.’

Samuel nodded. ‘How far?’

‘Four mile-odd,’ Quested answered breathlessly.

He couldn’t; there was no way Samuel could maintain this pace for a further four miles. Then he thought of Hester anxiously awaiting him at home, having pleaded with him not to get involved in the wicked trade, after losing two brothers to the gallows for the same crime. It was with every conscious effort that Samuel fought the desire to drop the barrels and run directly home.

Placing himself on the other side of the injured tubman, Samuel hoisted the man’s left arm over his shoulder.

‘The blockade will give up soonest,’ Quested said, as if intuiting Samuel’s doubts. He guided them to the edge of the field and paused, squinting into the darkness.

‘Please—be a-leaving me here,’ the man between Samuel and Quested begged.

‘Don’t be blethering on, man. Stay quiet.’

Samuel noticed Quested turn to look behind them and followed his gaze, wishing that there were even a hint of moonlight by which to see. Behind them, hulking shadows danced and shouted. Evidently, they were still being pursued. The flashing of a blunderbuss briefly illuminated the scene following them: not fifty yards away the batmen were beating a retreat towards them. Pursuing the batmen closely were now upwards of twenty blockade officers.

‘Dump the barrels,’ Quested instructed.

‘But…’ Samuel began.

‘Don’t be a-worrying, you be getting your dues. Sling them in the sewer and happen we’ll find them tomorrow.’

Samuel obeyed his leader and heaved the half-ankers over his head. Seeking one last look of assurance from Quested, he tossed them down into one of the many ditches which dissected the great Marsh, receiving a loud splash in response.

The commotion from behind them was drawing ever closer.

‘Let’s be a-getting out of here,’ Quested ordered.

Without turning, Samuel became aware that something was happening behind them; the men’s footfall had ceased. Seconds later, the muskets and blunderbusses were opening up once more; the batmen were stopping to provide cover for their withdrawal.

Two pistol shots fired in succession, immediately succeeded by two wolf-like cries piercing through the night sky, as two of the batmen were slaughtered.

The blockade men were close now.

Another shot rang out and Samuel felt the man beside him suddenly weaken. He slumped noiselessly to the ground, instantly devoid of life.

‘Run!’ Quested shouted.

Samuel, trying to ignore the fact that he was running dangerously close to the edge of the water-filled ditch, pushed his body until every muscle in his legs was screaming.

‘Over there!’ Quested yelled, pointing into the darkness.

Evidently, he could see something which Samuel could not.

They continued running, with the mêlée of conflict between batmen and blockade officers just yards away, until Quested suddenly thrust out his arm.

Samuel drew to a stop just in time; they had reached the terminus of the field, their escape route blocked by Pig’s Creek Sewer—another of the marsh’s notorious dykes.

Their game was up.

Samuel bent double, his body aching and his mind in chaos. Swamping his thoughts were images of Hester and his little boy, John. She had been right in her vehement opposition to his smuggling; now he would pay the price.

The retreating batmen were almost upon them.

‘Are you a-coming?’ a voice called from the pitch darkness of the opposite bank, just as a thin wooden plank fell propitiously over the watery divide.

‘Come on—whip-sticks,’ Quested said, pushing Samuel towards the makeshift bridge.

Fearful of the freezing water below, Samuel tottered carefully onto the wood, trying to ignore the groaning bounce that occurred as he made his way across. Just three more steps and he would be on the other side.

Then, more gunfire. Musket balls passed overhead.

‘Hurry!’ someone shouted. The voice did not belong to Quested; Samuel guessed that the batmen had caught up to them, which meant that the blockade officers were almost upon them, too.

With one final spring, Samuel pushed off the plank to the relative safety of the dark field beyond. There, he could just make out several silhouetted figures: tubmen, by their lumbering appearance.

One by one, the batmen crossed Pig’s Creek Sewer. Cephas Quested was the last man to cross and the plank of wood was hastily retracted through the swampy water, out of reach of the blockade men.

‘Come on—there be no time to—’ Quested began, but his sentence became lost to a barrage of angry pistol fire from across the water.

Something with the force of a stampeding ox smashed into Samuel’s right shoulder, sending him crashing to the floor in agony. Reaching across with his left hand, he touched what felt like a pulpy sponge; his arm was full of shot and was bleeding profusely into his smock-frock. The pain, like a dozen tiny daggers piercing his flesh, was unbearable.

‘Be keeping low,’ someone behind him yelled.

Despite the agonising pain in his shoulder, Samuel lay still. Around him were other men—he could not see them but he could hear their heavy breathing, hear their bodies shuffling on the cold, damp field beneath.

Samuel lay still, gripping his shoulder, for what felt