The Smugglers (3 page)

“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. “As
pilot,
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.

A
t dawn the next day I collected our two small bags, and we left the Baskerville Inn. Captain Crowe came out to the door, pointing down the road to give us our directions.

“Ye've near a mile to walk,” said he. “And ye'11 have to hurry now, if ye've a mind to catch the coach.”

I was surprised to find that we were so far from the sea as we walked along a road that took us to the edge of cliffs before curving inland to the west. The inn stood well above the water, fully half a mile from the nearest line of surf. I couldn't understand how I had smelled the salt air so strongly from there on a night without any wind.

Father was back to his old self, striding along with his cane swinging at his arm, barely limping at all. He had only the one coat, but underneath he wore a good, clean shirt, and I could see the whiteness of it through the hole from the
highwayman's pistol. It flashed across his chest like a medal he had won.

All the way to St. Vincent, and all the way north in the coach to Pegwell Bay, he talked of Captain Crowe.

“The man has been around the Horn,” he said. “He's been to the Indies, East
and
West. Yet there he sat at the Baskerville. What were the chances of that?”

I thought the chances were rather good that the man would be found wherever there was liquor, but I didn't tell Father that. And we rode to the north with the sea at our right as the dust clouded round the carriage.

It was evening before we arrived and I saw the
Dragon
for the first time. She lay in the incoming tide, with her stern facing us, and I thought she was just about the prettiest little ship I'd ever seen. Though smaller by half than our old
Isle of Skye,
she looked clever and quick. With her sails carefully furled on the booms and the big yards of the top-sail set perfectly square, she looked more like a small warship than a merchantman.

“So it's still for sale,” said Father, staring up at the masthead. I followed his gaze and saw the broom lashed there, a signal to all that a buyer was wanted.

“That's good,” said he. “Providence is with us, young John.”

Right away we hired a boat to take us out to the
Dragon.
The oarsman had only one arm, and so he sculled instead of rowed, standing at the stern, grunting with each heave of the oar. “Sit still!” he snapped at me as I scrambled forward into the bow. “It's hard enough to move this old bit of rot without you flopping around like a herring.”