“Do you know anything about the place? I suppose there’s an inn? Or some old woman who takes in travelers?”
“There are inns. It was once a thriving town. It won’t matter which you choose, he”—the captain jerked his chin in the direction of their cabins—“won’t like it. One piece of counsel I can give you.”
“I’d be glad of it.”
“You came aboard plainly dressed, and that will do well. I would suggest you conduct yourselves as grave as curates, as there’s a mort of very fierce Presbyterians there. I believe they take the Sabbath seriously. Ah, and mayhap the landlord will invite you to dine at his own table. It’s a custom some of them have, of a Sunday.”
“We will certainly heed your advice, sir.”
****
Rupert had still not emerged the following day, except presumably for brief visits to the deck. He had managed to avoid meeting Alex.
When Alex visited him in his cabin, he was either asleep or too ill to talk.
Sykes offered to show Alex a map to assist in planning his and Stowe’s trip. As he was sure the captain knew their visit was not merely a tour of picturesque countryside, Alex accepted the invitation to the captain’s cabin. It was far enough from Rupert’s cabin that there was no chance of being overheard.
“We will be putting in at Leith later today,” the captain said.
They were bent over a fairly detailed map spread out on the captain’s desk. “Near Edinburgh,” Alex agreed.
“You’ve done fine, portraying a feckless young gentleman off to see North Britain, Mr. Gordon. Now we must make plans. At Leith, I have a little cargo to unload. At the same time, it will be necessary to send a message to the garrison with the final destination of your companion’s cargo.”
“That is rather a difficulty, Captain.”
“Is it?” Sykes looked at him in a way that reminded Alex of various headmasters—or his papa.
“Stowe has not told me where the shipment is to go.”
Sykes straightened. “You don’t know where it’s going?”
“I believed he would confide in me before this.” Seeing that the captain was bereft of speech, he added, “There were reasons why…” He let it trail off. He could not think of any reason that the Spy Office, as he thought of the department which had arranged passage to St. Andrews, would have done so without knowing in advance where to spring the trap. In his letter to his father, Alex had implied that Stowe was waiting for word as to the muskets’ disposition; perhaps they had believed it.
“There’s always some reason for the most crack-brained scheme.” The captain sighed. “Stowe has hardly stirred from his bed. It might be sickness or it might be to avoid talking to you.”
“I fear it is the latter, sir.”
Sykes drummed his fingers on the map. “Well, the place is likely somewhere near St. Andrews.” He peered at the bulge of land between the Firth of Forth and the Firth of Tay. “It will be too late to send to the garrison at Edinburgh if we do not do it when we dock at Leith. One of my men who goes ashore will hand off a message to be delivered to the garrison. We can but choose a place for the dragoons to wait for word and hope we do not hit too near the mark.”
“I realize not knowing where the arms are to be delivered makes planning difficult—”
Sykes’s explosive laugh took him by surprise. “These things seldom go exactly as planned. My command, thank God, is not quite as hidebound as the Navy. We shall do well enough, I think.”
****
They had lain at anchor overnight to approach St. Andrew’s in daylight. Alex listened to the water purl and hiss around the ship’s bow, watching for the first sight of the town. He found he was not overfond of shipboard life. Thank God he had not taken it into his head to run away to sea!
An hour or two after the captain had read the Sunday service and the men scattered to their tasks, Sykes came up beside him. “The two spires there belong to the old cathedral. They and the square tower of St. Rule’s are a useful landmark as the bay can be dangerous. Ridges of rock run out from the shore, and a ship driven upon them in an easterly wind is lost. But we’ll have no trouble today. Have you had any success yet?”
“No.”
“Ah. Well, if your smuggler is not yet here, perchance you’ll have a day or two to work on the matter. If you learn where the cargo is to go, get word to me, and I will pass it on.”
“Captain, what if I have to contact the authorities myself? My instructions did not include any information as to who should be apprised in St. Andrews.”
“I can give you no local contact. Don’t worry about it overmuch. Stowe may tell you where the cargo is to go once you are ashore, and you will pass the word to me. Or one of my men will find out when the goods are taken off the smuggler’s ship. The carters will know where they’re going, after all. Either way, I will send word on to the fishing village where the lobsterbacks will be waiting.”
