The Smugglers' Mine

by Chris Mould

Just Desserts

  The following afternoon, Stanley found out that he and old MacDowell had something in common: they both had the ability to sleep for most of the day. They bumped into each other at breakfast, which, as Mrs. Carelli rightly pointed out, was not normally at three o’clock in the afternoon.

  They sat together at the kitchen table, locked in conversation and getting along famously. MacDowell was intrigued by Crampton Rock, and full of questions for Stanley.

  “Tell me one thing, lad. Somethin’ is troubling me,” began MacDowell.

  “Fire away,” said Stanley.

  “Well, whenever I looks around me outside, the streets is full and the folks is goin’ about their business, and I see a dog now and then. Not the same dog, mind you. Lots o’ dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, hairy dogs, skinny dogs, chubby little fat dogs …”

  Stanley knew what was coming.

  “Now, it’s come to me attention that they all ’ave a little something in common!” MacDowell paused and looked at Stanley, his eyes a little wider and his face a little closer.

  “Carry on,” said Stanley, smiling.

  “Three legs, Stanley. They all got three legs,” he exclaimed.

  “It’s the wolf,” announced Stanley. “The werewolf! I did warn you that this place is cursed. There isn’t a dog on the island that has escaped an attack from that thing without losing a limb.”

  MacDowell stared at Stanley in disbelief.

  “Well, sufferin’ seagulls, I don’t believe it. If ever a place was cursed it’s this one! Are yer sure there ain’t no wolf at present, Stanley? I’d hate to lose a branch from me tree, so to speak.”

  “A branch from your … ? Oh, I see what you mean,” said Stanley. “Er, no … there is no wolf right now. We hope it will not return.”

  “Good news, lad,” answered MacDowell. “For an old man who’s taking it easy, that’s good news.”

  “Actually,” began Stanley rather gingerly, “I had rather hoped I might enlist your help!”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, you see, I have this map. An old map—”

  MacDowell stopped Stanley in his tracks.

  “Oh Stanley, please. Stop. Don’t tell me yer taking me on a treasure hunt. I’ve ’ad enough o’ treasure huntin’ to last me a lifetime. I’ve seen more maps than I’ve had hot dinners. It’s always the same: a load o’ work, only to find that someone else got there before you did. It’s ’appened to me a thousand times and the last time I made the effort and came out of it penniless, I swore I’d never let it happen again.

  “And besides,” MacDowell continued, “I got one o’ me little inventions boilin’ away in me brain. Once I gets an idea, that’s it, I can’t stop. Now, do yer think there’s somewhere I can use a little workspace?”

  Stanley realized that his companion was nothing more than a retired old sea dog with all the “pirate” already knocked out of his sails. He gave a big sigh and went to tell Daisy what was, for her, the good news.

  As Stanley was returning from visiting Daisy in the lighthouse, he noticed a commotion down in the village. He wandered closer to the crowd of people outside the courthouse.

  “It’s Mister Darkling, Stanley,” muttered a man Stanley recognized as one of the fishermen who also helped out in the court. “He’s been sentenced to imprisonment for the attempt he made on your life. He got what he deserves.”

  Stanley walked a little nearer. The crowd was jostling and shoving, and cries of “Murderer!” went up. Mrs. Darkling and her children, Annabelle, Berkeley, and Olive, were being escorted safely home through the swarm, and Mr. Darkling jeered back at the onlookers as he was taken away to prison.

  Stanley did not feel particularly happy at this outcome. He didn’t feel that the Darklings were a threat to him anymore. Yes, when they had come to the Hall and tried to claim it as their own; it had been a terrible time for him. But they were a family, with three children—and yes, they were a little odd, to say the least, but nonetheless they would be better off together.

  That was the reason that Stanley had given when he refused to give evidence in the trial. But the strange laws of Crampton Rock meant that the trial continued without him, and now the Darkling family faced a lifetime of seeing their husband and father only through a barred window.

