Before going home, Tom led Sadie round to the alley which ran along the back of the warehouse. Sure enough, the street here was at a lower level than at the front and in the gathering twilight he could easily make out the two small cellar windows. A pile of barrels (empty, Tom suspected) hid the low door. He felt again the sick sense of foreboding and, shivering in the damp evening air, set off for home.
CHAPTER 9
Tuesday August 21st
The next day was one of the strangest Tom had experienced at Cunningham’s. There was an almost carnival atmosphere of relief at having survived the visit of the excise men. The McSkimming brothers were in high spirits, whistling and joking as they rolled barrels across the yard, singing lustily as they heaved crates on to the carts. Adam Kennedy moved with an even more pronounced swagger than usual and directed an openly contemptuous sneer at Tom when he went to collect the stock lists for the latest shipments.
Mungo seemed nervous, as if fearing he had revealed too much to Tom of what he suspected. There was still only tentative trust between them. Mr Cunningham, quietly sober as usual but obviously pleased at the outcome of the inspection, gave everyone a free afternoon, and Tom was glad to make his escape.
As he stabled Sadie at Barnessie House he noticed a small grey donkey placidly munching oats in the next stall. Entering through the kitchen as usual he found Bob, up to his elbows in flour and sneezing profusely, who told him that the donkey belonged to “yon wee seamstress”. Tom remembered that Alison had promised to measure his mother for a new gown. He was surprised to find himself looking forward to sparring with her again.
In the sitting room he found his mother, Alison and Kate on the sofa together, among the remains of tea things, poring over fashion magazines. Engrossed in their discussion, they did not hear him come in.
“So maybe this yin wi’ the new higher waist and a lace inset?” asked Alison.
“In a nice silk brocade,” added Kate. “What colour are ye thinkin’ of, mither?”
“It’ll be Mistress Fleming’s usual puce, if it’s no’ acid green,” said Tom from the doorway.
All three looked up and Lady Margaret frowned.
“Thomas, you are an exceedingly rude young man. Mistress Fleming is oor guest; please greet her properly.”
“Guid day tae ye, Mistress Fleming,” muttered Tom.
“And tae you, sir.” Alison turned back to Lady Margaret. “I was thinking o’ a shade somewhere between grey and blue.”
“Oh yes,” breathed Kate, looking at Alison with undisguised admiration.
“Ye’ll be sayin’ next ye want tae be a seamstress when ye grow up,” said Tom. “Is there ony tea in the pot?”
“That will be fine, if she’s as talented as Mistress Fleming,” said his mother. “I’m looking forward tae having a new gown. Now, Tom, tell us aboot yer day. How is Mr Cunningham?”
“Very well,” said Tom, lowering his lanky frame into an armchair and helping himself to a large piece of shortbread. “He’s pleased the excise men hae gone.” Tom had not told his family about the previous day’s discoveries; he had not yet decided what, if anything, to do about them.
“How’s Mungo?” asked the ever-inquisitive Kate.
“Mungo?” asked Alison sharply.
“Aye,” said Kate. “Mungo McGillivray, Tom’s workmate – and new best friend,” she added slyly. “He’s got red hair and a temper.”
“Kate,” said her mother. “Ye mustn’t speak ill o’ people, especially those ye dinnae ken. Surely ye hae some school work tae finish?”
“I’ve done it a’,” said Kate demurely.
“Mungo?” repeated Alison. “Forgive me, but I might ken his family. Do you?”
Tom stretched out his legs lazily and took another bite of shortbread.
“I doubt ye’d ken his family,” he said. “His mither’s a puir auld drunken wifie. Paisley Annie, they cry her.”
“On the contrary,” said Alison, fixing Tom with a hostile stare. “I ken Annie quite weel. I’ve visited her a few times an’ if ye’re friendly wi’ her son ye might ask him why, when he earns a guid living, he neglects her to the point where she has neither food nor fire.”
“He says if he gi’es his mither money she spends it on drink, then she’s incapable for the rest o’ the day.”
“So he shirks a’ responsibility for her an’ leaves her tae stew in her ain filth. What kind o’ a son does that?” demanded Alison furiously.
