The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [266]
But above all, for the dwellers by the New Forest coast, it was a question of simple trade in contraband. And they were so well organized, in such large bands, that not all the riding officers together could have stopped one of their great night-time caravans. In order to do that you needed troops.
It had been tried. Detachments of dragoons and other regiments had been quartered at Lymington from time to time. There were plans for building a new barracks over at Christchurch. The cavalry were never locally recruited, of course; that would be useless. But even so, they were not always keen to take on the smuggling bands. In the last ten years there had been two pitched battles. On each occasion a number of troopers had been killed. And since the troopers were in sympathy with the smugglers anyway, it was not a popular assignment.
‘My chances of intercepting contraband with English troops’, Grockleton informed the Frenchman, ‘are not good.’
But what about French troops? The idea had come to him a week ago and it might turn out to be a stroke of genius. The French troops had no local ties, no sympathies with the smugglers, nothing. They were bored, looking for something to do. There were, altogether, more than a thousand of them. And they were only there on the sufferance of the British government. If he could make a major interception using them it would not only earn him the grateful thanks of the government; his share of the confiscated loot would make him a modest fortune. He might be unpopular but he could probably retire.
If, on the other hand, the Frenchman failed to support him he could let it be known in London at once. The king himself would hear and be seriously displeased.
All of this, without needing to be told, the Frenchman perfectly understood. ‘It will have to be done with total secrecy,’ he replied when he had heard Grockleton’s plan.
‘Certainly.’
‘I dare not tell my men even upon the day. A parade, some excuse to assemble under arms will be needed, and then …’
‘My feelings exactly. I may have your co-operation, then?’
‘Totally. It goes without saying. I am His Britannic Majesty’s to command.’
‘Then, Sir, I thank you,’ said Grockleton and pushed his brick back into place.
For a moment or two the count and his colleague walked along the lane in silence.
‘Well, mon ami,’ the count said at last, ‘you heard all that?’ The other nodded. ‘It puts us,’ the count went on, ‘you know, in a difficult position. Do you think I did right?’
‘I do. You have no choice.’
‘I’m glad you agree. Not a word of this must be known, I need hardly remind you.’
‘You may trust me.’
‘Of course. Now, as we came, let us return, by separate ways.’
Night had come to Albion House and, as she had so often in her young life, Fanny was sitting in the parlour with two old people. In the fireplace the cindery logs produced only an occasional flicker of flame; the candles threw a gentle glow on to the dark oak panelling. Fanny might have ambitious plans for remodelling the house one day into a classical Gothic folly but, for the present, the old parlour had hardly changed since the days of good Queen Bess.
It was very quiet. Sometimes she would read to the old people, but tonight they had preferred to sit still in their chairs, enjoying the silence of the house, which was broken only by the soft tick of the long-case clock in the hall and, more occasionally, by the tiny rustle of a falling cinder in the fire. At last, her father