  Stanley’s heart sank. He felt almost guilty, even though he could have died by the dirty deeds of Edmund Darkling.

  He wandered back up the cobbled climb to the Hall, and as he reached the door MacDowell and Victor were leaving the house with their arms full.

  “Good news, lad. Victor ’as given me permission to use ’is work space down at the candle shop. ’E says he won’t be needin’ it yet, not until he gets the business back up and running,” chirped MacDowell. “Mrs. Carelli says that if it’s all right with you, I can stay a while and try and make meself a bit o’ money before I move on,” he explained. “What do yer say, Stanley?”

  “Er … yes, fine, Mac. It’s fine.”

  “Ah, Stanley, you’re pure gold. From the tip o’ yer nose to the ends o’ yer toes, you’re pure gold. Wait till yer see me invention. I’ll be made o’ money before yer can say crab soup.”

  Stanley scratched his head. He’d heard that expression before somewhere.

  He stood and watched MacDowell and Victor head into the village, then turned inside to tell Mrs. Carelli the Darkling news.

  As the evening drew in, the warm aroma of home-cooked food filled the kitchen, and Victor and MacDowell returned to the Hall. Victor had a look of amusement on his face and MacDowell was looking pleased with himself.

  “Ah, Stanley. If ever there was a man to make a sensible judgement, it’d be you.”

  Stanley, sitting in his favorite chair, eyed old MacDowell quizzically.

  “What would yer be guessin’ this was then?” MacDowell asked, revealing something that he had concealed inside his long coat.

  Stanley stared at the contraption. “Er … it looks like a wheel on a stick.”

  “Aha. Wrong!” insisted MacDowell. “This, Stanley, is the Crampton Canine Lost Limb Support thingy. And tomorrow,” he continued, “there will be many a piece o’ silver crossing the palm of old MacDowell down in the village square. Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’ He took a bow as Victor and Mrs. Carelli clapped and Stanley stared in disbelief.

  “Are you serious?” asked Stanley. “You’re going to sell those to the dog owners in the village?”

  “Aye, lad. If ever there was a plan to make money on the Rock, this be it.” He was clearly pleased as punch with his idea.

  That night, as Stanley pulled his covers over him, he wondered if there would ever be a way forward with the map. Would he ever get any further than the damp darkness of the Darkling cellar?

  Down the corridor, old MacDowell was drinking himself to sleep with a bottle of grog that he kept tucked under his pillow, dreaming of the riches that he hoped were coming his way.

  And down in the cold, harsh darkness of Crampton jailhouse, Edmund Darkling listened to the lock turning in the door as he settled into his cell. A clear night was framed by his barred window.

  There has to be a way out, he thought. No man can live like this, certainly not for long.

  Perhaps he would have to resort to desperate measures, measures that would ensure his escape but would be a terrible burden for the people of Crampton Rock.

  The next time Stanley and Daisy saw old MacDowell, he was down on his luck already, sitting on the harbor wall with his head in his hands.

  “Ahoy there, MacDowell!” cheered Stanley.

  “Ahoy yerself,” he said glumly.

  “What’s wrong, Mac?” started Stanley. “You were full of the joys of spring yesterday.”

  “Well, to cut a long story short, I made me first sale and an hour later I ’ad to give me silver back and scrap all me money-makin’ plans.”

  “Why?” the two asked together.

  “Well, a little old lady from the village bought t
he wheel with a stick, as you called it. She attached it to the dog where its front leg used to be, an’ it all seemed to work fine.” MacDowell explained.

  “And?” urged Daisy.

  “And then the dog ran down to the harbor and couldn’t stop when it arrived.”

  “Oh!” said Stanley.

  “Yes, oh indeed! Now, did yer say yer had a map that wanted lookin’ at?”

  Stanley grinned at Daisy. At last, they had the help they needed.

  5

  The Greatest Secret

  Despite Stanley’s dislike of Edmund Darkling’s imprisonment, it meant that his plan would turn out perfectly. Stanley and Daisy figured out that Grace Darkling and the children had taken to visiting Mr. Darkling at dusk, when the streets had emptied and the light was low.