“Maybe there are reasons we dinnae ken.”
“Aye, maybe so,” said Alison sarcastically.
There was a heavy silence while Tom and Alison glared at each other. At length Alison said. “Please forgive me, ma’am. I forgot I am your guest. Now if ye’ll excuse me, it’s getting late and I must see tae my faither. I’ll call again wi’ some designs an’ fabric samples, if that’s convenient.”
A meeting was arranged for the following week, and after thanking Lady Margaret for her hospitality, Alison took her leave. Tom was ordered to remember his manners and accompany her downstairs.
They descended the broad staircase in silence. By the front door Tom said, “Ye’re wrong aboot Mungo, ye ken.”
“I ken what I’ve seen in their hame. Nae son worth the name would treat his mither so.”
“Then we’ll hae tae agree tae differ,” said Tom stiffly.
For a long moment, they stared at each other, then Alison said, “I’ll find my ain way tae the stables. Guid day tae ye, Master Tom.” She turned away quickly and Tom could only watch her slim, dignified figure as she crossed the yard.
Back upstairs, he was lectured once again on his rudeness by his mother, and reflected ruefully that he probably deserved it.
*
Steady rain and cold, unseasonal winds over the following days kept good burghers indoors and made farmers increasingly fearful for the coming harvest. Tom continued to brood about the smuggling question, telling himself he needed to find more evidence but using the bad weather as a convenient excuse for doing nothing. He had not spoken to his family about it and the inclement weather did nothing to lighten the heavy sense of foreboding he felt.
On Thursday, Mungo took him aside as they finished work and told him he had overheard a conversation between Adam Kennedy and Geordie McSkimming.
“They said Friday, midnight, at Culzean,” he said with barely concealed excitement. “I’ve a mind tae gang an’ see what they’re aboot. What dae ye say? Will ye come wi’ me?”
Tom hesitated. It could be a trap. Mungo had always given the impression of being reluctant to get involved, so why was he so keen to spy on Kennedy now? Still, Tom wanted to know what was going on and this would certainly give him an opportunity.
“What are ye plannin’ tae dae?” he asked warily.
“We wait till it’s dark, ride doon tae Culzean and see what’s goin’ on. There’ll be naebody else aboot an’ it’ll be easy tae hide. We can maybe even follow them efterwards.”
“But what if they discover us?”
“That’s a risk we’d have tae take. We can aye say we want tae join wi’ them.”
Tom thought it would be unlikely the smugglers would believe that. If he went along with Mungo he would be getting into deeper water, but it was better than not knowing what was going on and doing nothing.
“Very well, then,” he said. “I’ll dae it.”
Mungo’s face brightened. “Guid man,” he said. “I’ll meet ye the morn’s nicht at Alloway Kirk at ten o’clock. That’ll gie us time tae get tae Culzean afore them.”
CHAPTER 10
Friday August 24th
Getting to Alloway the following evening proved not to be as easy as Tom had thought. His parents allowed him to come and go as he pleased, but they would wonder at his leaving the house so late, and he had reckoned without the family’s supper guests, the Misses McFadzean. They arrived at seven o’clock and settled down for an evening’s gossip around the supper table.
The talk ranged wid
ely and eventually turned to the American war, which was now going badly for the British, and on which the Misses McFadzean felt qualified to make informed comments. Miss Effie: “We should hae kent better than tae trust onybody ca’ed Washington – an arrant scoundrel.” Miss Letty: “And that Jefferson wi’ his new-fangled ideas – liberty, indeed!”
None of the family felt equal to the task of engaging the aunts in a prolonged political discussion and talk soon turned to matters nearer home and to the plight of the unfortunate Bessie Gibney. Miss Effie: “The lassie only has hersel’ tae blame; she’s nothing but a wanton hussy.” Miss Letty: “Thank goodness we hae the Kirk Session tae stamp oot fornication,” – this last with a pointed look at Tom, whose supposed Parisian misdemeanours had still not been forgotten.
Tom felt increasingly ill at ease. He had met many in France who admired Jefferson and Lafayette, and he remembered how uncomfortable he’d felt during Bessie’s punishment in the kirk. Added to that, it was gone half past nine, darkness was starting to close in, his aunts showed no sign of leaving and he was going to be late for his appointment with Mungo.
