The Smugglers Page 2

  “My death?” I asked.

  “Maybe yours,” said he. “Maybe others'. But death she'll bring you, and I'll promise you that. It's the way of a ship that was christened with blood.”

  He would tell me no more. When I tried to continue the conversation, he pretended not to hear.

  The carriage came upon a village, and we sped along through winding streets. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, and Father came awake. He jolted from his dreams with an awful scream, and his arms flew up before him.

  “Easy now,” said Larson. “Just lie and rest, Mr. Spencer. I think we're almost there.”

  Around a corner, around another; I could hear the horses panting. And at last the carriage crossed a bridge and came to a stop before an old brick inn. It was called the Baskerville, and it rose two stories from a stone foundation, as cheerless as a prison.

  The driver came down with a lantern and opened the carriage door. He was gray with dust, shimmering in the light as he moved and the dust fell away from his arms and legs. With Larson on one side and I on the other, holding the cane, we helped Father out of the coach and toward a doorway set deep in the wall. The driver hurried ahead and pounded on the door with a big iron knocker. The sound boomed through the inn.

  Father slumped between us. He had the trembles, and they shook right through my arms, right through Larson's, as though all three of us were shivering.

  Again the driver hammered. “Hallo!” he shouted. “Hallo, the inn!”

  We heard footsteps on the other side, then the scraping of the latches. And a woman's voice, old as the grave, hailed us through the wood. “Who's there?” she asked. “Fleming, is it you?” The hinges squealed. “Oh, Flem, at last it's you?”

  She was short, brittle, crooked as a walking stick. Her hair, the silvery gray of ashes, was thin across her skull. Her eyes were pale and empty-looking; the woman was blind. She came lurching out through the door like a mole from its burrow, feeling ahead of her along the wood and the stone. She carried a traveler's bag of canvas and leather, and I stared at it with a feeling of indescribable pity. For it was rotting in her hand.

  The straps were worn to threads; the sides were as thin as lace. Insects and mice had eaten great holes in the bottom, and bits of clothing hung out, all frilly and black, but heavy with cobwebs. Yet she carried this thing, in the claw of her hand, as though she meant to hoist it up in the carriage and be off on her way.

  “Fleming?” she asked again, more sadly than before.

  “No, no, Mrs. Pye,” said the driver. He shouted at her, as though she were deaf and not blind. “It's not your Fleming.” He took her arm and turned her around. “I've brought a man who needs a meal and a bed. A man and his son, Mrs. Pye.”

  She put her satchel beside the door, on a patch of old carpet that was lighter-colored than all the rest–a place where it must have sat for many years. “Bring the fellow in,” she said. “The captain's in the parlor, and I'll bring the suppers there.” She shuffled off along a hallway, through the darkness of a coal mine. She had no need for candles, no use for lamps.

  The driver watched her go. “Poor blind Mrs. Pye,” he said. “Every knock on the door, every footstep, is her husband come back from the wars. She meets them all with that bag in her hand.”

  “How long has her husband been gone?” asked I.

  “Nigh on thirty years.” He started back to the carriage to fetch our luggage down. “She was only a guest then at the Baskerville,” he said, climbing up. “There's a window high at the back looking over the sea, and there she would sit watching for Fleming. Any day, she thought, he would come and take her home to Romney.” He hoisted our two small bags from the rack and tossed them down. Father flinched as they thudded on the ground.

  “She went blind, and still she sat by that window,” said the driver. “She's stayed so long, she's become a fixture. She runs the inn now, more or less.”

  By the time our bags were down, Father was walking. He was still a bit wobbly but stood supported only by his cane. “Up on his own pegs” was how the driver put it, with a great smile of pleasure. But when it came time to go inside the inn, Larson would not enter. “It wouldn't be wise,” he said, as mysterious as he'd ever been. “Not wise for me nor you.”

  Father nearly begged him to stay, and urged the driver, too. He offered them food and drink, and even lodging if they wanted. But Larson couldn't get away quickly enough. The little gentleman even left his hat behind, as a holder for Father's coins. He hopped up into the carriage and told the driver to huny.

  “You may see me again at Pegwell Bay,” said he. “Watch for me, John.”

