The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (21 page)

Now the light dawned. Brent stood up and refilled his tankard. ‘And you want me to help?’

‘Can you?’

‘Can I not’ Brent shouted. ‘John Collister, I was born to live for this day. You have made a man of me. I was sworn to serve the King and the Prince, but I had an injury that has affected my leg. But for it I would have gone to France with my brother, been by his side and that of Prince Charles this very instance. But I could not go and Tom, perforce, left without me. He left no message and nowhere to find him. Then Ambrose offered me work and he is well known for his Hanoverian sympathies, though sometimes I wonder. ..’

‘Oh, he is Hanoverian all right,’ John said grimly. ‘Make no mistake about it. That is why he must never know of what is afoot, that we are using his ships to smuggle arms into England.’

‘Then how shall we do it?’

‘Easily. You know Fleswick Bay close by St Bees?’

Brent nodded.

‘We will have a boat waiting to rendezvous with you; a small craft capable of travelling over shallow water. You will get the Captain drunk, put out the anchor and it will all be done. Then you proceed to Whitehaven with your ore.’

‘A smuggler!’ Brent exclaimed excitedly. ‘An arms smuggler.’

‘And a price on your head if you are caught.’

‘My family have already died for the Stuarts.’

‘I know. I heard. But I had to be sure.’

‘Oh, John, you can be sure of me.’ Brent went over to the older man and clasped his shoulder. Then they solemnly shook hands and downed the rest of their ale. ‘Now tell me how it is to happen.’

‘I have the goods here in my barn,’ John said leaning towards Brent and lowering his voice. ‘We will load the ore this afternoon and the arms tonight. Then you set out with the morning tide.’

‘But Dinward. He will be sober by then.’

‘He will be sober to see the ore loaded on board. Then the hatches will be closed and he will be taken to the town by one of my men.’

‘And sloshed with ale.’

‘Precisely, while we load the ship with arms. By first light if he is sober he will not know what he carries in his ship. You should approach Fleswick at nightfall tomorrow. That will be the difficult time; so you must ply Dinward with enough drink to ensure a good slumber and tie him up in his cabin. Our men will rendezvous at midnight.’

‘But if Dinward wakes? He has a good head.’

John looked at him, his face grim. ‘Then you must kill him.’

Brent stared for a long while at the old mariner. It was the first time that the prospect of death as a part of the forthcoming battle had become a reality. He had talked about it often enough with gallantry and without any real understanding. He had made it romantic in connection with Mary Allonby. But now it might mean a blade through the back in the small hours of the morning and the dumping of a weighted body out at sea. Now it was reality.

‘Could you
kill,
Brent?’

Brent considered before answering.

‘In cold blood I cannot think of it; but we are engaged in war ... I have considered it often enough. I could do it.’

‘Good. Dinward would be not such a bad thing to start on. He is a good-for-nothing rogue and I believe he has no family so you would not be leaving a widow and orphans.’

‘Let us hope it does not come to that,’ Brent said. ‘But what of the crew?’

‘They are stupid men, also fond of drink. Quiggan the mate is fond of money and him we can bribe. He will help you.’

‘Good then give me the details – who I am to meet and how.’

Later that night Brent stood on the deck smoking a pipe. The great crags rose up towards Snaefell which looked as though it was snow-capped in the white light of the moon. It had been a bad night for loading dangerous goods; too bright and too mild, too many people strolling on the quayside. But now it was done and Brent leaned over the side of the ship gazing into the clear water, hoping for a calm run on his first mission as a servant, albeit a humble one, of the true King.

And indeed at first all went well. Dinward was brought aboard drunk and slept all night; but at dawn he was wide awake, alert and on deck. The trouble with Dinward was that he got drunk easily but he recovered very quickly. Brent could see that a problem would occur in twelve hours time as they anchored off Fleswick Bay.

But problems occurred before that. The promise of good weather did not hold and it was a rough voyage. Instead of drinking, Dinward stayed on deck eagle-eyed, directing the passage of the boat through the high waves that pounded from the west.

After a stormy voyage the seas still pounded against the ship but, before dark, the welcome coast of Cumberland came into sight, first as a thin line on the horizon. Then, as the boat got nearer, Brent could see in the distance the mountains of Lakeland topped by great Scafell rising from the flat coastal stretch. He thought of Mary so near and yet so far, whom he could not see. She would be getting the supper now or reading a book by candlelight, or gazing into the twilight as night began to fall upon beautiful Lake Derwentwater.

