Chapter 2: Smugglers
The morning started with an argument that ended in a fist fight. Dougal lost, as required. Not the first time, but not particularly different than all the other times. Hamish’s temper left Dougal with bruised ribs, slow to straighten as he stood. But he did straighten up. He was a McBride. By the time the shipment was due--just before sundown--his ribs ached with every deep breath. But there was work to be done, and the McBride brothers never left their work undone.
By afternoon, Hamish had climbed up to the upper pasture, herded the ewes down the hill. Dougal did not look his brother in the eye as Hamish arrived, stamping mud off his boots on the threshold.
Hamish didn’t say anything, just nodded and set to work mucking out the sheep shed along side Dougal. The rhythm of their task was familiar, a dance they’d done a thousand times. But today, the air between them was thick with unsaid words and the echo of Hamish’s fist.
As they worked, the sun began its slow descent, painting the western sky in hues of orange and purple. Hamish paused, leaning on his pitchfork, and looked out at the sea. The tide was coming in, the waves breaking against the rocks with a fury that matched his earlier temper. He glanced at Dougal, who was stacking fresh hay into the feeding troughs.
His brother's movements were slower than usual, his face set in a grim line. Hamish knew he should say something, apologize maybe, but the words stuck in his throat. He'd never been one for apologies, and he wasn't about to start now.
"Sun's setting," Hamish said instead, his voice gruff. "We should get to the cave."
Dougal nodded, not looking up from his work. "Aye. I'll finish here and meet you at the cave."
Hamish left the shed, the cool evening air hitting him as he stepped outside. He walked back to the house, his boots crunching on the gravel path.
The wind had picked up again, whipping through the heather like a restless spirit. Hamish paused at the door, took another slow drag on his roll-up, then knocked the coal off the end and tucked it back into his shirt pocket. He looked out at the sea, the waves crashing against the rocks far below—the same restless energy he felt inside.
Inside, he lit the oil lamp on the table, its flickering light casting long shadows across the stone walls. He checked the clock on the mantel. Just past six. The smugglers would be arriving soon. He rolled up his sleeves, poured himself a glass of whisky from the stone jar on the shelf.
The spirit burned the back of his throat, but the warmth spread quickly enough. He took another sip, set the glass down. The whisky left a faint, smoky residue on the rim—like the ghosts of every man who’d ever drunk from that same jar.
Outside, the first stars blinked awake in the indigo sky. Hamish moved to the window, cupped his hands around his eyes to block the reflection of the lamp. The path down to the sea cave was empty. No lanterns, no shadows moving against the dark. Just the steady hiss of waves against the rocks, the wind pulling at the heather like it was trying to root it up.
Time to go.
The wind was fierce here at the west shore. It tore at Dougal’s jacket as he neared the door of the shepherd's hut that guarded the cave. The door squealed a complaint as he pulled it open.
"Shut the fuck up!" he muttered.
The one small window allowed in the last of the western light and most of the seaward wind. His fingers were near numb as he found the iron ring in the floor in the corner near the window, heaved up the heavy trap door and descended the narrow, steep stairs to the cave below.
The cellar was little more than a wide place at the end of the tunnel that led out to the sea cave's mouth. He followed it down and out to the mouth, the sound of waves hissing at him to hurry.
The cave mouth, a dark slit in the cliff face, was swallowing the last of the now-dim dusk light. The sea cave itself yawned open like a jagged wound in the cliffs, walls slick with salt and time, air thick with the briny tang of crashing waves. Inside, the floor was a mosaic of smooth stones, still warm from the sun’s lingering embrace. In the farthest corner a nest of driftwood and seaweed a fire flickered. It was Hamish’s fire, already low, its embers glowing like stars battling a coal black sky. And losing. It was the only signal the smugglers would see.
Hamish emerged from the shadows in the opposite corner and nodded to Dougal.
"You good, man?"
Dougal's reply was a shallow rasp of ascent that did nothing to disguise the pain of his bruised ribs.
The low, guttural growl of the approaching boat's motor, blown on the wind, signaled the smuggler's approach. The only visible sign was a single pinprick of light bobbing on the black water just beyond the breakers.
“Right on time,” Hamish muttered.
Dougal massaged the right side of his chest, throat still tight with pain. He said nothing as he moved onto the narrow shelf of wet stone outside the cave's mouth.
The ledge ran five feet wide and maybe twenty long, worn slick by a thousand tides. Salt crusted every crack in the stone. Below it the sea churned, black and hungry, spitting foam up over his boots.
The skiff sat pulled up on a gravel bed at the ledge's inland end, its hull scarred and patched, oars shipped. A coil of rope sat in the stern. Dougal ran his hand along the gunwale, felt the damp wood give.
The pinprick light was closer now, bobbing past the breakers.
"Get the skiff in the water," Hamish called from the cave mouth. "They'll not come closer than where they are. Not in this wind."
Dougal put his weight against the bow and shoved.
The skiff lurched into the waves, bucking hard against the surge. Dougal grabbed the gunwale, swung his legs over, and settled on the center thwart. The salt spray hit his face like a slap, cold and sharp against his bruised ribs. He took up the oars and pulled, each stroke a fresh ache.
Behind him, the pinprick light grew. A low hull emerged from the dark, its engine cut to a mutter. A voice called out, rough as gravel.
"That you, MacBride?"
"Aye," Dougal answered, shipping the oars.
The boats kissed. Hands moved in the dark, quick and practiced, passing crates from one hull to the other. Dougal counted. Eight. Same as always.
The stranger's face caught the lantern light. "Your brother not about?"
"At the other end," Dougal said. "That it?"
"There's a second load. I'll take the money from him."
"As always."
The smuggler's eyes narrowed. "The money, MacBride. You've got it?"
"Hamish has it," Dougal said. "He'll come out for the last load."
And he did, as always. Dougal rowed this load back to the ledge and Hamish began to manhandle the crates off the skiff. Dougal stepped out of the skiff, took the first crate onto his shoulder, and carried it across the ledge to the cave mouth. The weight pressed against his ribs, a sharp pain. He winced, set it down, went back for the second.
"Hurry your lazy ass up, slut! There's a storm about to break!"
Dougal didn't hurry. Hamish threw the last two crates at him.
"Go on, then, weakling! Start hauling 'em up to the cave. I'll be back and you better be done when I get here!"
The bottom of the skiff scraped off the gravel, into the restless blackness.
Hamish shipped the oars and let the skiff drift against the smuggler's hull. The man, a flat-faced Lowlander called Regis, held a lantern over the gunwale.
"That you, Hamish? Thought you'd send the boy again."
"Someone's got to keep the sheep." Hamish tossed up a canvas sack. Regis hefted it, weighed it in his palm, and grunted.
"All there?"
"Count it."
Regis gave a yellow-teethed grin, but he counted it. His quick fingers moved through the notes while the wind, stronger now, tried to pry one loose. He finally nodded, stowed the sack. Only then did he drop the last crate into the skiff. Hamish cracked it open, pulled out a bottle of the whisky, and held it up.
"To another load."
“Hey Asshole!”Regis called. “Bring our bottle!”
A younger man, his son-in-law, stumbled up with an uncorked bottle of their own. The two older men, each on his own boat, leaned out and clinked bottles.
“To another profitable deal!”
Together they drank long and deep, two old friends, sharing toothy grins at each other. Perfect strangers outside this one meeting place.