Kelly at the wheel shouted. ‘St Bees sir!’
Quiggan called Brent and they ran together to the focs’le to let down the big anchor. As it slid into the water the boat shuddered and stopped but it was still tossing like a cork on the sea.
‘Bad light for smuggling,’ Quiggan said quietly.
‘Shh. We do not rendezvous until midnight.’
‘They won’t make it in a small boat in this weather.’
Brent looked anxiously down at the swirling sea.
‘Can’t we get further in?’ he asked Quiggan.
‘Too dangerous,’ Quiggan said, ‘too shallow. Best drop it all overboard if you ask me and get a good night’s sleep.’
Brent turned angrily away and began to regret accepting Collister’s mission so easily. It was badly and hastily planned. He had been too enthusiastic and too thoughtless. He hadn’t even begun to wonder, as he did now, if it was a trap. It was difficult to trust Quiggan and what did he know of Collister, after all?
After a while Brent went below and found the entire crew including Quiggan singing and drinking hard. He couldn’t bear the noise and the stench and went on deck again. He had on a heavy seaman’s cloak which he clutched around him for warmth. His eyes peered into the darkness towards Fleswick looking for the light that was to be the signal.
Brent leaned over the bulwark and gazed into the sea. They were just round the Head from St Bees, within sight of Fleswick Bay. He could see the phosphorescent white foam on the crest of the waves. To his relief the sea was growing calmer, the wind was dropping and in the sky he could discern a few stars. He realized that from below deck all was quiet and he stepped to the top of the ladder that led into the galley. Dinward had rolled off his bunk and lay snoring on the floor; beside him the remains of a bottle of whisky soaked into the floor. Two of the crew were drunk but still awake and Quiggin sat in a corner, apparently half asleep. Brent, satisfied with the scene, signalled to Quiggan who lurched unsteadily to his feet and came across, staring up at Brent.
‘Quickly,’ Brent whispered sharply, ‘I calculate ‘tis near midnight.’
Quiggan appeared to have difficulty in focusing his eyes and Brent cursed him for being a drunkard like the others.
‘You will not get the rest of your pay!’ Brent hissed. The thought of money seemed to make an impact on Quiggan who began to shin up the ladder. At the top he shivered in the wind and shook his head.
‘I still don’t like it.’
‘Come on man, open the hatches.’
‘Have you seen a light?’
‘Not yet, but the light will be the sign that they are ready. Quick.’
They unfastened the hatches and Brent leaned down to make sure the cases they had loaded aboard were still intact. Then when the canvas was loose he went to the port side of the ship which lay parallel to the shore. There was still no sign of a light and he started to despair. They would not come; the cases would have to be dumped into the sea.
Suddenly Quiggan grasped his arm and pointed. To Brent’s astonishment a light came not from the coast as he had expected but from the sea, close to them.
‘’Tis a boat,’ Quiggan said.
And there it was, bouncing below on the choppy waves. Brent leaned over the side and flashed his own storm lantern, heartened to see an answering wave.
‘Quick,’ he cried, ‘they will not be able to lie alongside of us for long in this sea.’ Running to the nearside hatch, he cast back the tarpaulin and heaved up the first case, staggering with it to the side of the ship. Just as he came to the bulwark the boat drew alongside and faces peered up at him in the darkness. One man, standing up and balancing in the boat addressed Brent.
‘I’m Macdonald. Do you have it all?’
‘Aye.’ Brent said, and began to lower the case which Macdonald caught with the help of another man and stowed in the boat.
‘Quickly,’ Brent called behind him to Quiggan, ‘the boat is swaying horribly.’
Quiggan was slow. Brent cursed and ran to the hold expecting to pass him on the way.
But of the mate there was no sign. He’d probably fallen down drunk. Brent would have to get one of the Scotsmen to help him if they were to despatch this lot. He grabbed another case and, staggering to the rail with it, dropped it over calling out:
‘I think my helper is too drunk. One of you will have to come aboard.’
In the gloom Macdonald gave a broad smile and grasped the side, about to heave himself aboard. But suddenly his eyes glanced beyond Brent and, before he could call out, Brent felt sharp steel in the small of his back.
‘Caught you red-handed,’ Dinward said in a flat sober voice. ‘You bastard.’
