Chapter 3: Smugglers
The wind tore at Dougal’s jacket as he neared the door of the shepherd's hut that guarded the cave. The door complained as he pulled it open and the one small window allowed in the last of the light and most of the seaward wind. 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 in the tunnel leading 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 and nodded to Dougal.
Dougal's replay was a shallow rasp that spoke 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, slippery shelf of wet stone outside the cave's mouth. The ledge ran five feet wide and maybe fifteen long, smoothed by a thousand tides. Salt crusted every crack in the stone. Two feet below it, the sea churned black and hungry, foam spraying up on his boots. The wind was stronger here at the base of the cliffs as it slammed against them. Dougal slipped once, pushed off balance by it. He almost cried out at the fear of falling into the water. And from the pain. And from Hamish.
The skiff was pulled up on a gravel bed at the ledge's 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 a little.
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. He took up the oars and pulled. The smuggler was a good hundred yards out and each stroke of the oars sent a fresh shot of pain through his ribs. He kept going.
With the bow pointed out, the pinprick of light behind him 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. He’ll bring the money next trip.” It wasn’t a question.
"As always," Dougal replied.
The smuggler's eyes narrowed. "The money, MacBride. He’s got it, yes?"
"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 left shoulder, and carried it across the ledge to the cave mouth. The weight pressed against his ribs anyway, sharp and loud. He set it down, went back for a 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, the others already sitting on the ledge.
"Go on, then, fucking weakling! Get them 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? Afraid you'd send the boy again."
Hamish spat. "Likely he’d drop the money bag over the side, the fool.” Hamish tossed up a canvas sack. Regis hefted it, and grunted.
"All there?"
"Count it, y’ crooked bastard. "
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.