by Conn, Claudy
She marveled at Kit’s French accent, for she herself spoke the language only passably.
The French crew and English alike began loading the galley, and they worked in unison, totally unmindful that their two countries were at war—and Myriah was confused by it all.
She imagined they saw it only as a means to put food on their families’ tables and clothes on their backs. It was hard, backbreaking work, but it served, and thus there were no complaints as they did their jobs.
Once the galley’s belly was loaded with tubs of French brandy, Frenchman and Englishman smiled peacefully at one another.
“Who is the pretty with, you?” the stranger inquired, still speaking in French.
“My woman,” Kit answered quickly. “Don’t fret it.”
She understood Kit’s last remark and blushed as she gave his sleeve a twist. He grinned at her, found a driftwood log, and placed her forcefully upon it. Then he quietly but firmly requested, “Stay here, sweetings. I have some business to transact.”
She pouted but made herself as comfortable as possible and waited, watching Kit as he walked a short distance away from her with the Frenchman.
His eyes constantly darted in her direction, protectively keeping her in sight.
“Have you the money?” the Frenchman asked. “Thirty-five shillings a tub.”
“It is a high price, Louis. Others pay you but twenty shillings,” Kit complained.
The Frenchman smiled affably. “Yes, and they take off my hands eighty tubs, and they come regularly, my lord. You come only now and then … as the mood strikes you, and then you take but thirty tubs.”
“Still, my landing crew has complained about it. They say that there is not enough in it for them,” Kit argued.
“Your landing crew—what are they but nodcocks who slink, carry, hide, and run?”
“They also break heads,” Kit said drily.
The Frenchman laughed. “Ah, yes, but not yours, Kit, never yours. You’re far too clever.”
Mynah’s eyes opened wide with amazement. She could pick up words here and there, just enough to assure her that her beloved was indeed up to his neck … she still had hoped was just a lark.
And then the Frenchman spoke in English, and his English was as good as hers. What the deuce?
She was so curious she stood up and inched her way towards them. However, Kit took the Frenchman by the arm and moved him out of hearing distance.
She saw him take out a fat leather bag and place it in the man’s grasp. She also saw that, oddly enough, the bag was followed by something white and gold, something that looked like an official envelope. She had seen that type of envelope before … somewhere.
Then it was over, and as if she had never heard the man speak in English, he was once again speaking French. When they returned to her, the Frenchman was speaking. “What are you complaining for, my lord? You pay me thirty-five shillings, yes. But you sell each keg for five pounds, do you not?”
Kit laughed and gave the fellow a robust slap on the back. “That we do, Louis … that we do!”
“Very well then. We are pleased … for you have made your profit … I have made mine.”
“I have not done so yet. I still have the Revenue Cutters to pass through.”
“May they be damned! Bon voyage to you, mon ami, and until we meet again,” the Frenchman said, and then once again something peculiar bit Myriah. Kit and the Frenchy took each other’s hands and clasped them for all the world as though they were brothers. “Soon, Louis … soon you’ll be on the soil—the soil that makes you what you are.”
“Oui, mon ami,” the Frenchman said with an elusive smile.
They parted, and Myriah watched wide-eyed as Kit stood looking after the Frenchman. He sighed, and she looked into his eyes. “You like him a great deal, don’t you?”
“Louis? Why, yes, yes I do,” Kit said, smiling warmly at her. “Now … if I don’t mistake, the lads have loaded the galley and ’tis time I paid them their wage.” He went amongst them and distributed their pay. There would be more after they had made their sale on the other side of the channel.
Kit lifted Myriah into the boat and pulled her along to the stern, and once again Captain Wimborne and his men were rowing into deep water.
One of the men grumbled that his arms and back were things of pain. Young Bilkes laughed. “Ye old goat, stop looking like a dead crow, and maybe ye’ll feel a might better.”
“Wot sort of talk be that, young’n?” Fry grumbled. “And if I’m not mistaken looks like the durned wind is about to start on wobblin’ us,” he said, staring up at the sky with his one eye.
