Essex Ghost Tales by Robert Hallmann

Author:Robert Hallmann
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780750963237
Publisher: The History Press
Published: 2014-12-23T00:00:00+00:00

5

GREY LADY’S VENGEANCE

Without the moon the night was dark as sin. A smuggler’s moon, favourable by its absence. Of course, it was planned that way. On moonlit nights a lookout on the Downs can get a fair view over the Thames and all the traffic that moves upon it when passing through its reflected silver beam. Then the heights of Leigh church or Hadleigh Castle are ideal vantage points to spy as far as the shores of Kent.

Now only the half dome of stars lent their familiarity to the local knowledge as the flat-bottom boat glided almost silently across the shallows. There was little wind. Just the creaking boat itself and the regular muffled splash of oars could be heard by the small company it transported – apart from the occasional suppressed curse.

When they spoke, their voices were gruff. Little more than curt whispers. No need to attract attention, not even among the locals who knew of their presence and bought the wares they carried so secretively under their seats. You never knew where a spyglass was pointed or when someone was desperate enough to pass on information that could be turned into cash by the authorities.

The tide was low and they had to use all their skills not to be stranded in the narrow convoluting rills of brackish water that meandered between the marshy islands of the Ray. When they reached the spot of their furtive quest – nothing more than a stake forced deep and securely into the slithery mud – they were gratefully relieved. It was an innocent enough object from wherever one might view it, close to and in line with the rotting hull of a broken-backed boat – a landmark reference to the stake’s position.

A barn owl screeched as it flew past and its wing almost touched the tall leader’s face when he stood up to make certain of their position. He’d heard and felt the owl more than seen it. ‘Curse that bird …’ he spat out. ‘This be the spot. Now tie ’em secure and let’s be gone. These shallows put the fear o’ the Devil in me.’ Jack Gardner was a poor sailor really, though he would have cut the man who dared say that to his face.

They tied the casks, well secured with hemp ropes, as low as they could reach to that leaning stake knowing they would stay safely in place, even with the shifting tides. The rising water would completely hide their presence and they could be collected as soon as a buyer had been contacted and circumstances for their delivery were right.

It was the final run of the night for the tall Gardner, taking the small boat for the last stretch across the marshy wastes and shifting sandbanks outside the safety of Candy Island’s dikes and walls. Their last task was to return the sloop to Bemfleet’s Church Creek where it would innocently lie among barges, hoys and other oyster dredgers on the Hard as it always did, conveniently close to most of their homes.

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