The Runaway's Gold (16 page)

And then he pointed a thick, grimy finger at me.

“That one's the thief.”

I glanced up at the impeccably dressed man standing at his side. He was nearly as tall as Knut but razor thin, with a gold watch, which was attached to a chain across his chest, held tightly in his hand.

“You best be right, Blackbeard,” Sheriff Nicolson said. “With
all the troubles on the streets tonight, I've more important concerns than complaints from the likes a' you.”

As he spoke, he exchanged looks with a balding man carrying a canvas sack.

“Stole William Robertson's pouch, he did!” Knut said. “
And
Pete Peterson's prize ewe. Snuffed her out to cover the crime, but Peterson found out soon enough.”

“'Twas me brother who stole that pouch!” I shouted, grabbing at me throbbing shoulder as I tried to sit up. “Ask those men over there. He gave it to them!”

But as I searched around the edge of the lodberry for the wiry brute who had tied Mary and me up, the man in the knitted cap, and the other men who had been moving the gin, they were nowhere to be seen. The door to the lodberry was closed, and not a single cask remained.

“There's no one round but the two of you ruffians,” Knut said.

“But they were just here,” I blurted, struggling to me feet.

“They?” Sheriff Nicolson raised an eyebrow, then tapped the face of his watch as he looked me up and down. “Was there some activity here at the Marwick Lodberry that I should know about?” he asked.

John flashed me a stern look, and then he quickly turned away.

“Ah . . . ,” the sheriff muttered, slowly rubbing his chin. “You lads know something, do you?” He stepped closer, reaching for the lapel of Charles's fine coat, and stroked it with his finger.
“Tell me, son, if you're the crofter Mr. Blackbeard says you are, how is it you're wearing such fine clothes? And—oh my—do I see boots as well?”

“He stole 'em, o' course,” Knut said. “A thief, this one.” Then he grabbed me fast by the wrists with his grimy, chapped hands. “Go ahead, Sheriff, search him! He has that pouch—that is, unless he spent all his Daa's hard-earned money on those clothes.”

“I'm no thief,” I yelled as Sheriff Nicolson drove his hands into me pockets. “Me brother John's the one you want!”

“Hah!” Knut laughed, extending his hand to John, who was still lying on the ramp. Then he helped him to his feet. “'Twas John caught him and then went after him when he fled.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sheriff Nicolson asked. He seized John's arm and searched his pockets as well. Finding nothing, he motioned to the balding man at his side, who pulled two ropes from his sack. “I want them both. These lads have been up to something, and I intend to find out what.”

“Not John.” Knut shook his head as the sheriff's assistant tied our wrists together. “You've got the wrong brother.”

“Don't be a fool!” the sheriff said. “This is Marwick's personal lodberry. Everyone knows he's desperate for cash. If you ask me, these lads were waiting for a shipment they know is coming in.”

“You've no evidence to hold me,” John cried.

Me mind raced, thinking of Mary and the
Ernestine Brennan
. Would they have time to flee the harbor before dawn? And
what would happen to me family, to so many families, should the shipment be seized and Wallace Marwick go under?

“All right.” The words escaping me lips before I knew exactly what I was saying. “You found us out.”

I looked at John, me eyes piercing his, his face turning ashen.

“John doesn't want me to tell you this. But you've caught us and there's nothing we can do about it now. You being the sheriff, I figure you'll uncover it soon enough anyway.”

“What?” John scoffed. “Tell him, Knut! I have nothing to do with any of this foolishness. Clearly there's no telling what Chris will say to hide the truth.”

“Enough!” Sheriff Nicolson said, turning his attention back to me. “Go on, lad.”

“It's the
Ernestine Brennan
,” I said, thinking quickly as I spoke. “The men who were here tipped us off. She's due in just before dawn. 'Course, it could be tomorrow, or the next day. No one knows for sure. But there's been no sign of her yet. We've been waiting here all night.”

“Bah!” Knut said. “He's bluffin'!”

The sheriff turned to Knut. “'Course,
you
have a history with the smuggling yourself, Blackbeard. Though I'd like to think your six months in me prison taught you a lesson or two. For all I know, you were in on it, trying to collect on something yourself.”