‘Quick, get away,’ Brent called and, seeing the confusion on Macdonald’s face, cried out again, ‘as far as you can. Get away.’
Macdonald jumped back into the boat and, carrying only two of the score or more cases of guns that were aboard the Lizzie, they grabbed their oars and made off into the darkness. The point of Dinward’s knife dug deeper and Brent winced.
‘Get below, you scoundrel. Think to trick the master, would you? Think I didn’t know what you were up to? Think you could trust Quiggan? Came to me as soon as you talked to him. He knows better’n to trick me.’
He shoved the point of his knife again into Brent’s back and Brent stumbled down the ladder into the galley. The drunken sailors gaped at him but said nothing. Dinward shoved Brent forward into his small cabin screened from the galley with a curtain. There Quiggan sat dejectedly on a stool.
‘You traitor,’ Brent spat at him, and at that Dinward’s knife cut into his flesh and he knew he had drawn blood.
‘He’s no traitor, only doing his duty to the master, Mr Rigg. You think we don’t know a good job when we see one? Years we’ve worked for Mr Rigg and a fancy upstart like you thinks you can bribe us with gold.’
Quiggan hung his head avoiding Brent’s eyes.
‘What is it you’ve got there? Silks is it? Tobacco? Well Mr Rigg will see. We’ll leave it all for him when we dock tomorrow. Best he should know what sort of man he’s grooming for his successor.’
‘Take care of the customs,’ Brent said shortly knowing that further words were useless.
‘Oh, we’ll take care of them all right. Mr Rigg always takes care of the customs.’
He laughed and Quiggan sniggered. Suddenly Brent remembered what he’d heard about Rigg. That much of his fortune came from smuggling. Only as yet he had seen no evidence of it himself – nothing in the ledgers, nothing in the warehouses, nothing on the Lizzie which plied backwards and forwards with the minerals, wood and wool. Yet he had only been on the Lizzie – Rigg had more ships and a small fleet of fishing wherries as well.
‘Tie him up!’ Dinward snarled and Quiggan moved towards Brent.
‘There is no need, I’d not get far,’ Brent said.
‘Tie him up!’ Dinward roared and Brent felt the sharp cutting edge of a rope round his wrists. Then Quiggan shoved him roughly on the floor and bound his ankles. Like that Brent remained until dawn when the Lizzie raised anchor and set sail for Whitehaven harbour.
‘Guns is it?’ Ambrose Rigg said, gazing down at Brent from what seemed a great height. ‘For whom I wonder?’
Brent was stiff and his back ached. His blood had run down onto the floor, but it had only been a flesh wound and had soon congealed. The boat had tossed all night and what with that and the stench of drink and sweat Brent had felt sick. He had not slept and at first light the Lizzie had made a rapid run into Whitehaven harbour. As usual Ambrose Rigg had been on the jetty to welcome back one of his ships. It was this attention to detail that made Rigg such a good businessman. He met them and saw them off; even the fishing boats that plied along the coast.
Brent had heard Rigg’s steps on the deck, listened to voices, knew that the tarpaulins were being drawn back and the contraband inspected.
Then Rigg’s huge bulk had come carefully down the ladder, and he’
d stood for some time gazing at Brent lying trussed like a hen in the corner.
Brent didn’t reply to his question but lay looking up sullenly at his master, his thoughts too jumbled and fragmented to control. At his first task he had failed; let everyone down – betrayed Collister and, probably, Macdonald. He would bring shame on the Delamains, on the Allonbys. For this he would be hanged. All he wanted now was for death to come soon.
The only thing that surprised Brent was the expression on Rigg’s face. He had expected harshness and hatred, maybe a kick in the ribs. But Rigg looked thoughtful. He stroked his whiskers and scratched his head, tipping his hat back on his head. He even seemed to have a smile of sorts on his lips.
It was very strange.
‘No answer? Untie him.’ Rigg motioned to Dinward who was grinning with self-satisfaction and hastened to do his master’s bidding, undoing the heavy sailor’s knots that had bound Brent.
Brent sat up and rubbed his wrists, his ankles. Then he tenderly felt his back, the congealed blood, the torn shirt. He got unsteadily to his feet and stared at Rigg. To his astonishment Rigg winked then, turning round, said slowly to Dinward and Quiggan.
