Free Black Ship by Carola Dunn Page A

rumrunner. And then the intervening distance began to shrink.
    Patrick started to wonder what American gaols were like. It was a happier alternative to wondering what it felt like to be shot.
    The lookout on the roof shouted to his shipmates, “OK, go ahead!”
    One of the men put down his bucket and moved aft, where he crouched to fiddle with three cylindrical canisters. Puzzled, Patrick stopped mucking about with fish and moved closer to watch. The man delved into the pockets of his pea jacket, came up empty-handed, and called to Patrick, “Matches?”
    Patrick threw him a box, his aim sure despite the motion of the boat.
    The seaman caught it. Cupping his hands, he struck a match and applied it to the top of one of the canisters. He paused to study the result. No effect was visible to Patrick, but the man nodded in satisfaction and proceeded to light the other two canisters.
    The third failed to ignite on the first try. By the time he got it going, smoke billowed from the first and streamed out behind the
Barleycorn.
    “Tell the skipper to give it a couple of minutes,” he directed Patrick.
    Grinning, Patrick hurried forward. The destroyer was already invisible. Therefore, he presumed,
Barleycorn
was invisible to the destroyer.
    Leaning down, he passed on the message. The skipper glanced back through the rear window at the thickening, spreading screen, then gestured to him to enter.
    He obeyed. “They’ll never catch us now,” he said with enthusiasm.
    “
They
won’t.”
    “Oh.” Patrick pondered. Of course, the destroyer would have a radio transmitter. At this moment, they were doubtless sending out wireless messages to all Coast Guard ships within reach, with details of
Barleycorn’s
course. “Oh,” he said again, crestfallen. Given the hint, the conclusion was obvious, and he should have worked it out for himself right away.
    The skipper glanced back again at the smoke screen, then changed course.
    Since the skipper didn’t dismiss him, Patrick stayed below, dropping onto the stool. This time, the result of his subsequent cogitations was still less cheering: The skipper expected shooting, and since the codes Patrick carried were important to the success of the lucrative business, he was to be protected.
    He didn’t exactly want to be on deck, dodging flying bullets, yet he felt like a coward, hiding out of sight while the others risked their lives on deck. If he had fought in the War, would he have been one of those who did his duty, even a hero, perhaps, or would he have funked it? He couldn’t help wondering, though it was a futile question. He had been too young to bear arms for king and country.
    Not that his present business was in any way comparable. He was doing nothing illegal by English law, but he was deliberately flouting American law. In American terms, he was a criminal.
    Too late to worry about that. He had a job to do for his family, and he’d do it unless prevented by force majeure.
    The approach of force majeure was announced just a few minutes later.
    “Cutter on the starboard bow.” The man relaying the sighting from Jed on the wheelhouse roof stayed by the open door.
    Patrick stared through the windscreen, or whatever it was called on a boat. He couldn’t see the cutter, but what had been a shadow on the horizon was now unmistakably land, green and grey and growing clearer by the moment.
    “He’s spotted us. Changing course to intercept, and there’s another on the port bow.”
    The skipper’s mouth took on a grimmer set, but he held steady on their course.
    “Jed reckons they’ll fall astern afore they’re in range.”
    That sounded like good news to Patrick. However, this time he paused before voicing his relief. The cutters would be behind
Barleycorn
, but within firing range nonetheless. One on each side, they could rake the launch from stem to stern if she refused to stop—or they could hold their fire, follow her to her landing place, and make their arrests on