Page 7 of The Noble Smuggler

One after another, the packages moved down the line of smugglers, ending at the women waiting on the shore. Fabric rustled as they tucked the parcels into pockets in their skirts; then, like silent wraiths, they disappeared into the night. Boats came and went, and the smugglers worked tirelessly. As soon as one boat was emptied of its cargo, another took its place. Oilskin-wrapped packages of tea came to an end, and small kegs of brandy took their place.

At last, the men hauled the final barrels of liquor ashore, and as the fishermen hurried to pull their boats up the beach, the remaining smugglers took on the role of tubmen. Dripping wet and chilled to the bone, Jonas could no longer feel his legs or feet, but with fumbling fingers, he adjusted the ropes attached to the kegs and set them across his shoulders. His waterlogged shoes felt almost as heavy as the small barrels bumping against his back and chest, but he forced himself forward, following after the other men as they headed away from the water and toward the tree line.

The sense of urgency was palpable. Once the sandy beach and loose pebbles were behind them, movement became easier, and it wasn’t long before they reached the horses waiting beneath the trees. Quickly locating the old mare he’d brought with him, Jonas divested himself of his load, setting the kegs across the horse’s back before mounting. Lowering his head against the persistent rain, he urged the mare out of the trees and followed the others onto the road that led toward The Fox and Hare.

The clatter of many hooves echoed through the sleeping village as the smugglers passed through, but there was no sign of movement from any of the houses lining the street. At the head of the riders, someone held a hooded lantern aloft. It gave just enough light to illuminate their route. A slap of the whip against the door of several homes, including those occupied by the local physician, blacksmith, and grocer, signaled a drop off had been made. Jonas’s jaw clenched as he watched. The gifted brandy would undoubtedly disappear from the doorstep before morning, removing all trace of the blatant purchase of the residents’ silence.

They rode into the courtyard behind the inn. Men who’d arrived before them were waiting to take charge of the kegs, hauling them off the horses’ backs and disappearing into the darkness before Jonas could ascertain their direction. His curiosity simmered, but he turned his mare toward the stable.

With his mount safely out of the inclement weather, he crossed the cobblestoned yard and entered the inn. Lamps burned low in the front room. A fire in the enormous hearth cast flickering shadows across the faces of the men gathered around the tables. Jonas took a seat in the corner. It was a relief to be out of the rain, but he was far enough from the fire that the flames did little to ward off the chill. Although he longed to change out of his wet clothing, for now he must wait and watch to see what came next.

The men sat clustered in groups of between half a dozen and a dozen. Some were talking loudly, exchanging jibes, and laughing uproariously. Others sat quietly. With weariness evident in their slumped shoulders, they studied the drinks in their hands as though the liquid told their fortunes. Jonas understood their fatigue. He rolled his shoulders slowly, wondering how long it would be before the rope burns faded.

On the other side of the room, a young woman wove between the tables, mugs of ale balanced precariously on a tray in her hands. The firelight reflected off the coppery highlights in her brown hair, and her white mobcap was easy to spot amongst the men’s dark, wet clothing. She appeared to be the only woman in the room, and even though the ease with which she dispensed drinks suggested she was accustomed to bartending, she moved with a stiffness that hinted at discomfort. Tuning his ears to the conversation at his table, Jonas idly watched as she moved back and forth, replenishing mugs and glasses around the room.

“We was right lucky with the weather tonight.” The tall, pock-faced man at Jonas’s right was talking to an older man he recognized as Alfie.

“If you call being wetter than a flounderin’ herrin’ lucky, then I reckon yer right,” Alfie replied. His temperament had obviously not improved with time.

“Yer more miserable than a gray rain cloud, old man.” At his left, Black Pete joined the discussion. “You know full well that them Preventative Men stayed away ’cos of the weather. With ’ow much we unloaded tonight, we’d ’ave been caught fer sure if they’d only put in the effort to get out of bed.”

“Maybe.” Alfie’s tone was a permanent grumble. “All I know is that no matter what Mr. Doyle thinks, I’m not movin’ them kegs out of the cellar till it’s dried up out there.”

“It don’t matter what Mr. Doyle says.” The pock-faced man spoke again. “It’s what the Midnight Master wants that counts.”

“The Midnight Master,” Alfie scoffed. “What kinda name is that anyway?”

“It’s the name you give the man in charge when ’e only appears in the middle of the night.”

“That’s as may be.” Alfie leaned across the table. “But who is ’e? Did any of you dunderheads ever stop long enough to wonder? Whenever a shipment comes in, ’e arrives outa nowhere on some fancy black ’orse, talks to Mr. Doyle fer a few minutes, and then disappears again like some phantom on the marsh.” His eyes widened. “Maybe ’e is a phantom.”

Black Pete rolled his eyes. “You’ve been spendin’ too much time at the bar in yer cups, Alfie. The Midnight Master’s no phantom. Not unless phantoms ’ave suddenly taken to usin’ walkin’ sticks.”

Jonas sat completely still. Walking sticks were all the rage in London. Indeed, he owned one himself. Most of the gentlemen of the upper class favored walking sticks with carved ivory or silver inlay handles. He could go a long way toward identifying the gang’s leader if he knew more about his cane.

“Have you seen him walkin’ with ’is cane, then?” he asked.

“There’s no need,” Black Pete said. “I’ve ’eard him.” He gave Alfie a pointed look. “Phantoms don’t walk. They float. And sure as the sun comes up each mornin’, they don’t tap the ground.”

“D’you think he’s at the inn tonight?” Jonas pressed. He’d already unsuccessfully scoured the room for anyone who resembled the man who’d threatened him on the beach. Despite the darkness, he was quite sure he’d recognize Cyrus Doyle’s vulpine features again. Perhaps the innkeeper’s unexplained absence was due to the arrival of the anonymous gang leader.

Before he could follow that line of reasoning any farther, however, the door that led to the back passage opened, and two men walked in. Jonas identified Cyrus Doyle immediately. His dark hair was long and wild, his beard flecked with white, but it was his narrow, pointed nose and small, dark eyes that gave him his fox-like appearance. And in keeping with the actions of a sly predator, his gaze darted around the room as though he were seeking his prey.

The corpulent man beside him appeared a good ten years younger and a few inches shorter. His well-tailored jacket fit snuggly across his barrel-shaped chest, and his brown hair was pulled back into a short ponytail.

“Lizzie,” Doyle barked, his beady eyes finally settling on the barmaid. “Brandy for Mr. Cummings.”

Across the room, the young woman paused, her head swiveling to take in the two men standing beside the bar.

Doyle glared at her. “Right away.”

Depositing the last of the mugs she carried onto the nearest table, the young woman straightened her shoulders and started toward the waiting men. Her footsteps slowed as she drew closer, but she did not lower her head.

“Who’s that Cummings fellow?” Jonas whispered to Black Pete.

“The wealthiest farmer in the county,” Black Pete said. “Along with being the magistrate, o’ course.”

“He’s the local magistrate?” Jonas could barely mask his consternation. The very man charged with bringing smugglers to justice in Little Tilbury was openly consorting with their leaders. Was there no end to this gang’s network of allies within the community?