“You sound like an old woman, Fry,” one of the Winchelsea lads, a spry fellow ready for a bit of sport, bellowed.
“Old woman? Why ye wait, ye daft child. Ye’ll lose ye sweet face for that priggly remark!”
They all laughed and continued their firm, steady strokes, but Myriah watched Kit’s face as he stared up at the growing stormy sky. She pulled on his cutaway coat and asked, “What is it, Kit, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t like the scudding clouds.” He stood up and began shouting affably. “All right, my fine, able buckos, let’s move, on the count. Just look at the tail of that maid—she’s swimming just a touch away … after her, boys.”
The boat, loaded down with its weight of brandy, splashed through the growing waves, and though the mood was light as the men rowed and jested, Kit continued to frown.
“If a gale comes on us, m’lord—then wot?” asked one.
“Hold yer fiendish tongue, boy. Gale … yer fool, ain’t no gales in May!” Fry cut in to answer him. A few of the men broke into mirth. They pushed on, putting the miles behind them, and made long tracks through the water, slicing their way home.
They prided themselves on their ability—the ability of arriving at their prescribed destination at the time they had stipulated. The land smugglers, a group of professional head-beaters, armed with bats lest any landsguard had the foolish intent to try and deter them, would be waiting with their lanterns and their horses to carry the cargo away … and the Wimborne crew were determined to be there on time!
“I do like the sea I do, but you, Fletcher … I don’t think you do at all,” Bilkes said, suddenly breaking the quiet, “but in truth I’ll be more than happy to be grounded a bit.”
Fletcher wasn’t much for words, but he did grunt approvingly to this.
“’Tis a lot o’ trouble for jest a wee bit, of pleasurin’,” another said. “Lordy, but it do put bread on the table better than any other way I know.”
The tubs of brandy rolled in their confines, and the men picked up a tune to its beat. The wind seemed to join in, and the music played in their heads as they stroked through the dark blue in harmony.
The salt spray splashed at their faces, and they were laughing at each other and themselves when suddenly Fletcher pointed silently and Fry hissed, “Wet’s that?”
Myriah pressed herself against Kit’s leg, a sudden fear clutching at her heart, for she knew.
“Look lively, lads … we’re in for a run, now!” Kit shouted, oaring with determination.
“Did they see us, m’lord?” Fletcher asked.
“No, they haven’t spotted us yet, but it’s a cutter all right, and a swift sea vessel, she is, for she is the Swallow!”
A sea mist hung about in foaming clusters, and the men idled their oars quietly, their hearts in their throats, watching as the cutter passed. Her lanterns, glowing red in the night, looked like the eyes of a creature from hell, and no man made a sound as they waited for the demonic vision to continue on its way. The cutter was but thirty yards away, and they saw the tall sails white against the black sky. Each man prayed to himself they would not be spotted. Luck was on their side, for the cloudy, stormy sky had obscured the moon …
She passed, and it was like the breath of new life. They waited still, for none would move without Kit’s command, and it came softly, firmly, “Swi
ftly now, m’fine buckos … swiftly. There’s no time to lose, for she’ll soon turn and head inland.”
They were headed for a short, sandy beach off the village where they would be met by a band of land smugglers who would relieve them of their burden, pay them for their trouble, and allow them to continue home.
Myriah raised her head, and Kit chuckled softly at her wide-eyed, open look. He bent to whisper, “You look like a veritable kitten—all wonder. Now put your head down low—one never knows when one might be shot at.”
“But, Kit …”
“Get down and stay down.” He laughed and flicked her nose, and then he pointed. “There it is—there boys!”
Myriah saw the flash of a blue light they needed to find they landing channel and heard Fletcher mumble, “Aye, she shines steady—safe enough, m’lord!”
She squinted and was able to make out the dark line that designated the stretch of narrow, flat shore. Kit ordered a man to light their own lantern. The lights answered each other, and then they approached the pebbles of the beach.