  Ideal circumstances for treasure seekers.

  Daisy and Stanley briefed MacDowell fully as he gazed over the map.

  “Well shiver me timbers, ’Ow on earth did yer work this one out? Are yer sure yer right?” he questioned.

  “As sure as sure can be,” claimed Daisy.

  These were the terms under which MacDowell was entrusted into the alliance:

  They weren’t to be seen entering through the fuel store at any cost.

  When they were inside, they weren’t to excite the dog in the house above them.

  And most importantly, MacDowell would be paid by Stanley and Daisy for his efforts, depending on what they ended up with.

  “Well it all sounds fine and dandy to me, young buccaneers,” he giggled. “I’m not so keen on the sound o’ the Darkling place, but I guess I’ll learn to live wi’ that one.”

  When darkness had made its way through the streets and buildings of the Rock, the treasure-seekers’ alliance gathered under the dim lamplight of the square and headed across the village. Under the pretense that they were helping MacDowell on his invention project, they headed to Victor’s workshop, where they had a clear view of the Darkling place.

  They sat in candlelight for some time, and eventually saw the Darkling family heading for the jailhouse.

  Three shapes left the huddled cosiness of Victor’s shop, and ventured into the cold of an early evening. The bandy legs of MacDowell slithered down the chute, and Stanley and Daisy followed.

  MacDowell sparked up a flame and held a lighted piece of paper aloft. Stanley held out a candle, and a yellow warmth filled the dank space.

  Pulling out a long crowbar from inside his coat, MacDowell jimmied up a huge flagstone. With help from his aides, MacDowell levered this way and that, lifting each flagstone in turn.

  “Nothing so far, Stanley!” he gasped. He blew into the air with hot breaths for a moment, sweat pouring from his brow.

  “What about over there?” suggested Stanley, pointing to an as-yet undisturbed corner.

  And as the slab in the far corner was raised, the reason for the wet floor became clear. There, underneath the last stone, was a well, cut into the rock below. Water came up to the brim, and Daisy dipped her hand in. She lifted it to her mouth and smelled it.

  “Salt water,” she said.

  MacDowell got down on his knees and tasted, just to be sure.

  Stanley held the candle over it, but he could see nothing.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “We wait, Stanley,” suggested MacDowell.

  “What for?”

  “Come on, Stanley, use your noggin. It’s salt water!” Daisy exclaimed. “From the sea! When the tide’s out, we can climb in!”

  “Ahhhhh! GREAT!” beamed Stanley. “When’s next tide out?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” announced Daisy.

  “Then, me dears, we shall return!” cried MacDowell, who seemed revived with thoughts of treasure. He heaved the last stone back into position, but just as they were ready to leave, a door slammed over them.

  A moment of panic ensued. The trio were scared into stillness as they listened to what they were sure must be the return of the Darklings. MacDowell held up his hands, gesturing to them not to move. Stanley blew out his candle.

  Voices carried above. “What’s wrong with Steadman?” they heard Berkeley ask. The black dog was sniffing and growling at the floor. “What is it, boy?” he persisted.

  The dog whimpered and scratched at the bare boards.

  “Berkeley, take a look down there, would you? Something has upset him.” It was Grace, clearly distressed at leaving her husband in the jailhouse. The three conspirators could hear the girls following her upstairs.

  Berkeley opened the hatch from the kitchen and climbed into the space below. It was pure black, and he held a lamp to find his way. Steadman stood at the top of the steps, barking, with his head poking through the opening.

  The treasure seekers were piled into one corner, their backs turned to Berkeley. He held the lamp toward them. Under the light of the lamp was something that looked to Berkeley like an old sheet hung on the wall. But unbeknown to him, it was the back of MacDowell’s coat. Inside it, Daisy and Stanley were tucked neatly on either side of their scrawny companion, their eyes shut tight and their bodies clenched in fear of discovery. Berkeley backed away. He tripped. Something was there. Something on the floor behind him. It was MacDowell’s crowbar, still lying on the stone flags.