“You’re fidgeting a lot, Tom,” observed his mother. “Are ye feelin’ all right?”
Tom seized the opportunity. “It’s true I dinnae feel sae weel,” he said. “Might be the pie. If ye’ll excuse me, I’ll just gang oot for some fresh air and then turn in.” He said his farewells to his aunts and beat a hasty retreat, silently blessing Jeanie and her lack of cooking skill.
The sky was clear and the moon just coming out as he fetched Sadie from the stable and walked her quietly out of the yard, then mounted quickly and galloped off towards Alloway.
He dismounted some distance from the kirk and approached it quietly, leading Sadie and wondering where Mungo was. The moonlight picked out the gaping windows and moss-covered stones of the old ruined church, the trees rustled eerily in the night air and somewhere a lone owl called.
“Feart o’ houlets, are ye?” came a mocking voice from somewhere nearby.
Tom nearly jumped out of his skin but sighed with relief as Mungo approached from among the trees, saying “Ye took yer time, man. I thocht ye werenae comin’.
“Sorry,” muttered Tom. “What noo?”
“We’ll just hae time tae get tae Culzean an’ hide afore they come. I’ll need tae tak it easy; I’m no’ ower sure o’ this nag,” he added, indicating a mangy-looking horse he had borrowed from the livery stable in Ayr.
Nonetheless, they made good progress down the lonely inland road towards Culzean, riding as silently as they could through the moonlit fields. When they arrived near the tall walls of the new building, Mungo signalled to Tom to dismount.
“There’s a wee yard ower there where we can leave the horses. The yett’s aye open and naebody gangs there, so they’ll be safe.”
He’s done this before, thought Tom, fearing again that this was a trap, but he dismounted and followed Mungo through the narrow gate. After tethering the horses they followed a path down to the clifftop and settled down among some gorse bushes to wait.
The moonlight traced a bright silver path over the waters of the Firth, and the only sounds were the light rustle of the wind in the trees and the rhythmic sighing of the waves on the shingles beneath them.
“There’s nothin’ here,” said Tom.
“Maybe they’ll no’ come if the moon’s ower bricht,” began Mungo, then broke off and clutched Tom’s arm. “Ower there!” he hissed.
Looking in the direction Mungo indicated, Tom could just make out the bulky outline of a ship, lying at anchor off to the right in the murky darkness about five hundred yards from the shore.
“See?” Mungo couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. “Just wait, it’ll a’ be happenin’ soon.”
Tom could contain his curiosity no longer.
“I need tae ask ye, Mungo. Hoo come ye ken sae much aboot this?”
“I just listen tae what folks say. I’ve aye thocht there’d be smuggling somewhere at Cunningham’s; it would be odd if there wasnae. I’ve been watchin’ Kennedy an’ the McSkimmings for a while . . .”
“Aye, ye tellt me that afore. Hoo did ye ken whaur tae come the nicht?”
“Like I said, I heard them talkin’.”
“But ye ken the lie o’ the land an’ whaur tae hide the horses.” Mungo was silent for a while. Finally he said, “I did come here once afore. I saw Kennedy in The Plough in the High Street and followed him when he left. Sure enough, he met up wi’ Wullie an’ Geordie an’ they came doon here. I managed tae follow them.”
“On foot?” asked Tom. “It’s mair nor ten miles.”
“I borrowed a horse frae the inn yard. No’ officially, ye understand, an’ I put it back efter. Naebody was ony the wiser.” In spite of himself, Tom had to smile, but he realised that Mungo’s curiosity had led him to take a big risk. The law wasn’t kind to horse thieves.
“Look,” went on Mungo. “If ye think I’m involved, ye’re wrang. Why would I tell ye a’ this if I was?”
While this might be true, Tom was only half convinced.
“Wheesht noo,” hissed Mungo. “There’s folk comin’.”
As they watched, a shadowy group of figures emerged from up by the castle and walked down towards the cliff edge. Tom held his breath as the men passed near their hiding place, and nearly shouted out as the leading figure turned his head in their direction and the moonlight picked out the scarred features of Adam Kennedy. Mungo clutched his arm warningly and Tom felt his heart pounding against his ribs.
