The Smugglers

W
e raced across Kent in a coach-and-four, from London toward the sea. Over moonlit meadows and down forest roads as black as chimneys, we took a serpentine route through every little village. I and my father, and a man who never spoke.

“We're going miles from our way on this roundabout route,” said Father, bouncing beside me. “I knew we should have stayed the night at Canterbury. I should have stuck to my guns.”

“But I want to see this ship of yours,” I said.

Father laughed. “Now, now. It isn't mine yet.”

Father was a merchant, a landsman. He never thought of a ship as anything but “it.” Once he had said, “What's a ship but a pile of wood and nails? Knock it together a different way, and you've built yourself a house.”

“But what is she?” I now asked. “A brig? A barquentine?”

Father sighed. He held his cane across his lap, twisting it in his hands. “I believe it's a schooner. And it's painted black, if that helps.”

In the moonlight his face was pale, and he seemed to shiver as the coach clattered onto a bridge just beyond Alkham. “It lies to an anchor,” said he, “in the River Stour.”

“Does she have topsails?” I asked.

“Topsails?” said Father. “Oh, I daresay it does. And an enormous great figurehead, too.”

The coach rattled over the hump of the bridge like a box full of pegs. I heard a shout from the driver, and then the crack of his whip, and we swayed round a corner with the axles screeching. On the opposite seat our silent stranger slept, as he had all the way from Canterbury.

He was a gentleman, but a tiny one. Carefully combed, polished and shined, he looked like a doll that a child had dressed in gray clothes and propped there in the carriage. Though Father had to slouch to keep his head from touching the roof, the gentleman sat bolt upright in his tall beaver hat, his little feet side by side on a box of wood and leather. Mile after mile, he had not moved so much as a finger.

I continued my questioning. “What's she called? Does she have a name?”

“Of course it does, John,” said Father. “I'm told it's called the
Dragon
”

The gentleman nearly jumped from his seat. “The
Dragon?
” he whispered. “Is it the
Dragon
you said?”

Father stared at him, astonished. “And what concern is that of yours?” he asked. “State your business, sir.”

“You're in the trade, then?” said the gentleman. He glanced toward the window.

“Speak up!” said Father, leaning forward. “What trade?”

“The free trade.” He covered his mouth and whispered through his fingers. “The smuggling.”

“Confound you,” said Father. “Who are you, sir?” If the carriage were bigger, he would have stood in it; he would have strutted through it, as he did through his office in London. “What's your name?” he demanded.

“Larson,” said the gentleman. He looked to either side. “I'm … connected … with the trade.”

“Then you should be hanged,” said Father. He threw himself back against the seat, rapping his palm with his cane. “I'd do it myself; I gladly would.”

Larson's hands went back to his lap. His feet, like small animals, made themselves comfortable on the top of his box. Then his eyes closed, and it was as though he had never moved at all. The carriage swept down a long hill, and the hooves of the horses thundered ahead. With a cry from the driver and a jangle of harness, we hurtled down into a forest of beech trees, and the moonlight vanished from the coach. But in the last flicker through the branches, I saw the gentleman smile.

“A word of advice,” said he. “You stay clear of that ship. The
Dragon.
”

I heard Father snort, a sound I knew well. I had seen his clerks cringe at that noise, whole rows of them turning their heads.

“She's bad luck,” Larson continued. “No, she's worse than that. She's evil.”

“How can a ship be evil?” I asked.

“I don't know,” said he. “I'm only aware of the one that is.”

The whip cracked and cracked again. The driver's shouts came quickly, shrill in the clatter of iron and wood. The horses, snorting, pulled us at a gallop, and black on black the trees went by. I could only imagine the speed, but it must have been at least ten miles an hour.

“A ship can't be evil,” said Father. “That's nonsense.”

“I hope so,” said Larson, his voice nearly lost in the clamor. “At least I've warned you.”

“And who are you to warn me?”

But Larson had no chance to answer. The horses screamed in sudden fright, and the carriage jolted heavily. I was thrown forward, nearly from my seat. Father's cane went spinning from his hands.

“What the devil?” said he.

A pistol shot exploded, cracking through the night. The carriage skittered sideways at such a speed that it tilted up on two wheels before falling flat again with a jarring bang of wood. As we came to a stop a second shot rang out, and in its echo cried a voice, taut with peril. “Stand and deliver!”

“Oh, Lord,” said Father. “A highwayman.”

In the darkness we could hear his boots tapping on the road. He came toward us step by step, and when he halted there was silence, a dreadful stillness I could feel. The moon shone through the trees with a light that was cold and flat, more awful than the darkness. It spilled in through the windows and made grim, white ghosts of Father and Larson.
And into that silent, eerie world fell a single sound, the cocking of a pistol.

Father touched my knee. “Whatever happens, John,” he said, “you keep your tongue in your head. Understand?”

I nodded; I felt I couldn't speak if I wanted to. Father's fingers squeezed, then fell away. He said, “Perhaps it's the baggage he's after.”

“I rather hope so,” said Larson. He moved his feet from the box and bent forward to lift it to his lap. The highwayman came closer, the sound of his boots like the sound of the box's latches as Larson thumbed them open. “But I'm afraid it might be myself he wants.”

“Driver, step down,” said the highwayman. “Quickly now.”

The coach rocked. There was a squeal of springs and the thud of heavy boots. A horse stomped and whinnied, and all the sounds of the forest returned, echoing through the trees.

Larson opened his box, and in the silvery glow of the moon I saw a pair of fancy dueling pistols nested there, a gleam of gold and polished wood. They were long-barreled, wicked in their beauty—the most sinister things I had ever seen.

Father stared at him. “Who
are
you?” he asked.

The little gentleman smiled. His hands shook very slightly as he took the pistols from his box. “I think I'm a dead man,” he said. “Now or later, I'm a goner.”

The harness jingled. A horse whinnied nervously. “Steady there, girl,” said the driver softly, and the highway-man shouted, “Come out from the carriage!”

Father went first, with a last glance at me. Larson started
after him, and as he leaned past me he said in a voice so faint I could hardly hear, “The other side. The roof.” He slipped a pistol into my hand. His voice was little more than a breath. “If it goes poorly for us, shoot him down like a dog.” He slid to the door, and as he stooped to go through I saw the other pistol twinkle behind him, then vanish into the tails of his coat. He was a mysterious man, furtive as a spy, and I had no idea who he was or what he hoped to be. He went down the step with his hand on the brim of his beaver, down to the road beside Father.

I did as he said and went out through the opposite door. I climbed up to the roof of the carriage, and I crouched there among the boxes and the baggage. Below me, in a line, stood the driver, Father, and Larson. The highwayman stayed by the horses, lurking in their shadows.

He was a tall man in a flowing coat of a bright and fiery red. Bandoliers crossed his chest, and into them were stuffed half a score of pistols. He had others in his belt, and one in each hand. He bristled with pistols. His collars were turned up high, and he wore a flat and wide-brimmed hat that hid his face completely.

“A pretty poor turnout,” he said. “A pretty poor one, indeed.” He took a step forward–he swaggered, really– and stopped by the front of the coach. “Well, turn out your pockets,” he said. “Show me the linings.” Then, “Hop to it!” he shouted, and laughed. He shoved a pistol in the air and fired, and the flames shot up like a Roman candle. The horses, frightened, clanged against their harness.