  He was right; I would indeed see him there. But it would be a strange and sad reunion.

  Chapter 3

  THE OLD CAPTAIN

  The parlor of the Baskerville was an enormous room of oak and brick, a place of darkness and of shad-ows. The ceiling and the beams were blackened by soot, and only three lamps burned in the cavernous space. There was room in the hearth for a fire big enough to burn a witch, but only a tiny glimmer of embers came from there. The room was empty except for one man.

  He looked up as Father and I came together through the door–up from a glass of brandy that he held in both hands, as though at any moment it might go sliding off across the table. He had a boat cloak drawn across his shoulders, but I didn't need that to tell me he was an old shellback. Every line on his face, every crook in his body, spoke of the sea. His eyes were so squinted by salt winds and sun that they seemed like dark little beads sewn among folds of leather. He looked at us, then looked away to fill his glass again with brandy and water.

  Father settled down in a chair beside the hearth, then drew it even closer, until he sat nearly in the ashes. I took a poker from the gridiron and stirred the coals into a reddish glow. And Father held his hands toward it.

  There was a hole in his jacket, almost round, where the highwayman's gun had seared through the cloth. Through it I could see his shirt, scorched as well, turned to yellow by the powder burns.

  Father, seeing me staring, touched the hole with his fingers. He looked down at it, his beard going flat across his chest. “I knew they wove some amazing cloths on Thread-needle Street,” said he. “But they've outdone themselves here. It must be strong as armor.”

  He was teasing me. I knew no linen in the world could turn aside a pistol ball.

  “I suppose the gun misfired,” said Father. “That brigand had a dozen pistols armed and ready, and he chose the only one that wouldn't work.” He started shaking again. “I'd like to see him hang for this.”

  “Och, no, ye wouldna that!” The sailor's voice bellowed across the room, a Scottish accent blurred by drink. “Have ye ever seen a hanging, then? It's no a pretty sight, let me tell ye that.”

  Father looked up, startled. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I don't believe I know you.”

  “Captain Crowe,” said the man in a fearsome shout, as though against a gale. “Captain Turner Crowe. And I've been to a hanging once. Someone near,” said he, and surprised me with a bark of laughter. “Someone near and dear.”

  Father snorted. “If he was a scoundrel, he deserved it. I would hang every highwayman. And every smuggler, too.”

  “Och, ye'd be a busy man,” said Captain Crowe.

  “But a happy one,” said Father. “An honest merchant can hardly make a living for all the trade that's done in the moonlight and the fog. If the smuggling goes on the way it is, I'll be in the poorhouse next, and half of London with me.”

  Poor old Mrs. Pye came into the room then, making a long journey of the trip from the pantry to the hearth. She brought us soup, a jug of water, and a loaf of bread as round and fat as a kettle. “Captain Crowe,” she said, “could you help me, dear?” But I got up instead and took the tray that wobbled in her hands.

  “Och, bring it here, lad,” said Captain Crowe. He sat upright and drew his glass toward him. He invited us to share his table. “If ye think it's good
enow for men o' London,” said he. And Father–what choice did he have?–left the fire to sit there with the sailor.

  The boat cloak was white with salt, as crusty as the bread. But the captain hauled it up around his neck, until it wrapped him like a shroud. “What brings you down to Kent?” he asked.

  “A ship,” said Father. “It's called the Dragon”

  Across the room there came a clatter. “Mercy sakes!” said Mrs. Pye. She'd bumped against a table.

  “Och, aye, the Dragon/' said Captain Crowe in a hurried voice. ”Sure I know the Dragon, and a fine old ship she is.“ He took a drink, eyeing us over the rim of the glass. ”And what is it, then, ye'd be wanting with her? If,“ said he, ”I might be so bold as ask.”

  “I hope to buy that ship,” said Father. “And John here will help me take it up to London.”

  “What, by yourselves?” asked Captain Crowe.

  Father laughed. “I daresay that John would try it singlehanded.” He broke the bread and sopped it in the soup, then shook his head as he chewed and swallowed. “I hope to find a cargo–local goods, you see–and some men to handle the ship.”