Two dozen men appeared and ran out from behind rocks and trees. Another six men who led horses and wagons, appeared on the scene, and then another four, carrying wooden bats, followed.
Myriah watched as Kit and his men jumped out of the galley, and he wagged a finger at her and told her to stay put. She decided to stay out of the way in the dark for the moment and watched Kit as he sidled over to a grisly-looking man holding a lantern.
Myriah could see that something, she supposed money, was exchanged. Then all at once men seemed to surround the galley. Kit returned to her, picked her up in his arms, and without speaking set her on a nearby rock before returning to supervise the unloading.
Myriah was fascinated with the speed of their work and so engrossed she didn’t see the glittering eyes of a boy bending towards her. She felt her hair touched and turned suddenly. With a scream she cringed backwards, scaring the addle-brained fellow who had played with her hair.
Kit was there and between her and the frightened youth in a moment, but pity rather than anger swept through Myriah when she had a good look at him. The lad, no more than fifteen, dirty, ragged, with large, terrified eyes, jumped about, moving his hands agitatedly in the air as he cried, “I meant no harm … no harm … pretty hair …”
A tall, wiry man appeared out of the darkness and put his arm about the boy’s shoulders, his own head held high as he spoke. “’Ere now, m’lord—begging yer pardon. The lad meant nothing. He be but a half-wit. He can’t ’elp ’imself, and he be always teching wot he shouldn’t. ’Tis m’fault if fault is to be laid. I should’ve been watching ’im.”
“Oh, please,” Myriah said at once, “I am not angry at all. I was merely startled.”
Kit patted the lad’s father on his shoulder. “Never mind …” Then he chucked the boy’s chin and turned to take Myriah up cradle-like, holding her like a babe. “Tis time we moved.”
“I do have legs, and they are well able to carry me,” Myriah said, objecting to this handling.
“I am sure, but we want no more incidents tonight.”
“Oh, and I suppose that was my fault?”
He laughed amiably. “In truth, yes, for you are far too beautiful to be left amongst a pack of devils. Now in with you, love,” he said and deposited her in her place before hopping in after her.
Lord Wimborne’s crew shoved their galley into deeper water, scrambled back into the boat, and picked up their oars. Without so much as a backward look, they began the business of rowing.
Myriah looked back, though—she watched until the last landsman was out of sight. It occurred to her that those men were far different from the men who rowed Kit’s galley.
“Kit?”
“Yes, sweetings?”
“Those men—the ones that took the brandy—are a very bad lot, I think.”
“Yes, love … but what makes you say so?”
“There was a cruelty in their jests with one another, and they looked ready to bludgeon anyone in their way—there was a certain manner about them and the way they held their bats.”
He said nothing to this, and Myriah quieted into thought. It was really amazing how quickly the galley had been emptied.
Just a short while ago the boat had held some thirty tubs of brandy, and now it was almost as if she had dreamt it all. Tired, she snuggled against Kit’s firm leg and closed her eyes. They had been out now some eight hours, and there was still another twenty minutes to travel the shoreline to Rye harbor.
* * *
Kit glanced down at her face and for a moment was overcome with the sensation he felt. He loved her—how he loved her … and when did that happen? Probably the first time ever he clapped eyes on her.
However, the peace and beauty of the moment were suddenly shattered by the blast of fire in the air.
A shot tore through the atmosphere and reminded them that they still were not safely home. They had money in their pockets that still could be taken …
Myriah awoke with a start and felt herself squeezed between Kit’s legs, for he did not wish for her to get up.
“Heads low, lads. It’s to the marshes—we will lose the cutter in the marshes.” He bent in towards his crew to speak in a low and commanding tone. “’Twill be a whale chasing an eel, so heave, lads—our lives depend upon it.”
She was a swift vessel, the Swallow, and she was upon them in a moment. Her guns hissed out into the night air and warned told them death was near.
