Free The Wreckers by Iain Lawrence

turned to me, and his smile was gone. “But it’s not so simple as that, is it then, John?”
    “It’s not?” I said.
    His face turned dark and angry. “Don’t play me for a fool, my boy; I’m not a Bristol boatsman. This is your father we’re speaking about.”
    “Really,” I said. “I don’t know—”
    “Lies, lies, lies. You’re just full of them, aren’t you?”
    “Uncle!” cried Mary.
    Mawgan tapped out his pipe on his palm. There was still redness in the ashes, but he ground them between his hands. “Tell her,” he said. “Tell her what you had in those barrels on the
Isle of Skye.”
    “Wine,” I said.
    “Liar!” Mawgan slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t tell me your traveler’s tales. Do you think I don’t know?”
    “What, then?” said Mary, with the same shrill of anger.
    “Watch your tongue, girl.”
    Mawgan sat in his chair like a crouched lion, breathing softly and watching me with eyes that had the yellow glow of the lamps in them. “Tell us,” he said, and his voice was soft, but barely so, like porridge about to boil. “Tell us about the night you loaded this wine.”

Chapter 8

T HE M YSTERY OF THE B ARRELS
    “W e anchored after dark,” I said. “In a little cove. When we lowered the boats, and the men clambered into them, Father held me aside. He told me to stay on the ship.”
    Mawgan narrowed his eyes. “And you didn’t wonder at that?”
    “I had no reason to wonder,” I said. “He told me to help stow the barrels below.”
    “Fair enough,” said Mawgan. “Go on, then.”
    He leaned forward, Mary beside him, and I told them as carefully as I could every detail of our strange midnight visit to Spain.
    My first glimpse of the shore had come at dawn. Through the morning we bore down on it. And then, a league or so from land, Father had the ship heave to. He went below with the captain and old Cridge, and when he sent for me an hour later to bring them a bottle andglasses, they were huddled around the table, over a chart I couldn’t see. “Why are we waiting?” I asked. The men looked at each other. Captain Stafford had his arms crossed. He didn’t look happy at all; he sat there like a bulk of timber. And then Father said, “For nightfall, of course. They’ll light a beacon for us, to show us the way.” “Aye,” said Cridge. “That’s right.” Then he’d sent me off with a wink.
    Simon Mawgan frowned. “And that didn’t sound odd?” he asked.
    “Not to me,” I said. “Remember, this was all new to me. I’d never been to sea before.”
    As the sun was setting, we’d backed the jibs and swung back toward the land. There was a breeze warmed by the desert, and the men worked bare-chested to set the topsails. That was all, only the topsails. And we ghosted down as the night thickened around us. It was a black night in the dark of the moon, but we showed no lights. I did wonder at that; it was because of pirates, said Father—“The waters here are thick with pirates.” But he sent me aloft, up to the foretop with a hooded lantern. And he said, “When I give you the word, show the light at the shore. Count to five and then close it. Do that twice, you understand?” I told him I did. “That’s our signal,” he said. “So they know we’ve come on honest business.” And up I’d gone into the rigging.
    This time it was Mary who scowled. “Even I would have been suspicious at that,” she said.
    “So I was,” I told her.
    But it all had been so wonderfully mysterious. The brig slipped through the water in total silence, charged with a sense of danger that tingled in the air like a lightning storm. I watched for pirates, and saw them on every quarter—dark shadows of boats that changed, every one, to wave tops and ripples when I looked more closely. Then, straight ahead and low on the water, I saw a flare of bright light. And Father called up, “Show the lantern!” I opened the shutters, and everything around me—the mast and the