The captain’s calm good sense was reassuring. “Good. I suppose those receiving the muskets cannot intend to take them far, for fear of detection.”
“More because of Scotland’s roads than for fear of being caught,” Sykes said. “There are garrisons in the north and one at Edinburgh Castle, but there’s not much military presence apart from those. With the war on the Continent…” He let the thought trail off.
That explained a great deal. The soothing newspaper pronouncements about how the Young Pretender’s ragtag army would fade away might be merely optimism, or they might be meant to prevent panic in England.
****
Stowe came up on deck when they docked, pasty-faced but not unwell. “We’ll have to find lodging,” Alex said. “The captain told me of an inn—”
Stowe said, “We will stay at the Star. It came highly recommended by a friend.”
As they disembarked, Captain Sykes wished them a pleasant stay in Scotland. He added jovially, “There’s a Scotch game they play hereabouts called golf. They hit a little ball around with a stick. I’ve a mind to try it myself, if we stay long enough.”
“Oh…are you not going on now?” Stowe asked. “I thought you were sailing farther north.”
“There’s one or two little matters I want to see repaired before sailing. And I hope to take on a cargo here. I suppose you gentlemen will be hiring horses to continue your tour?”
“Yes. I suppose the Star Inn can direct us to a livery stable,” Alex replied. “We would not wish to be shut up in a coach in such fine weather.”
Sykes grinned and remarked brutally, “It’s fine weather now, to be sure. But when it changes, you can shelter in some public house or cottage, if there chances to be one nearby.”
His first impression was of a gray town—houses of fieldstone with dressed stone framing the doors and windows. Captain Sykes’s remarks about St. Andrews had led Alex to expect ramshackle buildings and an air of depression and poverty. Yet though the buildings must be of some age—St. Andrews’s prosperity had declined well over a century ago, according to Sykes—they seemed more solid than London houses of similar antiquity. Being built of stone, they showed their age less than timber and plaster and did not appear as ancient as some in London, in Wych Street, for example.
As they walked, Alex asked, “What are the arrangements for meeting the ship?”
“I’m to wait at the Star until they’ve docked.”
Alex chewed his lower lip.
The inn proved to be a respectable one, if only moderately comfortable. Dinner was spent in the company of the innkeeper and the other guests, as the captain had predicted. Alex found the experience interesting. He asked the questions an Englishman visiting Scotland for the first time would be expected to ask and enjoyed the sound of Lowlands Scots. Rupert was rather silent. Afterward, they strolled up North Street, then down South Street for some welcome exercise after their confined shipboard quarters. Perhaps “strolled” was not quite the right word. “Reeled” more nearly conveyed the gait that resulted from their br
ief voyage on a vessel her skipper described as “lively.” Alex had an additional cause for unbalance. This must be how ladies far gone in pregnancy felt.
Afterward, they went to Rupert’s bedchamber, there being no private parlor available for rent. Either customs were different in Scotland or the inn did not cater to finical guests. Alex could not imagine most English gentry sitting down to dinner with the innkeep, but he could imagine very vividly the reaction of English gentlefolk to such an invitation.
Rupert commenced to pace. He was clearly nervous but refused Alex’s suggestion that they order brandy. Either he still felt queasy or he had enough sense to realize he must be sober for the ship’s arrival. Eventually, he sat and became lost in thought, turning down the offer of a game of cards.
“What is this cargo, anyway? Do you have to store it or send it on?”
Rupert shrugged. “All that is arranged. Nothing for me to do except deliver the payment.” He ignored Alex’s first question. The near-panic he’d shown in London seemed to be gone now that he could believe he would succeed in securing the shipment. When not under stress, Rupert Stowe might pass as a man with a backbone.
“This seems a prodigious inconvenient port at which to receive a shipment.”
Stowe twitched. “Ah…my friend owns a small property nearby. There’s furnishings needed.”
“I see. It would not make sense to ship them overland, then.”
“No. No, it wouldn’t,” Rupert agreed.
****
When they walked out after dinner the next afternoon, he saw that the Sea Mew had made port.