Kennedy paused for a moment, looking round, and Tom felt the jagged gorse dig into his thighs as he tried to duck even further down. Then Kennedy and his companions disappeared down a cliff path and Tom heaved a great sigh of relief. He could feel Mungo trembling beside him.
A short while later the faint sound of tramping feet and muttered conversations drifted up from the beach; Kennedy and his crew had obviously been joined by others.
“Wha are they?” whispered Tom.
“Local folks, cottars an’ the like. If they join in, they get a share o’ the spoils. If they dinnae . . . weel, onything can happen.” Tom shivered, thinking of Kennedy and the McSkimmings’ ruthless ways and remembering Mungo’s tales of murderous clans of gypsies.
Suddenly Mungo clutched his arm, making him jump.
“Ye’re awfu’ nervous!” he sneered. “Look!”
Far below, they could see the glow of lanterns on the shore and then, from the hulk of the ship out in the firth, an answering light which blinked three times, then was extinguished.
“It’s the signal!” said Mungo excitedly. “They’ll put the boats oot noo.”
Sure enough, they heard the scrape of small craft being hauled over the shingle and soon they saw half a dozen small boats being rowed across the moonlit water to the shadowed bulk of the ship. For the next hour or so they watched as kegs, crates and chests were ferried ashore and hauled with much panting and cursing up the steep cliff path.
Tom, still afraid that their hiding place might be discovered at any moment, did his best to ignore the creeping cold and numbness in his limbs, to which was now added an overwhelming need to pee, and tried to concentrate on what the crates and chests might contain. Spirits, he thought, wine, tea, silks and salt, much as he had seen in the hidden cellar at Cunningham’s. In spite of himself, he was impressed by the speed and efficiency of the operation.
Eventually Mungo whispered, “Seen enough? We should gang noo, while they’re still maistly doon on the shore.”
“Are we no’ gonnae follow them?”
“No’ this time. We ken whaur maist o’ the stuff ’s gaun.”
Stiff and sore from lying in the gorse, Tom scrambled to his feet, stretched painfully and followed Mungo in a crouching run back up to the yard where they had left the horses.
“Wait, Mungo,” called Tom. “I need tae piss.”
Mungo cast his eyes heavenwards and hopped in exasperation as Tom reli
eved himself.
“Come on quick, noo.”
They freed the horses quickly and began to lead them out of the yard as noiselessly as possible, but as they rounded the corner they came face to face with Adam Kennedy. Recognition on both sides was instant.
The next moment of silence seemed like an eternity before Kennedy spoke, in a voice dripping with scorn.
“Weel, weel. The carroty gowk an’ the fancy fake Frenchie.”
They said nothing, just stood rooted to the spot as Kennedy, hands on hips, slowly looked them up and down.
Finally he said, “Ye’re lucky I havenae time tae deal wi’ ye the noo, but we ken whaur tae find ye, an’ we will.”
The moonlight picked out the livid scar on his face as he slowly drew his finger across his throat and his mocking laughter followed them as they scrambled on to their horses and galloped off down to the road.
When they had gone some way and were sure no-one was following them they reined in. Tom leaned on his saddlebow, breathing hard, and looked over at his companion. Mungo, all bravado gone, was white and shaking.
“We’re done for,” he whispered hoarsely. “They’ll kill us.”
Tom thought fast. “Maybe no’,” he said. “He could hae ca’d the ithers an’ done it then if he had a mind. Maybe he doesnae dare. Folk would want tae ken why if we turned up deid.”
“You, maybe,” said Mungo bitterly. “Naebody would care aboot me.”
Tom silently acknowledged that this was unfortunately likely to be true.
“There’s your mither,” he said, and as Mungo did not reply, he went on, “For noo, we should just wait an’ see. Kennedy disnae ken what we’re gonnae dae, an’ that’ll mak’ him uneasy. Maybe he’ll offer tae let us in on it.”
“That’s no’ likely,” jeered Mungo. “Less profit for them. No, if he had a mind tae it, he could gey soon mak’ us disappear.”
On Carrick Shore Page 6