Knut's eyes narrowed. “Everyone knows you's in Marwick's pockets. I've but one purpose here tonight—to bring back William Robertson's property!”

“Perhaps,” Sheriff Nicolson said, exchanging knowing glances with the balding man with the bag. “But we all know those pockets are now empty.”

Then he asked the most obvious question of all. The one no one could answer. “Tell me, Knut, what is William Robertson, a penniless crofter-fisherman so buried in debt he can't see clear from his croft to his byre, doing with a pouch of coins?”

Knut twitched uncomfortably as a smile crept from the wicks of Sheriff Nicolson's mouth. Then the sheriff began to laugh. “Relax, Blackbeard! You don't think me so dim as to expect a confession from you out here on the lodberry, now, do you?”

“It's not me you need confessin'!” Knut roared, spit flying from his lips.

“Perhaps. But it will be up to the court to determine which of them is telling the truth, not you. And in the meantime I intend to find out more about what Mr. Marwick has up his sleeve.”

Knut began to protest, but Sheriff Nicolson cut him off with the wave of a hand. Then he turned to the balding man and took the ropes bound to John and me. “Run to the Customs House and alert them that the
Ernestine Brennan
's due. They're to inspect all she has on board the minute she is sighted.”

Then the sheriff passed the ropes over to Knut. “Come, Blackbeard. I trust you'll help me get these two troublemakers up the hill. They'll have plenty of time to decide which of them is telling the truth from their new home in Lerwick Prison.”

KNUT LED US UP FROM THE SHORE AND THEN up the steep cobblestone lane to the fort, following closely on the heels of Sheriff Nicolson. When we lagged behind, he yanked tightly on the ropes.

“What are you up to?” John whispered.

“Devil be with you, John Robertson!” I muttered, spitting on his tattered rivlins, the blood from me nose dripping on the stones before us.

“Enough a' you, thief!” Knut barked, jerking the rope so cruelly that it cut into me flesh.

For the rest of the walk I remained silent, me body consumed with the dread of what lay ahead. I glanced behind us as Bressay Sound brightened with the hints of a soon-to-be-rising sun, smacks and sloops bobbing in the water, hungry cormorants and gulls circling overhead. But as we entered the fort through the narrow door in the arched gate, I felt as if we had entered perpetual darkness.

The barracks on our left was the largest of the four main buildings. It was an imposing, two-story rectangle of lime-harled walls and three-paned windows flanking a dark oak door in the center. Waiting at the door was a line of people, clothes tattered, their faces pinched with hunger, some peering through the curiously louvered shutters in the first-floor windows.

“Back—back!” Sheriff Nicolson grumbled as he and Knut pushed us up the steps. “Court doesn't open till eight o'clock, you bunch a' ragamuffins!”

Then he snatched our ropes from Knut's hands.

“No farther, Blackbeard,” he growled, pulling a long key from his pocket. “You'll be informed if the court needs you to make a statement.”

“An' when'll that be? I canna be stayin' round these parts forever!”

“Then my suggestion is you go back to your croft. The sooner Lerwick is rid of the likes of you, the better!” He pushed open the door and ushered us inside, before turning back to face Knut. “I do find it strange that you are eager to return to this building after your residency not so long ago.”

Knut spat on the threshold. “Gave William Robertson me word, I did. I'll get that pouch back and this boy locked up for good if it's the last thing I do.”

Sheriff Nicolson paused a moment, narrowing his eyes. “Considering what we and Her Majesty's Revenue Men hear of certain shipments coming ashore near Culswick, I'd watch my tongue if I were you.”

Then he pulled the door behind him, slamming it in Knut's face.

“Lor'!” I winced, burying me injured nose into the soft sleeve of Charles Canfield's coat. The stench of excrement and urine inside the door was so powerful me eyes began to water.

“Like it, do you?” Sheriff Nicolson asked, flashing a sinister smile. “Well, it only gets worse come summer.”

“You've no reason to hold us in this Hell-hole!” John scoffed, searching the cold, damp entryway with disdain.

“Oh, but I do! It's my duty to keep order on this island. Pity you crofters can't seem to stay out of trouble. Smuggling—thievery—just like the rest of those wretched people waiting in line outside for their family members' time in court. As if your kin don't have enough worry in these trying times.”

“I'll not be convicted before a trial!” John challenged, his eyes locking with the sheriff's.

