She continued to watch for a minute more, transfixed by the sight of two men kissing passionately, then climbed back up to the roof and made her way across it to meet Peter and tell him the good news. She had found Mr. Madden.
The address Mr. Gordon had given her had proved false. Peter had been making inquiries as to the man’s whereabouts for weeks but Mr. Madden had continued to elude them. He would show up to collect rents, only to vanish again.
Was he perhaps the spy Major Price sought? It would serve her needs well if he was. She had no proof and he had not joined the smugglers on any night to cross the channel or pass secret documents or letters. She had watched Mr. Gordon carefully during their nights out, and had failed to see him pass anything to his agent except money for contraband. The agent was Irish, she knew. She had found so far no sign of this spy Arnaud Rochette and she knew Major Price would not be patient much longer.
***
Peter and Harry waited for her in the dark shadows of the first trees in the woods. They walked wordlessly up the path that led to the ruins. The rest of their young gang awaited them there, sitting in a silent circle away from Mr. Gordon’s men. No one spoke. Mr. Gordon had not yet arrived. He was late.
They joined their group and she sat on the ground with her back leaning against a stone, and pulled her cap low, pretending she had closed her eyes to sleep while they waited. She squinted under her cap and studied the small group.
Haskell was the oldest, at eighteen, but he looked older, his face scarred and marked by life and the pox. He was also the biggest, his body huge with muscle. He sat with his head down, not looking at anything in particular. He had been in prison twice for theft. Next to him sat Neville, born to be a gentleman except his father had landed in debtors’ prison, and that was where young Neville grew up and learned his trade of forgery. He was caught and managed to escape his prison, but not without killing a guard. His sentence for forgery had been death, but now he had murder added.
Fleming played with his knife, tossing it into the air and catching it. Also seventeen, he excelled at theft and burglary and had never been caught. He was smarter than the other two.
Jack, the youngest, was watching her, she noticed. He was ten but seemed even younger because his body was small. Only she knew the steel that ran through his wiry little body, having been defeated many times from bringing him to the ground. He was fast and angry.
He used to be a chimney sweep, beaten daily, starved to keep him small and forced to climb up chimneys naked, only to emerge with his elbows and knees scraped raw until he had no skin left. After his brother became stuck in a chimney and was roasted alive, Jack ran away from his owner, who, wanting revenge, had accused him of theft. He joined a gang to stay alive in the streets of London.
Jack coughed in the stillness, a deep grating sound, making Georgiana wonder if he would live into adulthood. She had Doctor Milton sent to look at him, but he had given her little hope. The boy’s lungs were filled with soot and he would slowly suffocate to death. To his credit, his labored breathing did not seem to slow him down, and she marveled at his spirit. She had never met anyone so determined to live.
Holm they all kept a distance from, for he smelled. The stink was truly awful and even now, he sat downwind from the rest. His skin was brown with dirt, his hair hanging in his face, filthy and matted. No one really knew how old he was. He could have been sixteen or thirty-six, it was impossible to guess, and he wasn’t telling.
The last was Morris, sixteen, good-looking and popular with the girls. Never committed a crime, he said. He wasn’t a thief, and he had not killed anyone. He was an orphan like the rest of them, and grew up in the streets of London. No one believed him. His speech was too cultured, his manners too good and his conscience too clean.
When Georgiana had first met them, she had her doubts, but Peter said they would do. No one else had been willing to leave London to work in her fields. They did work hard, she had to admit, and they followed Peter and were loyal to him.
She turned her gaze on Peter. He sat a ways off, talking quietly to one of Mr. Gordon’s men. He was the one she had come to rely on and she followed him as easily as the rest of the crew. He carried himself with considerable confidence and was not intimated by Mr. Gordon or any of his men. He acted as a much older man might who was used to being deferred to, wearing his cloak of responsibility easily. She could not have done any better. She knew Mr. Gordon had come to trust Peter and rely on him. Only Mr. Gordon was not coming tonight.
She stood up and moved over to Peter and lowered herself next to him, being careful to move like a boy and not a lady, her movements purposeful.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“He’s never been late,” Mr. Gordon’s man said, and shrugged.
“We need to meet the boats ourselves,” Peter said.
“Not without Gordon,” the other man argued, shaking his head.
“We have no choice,” Peter said. “The bounders will sell the goods elsewhere and tell us they threw it overboard.”
Mr. Gordon’s men refused to go without him and left to return to their homes. Peter led his crew down the tunnel to the cove where they waited.
The small fishing boats arrived soon after, and Peter spoke to the agent but he refused to deal with anyone but Mr. Gordon. They argued for a while until Peter promised to pay him a third more on the next run. Greed finally won him over and the contraband was unloaded.
They were halfway through unloading the second boat, when a cutter rounded the cove and fired a shot from its cannon. The shot went wide but sprayed them with salt water. The second cannon shot thundered and this time the small fishing boat was ripped to shreds and wood splinters launched into the air, embedding themselves in flesh. The boatman screamed, his arm cut off at the elbow.
Georgiana was halfway up the tunnel with her load when she heard the first shot. Horrified, she dropped her goods and ran back down to the beach while Jack and Haskell passed her, running up the tunnel. She knew Harry was behind her as he had only just passed her, headed back to the beach. Peter would have stayed with the cargo as well.
On the beach Holm lay lifeless, his eyes staring at nothing, a gaping wound in his neck. Peter and Harry were lying on the beach and, at first, she thought them dead, but then saw Peter move. The two remaining fishing boats were trying to row past the cutter before they were blown out of the water. The ship was surrounded in smoke from the cannon, and it looked like fog as she ran toward Harry and Peter. Out of the smoke came two rowboats filled with soldiers, their guns raised to fire on the beach. She threw herself to the ground as a volley passed miraculously over her, and then scrambled up while they reloaded.
She reached Peter’s side and helped him drag Harry across the sand toward the tunnel. Morris waited for them there, shouting at them to fall as the second volley was fired, and again passed harmlessly. They scrambled up and ran into the tunnel as the rowboats reached the beach. Morris took her place at Harry’s side, leaving her free to run ahead.
They scrambled passed Fleming and Neville who waited for them to pass, then fired their pistols down the tunnel at the first soldiers. Together they turned and reached the top of the tunnel where Haskell and Jack pushed two huge barrels filled with water down the tunnel. Nobody waited to see what happened. Running up the stairs and through the tower door they reached the dark clearing, only to stop dead.
They were completely surrounded by soldiers, swords drawn.
“Surrender or die,” a voice called.
Dear Lord, Georgiana thought, she was going to die because surrender had never been her option.
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Acknowledgments
Most of all I’m indebted to Marian Jensen, whose smart advice, good humor, and endless patience have seen me through. Thank you for your incredibly insightful reads and always swooping in to help me focus. You are a wonderful friend.
My editor, Margaret Diehl: Thank you for your subtle hints and for cheering m
e on. I continue to strive for shorter sentences.
Much thanks to Luanne Thibault for the support and endless energy to get it just right.
Gratitude also to Vanessa Maynard: Thank you for an amazing cover.
Finally, thanks to the best people in the world: those who read my books.
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Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles) Page 30