On Carrick Shore

by Alex J. Wright

  The service began, and after the first psalm, sung raggedly to a wheezing organ accompaniment, and the Old Testament reading, delivered in a fire-and-brimstone voice by Mr. James Cunningham, an expectant hush fell on the congregation. A buxom figure, dressed in an old black kirtle with a rough sackcloth cap on her head, emerged from the side and went to stand, trembling slightly, on a stool by the pulpit. Her face, though pale and downcast, was determined, and her lips set firm with the effort not to break down.

  “Bessie Gibney,” intoned the minister, “you have been found guilty of relapse and have strayed far from the path of righteousness. The sentence of the Kirk Session is that you stand witness before the congregation of this church on four consecutive Sundays, until you come to proper acknowledgement of your repeated . . .”, here the minister paused and wagged his finger at the unfortunate girl, glowering all the while, “. . . repeated transgressions of God’s holy law. We the congregation will pray that you be brought to true repentance and forsake your wicked ways, so that you may be received again into the fellowship of the righteous.”

  He continued in this vein for several minutes more during which Tom, who always felt uncomfortable at such moments, risked looking round to see the effect of the minister’s words on the congregation. Many were enjoying Bessie’s discomfiture, indeed several matrons were tutting audibly. Some were fidgeting uncomfortably while others stared impassively ahead, not risking betraying their opinion. Tom noticed that Alison Fleming was staring at the minister, an expression of undisguised disgust on her face, and James Cunningham was watching Bessie, his eyes glittering. “He’s enjoying this,” thought Tom, looking on in astonishment as the elder slowly licked his lips.

  “Let us pray,” said the minister.

  *

  After the service the congregation slowly dispersed, some remaining in the churchyard to exchange gossip and family views. Seeing his mother in conversation with Alison, Tom approached in time to hear Lady Margaret say, “Tuesday, then, aboot four?”

  “That would be fine,” replied Alison.

  “Good. Ah, Tom. Your aunt has just introduced me to Mistress Fleming. I’ve a mind tae order a new gown for the autumn ball in the Assembly Rooms.”

  Tom groaned inwardly. Not another monstrosity in the family, he thought. “Er, what kind o’ gown?” he enquired. “One like Aunt Letty’s?”

  Seeing the colour mount in Alison’s cheeks, his mother said hastily, “Thomas, ye ken I will choose something fitting, and Mistress Fleming is an expert seamstress. She’ll come and measure me this week.”

  “So ye dinnae need tae worry,” added Alison with a pert smile.

  Tom felt the need for combat.

  “No’ as worried as you looked in the kirk the noo,” he said. “Or angry, mair like.”

  “Angry? Of course I was angry. Wha wouldna be? Yon puir lassie havin’ tae stand and listen tae the minister haranguing her for her sins? What sins? Whaur was the bairn’s faither? Some cowardly coof, taking advantage o’ a puir ignorant lassie, then hiding while she’s made a spectacle and a laughing-stock for the righteous burghers of Ayr. Hypocrites, all o’ them,” she added, glaring at Tom. Obviously she numbered him among the hypocrites.

  “I’ll admit it made me uncomfortable,” he said. “I’d forgotten sic things still happened here. But at least they dinnae burn witches ony mair, ye’ll be glad tae ken.”

  Alison reddened and glared at him, remembering their previous conversation on that subject.

  “Thomas, that remark was uncalled for,” said his mother. “Please excuse my son, Mistress Fleming. He still has some growing up to do.”

  “No apology necessary,” said Alison stiffly. “Here’s my faither. I’ll bid ye guid-day, ma’am, . . . Master Thomas,” she added coldly as she turned away.

  Lady Margaret took Tom’s arm and walked with him towards the kirk yett.

  “Was that necessary, Tom?” she asked. “Such a lovely, spirited lass. Why does she seem tae bring oot the worst in you?”

  “I dinnae ken, mither. Maybe I don’t like that she aye seems tae be right.”

  “Well, just admit it and be grateful that she is. Noo, let’s awa’ hame afore the rain starts. Yon clouds look ominous.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Monday August 20th

  The next morning, the excise men arrived. Riding into the courtyard at Cunningham’s, Tom saw a knot of men huddled round two stern, soberly-clad strangers. He stabled Sadie and hurried to join them.