‘One word of this gets round and your bodies will be fished unrecognized out of the sea. I’m warning you.’
He held a fist under Dinward’s nose and both he and Quiggan cringed.
‘You have done what you thought was right. ‘Tis all I can say at the moment. Come to my office after you’ve unloaded, and take care those cases are well out of the way.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Dinward touched his cap and Quiggan backed away looking at Brent with bewilderment.
Brent, bewildered himself but giving no sign of it, assumed an air of injured innocence, glared at Dinward and Quiggan and ordered the latter to fetch his cloak and be quick about it. Quiggan and Dinward stared at each other in amazement and, giving them a surly look, Brent followed his unexpected saviour up the ladder. On deck he saw that the tarpaulin was over the hatches again, neatly battened down, and there wasn’t a custom’s man in sight.
Rigg didn’t speak but walked quickly down the gang-plank to the jetty and Brent, wrapped in his cloak against the morning chill, followed him to Rigg’s office, which overlooked the harbour, and indeed the Lizzie as she lay at her moorings, and was soon reached over the cobbles of the narrow quayside. On the ground floor Rigg had his warehouse, and the office was reached by means of a back staircase.
Brent had spent many hours crouched on a stool by the window transferring figures from one ledger to another. Now there was no sign of the clerk who had taken his place. A fire burned in the grate, flames leaping up the chimney and on either side were great leather armchairs in one of which Rigg ensconced himself after removing his coat and pouring two glasses of brandy. One he offered to Brent, the other he nursed in his large calloused hand – the hand of a man who had made his way up by dint of sweat and his own hard work. He still hadn’t spoken, and Brent found the experience unnerving. Now as he stood uncertainly grasping the balloon of brandy, Rigg pointed to the chair opposite him and smiled.
‘Sit lad. Warm yourself. ‘Tis no way to spend the night on a floor bound hand and foot, is it now?’
Rigg gave a short explosion of laughter and his red face creased like that of a squealing new born infant.
‘I understand you not,’ Brent said at last. ‘What ... ?’
‘What am I doing, eh? Condoning smuggling, eh? Guns, eh?’
‘You knew about it?’ Brent began incredulously, and stopped as Rigg shook his head.
‘No, no. I knew nothing. At first I thought it might be silk or brandy, tea or tobacco but one glance and I saw the gleam of metal ...’ Rigg paused and looked severe. ‘Nay, that is very serious indeed. For brandy and tea you could spend years in gaol, but for guns you could swing. You knew that?’
Brent nodded.
‘You’re a brave lad. Foolish maybe?’
‘It is for ...’
‘Oh, I know what it’s for,’ Rigg said abruptly. ‘I am not married into the Allonby family for naught you know. It is for the Stuarts; they say the unrest in France will bring the Pretender back to this country. Everyone is expecting it. Am I not right?’
‘Are you for the King?’ Brent began hopefully.
‘I tell you I’m not for any king!’ Rigg banged a large hand on his silk-covered knee. ‘I thought I made that clear. I’m for business and making money and peace and prosperity. I’ll have no trafficking wi’ politics.’
‘So why don’t you mind? I can’t understand you.’ Brent put the glass to his lips and took a draught of brandy. It was so smooth and fiery that it caught in his throat and made him choke. Then suddenly Brent understood. He lowered the glass and looked at the amber liquid glowing at its base; the pungent, exquisite aroma of the finest French brandy assailed his nostrils. Contraband.
He looked up at Rigg, and a slight smile hovered on his lips.
‘You’re beginning to understand,’ Rigg said, also smiling and saluting Brent with his glass.
‘Fine brandy,’ Brent said.
‘The best, and the silk of my breeches ...’ Rigg plucked at his knee and smoothed the arm of his finely cut coat. Then he took up his pipe and reached his arm out for the tin of tobacco that stood on the table by the side of his chair. He contentedly began stuffing it into his pipe and glanced over at Brent.
‘All smuggled?’
‘You never knew? Oh, I can see you didn’t. I took care you should not find out until I knew you better – to see whether you were with me or against me.’
‘You needed me for smuggling?’ Brent said with astonishment. ‘Not business?’
‘Smuggling is business ain’t it? It is the best part of my business. I keep one or two clean ships like the Lizzie with clean crews who know not of my other enterprises. Dinward and Quiggan are simpletons. I can only employ bright men on my smuggling ventures.’