The nearer they got to the coast the calmer grew the seas and Brent went down to the galley to eat, a scratch meal at sea consisting of chunks of bread and salted beef and pots of warm ale. The five crew members, who included the mate Quiggan and the master Dinward, sat around already well into their food. Brent was glad to see that Dinward was also well into the whisky, of which he kept a private store. Dinward looked on suspiciously as Brent sat beside him, steadying himself against the rolling sea.

‘Ye’re a lot on deck this voyage.’

‘’Tis to keep away the sickness,’ Brent said. ‘’Tis too stale for me down here.’

‘“Too stale for me”,’ Dinward mimicked Brent’s voice. ‘Oh dearie me.’ The crew tittered.

There was no love lost between Brent and Dinward. Dinward objected to the fact that Brent was somehow in the place of his master, Ambrose Rigg. He felt he was being spied upon. He resented his breeding and what he thought of as his fancy manners. Brent was no swearing seafaring man but, because he was the captain and in charge, Dinward did all he could to make it hard for Brent, to make him do the basic unpleasant tasks at sea and teach him as little as possible.

But Brent wasn’t slighted. Although he didn’t like Dinward he knew what was behind his treatment of him, the reason for the dislike. He did as he was told and said little. Now as Dinward went on taunting him Brent doggedly ate his food and drank his ale, grimacing because it was sour.

Quiggan the mate munched solidly not looking at Brent. He had been easily bought having little liking for Dinward. He, too, knew about the cargo, only he thought it was silk and tobacco. It was his job to get Dinward drunk. It was also up to him to suggest the ship should halt before Whitehaven.

‘Best anchor over night, Dinward. Stop the rolling. Too rough to approach Whitehaven.’

Dinward gazed at him calmly but drained his whisky straight from the bottle, one rheumy eye on his mate.

‘Aye. Drop anchor by St Bees. We can have a good night’s sleep.’

Brent’s heart leapt. Dinward was playing into his hands! But he made no movement or comment apart from glancing at Quiggan who had started to sing. The fact that they were going to anchor made the company relax and everyone, except Brent, got down to drinking in earnest.

Brent was on watch and after he had eaten went up on deck again. It was a cloudy night, no stars and no moon. He looked towards the shore but could see nothing. After a while Quiggan joined him.

‘That was well done,’ Brent said. ‘Fleswick is just past St Bees Head.’

‘I don’t like it somehow,’ Quiggan said, and Brent could see him scowling in the light of the lantern that hung from the mast.

 ‘Why not?’

‘That he suggested St Bees. Don’t it seem weird to you?’

‘No. Should it?’

‘Fleswick nearby is known for smuggling. Why should Dinward suggest it?’

A cold finger of fear momentarily touched Brent’s heart, and he looked in the gloom towards Quiggan.

‘You think he knows?’

‘I just think it odd, is all. He’s well into his second bottle of the hard stuff, but I still don’t like it,’ Quiggan said, stamping his feet in the cold air.  ‘I don’t like any of it. Best abandon it if you ask me. It was done in too much of a hurry.’

‘But we can’t! We’ll have the customs on to us in Whitehaven. They know well what is afoot in France. They’ll open the hatches and that will be that.’

‘Overboard then?’

‘All those guns and gunpowder?’ Brent whispered hoarsely. ‘Are you mad? They are badly needed, and the money for such is not easy to find. We’ll have to chance it. Go below and see they all get drunk. We can manage ourselves.’

Kelly at the wheel shouted. ‘St Bees sir!’

Quiggan called Brent and they ran together to the focs’le to let down the big anchor. As it slid into the water the boat shuddered and stopped but it was still tossing like a cork on the sea.

‘Bad light for smuggling,’ Quiggan said quietly.

‘Shh. We do not rendezvous until midnight.’

‘They won’t make it in a small boat in this weather.’

Brent looked anxiously down at the swirling sea.

‘Can’t we get further in?’ he asked Quiggan.

‘Too dangerous,’ Quiggan said, ‘too shallow. Best drop it all overboard if you ask me and get a good night’s sleep.’