  “We’ll look through the accounts first,” said the taller of the two, who had introduced himself as Gavin McKie, “then inspect the warehoose.”

  Tom studied the faces of his fellow workers. Mr Cunningham looked concerned, while Adam Kennedy and the warehousemen looked more open and honest than Tom had ever seen them before. Mungo was watching proceedings with undisguised glee.

  “This way, then, gentlemen,” said Mr Cunningham, heading towards the stairs to the offices. As he turned to follow him, Tom thought he caught a glimpse of a signal between Kennedy and Geordie McSkimming.

  In the office, the excise men began methodically checking the accounts of the imported goods against the sales invoices and stock records.

  “Ye’ve a new clerk, I see,” remarked Gavin McKie to Mr Cunningham.

  “Aye. This is Tom Boyd, no’ lang back frae France. He’s made himsel’ very useful in the short time he’s been wi’ us.”

  “I’m sure he has,” said the second excise man, staring hard at Tom. “What were ye daein’ in France? I thocht we were at war wi’ the Frenchies.”

  “Er, I worked for a wine merchant. Commerce aye carries on.”

  “Indeed,” said McKie. “Nae doot ye hae some usefu’ contacts.”

  Tom had the uneasy feeling that he was under suspicion. Did they mean contacts among smugglers? Or did they think he was a spy?

  “Ye’re weel turned oot for a clerk,” continued McKie, eying Tom’s coat. Behind them, Mungo just about managed to suppress a giggle as McKie turned his attention back to the accounts.

  “These seem tae be in order,” he said eventually. “I congratulate ye, Mr Cunningham. Still, we need tae check the lists against the stock in the warehoose. Follow me, gentlemen.”

  Tom felt increasingly uneasy as they crossed the yard. As the most recent employee, and one who had hardly been allowed access to the warehouse since his first day, he was sure that if anything illegal was found Kennedy would make sure that suspicion fell on him.

  The big double doors to the warehouse were flung open and once inside, the excise men walked carefully up and down the aisles, checking the stock lists against the rows of kegs of spirits, crates and bottles of wine and chests containing tea and spices. They worked methodically and as he walked behind them Tom found himself examining the warehouse through their eyes, alert to anything which might arouse suspicion.

  When they reached the last aisle, furthest from the doors, the light was so dim that it was difficult to make out the contours of the tea chests piled high against the back wall. Gavin McKie called for light and Kennedy approached with a lantern, raising it high so that the excise men could count the chests.

  “That seems tae be in order,” said McKie, turning away. He paused, then turning back sharply he added, “Just one mair thing. Would ye be sae good as tae fetch a chest doon frae that top row and open it for me?”

  “At yer service,” muttered Kennedy.

  A ladder was produced and Geordie McSkimming climbed up nimbly and cursing, heaved a cumbersome chest down to the floor.

  “An’ if ye could just open it for me . . .” continued McKie.

  Tom saw Kennedy and Geordie exchange a glance before Kennedy shrugged, placed the lantern on the dusty floor and fetched a jemmy.

  What will they find? wondered Tom, intrigued in spite of his apprehension.

  The lid came off and the familiar musky scent of dried tea leaves filled the air.

  “Maybe you gentlemen were expecting something
else?” enquired Kennedy smoothly, with a barely concealed edge of contempt in his voice.

  “No indeed,” replied McKie, “but ye ken fine oor job is tae check. That will be a’ for noo.” He gestured to them to close the chest and turned away.

  Tom supposed he had not really expected the chest to contain anything other than tea, but by the light of the lantern on the floor he had noticed something unusual. There were marks in the dust by the row of tea chests, marks which suggested that one whole block of them had been moved not long before. He quickly made a mental note of the position of the block before following the others out of the warehouse.

  *

  As the working day drew to a close, Tom found himself alone in the office. Mr Cunningham had already left and Mungo had been sent to start checking the cargo of a newly-arrived ship before going home. Glancing out of the window, he saw that the yard was deserted and the warehouse doors shut. It was his opportunity to search the stock and he had to take it, for he was unlikely to have another chance.