  “She lies at Pegwell Bay?” the captain said.

  Father nodded.

  “Then it's round the Foreland for ye, lad, and mind that ye watch for the Goodwin Sands.”

  I asked, “What's that?”

  “Whit's that?” the captain shouted. “Why, laddie, it were the ruin of the fleet a hundred years ago. Look,” said he, “this is the shore of Kent.” He dipped a finger in his brandy and drew a curving line across the table, toward his jug of water. He marked St. Vincent with a chunk of bread, and with another put London in the corner, right against Father's soup. “The Dragons here,” he said, dropping down another bit, “and this is the Goodwin Sands.” In his fist he ground a lump of bread, and the crumbs fell down across the table. He ground and ground, and the crumbs piled up in a crescent to the south and east. “Now,” he said, and brushed his hand across his cloak, “one day they'll look like this, and I see what ye're thinking. 'Och, where's the danger in that?' ye ask. Weel, look, Mr. Spencer. The Sands are forever drifting, forever on the move. And so the next day–” He blew across the table, and the crumbs scattered. “–they'll look like this, ye see. There's few that know the way o' the Sands, and fewer yet who dare to find their way across them.”

  Father leaned forward, peering at the crumbs.

  “In the great storm,” the captain said, “the fleet was anchored in the Downs. That's here, ye see, just inland o' the Goodwin Sands.” He jabbed a finger at the table. “Thirteen men-o'-war went aground that day. All were lost. Every man was lost.”

  “Good Lord,” said Father softly.

  “Ye can hear their wailin' on the wind. Ye can hear it in the fog.”

  “And we have to go through that?” asked I.

  “Laddie, ye skirt 'em.” Captain Crowe put his finger on the lump of bread that he'd set down for the Dragon. He slid it out, among the crumbs; he snaked it down a twisting path. “Ye tak' the long road out, ye see. Ye've got the lead swinging, and ye luff her up, ye turn and come about.” His finger twisted through the crumbs, and I watched it as though if it ever touched a single bit of bread, we would all be on the instant drowned. “Slowly, slowly,” said Captain Crowe. “In and out, touch and go.” Then his finger reached the open surface of the table, and I heard Father release his breath, and I realized that I'd been holding mine as well. We both laughed. And so did Captain Crowe.

  “Och, it's no as bad as that,” said he, and swept the table bare of crumbs. “No harder than crossing this room, if you know the waters as well as I do.”

  “I need to find a man like that,” said Father.

  “Aye, ye do.” The captain tightened his cloak. “Believe me, ye do. I've crossed those sands in winter gales and summer fog, and there's few can say the same. Och, right enough ye have to find someone. Now, who might that be?” He stroked his chin, as though the question puzzled him. But I saw his eyes, and in them an eagerness, barely con-cealed, to be off on the Dragon himself.

  Father didn't see the dark glimmer there. He had his head down, working at his bread and soup. But suddenly he looked up. And, smiling, he thumped his forehead with his fist. “Damn my eyes!” he shouted. “He's sitting right in front of me.”

  “Where?” said Captain Crowe. He swung himself around to stare off into the dark shadows of the inn.

  “Here,” said Father, laughing. “You. Captain Crowe, will you take the Dragon across the Sands?”

  “Me? The Dragon?” he asked. Slowly he came back to face Father. He wore an expression of amazement, but one so transparent he might have painted it on. “I suppose I could at that,” he said. “Aye, why not indeed?”

  “Splendid,” Father said. “You can come with us in the morning and have a look at the boat.”

  “Ha'dyour wheest!” the captain cried. “I canna be off as quickly as that. I've business to see to.”

  “Business?” said Father.

  “Affairs,” said he. “When ye've bought the ship ye can send for me. I'll need three days, and then I'll come doon on the coach.” He smiled. “It's the best I can dae.”

  “Fair enough,” said Father. He rubbed his palms together then closed them with a slap. “And now, will you share a glass? We can lay our plans together”

  “Why not?” said the captain, grinning. “I'll even stand ye a round, Mr. Spencer. And we'll drink to a voyage together.”

