My father inspired this story, then helped with research I could not do myself, living in a remote place on a northern island. He dragged my poor mother over half of Cornwall, looking for the haunts of the wreckers. He searched through old books and sent me information by the boxful. He told me of the time from his own childhood when he went inside a cromlech and saw it glowing in the darkness. And finally, he read my story in its various versions, pointing out its errors.
My agent, Jane Jordan Browne, spent years with the wreckers, always giving me encouragement in the form of little notes: “Don’t give up”; “We’ll get there yet.” Her assistant, Katy Holmgren, helped immeasurably with a major revision as the story came closer and closer to the ones I remembered.
My thanks go as well to editor Lauri Hornik, who led me the rest of the way, through rewrites and copyediting, with many insightful suggestions.
To these people I give much of the credit for what I like about this story, while accepting the responsibility for any faults that remain.
Others who helped include my brother Donald, Kathleen Larkin and the other researchers of the Prince Rupert Library, and—perhaps most of all—Kristin Miller, with whom I live in a house too small. She made it possible for me to stay at home and write. She listened endlessly to the classical music that I play too loudly when I work, and if I sometimes found her wearing earplugs when I took her a section of pages for proofreading, she seldom complained, even when she had hardly seen me for days at a time.
John Spencer’s adventures continue
in The Smugglers.
Turn the page for a sample chapter
from that exciting companion novel.
Q-385-32663-7
Delacorte Press
Excerpt from The Smugglers by Iain Lawrence
Copyright © 1999 by Iain Lawrence
Published by Delacorte Press
a division of Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036
All rights reserved
Chapter 1
THE HIGHWAYMAN
We 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 highwayman 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.
“Watches, rings,” said the highwayman. “Empty your purses and your pockets. I want to hear silver jingle. Silver and gold.” He whirled on his heels and blasted another shot into the forest, then whirled back around as his hands, fast as a juggler’s, replaced the pistols with new ones.
“Driver,” he said. “What cargo?”
“Nothing,” said the driver in a small and frightened voice. “The night coach don’t carry no freight on account of—” He trembled, his cap in his hand. “Of the highwaymen, see.”
“Well, that’s ironical,” said the highwayman. “Lord love me, that’s rich.” He laughed, and I thought then that the man was quite insane. He looked like a pirate in his big red coat, weighted down with enough pistols for a whole band of brigands. But he bowed and straightened, his sleeves billowing, and suddenly he seemed as harmless as a robin hopping on the road.
It was Larson who spoke. “There’s nothing for you here,” he said.
The highwayman took a step toward Larson. “And who made you foreman of the jury?” he asked.
Larson didn’t move. His feet astride a little pile of jewels and coins, he faced the highwayman and said, “Let us pass, and we’ll say no more about it.”
The highwayman stepped slowly toward him, and even the horses turned their heads to watch. I lifted my hand. The pistol was light, yet it shook in my fist so badly that I had to brace my arm on the baggage rail.
Below me, the highwayman stopped a mere yard from Larson, towering above him. “Well, well,” he said. “A little fancy gent. You’d think he just stepped down from a cuckoo clock.”
Larson was in the middle, my father to his left, the driver to his right. He looked almost like a child between them. His hands went slowly, smoothly, around his back to his waist, toward the pistol at his belt.
“Look at him,” said the highwayman to Father. “A proper dandy, isn’t he? A bug in a hat.”
“What do you want?” said Father. “You’ve got our money. You’ve got my watch.” He nudged it with his cane. “Isn’t that enough?”
“I think there’s more,” said the highwayman. “Driver, is there something else?”
“Something else?” asked the driver. He was terrified, I could see; he was shaking head to toe.
The highwayman stretched out his arm and set the muzzle of a pistol against the driver’s heart. On the instant, the poor man seemed to crumble. He blurted out, “The boy! There’s a boy in the carriage.”
I stared down the long barrel of my pistol, and the beaded sight shivered across the highwayman’s hat. With my thumb I drew back the flintlock. It snapped into place.
That tiny sound, the merest click, seemed to me as loud as cannons. The highwayman spun toward the carriage door. Larson reached for the pistol at his waist, and Father—not knowing it was there—threw himself toward the highwayman. I saw a blur of red; I pulled the trigger. And at the same instant the highwayman’s pistol flared and smoked; I watched him shoot my father.
It all happened in the blink of an eye, yet it lasted forever. In the glare from my own pistol, I saw the highwayman’s finger squeeze the trigger. I watched the hammer fall, the powder flash. I saw the flames come bright as sunlight from the barrel.
Father staggered back. His cane fell to the ground and his hands clutched at his heart. Then his legs buckled under him, and he dropped in a heap to the road.
It was all madness and confusion. The highwayman turned and ran; Larson fired after him. Then a huge black horse reared up from the forest and thundered past the carriage, the highwayman clinging to its back like an enormous crimson lizard. And it was only then that I really heard the noise of this one long moment. It rushed over me with the smell of powder—the shots, the shouts, the pounding of that great black beast’s hooves. It roared inside my head, a din that nearly deafened me.
Don’t miss the riveting conclusion of
John Spencer’s high-seas adventure in
The Buccaneers.
“There’s pirates in the West Indies. Cannibals. They cook you alive,” says Mr. Spencer to his son. These words will haunt seventeen-year-old John as he embarks on his first voyage to foreign lands. Carrying cargo destined for Jamaica, John and his crew of the Dragon set off from London for waters few of them have sailed. So when they come upon a lifeboat adrift at sea, some are wary of the sailor aboard. His name is Horn, and something about his story doesn’t quite make sense. Still, John respects the stranger’s awe-inspiring seamanship.
But is Horn to be trusted? Is he the good-luck charm he claims to be? The answers become muddled as the Dragon encounters a very real—and very dangerous—pirate ship. Brimming with furious high-seas adventure this companion to The Wreckers and The Smugglers concludes the trilogy with a bloodcurdling tale of buccaneers—and a surprise ending.
The Wreckers Page 15