Like the Lark, it was a schooner, though rather larger. Gordon heard his companion draw in his breath sharply when he saw the vessel’s name. His own heart beat faster. He must not reveal that he knew anything of the Sea Mew and its captain.
“That’s a fine-looking ship.” A fair-haired man his own age or a little less stood in the bow, hands on hips, grinning and shouting orders to several of the tars. Alex could not see his eyes but guessed they were blue as sapphire.
“Yes.” Rupert added, “Ships are best admired from a distance, I find. The only voyage I look forward to with pleasure is the one across the Channel to France, when we can visit France again. I suppose you have never seen Paris? I intend to do so, once we are no longer at war. I’m told it’s marvelous sophisticated—London is to Paris as some provincial town is to London.” He prattled on, spending more words than Alex had heard from him since his drunken confidences in Town. Alex smiled agreeably and made encouraging noises at intervals. Stowe meant to distract his attention from the Sea Mew.
They came to the Lark, farther on, its crew bustling about. Sykes was standing at the rail; when he saw them, he gave a curt nod, which Stowe civilly returned. Alex grinned and gave the captain a little salute.
“You’re no military man, I see,” Sykes called out.
“No, sir. According to my father, I’m a good-for-naught and a scapegrace.”
The captain barked a laugh and turned away to call some unintelligible seafaring command to one of the men.
Rupert’s flow of chat dried up before they returned to the Star Inn some time later. He agreed to play piquet but did so absentmindedly. Not a man I would choose as a fellow conspirator. He has no acting ability.
Abruptly, after supper, Stowe announced that he meant to go out for some fresh air. He clearly did not want company and was trying to think of a reason for Alex not to come with him. Obligingly, Alex yawned and murmured, “Oh…ay? I got my fill of Scots air earlier. I mean to read the Scots Magazine I bought.”
Rupert departed, and Alex made no attempt to follow him. He was tolerably sure he knew where Rupert was going. The young idiot could not pay the captain of the Sea Mew without getting the money from him. It must be a preliminary visit to appoint a time for Stowe to bring the final payment.
Stowe returned sooner than Alex had expected. The Sea Mew’s captain could not have offered him refreshment as he had not been gone long enough to drink a leisurely glass with his host. Would they have tossed off a tumbler of spirits by way of celebrating the bargain? He would expect a smuggler coming from France to have at least a cask of good brandy which would call for sipping.
Rupert greeted him with a jerky nod and stood just inside the door as if undecided. He reopened the door at a brisk double tap to admit a servant with a bottle and two glasses. While the man’s back was turned to set out the glasses and bottle on the table, Rupert cleared his throat to catch Alex’s attention, raised his eyebrows inquiringly, and held out his hand.
Ah. He needed to tip the waiter and had no money—or preferred not to spend whatever coin he possessed. Alex dug in his own pocket and tossed Rupert a penny. He passed it on to the waiter, looking somewhat embarrassed. The waiter, after a discreet glance, thanked him and begged the gentleman not be slow to ask for anything else he might need.
“I thought it too small a gratuity, but he seemed pleased with it.” Rupert gave Alex a glass and subsided into the other chair.
Alex looked at him over the top of the magazine. “Well he might. Scots money is worth only one-twelfth of ours.”
“You gave him the equivalent of a Scotch shilling! No wonder he was pleased.” Rupert laughed. The light-hearted moment was only that, a moment. Then Rupert recalled his cares and took a swallow of brandy.
Alex returned to his reading.
“Ah…Gordon…”
Alex looked up.
“The ship I have been waiting for has come in. I must have the money. It is too late in the day for the wagons to set out, but I have sent a message to the carter to be ready in the morning.”
“Very good. What time shall we deliver it?”
Rupert stared into his glass. For all he had ordered the bottle of brandy (which the government was paying for), he had not finished his first glass. “About tomorrow…I think I should visit the ship alone. The captain expects me. If you come along, he may think it odd.”