  He heaved himself up and went at a rolling seaman's gait from table to table down the length of the parlor. The moment he was gone I leaned toward Father. “You played right to his hand,” said I. “Didn't you see it was just what he wanted?”

  “Oh, John,” said Father. “Of courde I did. The man's a devil, but a harmless one. Proud as Punch, and that's his failing. Too blasted proud to come straight out and ask for something. But he's just the one for the job, don't you agree?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well?” said Father.

  “You don't know him,” I said. “And you're going to hire him as the captain?”

  “Good heavens, no,” said Father. “Aspilot, John. Only as pilot. You don't think he imagines he's going as the captain, do you?”

  But he did. Crowe came back with three glasses nested in his fists. He set a large one before Father and said with a laugh, “One for the owner.” Then, “One for the boy,” said he, and set a small glass at my elbow. Last he hoisted his own, an enormous pot full of ale. “And one for the captain,” he said.

  Father groaned. “You misunderstand me, my friend. I have a captain already, and a good one. But you've put a scare into me, and I'd like you to go along and see the Dragon over the Sands.”

  The captain, still on his feet, glowered down. I saw his fingers tighten round the glass. “Turner Crowe,” he said proudly, “doesna sail as crew.”

  “Then Turner Crowe stays ashore,” said Father.

  I feared the glass might shatter in the captain's hand, so hard did he squeeze. It shook in his fist, and his eyes had become slits. Such a sudden flash of rage I had seldom seen, and I imagined the man could be a horror on a ship of his own. Plainly he was used to giving the orders, not getting them.

  “So what will it be?” asked Father.

  “I'd hate to see a fine ship lost,” said Crowe, “and men like yourselves go with her.” Anger gave an edge to his voice and made his words sound threatening. But he lowered his head in a humble way, and his eyes went down to the table. “Aye, I'll be yer pilot, Mr. Spencer. I'll see her safe across the Sands.”

  “Splendid,” said Father. Even I was pleased at this. After the dire warnings that Larson had thrust upon us, it was good to find a man who knew the ship and trusted her.

  He dropped to his chair. Its legs creaked under him. “Who is the captain, then?” he asked. “Like as not, I've shipped wi' him before.”

  “Dawson,” said Father. “Do you know him?”

  “Aye,”
said Crowe. “He's a tall man, dark of hair.”

  “He's short and fair,” said Father.

  “Bearded, is he not? With a London accent?”

  “Liverpool” said Father. “And he's clean-shaven.”

  “Och, aye,” said Crowe. “I know him well.”

  Father glanced at me. He found amusement in the man's clumsy maneuvers and showed it with a wink. “The two of you will have a lot to talk about,” said he.

  Crowe nodded. But his thoughts, I saw, had wandered off to somewhere else. His eyes were dark.

  “You'll see Dawson at the River Stour,” said Father. “He's leaving London tomorrow. He'll put up for the night at Canterbury, and go direct to the Dragon from there.”

  Crowe lifted his head. He was smiling now, all hint of anger gone. “I'll look forward to seeing him,” he said.“Aye, a pleasure it will be.”

  Father drained his glass. “One more?” he asked. “I've got a lot to tell you, Captain Crowe.”

  I was sent off to look for Mrs. Pye. I took a lamp and went from the dim glow of the parlor to the darkness of the hallway. The light went before me, leaping over plastered walls, turning doorways from black to gold as I came toward them. I heard Mrs. Pye long before I saw her.

  “Fleming?” she asked. “Is that you?”

  With a suddenness that startled me, she stepped up from a staircase, from a blackness below, into the gleam of my lamp. She reached for my arm, and her hands were bitterly cold as she touched my shoulder, then my cheek. I saw the disappointment on her face when she found I wasn't Fleming.

  “Who's this?” she asked.

  “John Spencer,” I said. “My father sent me to find you. He and the captain want another glass.”

  Her hands dropped away, and she carried on and past me, back the way I'd come. I went with her, and the shadows followed. But as they thickened in around the staircase I saw–or thought I did–a faint veil of light, as though from a lantern down at the foot of the stairs. For a moment I smelled the saltiness of the sea, carried up from below on a cold draft of air. But just as quickly it vanished again, and the glow of light went with it.