Free Black Ship by Carola Dunn

were exchanged on the pavement before they attained their own front steps.
    Daisy tucked her hand into Alec’s arm as they went up.
    “Did you talk to the Bennetts?” he asked, delving into his pocket for the door key. “He asked me if it’s true I’m a peeler—a peeler! I thought the word went out of use decades ago. And then he had the nerve to say he hoped not, because many respectable people don’t care to associate with the police.”
    “Don’t worry, at least Miss Bennett seems to disapprove of blowing up policemen. She told me in the most horridly insinuating way that Moira Jessup is Irish and pointed out that the Irish have a habit of blowing up policemen. They’re in luck, as I have no intention of associating with them any more than absolutely unavoidable.”
    Small wonder if Daisy forgot Aidan’s odd reactions and patent attempt to change the subject of his brother’s whereabouts. She did remember next morning but decided against telling Alec. He’d only say she was imagining things.
    FOURTH SEA INTERLUDE
    They wheeled him round and round the field
Till they came unto a barn,
And there they made a solemn mow
Of poor John Barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab-tree sticks
To cut him skin from bones,
And the miller he served him worse than that,
For he ground him between two stones.
    The moment the Coast Guard destroyer was sighted,
Barleycorn
’s skipper had changed course. Now, though he knew they were on his tail, he held steady.
    “Can we outrun them?” Patrick asked.
    “Not with this load. But they’re slow to turn. Just watch. Go out on deck if you want.”
    Two considerations weighed against Patrick’s reluctance to leave whatever cover the wheelhouse offered: He didn’t want to appear a coward, and surely the skipper wouldn’t let him go out if they were in range of the destroyer’s guns. Would he?
    He climbed the short ladder to the low door. Two deckhands had opened several of the lockers lining the port and starboard rails and were spreading fish from a large crate over the illegal contents.
    Glancing around, Patrick saw the lookout standing on the railed roof of the wheelhouse, gazing astern with his spyglass to his eye. Now and then he would swing round to scan the horizon. Near him, smoke poured from the smokestack as the
Barleycorn’s
engines put forth their utmost effort. Though the smoke quickly dissipated in the wind created by their speed, it must appear as a banner to the pursuing destroyer. Staring sternward into the glare of sea and sky, Patrick could just make out the distant banner of smoke from the Coast Guard ship’s four funnels.
    He was about to ask the lookout man for a turn with the spyglass when one of the others called to him. “Bear a hand here,” he requested, holding out a bucket.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Can’t hurt to tell ’em we’re innocent fishermen,” the other drawled. “Not that they’ll believe it, ‘less they’re looking for an excuse to let us go.”
    Patrick took the bucket and scooped up a mess of fish. They were very dead, with dull eyes, and beginning to smell. Fresh fish might have better helped the deception, he thought, crossing to an open locker to slosh the contents of his bucket across the bulging sacks within. Perhaps the bootleggers hoped the smell would deter the Coast Guard from further investigation.
    Perhaps they were right. Holding his nose, he returned for another bucketful. No wonder they didn’t want to attempt this ruse unnecessarily. When time came to unload, not only would the fish have to be disposed of but the burlap swathing the bottles would have absorbed the stench. Patrick could only hope he would not be expected to help with that, too.
    As he worked, he kept an eye on the destroyer. At first, the four smoke trails grew more indistinct. The distance between her and
Barleycorn
must be increasing, Patrick realised. Gradually, the four appeared to merge into one as she came around to chase the