  He quickly tidied his desk, crossed to the inner office which Mr Cunningham usually left unlocked, and approached the desk. He half hoped to find it locked, being apprehensive about what he was about to do, but the drawer opened smoothly to reveal Mr Cunningham’s keys. Tom quickly pocketed them, closed the drawer and both office doors, then he was down the steps and across the yard to the small side entrance to the warehouse before he could change his mind.

  After fumbling with a few keys he found the right one. The door creaked loudly as he opened it and stepped into the gloomy interior. He stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dim light, aware of the pounding of his heart as he moved between the towering rows of goods, half expecting Kennedy or one of the McSkimmings to pounce on him. But the warehouse was deserted and soon he was standing by the row of chests along the back wall.

  His eyes were now accustomed to the evening sunlight shining through the high windows and he soon found the block of chests he had noticed earlier. They were piled three high, and Tom wondered if he would be able to move them. He found the ladder which had been used that morning, propped it against the chests and climbed quickly. He grasped the sides of the topmost chest, expecting it to be very heavy, but to his surprise it weighed very little and he was able to lower it to the floor without difficulty. The second chest followed, then he climbed back down from the ladder and grasped the bottom chest, which also moved easily. All three were empty, or very nearly. Tom glanced at the bare wall where the chests had been and dimly made out the outline of a door.

  “Probably locked,” he thought, but he tried it anyway. He drew back the heavy bolt and the door swung open. Behind was thick darkness, but he could just make out some stone steps leading downwards into the gloom. He fetched the lantern Kennedy had used earlier and managed to light it with a taper from the embers of the fire in the brazier, then he went back to the door.

  He could feel his heart pounding as he set off cautiously down the uneven steps, trying not to think of what might happen if he fell, or if Kennedy or the warehousemen came back. If they were up to something, and it seemed likely that they were, they wouldn’t leave the place unguarded for long.

  At the bottom of the steps Tom found himself in a dark cellar. Some light did come in from two small grimy windows high in the walls, which he judged must be at street level. Raising the lantern to examine his surroundings, Tom let out a low whistle. Kegs and crates of wines and spirits were piled neatly all around three walls, and in the centre stood piles of chests like those in the warehouse above. Some were open and on closer inspection proved to contain, not tea, but coffee, spices, fine china and bolts of Indian silk. Rather incongruously, he found himself wondering what Alison Fleming could do with such beautiful material.

  He had obviously found what he was looking for; evidence that Cunningham’s firm was engaged in smuggling. But who exactly was doing it? Was Richard Cunningham himself involved? Where did these goods come from and where did they go? Tom’s thoughts were in a whirl and he felt fear clutch at his heart.

  Just then he heard a muttered curse from above, followed immediately by footsteps on the stairs. There was nothing he could do; he was holding a lantern and it was too late to hide, so he stood rooted to the spot, feeling daft.

  “What the . . . Tom!”

  “Mungo!”

  The two young men stood, eyeing each other suspiciously. Mungo recovered first.

  “Are you . . .?”

  “No . . . you?”

  “Naw, I’m nae smuggler, but I’ve kent for a while something was up. Put that licht oot, somebody might see in.”

  Tom was unsure whether to trust Mungo, but he saw the sense of this. Reluctantly, he extinguished the light. While his eyes were still adjusting to the gloom Mungo grasped his arm, making him jump.

  “What are ye, feart? It’s Kennedy and the McSkimmings, I’m sure o’ that noo. Ye saw how they chose a full chest tae show the excise men, an’ they must use the empty chests tae hide the door, but be able tae get in tae the cellar easily.” He stopped and looked suspiciously at Tom. “How did ye ken whaur tae look?”

  “I saw some marks in the dust and guessed they must move the chests there round a lot. I thocht there must be something behind them, but I never guessed there was a whole cellar doon here.”

  “I did,” said Mungo proudly, “but I wasnae sure till the noo how tae get intae it frae the warehoose. There’s anither way in frae the street.” He pointed to the wall where the windows were, then pushed aside a couple of tall chests to reveal a low door.