“You'll do as I say!” The lean man yanked so harshly on his rope that it cut into John's wrist and John couldn't keep from crying out. “In here I'm the law. And the keeper sees to it anything I say is carried out without question.”

Then he turned to the stairs. “Keeper Mann!” A door slammed on the floor above, followed by the sound of footsteps shuffling down the stairs.

Before us I could see a narrow hallway leading to the back of the building, with a stairway to the right. Two adjacent hallways stretched perpendicular to the main hall on either side. I glanced with horror at me boastful, scheming brother cowering powerless at me side. At that moment I felt a sense of revulsion I had never known before.

The keeper was a stout but tilted figure. His left shoulder was pulled higher than his right, as if the neck muscles no longer worked. His nose, nearly purple with its tangle of tiny veins, poked out from above an unruly brown beard, and his lips, ears, and forehead were grotesquely covered with what appeared to be a vast array of warts.

“Lads, meet Hugh Mann,” the sheriff announced, handing
him our ropes. “Keeper of Lerwick Prison for so many years I've lost track. Mann, our new guests are from all the way over in Culswick. Brothers, it seems. The wee one is Christopher Robertson. Accused of stealing and then snuffing out Peter Peterson's prize ewe. The other is John. One or both of them stole their Daa's pouch of coins, but we haven't yet the evidence. Picked them up at the Marwick Lodberry trying to get a piece of some smuggled Marwick loot about to come in.”

The two men stood side by side, looking us up and down, as if we were goods in a shop window by the shore.

“Pitiful crofters,” Keeper Mann scoffed. “Nothin' but skin and bones. Why, the gruel in this place'll probably be a better meal than they had since the corn crop failed last September!”

Sheriff Nicolson nodded satisfactorily, then turned toward the stairs. “I expect you're right about that, Hugh. 'Course, I've seen starving swine turn away from your gruel. Show them to their quarters, but be sure to keep them apart. They're likely to tear each other to shreds before we get our chance to bring them to justice.”

I glanced at the peculiar-looking man as the sheriff disappeared up the stairs.

“What you starin' at?” He reached up to a shelf by the door and grabbed what appeared to be two tattered gray garments. Then he ushered us down a long, dark hallway to our left.

“Smugglers, every one!” He pointed to each of the timber doors we passed, all fitted with thick iron locks. “You lazy crofters canna keep your hands off that tobacco and Dutch
gin,” he chided, banging on the walls at the moans and grumblings from inside. “Cheatin' the Crown when you should be fishin' for the cod and sowin' yer bere!”

John edged closer, as if trying to get near enough to whisper something, but I shoved him away.

“Hey! None a' that!” Keeper Mann shouted, turning to face me as he pulled a twelve-inch knife with an ornately carved scrimshaw handle from a leather pouch on his belt. “Dunna make me use it, lad.”

When we came to the last cell in the hall, he pulled a rusted key from his pocket. He turned the lock, and swung open the door to a wee, damp chamber lit only by the faint rays of daylight filtered through the strange, louvered shutters I had noticed from the outside. Then he carelessly sliced the rope from John's wrists and tossed one of the gray smocks at his chest.

“Put it on! I'll be back for your clothes directly.” Then he slammed the door and turned the key. “Sheriff says to keep you apart, but at the moment we're full up,” he continued. “Lucky for you I've just the roommate.”

A cackle burst from the wicks of his wart-encrusted mouth as he inserted the key into the lock of the cell immediately adjacent to John's. “A true criminal, this one, not just one of those smugglin' crofters.”

“Sola Gratia,” I muttered, burying me nose in me sleeve as the door swung open.

“Ripe smellin', ain't he?” Mann said, jabbing me with a finger
as he laughed. “By last count it was Christmas Day we gived ya a bath, isn't that right, Malcolm?”

Sitting on a pallet by the window was a bedraggled man, staring at us through deep-set hazel eyes. His wild crop of hair was as red as me own, sticking out in all directions; an unruly beard, flecked in white, clung in swirls around his mouth and chin. He seemed pale in the muted light, despite the smudges of grime on his cheeks and hands, and his bare feet, which stuck out from under the filthy gray prison uniform, were wide as hooves, and covered by a thick layer of hair.