Puckey leant over and, in a hoarse whisper, said, 'Bad cess— they's Revenooers, Jem, wished on us t' watch th' harbour. Nobody'll take 'em in, so theys forced t' sleep in a boat.'
One looked at Stirk. Their eyes met and Stirk froze. He knew the man! It was Joe Corrie, in his watch on deck in the old
Stirk moved quickly. Dropping his head he croaked, 'Feelin' qualmish, mates—have t' be outside sharp, like,' and slipped away through the back door.
As he hurried away from the tavern he noticed that he was being followed. He plunged down one of the opeways, dark, narrow passages between the old buildings along the rivulet. Unfortunately one of the dwellings had swelled with age and he found himself wedged, unable to continue. Shamefaced, he had to back out and his pursuer was waiting. It was the blacksmith Coad. 'Don't y' worry o' th' Revenooers, frien', they's up an' gone. But there's someone wants t' see ye. Do y' mind?'
They returned to the Three Pilchards but this time to a back room where a well-dressed man with dark, sensitive features waited. 'This'n is Simon Johns. His ol' man died last year 'n' now he's lookin' after the business.'
'Thank you, Sam,' Johns said, and gestured to Stirk to take a chair. 'To be brief, I was there in the Pilchards when the Preventives came. Your subsequent actions tell me that you are no friend to the Revenue, no rough-knot sent here to spy among us. And did not our mutual friend Jan Puckey tell me that you're no stranger to free trade yourself?'
Stirk's face was impassive but inside he exulted. 'I may've been,' he said cautiously, looking intently from one to the other.
'May we know in what capacity?'
'Frenchy run wi' tobaccy an' brandy, smacksman on the Marsh, creepin' fer tubs, that kind o' thing.'
'I don't think it wise at this point for you to risk the sea, but we have need still of stout men on shore. Would you be interested?'
'T' nobble a patter-roller?' he said doubtfully. Waylaying an inquisitive Revenue riding officer was not what he had come here for. 'Not as who should say . . .'
'I didn't mean that. We have more than a sufficiency of men to take care of such unpleasantries. No, what would make best use of your seamanlike capabilities would be more the spout lantern . . .'
Stirk grunted. This was more like it—at the landing lights for the cargoes to be run ashore in the right place. 'Aye, I can do it. Pay?'
'Half a guinea on the lantern for the night, another half if there's trouble.'
'Done. Does m' matey Harry find a berth?'
'Mmm. We can find him something. A skinker, perhaps?'
It was just as it had ever been: the familiar tensions and short tempers, suspicion and fingering of concealed weapons. Far out to sea there would be telescopes trained, waiting for the signal that it was this night they were running in the cargo. In the kiddleywink a dozen hard-featured men sat with pots before them also waiting for the word to move.
Stirk had been passed his instructions by Coad only an hour or two before: to make his way with an innocent- looking pair of farmhands driving pigs over the steep hill eastwards to Talland Bay and there wait in the tavern for sunset.
It needed brains and organisation to bring the run to a successful conclusion; even with the consignment of goods assured in Guernsey or elsewhere there was the hazardous journey across the Channel before the landing and then the need to co-ordinate scores of men for the unloading and rapid carrying-off of the contraband.
The little tap-house was remote and near the small beach; a stranger might wonder why so many along the coast were situated so suspiciously but Stirk knew that in the hard life of a fisherman the ready availability of a cheering pot in close proximity to a place to draw up a boat would be appreciated.
Outside, a seaweed-cutter poked lazily about the foreshore, but in his barrow under the pile of kelp two spout lanterns were ready for use, and the several men mowing at the edge of the field were doing so to prepare a signal bonfire.
The sun lowered and Stirk went outside. In the waning daylight he had quickly identified the best approach from seaward in the winds prevailing at the time, past the inshore rocks to the small sandy strip of beach, and made contact with the other lights-man. Together they would set up leading lights, each some hundred yards above the other that the skipper of the smuggling vessel would keep in exact line to ensure a safe approach. The lanterns they would use were enclosed, a long spout fitted to each, however, that would hide the gleam from all but those on whom it was trained.
At last there was action. A body of men arrived in a boat; one had a muffled face and gave brisk orders to the others. Stirk had no difficulty in recognising Johns's cultivated voice. A young farmhand on a white horse was summoned. 'Off you go, lad,' he was told and, to subdued cheers from the men, he dismounted and set off for the coast path, leading it self-consciously by the bridle. It was the signal that the coast was clear of the Revenue.
In the gathering gloom the landing party took shape. Stirk and the other man retrieved and lit their spout lanterns, then took up their positions on the hillside. A gruff man claiming to be Stirk's 'assistant' stood next to him—he was being watched. Shouts in the twilight directed a stream of new arrivals; a loose chain of men was being formed that stretched down from the woods that lay in a fold in the hills behind the tavern.
Packhorses wound down from the hilltop, and a troop of donkeys gathered on the beach. Then gangs of men with blackened faces set off to either side hefting clubs, and the occasional steel of a weapon could be seen. Heaven help the Revenue or Excise man who stumbled upon them: Stirk calculated there must be more than a hundred and therefore the high stakes of a valuable cargo.
So far he had recognised only Johns. Could he be the leader? Probably locally, but not the evil genius he had been told about who was co-ordinating the whole coast. Doubts crept in. This was a far larger and more detailed operation than he was used to: without asking betraying questions, how would he get to the central figure?
He glanced at the tavern. It was locked and barred; the landlord and tapster would later be able to claim truthfully on oath that they had seen nothing suspicious that night. What was 'Harry' doing? If—
