There was legitimate cause to believe that part of Napoleon’s war had been financed through smuggling English gold to France, by means of exchanging foreign currency through a conglomerate of aristocratic investments, although nothing could be proved. That amounted to treason, at least in Stephan’s mind.
When Pierre had first taken the position of Port Master at Le Havre, he’d noticed what seemed to be inflated invoices for the amount and quality of goods in certain shipments to various English companies. Those shipments usually carried the same assortment of brandy, silk, and spice along with the wording regarding a very special delivery. Pierre believed the goods were merely a ruse to cover the money transfer to French coffers since the payment method had always been gold.
Stephan desperately wanted to find out who those men were. The best way to do that was waylay the ships and relieve them of their goods. The vermin on this side of the Channel wouldn’t send payment for items they hadn’t received. Stephan turned to Eric.
“Were there any casualties?”
“Bruises and busted lips. Maybe a few broken noses on those who were stupid enough not to surrender. The entire crew, save for the captain, was locked in the hold.” Eric patted his own pocket. “I happen to have the key right here. Gave us plenty of time to get the skiffs back to the big boats and load them.”
“Job well done.” Stephan paused. “La Mer Espritwasn’t too close to the coastline, was it?”
Eric shook his head. “We left it a good three miles out. I don’t like seeing a ship flounder on the rocks any more than you do. The captain should have the crew released in time to keep that from happening.”
“The goods are on their way to other ports then?”
“Aye. Run to Portsmouth, Plymouth, and Penzance.”
Stephan smiled. The three fishing vessels used for these trips were decrepit looking, and even the names on the sterns had been scraped. They had false floors and bulkheads which provided ample holds for the goods. Some deserving, hard-working people would no doubt appreciate that bounty. While the aristocracy lived well and ate even better—all one had to do was take a look at Prinny—much of Stephan’s own countrymen didn’t.
He patted the packet of cloves in his pocket. Smuggling was a way of life along the English coast, even though Stephan’s purpose for intercepting goods was different. Not that he could ever admit to anyone what he did. Piracy—no matter the motivation—was still cause for hanging.
“I am glad to hear all went well,” Stephan said to Eric. “Did you, by any chance, procure a bottle of cognac for yourself?”
“Aye, I did. One for you, too.” He stood and released the latch on a cabinet above their heads, producing a bottle as well as two pewter mugs. “Fair wages, I say.”
“That it is,” Stephan said as Eric poured their drinks.
Eric lifted his glass to toast. “To success.”
Stephan tasted the cognac with its especially smooth quality. “To success.”
…
“Damn the devils!” Tisdale glared at Francois Neville, the captain of theLa Mer Esprit, as they stood on the dock near Blackwell Crossing. “Are you telling me the entire cargo was taken?”
“Non, Monsieur—”
“Speak English! You are on British soil.”
The captain cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
“No, sir, what?” Tisdale asked. “Was the whole cargo taken?”
“Only the cognac, silk, and spices.”
“Onlythe cognac, silk, and spices,” Alfred repeated. “Only the items that were meant for special delivery. How did the damn pirates know exactly what to take?”
“Je ne savois pas…” The captain stopped and swallowed. “I do not know.”
“You do not know.” Tisdale felt like he was beginning to sound like a parrot. Damn it. This was the third time in recent months that a shipment had been intercepted and only those coded items had been taken. It could not be a coincidence. Unfortunately, due to his diminished finances, his superior already suspected Tisdale of rerouting the shipments for his own personal gain. He’d have a hell of a time explaining that one more shipment had been lost. He glared at the captain.
“How could you have allowed them to board? Do you not have cannon?”
Captain Neville gave him a quizzical look. “We are not a battleship. At any rate, I prefer not to risk my crews’ lives.”
Tisdale bit back his frustration. If he hadn’t lost most of his inheritance investing in French-owned India clipper ships when it had looked like Napoleon was winning the war, he wouldn’t be in this situation. His estate was entailed, with mounting debts, since many of his crofters had gone to work at the cotton mills. “My men were waiting at the Customs House to unload the goods.”
The French captain shrugged. “These things happen.”
