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Authors: Shirlee Busbee
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scrap of paper. After a glance at the directions he’d scrawled down, he turned his horse off the main road and onto a path that appeared little more than an animal track. After several turns, the restless English Channel came into view and the scent of the sea was strong in the air, a crisp wind blowing across the increasingly barren ground. Spying the small dwelling and the ramshackle outbuildings behind it in a narrow, desolate gully below him, he carefully guided his horse down the thin, twisting path.
Arriving at his destination, he pulled his horse to a stopand dismounted. His boots had hardly hit the ground when an ugly black and tan mongrel of mainly mastiff heritage came charging and snarling from around the side of the house.
“Badger! Down!” yelled the roughly garbed, stocky man who ran close on the heels of the dog. “Down, you blasted cur, down ! Down, I say!”
The dog, still grumbling fiercely, dropped to the ground but never took his yellow eyes off Whitley.
Seeing the pistol that had magically appeared in Whitley’s hand, the other man said, “Put that away! Badger won’t attack you…this time.”
Slowly putting away the pistol, Whitley said, “Such a welcome. I am quite overcome.”
The other man smiled grimly. “We don’t like strangers around here. Be glad I knew you was coming and saw you on the trail; I was tying up the other dogs.”
Nodding to a sea-wind-blasted tree nearby, the man said, “Tie your horse there. We can talk inside.”
Glad to be out of the buffeting winds, Whitley tied his horse and followed the other man inside the house. A small fire burned in the fireplace. The air inside the house was thick and close, the smell of animals, unwashed bodies, and countless meals cooked over the fire stung Whitley’s nostrils.
Gingerly he seated himself in the rough wooden chair indicated by his host and accepted, with some reluctance, the pewter mug of amber liquid pushed into his hand.
Taking a sip, Whitley discovered the liquor was some of the finest French brandy he’d ever tasted. “Very nice,” he said, as he swirled the liquid around and delicately sniffed. “Not what I expected.”
The other man laughed. “You’ll find that here in the West Country we’ve grown to appreciate the bounty from across the Channel.” His jovial manner disappearing, he asked bluntly, “And now what need, major, do you have of someone like my poor self?”
Whitley was aware that the whole south and east coast ofEngland was rife with smugglers, and during his stay in the Devonshire area he had been surprised at how open the common folk were about the smugglers in their midst. But then it hadn’t taken him long to realize that in this neighborhood nearly everyone was in one way or another touched by the smugglers. From the farmer who turned a blind eye when oxen and horses vanished from the barn overnight, or the laborers who pocketed a bit of the ready for a night’s work, or the landowners who discovered a half anker of brandy or a few yards of lace or silk left discreetly behind, all benefited from the smuggler. Most inhabitants near the coast had friends or relatives who either plied the trade themselves or helped the smugglers. All were united against the Revenuers.
Whitley’s initial, discreet interest in the smuggling community had been met with blank-faced silence, but once suspicion had been erased that he might be a preventive man in disguise, it hadn’t taken him very long to learn what he wanted. Peter Collard, a local fisherman, might be helpful if one wanted to do a spot of private business. Whitley and Collard had met for the first time last night at the Stag Horn and, after sizing him up, Collard had agreed to a second meeting.
“Someone mentioned that you’re a very able sea captain and that your ship, the Sea Tiger , is bigger and better armed than any cutter in the Revenue Service.” Whitley took another swallow of his brandy and said carefully, “I heard a,
Arriving at his destination, he pulled his horse to a stopand dismounted. His boots had hardly hit the ground when an ugly black and tan mongrel of mainly mastiff heritage came charging and snarling from around the side of the house.
“Badger! Down!” yelled the roughly garbed, stocky man who ran close on the heels of the dog. “Down, you blasted cur, down ! Down, I say!”
The dog, still grumbling fiercely, dropped to the ground but never took his yellow eyes off Whitley.
Seeing the pistol that had magically appeared in Whitley’s hand, the other man said, “Put that away! Badger won’t attack you…this time.”
Slowly putting away the pistol, Whitley said, “Such a welcome. I am quite overcome.”
The other man smiled grimly. “We don’t like strangers around here. Be glad I knew you was coming and saw you on the trail; I was tying up the other dogs.”
Nodding to a sea-wind-blasted tree nearby, the man said, “Tie your horse there. We can talk inside.”
Glad to be out of the buffeting winds, Whitley tied his horse and followed the other man inside the house. A small fire burned in the fireplace. The air inside the house was thick and close, the smell of animals, unwashed bodies, and countless meals cooked over the fire stung Whitley’s nostrils.
Gingerly he seated himself in the rough wooden chair indicated by his host and accepted, with some reluctance, the pewter mug of amber liquid pushed into his hand.
Taking a sip, Whitley discovered the liquor was some of the finest French brandy he’d ever tasted. “Very nice,” he said, as he swirled the liquid around and delicately sniffed. “Not what I expected.”
The other man laughed. “You’ll find that here in the West Country we’ve grown to appreciate the bounty from across the Channel.” His jovial manner disappearing, he asked bluntly, “And now what need, major, do you have of someone like my poor self?”
Whitley was aware that the whole south and east coast ofEngland was rife with smugglers, and during his stay in the Devonshire area he had been surprised at how open the common folk were about the smugglers in their midst. But then it hadn’t taken him long to realize that in this neighborhood nearly everyone was in one way or another touched by the smugglers. From the farmer who turned a blind eye when oxen and horses vanished from the barn overnight, or the laborers who pocketed a bit of the ready for a night’s work, or the landowners who discovered a half anker of brandy or a few yards of lace or silk left discreetly behind, all benefited from the smuggler. Most inhabitants near the coast had friends or relatives who either plied the trade themselves or helped the smugglers. All were united against the Revenuers.
Whitley’s initial, discreet interest in the smuggling community had been met with blank-faced silence, but once suspicion had been erased that he might be a preventive man in disguise, it hadn’t taken him very long to learn what he wanted. Peter Collard, a local fisherman, might be helpful if one wanted to do a spot of private business. Whitley and Collard had met for the first time last night at the Stag Horn and, after sizing him up, Collard had agreed to a second meeting.
“Someone mentioned that you’re a very able sea captain and that your ship, the Sea Tiger , is bigger and better armed than any cutter in the Revenue Service.” Whitley took another swallow of his brandy and said carefully, “I heard a,
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