‘Did you set out to trap me then?’
‘Not at all. I know naught of gun-running, nor want to neither. Very dangerous that. You will tell me how you got air of it. No, Brent. I need a good bright lad to help me expand my smuggling enterprises. I needed you; but I had to get to know you better first. I could see you were not like your brother George. Sir George, by God ...’ Rigg threw back his head and laughed with irony. ‘He will fancy himself now. All set to marry into the Dacre family I hear tell.’
‘Really?’ Brent said without much interest. ‘I didn’t know that.’
Rigg leaned forward. ‘Well, I know Lord Dacre is a committed Hanoverian. I have done business with his brother the Honourable Timothy, and I know just how committed Lord Dacre is to King George and his descendants.
‘So, what did I know about you? I knew you were a rebel, a womanizer, that you didn’t fit in. I saw you were a fine, tall lad, athletic and brave. I saw the love of adventure in your eyes, and I knew you had courage. “Aye,” I thought, “he’s for me. But can I trust him?” So I gave myself a year to find out. But you’ve beaten me to it, Brent. Only six months gone and already I see you have a smuggler’s heart.’
He got up and gave Brent that friendly shove on the back which, for Rigg, was a term of endearment. He refilled his glass and poured one for Brent. But Brent was struggling, his mind bewildered.
‘You mistake me Mr Rigg, sir. I am a patriot, not a common smuggler. I do this for the Cause, not for gain.’
‘Ah,’ Rigg sat down again and nodded, his chin on his chest, his eyes on Brent, ‘a patriot, I see. A criminal, my lad, it is if the authorities come to hear of it. I suppose it all depends from which vantage point you observe it. Now I see my business activities as a man of business, for gain. I see the taxes imposed by Sir Robert Walpole and his ilk, may they rot in hell, as against my interests. First it was tea, coffee and chocolate, then a year or two later tobacco and wine. The Tories could do nothing against the government. So what happened? A lot of honest businessmen decided to take the law into their own hands, myself
among them. The stuff was run into the Isle of Man or Ireland where taxes were paid so we did not offend against those countries; but then we brought it here where no tax is paid and honest men can make a profit.’
‘That’s why you’ve got no truck with politics.’ Brent smiled at the virtuous indignation shown by Ambrose Rigg, whose face grew redder as he recounted the iniquities of the government.
‘Aye. Tax us out of existence. But wars? No, I don’t want wars. We’ve had enough, if you ask me. I want peace and stability and prosperity.’
There was a silence and, as a log fell smouldering into the grate, Brent stirred it with his boot.
‘I am beginning to understand, sir.’
‘Good.’
Ambrose got up and stood with his back to the fire, his hand beneath the tails of his coat. First of all he looked at the ceiling, then he looked at Brent.
‘I don’t like saying this, but I have got a hold over you young Delamain. Aye, and you’ve got one over me an’ all. I’ve spilt the beans. I’m a smuggler and you’re a smuggler. If you betray me to the authorities, then I’ll betray you ...’
‘I will not betray you sir! I would rather clear out and go to France where my business may be legitimate.’
Rigg’s face clouded and he cleared his throat, looking darkly at Brent.
‘Oh no, young man. You’re not getting out of this one so easy. I need you. I like you. You’re not clearing out to France and spilling your blood in a wasted cause; not yet. I’ll make a bargain with you.’ Rigg drew himself up and stretched a forefinger towards Brent, shaking it vigorously as he spoke. ‘You aid me and I’ll aid you. You join my smuggling fleet, organizing and assisting, planning and helping to control it, and I’ll turn a blind eye to your gun smuggling. I’ll not actively assist you, but I’ll not hinder you either. As long as you work well for me I’ll not enquire what else goes into the holds of my ships, and I’ll see you’re troubled neither by the customs nor any of my men. That’s a promise.’
Brent sprang out of his chair, his face alight. He only thought of the help he could give to the Cause, the amount that could be smuggled in with the extensive fleet owned by Rigg. And no questions asked! Why it was a fantastic, unlooked for, unhoped for, opportunity. He thrust out his hand towards Rigg who took it and ceremoniously pumped it up and down.
The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) Page 17