  “If ye gang intae the back alley ahint the warehouse,” he said, “ye can see thae windows. There’s some barrels on the street side tae hide the door, but I’m no fooled. That’s where they bring the stuff in an’ oot, so it never gangs through the books. Must be.”

  “When dae they dae it?” asked Tom.

  “Must be at nicht. These summer nichts, it’ll be gye late, and in ony case it has tae be when it’s dark and folks are asleep, an’ between the rounds o’ the watch. It’s weel organised, richt enough.”

  “So wha’s daein’ it? If it’s the warehoosemen, they must never sleep.”

  “Aye, the McSkimmings look like they’re sleepwalkin’, whiles.” Mungo grinned. “They’ll be involved, all right. My guess is they’re workin’ wi a gang o’ ne’er-dae-weels, outlaws, gypsies an’ the like. There’s plenty o’ them roamin’ the countryside. Adam Kennedy leaves this door unlocked and the gang come an’ go as they like. I’d guess Kennedy gets weel paid for his trouble but mair than likely they’re a’ cheatin’ on yin anither. It’s a dangerous game, an’ nae mistake.”

  “An’ you seem tae ken a’ aboot it,” thought Tom. He felt sick with foreboding. He looked round the cellar again, at the wealth of goods it contained.

  “Whaur does the stuff come frae?” he asked. “It disnae come in on the regular ships, surely?”

  “Comes frae a’ ower,” said Mungo. “There’s a lot o’ it goes on, a’ up and doon the coast. It comes in on wee ships frae France, Ireland, a lot by way o’ the Isle o’ Man, an’ they land it a’ doon the Carrick shore an’ on the Solway coast as weel.”

  “But whaur does it gang frae here? Wha buys it?”

  “Glasgow, Edinburgh, England. There’s a lot o’ folk wi’ money, an’ money maks ye greedy. Yon fine lords an’ ladies aye hae an eye oot for a bargain, aye, an’ yer fancy lawyers tae,” he added with a sly glance at Tom. “The merchants that sell them their fine wines an’ silks an’ china are no’ gonnae speir if the duty’s been paid on them. I wouldnae be surprised if stuff frae the cellar here gangs oot wi’ the regular carts in the daytime an’ a’. There’ll be false bottoms on the carts tae hide a’ sorts o’ stuff that never gangs through the books. You an’ I can be as carefu’ as we can wi’ the invoices an’ the accounts, but there’s goods we never see, maybe even mair nor the legitimate stock.”

  “Ye seem tae ken a’ aboot it,” said Tom. “What are ye gaun
tae dae?

  “Dae?” scoffed Mungo. “Nothin’, I suppose. Yon gypsies would slit your throat soon as look at ye, the McSkimmings an’ a’. They’re in it up tae their necks an’ they’ve ower much tae lose. I dinnae want tae stir up this hornets’ nest, but I cannae help wonderin’ just what goes on.” He looked slyly at Tom again. “What aboot you?”

  “Dae ye think Mr Cunningham kens?”

  “Honestly, I’ve nae idea. He seems the model upright citizen, but ye never ken. I must admit I’m curious though, noo that we’ve found the goods. Are you no’?”

  “Aye, but what can we dae? It seems ower dangerous, from what ye say.”

  “Maybe best tae dae nothin’, then,” sighed Mungo. “The less we ken, the better, maybe . . .” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself, and Tom too felt reluctant to do nothing with his new-found knowledge, in spite of the danger.

  Mungo turned back towards the stairs. “Think on it. Maybe we could find oot mair, an’ we can aye stop if it gets dangerous. I’ll awa’ noo. Mind ye put the chests back an’ lock up. I’ll see ye the morn.” His footsteps grew fainter as he climbed the stairs and crossed the warehouse, leaving Tom alone in the dark.

  He thought over what they had found. The sheer amount of goods in the gloomy cellar suggested it was a big operation, and surely he was putting his life in danger if he tried to find out more, but he couldn’t help being curious. Realising that the door to the warehouse was still open and that he could be discovered at any time, he groped his way up the uneven steps, shut and bolted the door behind him and set about replacing the tea chests. He saw that there were now considerably more marks on the dusty floor but his efforts to smooth them over only seemed to make things worse. He just hoped no-one would notice.