His eyes glinted. “There are certainly worse reasons, Friend Frederica.”
Chapter 14
Darcy squinted at thetriangular shape on the horizon. Could it be a sail? The rising moon cast little light over the dark sea. But yes, it was a boat. He was certain of it.
Stiffly he rose to his feet. His legs ached after crouching on the pebble beach for hours, keeping his profile hidden below the small hillock behind him. He picked up the smuggler’s signaling lamp and opened the shutter, revealing a narrow opening that cast light only out to sea. As he had been directed, he swung it back and forth five times, replaced the shutter for a few minutes, and then repeated the actions.
His heart pounded. Would they see it? Was it even the correct ship? If no one came, he would have a very long walk through the desolate marsh back to the nearest village come daylight, and yet another delay to his mission. It was galling to have to rely on smugglers, but they were the only ones who could reach France.
Yes, it was a boat, growing closer. And then a dinghy was lowered over the side and two men climbed into it. They were coming for him. He waited impatiently as it crawled nearer.
As it reached the shore, one of the smugglers jumped over the side and dragged the dinghy up onto the pebbles. He gestured to Darcy with a sharp swing of his head.
Darcy hefted his small trunk and began to carry it to the boat. Apparently not fast enough, for the ragged sailor clad all in black grabbed it from him and tossed it in the boat as if it weighed nothing. Darcy held tight to his satchel as he clambered over the edge. Without a word, the smuggler pointed to the bench where he should sit. Clearly silence was the order of the day.
When they reached the ship, Darcy climbed an unstable rope ladder up the side and over the rail. No sooner had he reached the deck when another smuggler hurried him to a small hatch in the deck.
“Down there. And stay out of sight until we’re at sea,” he hissed.
At the bottom of another steep ladder, this one thankfully made of wood, Darcy had to stoop to pass through the dark cramped passageway below the deck. The only trace of illumination was the dim moonlight angling through the open hatch above. He could barely make out the outlines of crates and barrels, and the stuffy air reeked of old liquor and mold.
The floor suddenly rocked beneath him, and he caught his balance on the edge of a crate. A good thing he was wearing gloves, or he would have a handful of splinters. Carefully he felt his way through the cargo hold until he found a barrel he could rest his weight against.
And he had thought traveling by mail coach was barely tolerable. It was nothing to a smuggling ship. But at least he was on his way. The sooner he reached France, the sooner he could return to Elizabeth.
Assuming he lived that long.
The ship rose and fell more now, so they must have reached open water. It felt as if he had been in the hold for hours.
Darcy made his way back up the rickety ladder and gulped down his first breath of fresh salt air. After the darkness below, the moonlight on deck seemed bright, revealing one man at the wheel and four others coiling ropesand hauling on the sails in the brisk wind. It was a larger boat than he had expected, although nothing to the great ships on the Thames, and it rode low enough in the water that spray occasionally misted the deck.
No one seemed to notice him, or perhaps they were paid not to. He made his way to the wheel and spoke to the man behind it, reminding himself of his alias. “Good evening. My name is Edward Har—”
The smuggler threw up his hand to silence him. “Don’t want to know your name, nor your business neither. You’re just a package I’m delivering, nothing more, nothing less.”
“I thought you worked for the War Office.”
He spat on the deck. “I work for gold. Someone paid me well to haul you over, and I asked no questions. If that Corsican bastard pays me more, I’d deliver you straight to him.”
Darcy sucked in a breath. “You sail under the Union Jack.”
The captain, if he could be called such, guffawed. “Only until we pass the blockade. Then we fly the French colors. Not that we’ve seen hide nor hair of a blockade ship of late, nor the Revenue neither. Better hope our luck holds.” He spat again. “Now stay out of my way.”
Luck? So the smugglers did not know that British ships were hiding in port, those which had not already been sunk by sea serpents. The creatures never seemed to attack fishing boats or small vessels, so they could well be ignorant.
He retreated to a storage bench near the rail, pulling his coat around him to keep off the spray, his arm looped through his satchel. No need to tempt the smugglers with a little extra profit by taking his belongings.
Not that his own gold was in it; that was sewn in the hems of his coat and tucked in his boot heels. The War Office had been thorough.
There was nothing to do but wait. To keep himself alert, he revied in his mind the plans for reaching Paris once the smugglers set him ashore near Calais.
Eventually he began to doze lightly, his chin dropping to his chest.
A thump startled him awake. The boat lurched, and he grabbed the railing to keep his balance. Not the smooth up-and-down of the waves, but as if they had struck something.
Or something had struck them.
The sailors were on their feet, clinging to the mast and conferring in urgent tones. A string of curses flowed from the captain.