Lord Wimborne’s crew forgot their aches as they rowed harder than they had all night. A stranger’s voice slashed through the blackness of the night, commanding them to halt, but their little galley sliced its way to safety and then the vessel at their backs could go no farther, for the canal they traveled drained into the marshes where only a small galley could thread its way through.
They turned into the waterway, which was as narrow as it was shallow. Myriah felt the sides of the boat brush against the grassy walls of the dike, and she looked up into Kit’s face, alight in the overshadowed moonlight and lined with concern. They had escaped the cutter, but he was still worried, Myriah thought. She could see by the tense way in which he held himself. What more could there be if they escaped the cutter?
The beating of her heart had her gasping for air, and the exhaustion she felt left her as adrenalin pumped through her veins.
The boat moved solidly through the causeway, forking, circling with the winding movements of the dike, and then she saw the little arched bridge that marked Wimborne lands. Her joy burst from her lips. “Oh, Kit, we are home—we are really nearly home!”
“Not yet, my love—and I have the unshakable feeling that it is not over just yet.”
There it was again—the unmistakable sound of gunfire in the wind. Myriah winced and listened, and like the men in the galley with her, she heard them. Dragoons had spotted them, even in the dim light … and their horses were trampling through weeds and marsh to get at them.
Myriah heard Corporal Stone’s voice and realized how close they really were. Faith, he was a determined man. He must have waited all night for their return. No doubt he had planted himself and his men at the head of the dike.
“Can … can he actually see us?” she asked Kit.
“Hurry, lads,” Kit whispered. He then touched her face. “Not really, but he can hear the galley trudging through the marsh. We might be taking a swim tonight.”
Just as Kit said this, she felt the vines and driftwood parting all around. Suddenly they were in total darkness. They were in the cavern, and the silence as they waited blasted through her ears. She heard herself breathe and put a hand to her heart, sure that everyone could hear its pounding.
They waited, no one looking at the other, for all eyes were turned to the cavern ceiling above them. Myriah heard the water lap at the boat and wondered if the dragoons would be able to hear and recognize the sound.
“Fiend seize you stupid brutes!” Stone shouted
at his men just above their cavern.
They heard the trampling of horses above their heads. They heard the shouting and the retreating as the dragoons scurried up and down along the dike, searching for the galley, and the gentlemen waited.
Twenty minutes might be thought to be a short space of time, but to the crew in the cavern, whose lives hung in the wind, it was damnably long.
At last, the silence was undeniable, and Kit lit a lantern that was set on the cavern wall. Myriah saw a wooden ladder hanging against the moss-covered wall that led to the ceiling above.
“Right then, lads,” Kit quietly said, grinning, “We have come through but we will have to swim home. No sense risking coming up through here—so boots off and into the water with you. My promises still hold—so wait for my word early next week!”
He watched his men as they grumbled quietly to themselves and slumped over into the water, making the brackish wetness spray all about.
Kit turned to Myriah. “Now you, love, I am afraid you are in for another swim today, but I’ll set you before the fire and see to you at home.”
“Well, as to that, I think it was yesterday I took that swim. I was due for another.” Myriah laughed. She slipped off his cloak and her boots and tied the laces carefully together before slinging them round her neck.
He picked her up and eased her into the cold water, and she screeched quietly to herself.
His lordship left his boots in the galley for future retrieving. He doused the light and was in beside Myriah a moment later. They swam, and waded, and swam with slow, quiet breaststrokes until they were out of the cavern’s darkness and making their way downstream.
“Are you all right, my love?”
“’Tis not so very bad in the water—but, Kit, when we get out, we shall freeze. I left your cloak in the galley … does it matter?”
“My cloak? Dash it, girl—how could you when it needed a washing!” Kit teased.
She giggled, and they continued to swim until she could see the arched bridge above them. They made their way towards the embankment, and Kit scrambled into position as he turned and helped pull her out. She stopped only long enough to put on her slippers but grimaced at them for she knew they would soon be ruined.