  “Are you all right, Berkeley?” came a voice. It was Olive, his twin sister.

  “Fine,” he called.

  “Come on,” she said. “Mother wants you upstairs!”

  And to the great relief of the hiding trio, he disappeared back up the wooden staircase.

  The three companions scrambled up the chute and stole out into the night, knowing full well that in only a short time, they would need to return.

  The hours dragged. When they arose the following morning, the sun was cascading across the harbor, but Stanley was eager for the day to hurry along. Both he and Daisy had big hopes for what might lie beneath the Rock.

  “A great hoard of treasure has placed its picture in my mind,” announced Stanley, “with twinkling diamonds and dazzling, jeweled shapes of gold.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Daisy. “After all this trouble, you deserve it.” But Daisy had more sense. “Just a modest trunk of pirate gold is all I expect,” she laughed. “Nothing more. Just enough to pay me a handsome living and leave me in comfort for the rest of my life, that’s all. Oh, and a handful of coins for the slab-lifter,” she joked.

  The two of them were sitting on the harbor wall. Stanley had been whiling away the hours looking for crabs. He had a line of shells and bits of bone all laid out neatly in front of him.

  MacDowell shuffled up alongside them.

  “That’s a smart-lookin’ assortment o’ beach life if ever I saw one. This is a funny old place though, Stanley. Are yer sure yer not breaking some ancient law of the Rock by takin’ them there shells and bones?”

  “Not as far as I know,” laughed Stanley.

  “Shells are shells. They don’t belong to anyone in particular, just to whoever picks them up and takes them, I guess.”

  They sat in the sun for a little longer and watched the tide move slowly back. When they were absolutely sure that it was far enough out, they made their move, splitting up and reassembling at the bottom of the village.

  Back at Crampton Rock, MacDowell was the lookout this time, bundling the other two unceremoniously down the chute. And then he followed, sailing down into the damp darkness and not caring that his shabby clothes would now be soaking wet. But someone was watching, still and silent, taking it all in, squinting his eyes at the faces and making sure that who he saw was who he thought he knew.

  All the while, the treasure seekers made their every move without speaking a single word. Each was fully aware that should they speak and alert the house, they would jeopardize everything.

  After all, they were about to uncover the greatest secret that Crampton Rock had ever kept.

  MacDowell fished around in the half-dark. He had left his crowbar by mistake
the previous night, and finally found it propped up against the wall. He was certain he hadn’t left it there, but he grabbed hold of it and began to lever up the flagstone in the corner.

  Sure enough, by the light of Stanley’s candle the deep void of the well could be seen. Yes, it was dark and damp, but it led somewhere. A flight of steps led down through the narrow opening.

  “After you then, Stanley, Daisy,” MacDowell whispered. Then he followed them into the void, leaving the basement in emptiness until they returned.

  Or so they thought. But in the corner, where they themselves had hidden from Berkeley the previous night, two moonlike eyes shone in the darkness. And when the treasure seekers had disappeared into the uncertainty of the black hole, a small figure stepped out into the open and poked its inquisitive head down the well.

  Deep down and farther in, the three treasure seekers squinted into the darkness ahead. Daisy stood beside Stanley, eyeing the rough wall of the hollow. She moved closer, shoving past him.

  “Stanley, bring your candle up to the wall,” she said. She placed her hand against the coarse surface. As the light came nearer, the rock face twinkled in the dark.

  Three faces leered up close and gasped in astonishment. Stanley raked the candle along the wall, and it was the same as far as they could see: small splinters of gold embedded into the rock. On and on and on. And old, fragmented skeletons of desperate pirates, open-mouthed skulls, bones clutching tightly to chests of rotting wood. Some had blades tucked inside their ribs, and others had severed limbs. There was no doubt that many a battle had been fought on the Rock.

  They looked ahead to where the passage grew narrow again.