“Then in the morning you can take this damned uncomfortable corset.” Fourteen pounds of golden guineas, double or triple layers sewn compactly into a canvas girdle that reached from his waist to chest, made Alex bulky through the torso and gave him a round belly. The tailor at Somerset House had supplied him with a coat, waistcoat, and breeches, as his own clothing would not button over it. He would be exceeding glad to be rid of the corset; after wearing it next his skin continually for days, he was sure he had guinea-shaped impressions on his body. It was also hot and itchy. He wondered how Rupert could safely transport it. He was slighter than Alex, and it certainly would not fit under his clothing. He could carry it in a valise or box, but Gordon could easily envision the jackanapes dropping it in the harbor when he crossed the gangboard to the Sea Mew. Well, they would have to risk it.
“You could give it to me tonight. It would save time in the morning.” Rupert did not sound optimistic.
“Better to leave it until you are ready to go. No one suspects its presence now, whereas when I go to my room, someone might notice the plump Englishman has lost bulk suddenly and wonder.” He would not trust Rupert with the money any farther than the distance between the inn and the Sea Mew, even though Rupert could hardly abscond with the gold tonight. “You’ll have to carry it in your portmanteau tomorrow.”
Rupert nodded, looked longingly at the bottle, and put down his glass.
“I’m for bed, Stowe. Would you like me to take the brandy? You’ll want an early start in the morning.”
“I expect that’s a good idea. Take it.”
Doubts his ability to abstain from it, or hopes I will drink deep and be in no condition to hinder him. And there had been no way to gain his confidence and persuade him to report the muskets.
Alex left him at the end of the street the next morning and watched Stowe stride away, swinging the valise jauntily. Rupert intended to see the wagons loaded before returning to the inn, an unexpected show of responsibility, but useful.
“I me
an to explore the ruins,” Alex had told him. “They are said to be worth viewing.” And on the way, he would pause to send a message to Captain Sykes, although he suspected it would be redundant. The captain and his crew did not miss much and would have seen Stowe go aboard the previous day.
He walked back the way he had come, then continued past the end of North Street to the ruins of the old castle that had been the bishop’s residence before the Reformation. The façade was impressive, but Alex had seen the side of the castle that rose up from the sea, which was grim enough to give one nightmares. It had been a prison as well as the bishop’s palace. He walked a little farther then went through a wynd or narrow lane to return to North Street.
There, he paused to gaze at the medieval buildings of St. Salvator’s College. The chapel was a graceful thing, though it had suffered defacement at the hands of reformers. The niches set into the buttresses would once have held the statues of saints. Stained-glass windows would have filled the interior of the chapel with glowing colors—at least when the sun was shining—before the Protestant reformers vandalized them out of existence. As he gazed at the tower, a thin-lipped, dour man informed him that one Patrick Hamilton, a member of the university, had been burned outside St. Salvator’s in 1528.
“And it was but eighteen years later that George Wishart, another martyr, was burned. Cardinal Beaton, the de’il who ordered it, was murdered soon thereafter and hung from the castle wall like a side o’ beef. And is burning in hell now, I am sure.”
A bloody-minded race, the Scots, with long memories, as he knew from his Scottish grandparents’ tales, though they themselves had not been extreme in their views. Gordon wondered idly whether it was the religious temper of the town or the difficult approach to the harbor that caused the Sea Mew’s captain to insist on more pay.
He idled through the spacious cathedral grounds and admired its twin spires and the tower of St. Rule. After a while, he emerged through an opening in the broken wall. A short walk took him to a point from which he could see wagons pulled up beside the Sea Mew. In addition to a freight dray, there were several farm wagons. They must intend to take all the cargo in one trip, rather than having to return for a second or third load. That was how he would have planned it, to allow less chance of discovery. Heavily laden wagons could not move as fast as a coach, which might travel five miles an hour, or more if it were light, well made, and the roads good. As the dray pulled away, a crane was already hoisting a crate over the side of the ship and down onto the next wagon. He made out the markings on some of the stout wooden crates on the dray: Boiseries. That would be decorative wood paneling. Fireplace surrounds and the like. Other crates bore the names Martin Frères and Charles Cressent, Ébéniste. Ébéniste meant cabinetmaker. If the contents were as marked, their destination would be furnished in the latest style. A little indiscreet to use French cabinetmakers’ crates.
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