Brent turned angrily away and began to regret accepting Collister’s mission so easily. It was badly and hastily planned. He had been too enthusiastic and too thoughtless. He hadn’t even begun to wonder, as he did now, if it was a trap. It was difficult to trust Quiggan and what did he know of Collister, after all?

After a while Brent went below and found the entire crew including Quiggan singing and drinking hard. He couldn’t bear the noise and the stench and went on deck again. He had on a heavy seaman’s cloak which he clutched around him for warmth. His eyes peered into the darkness towards Fleswick looking for the light that was to be the signal.

Brent leaned over the bulwark and gazed into the sea. They were just round the Head from St Bees, within sight of Fleswick Bay. He could see the phosphorescent white foam on the crest of the waves. To his relief the sea was growing calmer, the wind was dropping and in the sky he could discern a few stars. He realized that from below deck all was quiet and he stepped to the top of the ladder that led into the galley. Dinward had rolled off his bunk and lay snoring on the floor; beside him the remains of a bottle of whisky soaked into the floor. Two of the crew were drunk but still awake and Quiggin sat in a corner, apparently half asleep. Brent, satisfied with the scene, signalled to Quiggan who lurched unsteadily to his feet and came across, staring up at Brent.

‘Quickly,’ Brent whispered sharply, ‘I calculate ‘tis near midnight.’

Quiggan appeared to have difficulty in focusing his eyes and Brent cursed him for being a drunkard like the others.

‘You will not get the rest of your pay!’ Brent hissed. The thought of money seemed to make an impact on Quiggan who began to shin up the ladder. At the top he shivered in the wind and shook his head.

‘I still don’t like it.’

‘Come on man, open the hatches.’

‘Have you seen a light?’

‘Not yet, but the light will be the sign that they are ready. Quick.’

They unfastened the hatches and Brent leaned down to make sure the cases they had loaded aboard were still intact. Then when the canvas was loose he went to the port side of the ship which lay parallel to the shore. There was still no sign of a light and he started to despair. They would not come; the cases
would
have to be dumped into the sea.

Suddenly Quiggan grasped his arm and pointed. To Brent’s astonishment a light came not from the coast as he had expected but from the sea, close to them.

‘’Tis a boat,’ Quiggan said.

And there it was, bouncing below on the choppy waves. Brent leaned over the side and flashed his own storm lantern, heartened to see an answering wave.

‘Quick,’ he cried, ‘they will not be able to lie alongside of us for long in this sea.’ Running to the nearside hatch, he cast back the tarpaulin and heaved up the first case, staggering with it to the side of the ship. Just as he came to the bulwark the boat drew alongside and faces peered up at him in the darkness. One man, standing up and balancing in the boat addressed Brent.

‘I’m Macdonald. Do you have it all?’

‘Aye.’ Brent said, and began to lower the case which Macdonald caught with the help of another man and stowed in the boat.

‘Quickly,’ Brent called behind him to Quiggan, ‘the boat is swaying horribly.’

Quiggan was slow. Brent cursed and ran to the hold expecting to pass him on the way.

But of the mate there was no sign. He’d probably fallen down drunk. Brent would have to get one of the Scotsmen to help him if they were to despatch this lot. He grabbed another case and, staggering to the rail with it, dropped it over calling out:

‘I think my helper is too drunk. One of you will have to come aboard.’

In the gloom Macdonald gave a broad smile and grasped the side, about to heave himself aboard. But suddenly his eyes glanced beyond Brent and, before he could call out, Brent felt sharp steel in the small of his back.

‘Caught you red-handed,’ Dinward said in a flat sober voice. ‘You bastard.’

‘Quick, get away,’ Brent called and, seeing the confusion on Macdonald’s face, cried out again, ‘as far as you can. Get away.’

Macdonald jumped back into the boat and, carrying only two of the score or more cases of guns that were aboard the
Lizzie,
they grabbed their oars and made off into the darkness. The point of Dinward’s knife dug deeper and Brent winced.

‘Get below, you scoundrel. Think to trick the master, would you? Think I didn’t know what you were up to? Think you could
trust
Quiggan? Came to me as soon as you talked to him. He knows better’n to trick me.’

He shoved the point of his knife again into Brent’s back and Brent stumbled down the ladder into the galley. The drunken sailors gaped at him but said nothing. Dinward shoved Brent forward into his small cabin screened from the galley with a curtain. There Quiggan sat dejectedly on a stool.