Chapter 4

Cat stretched her arms above her head and stood up from the kitchen table to light the lantern.

“Where are you going?” asked Spider between great yawns.

“I forgot to go down to see if the boat can be repaired.”

“We can go in the morning,” protested the boy.

“It’s low tide now. I can go alone, you go on to bed.”

“’Course you can’t go alone,” he said firmly, all sleepiness gone from his voice. “If I don’t look out for you, who will?” He asked the question with the inborn arrogance of a grown man and suddenly she felt such a pang that the boy she had looked after for years would soon grow into a man. For one brief moment she wished he would never turn into a man, for she hated them, but then she chided herself for having such wicked, selfish thoughts about her young brother.

Cat held the lantern high as they walked through the cellars, and on into the caverns hollowed from the cliff’s rock. The salt tang of tidewrack assailed their nostrils as they bent their heads to go through the narrow passage into the cave. As she emerged from the passage and lifted the lantern, Cat was startled by a bright, flickering light from the sea. It was close in, almost in the shallows, and both of them knew in the same instant that it was a ship’s lantern which thought their own light was a signal. Quickly Cat snuffed out her lantern, and as she did so, Spider pointed out a ship. It looked like a small French frigate. Its sails had been furled, but it was now in the business of hoisting sail as fast as it could. Voices carried clearly across the water. “Vite! Patrouille marine!”

Both of them had a smattering of French, and knew the ship had spotted a navy patrol boat. They peered out across the dark, choppy waters and saw it quite a way off, but resolutely closing the distance.

******“Dans la mer!” came an order, followed by four muffled splashes.

“They’re dumping cargo into the sea,” Cat translated. “If they are caught and searched, there’ll be no evidence unless the patrol takes time to fish it out of the drink.”

A sailor called a question, “Planche à bouteilles?”

The answer came quickly, “Oui, oui—embariller—sel, sel.”

“What did he say?” asked Cat low.

“Sel is salt. Embariller means packed in casks. Must be fish,” said Spider in disgust.

“No, no—he asked the captain if he should dump the planche à bouteilles as well. That’s a wooden crate of bottles. I know what they’ve done!” said Cat excitedly. “They’ve packed the stuff in rock salt so it’ll sink. It’ll take a few hours for the salt to melt, then around about daybreak the stuff will float up.”

Spider said in wonder, “Isn’t it amazing how somebody’s misfortune is somebody else’s gain? The world has a kind of balance to it, y’know?”

“But we’ve got to be quick and cunning.” Cat laughed. “We’ll go up to the kitchen and get a couple of hours’ sleep by the fire. Tide will be rising by then.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sunrise was still a good hour away and they had accomplished everything they’d hoped for. The sea had thrown up four large casks of brandy and five cases marked vin de champagne, holding fifty bottles in all. Cat had never heard of champagne, but vin was wine and the tide had done almost all the work for them. For the small price of a thorough wetting they had secured the contraband, lined it up in the cave in front of the entrance to the passage, and they now stood in the cavernous cellar waiting for high tide and the indraft to float it all “home.”

Later that morning, as always, Cat, mounted on Ebony, greeted the golden dawn. Today, however, she expected to have company on the lonely stretch of sand. She sat alert, watching the distance, then as two tiny figures became visible around the far headland she urged the black horse faster and faster until the blood of both surged recklessly. The tide was still high enough to cover the horse up to its hocks and she deliberately splashed the two men who were obviously looking for something.

“G’day, m’lady,” they muttered, abashed to be caught there so blatantly.

She nodded aloofly and waited. One of the men finally spoke. “Did ye see aught up the beach, m’lady?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not wreckers, are you?” she asked boldly, allowing a hint of loathing to sound in her voice.

Quickly they denied it vehemently. “Nay, nay, lady. Engaged in a spot of honest smuggling, that’s all, I swear it.”

“If I thought you were connected to wreckers, I’d turn you over to the militia instantly!” she warned again.

“Nay, nay,” said the younger man, “my dad here’s the tavern keeper at Mawnan. We were expectin’ a delivery o’ brandy.”

“I’ve ridden for miles this morning; the beach is empty, I’m afraid.” She smiled. “Well, you can’t trust the French, y’know.”

“No, m’lady,” they muttered, and knew she lied.

She touched her heel to her horse’s side, then as if she had second thoughts stopped and said, “If you’ve the money, I could let you have four kegs of brandy and say, fifty bottles of French wine from my father’s cellars.”

They looked at each other shrewdly, wondering how St. Catherine’s wench had managed to locate and secure the stuff before they had. They shrugged. There was nothing they could do, for she’d have the militia on them as soon as look at them.

“Bring a wagon to Roseland this afternoon and I’ll have one of the servants fetch it up from the cellars,” she said airily as she turned the black Barbary and took off like the wind.