“Fine, then,” he said, standing up. He glanced up at the cliff to the south, observing the stars over it, and said, “Nearly nine o’clock. They’ll be in soon. Mind ye, Joey—no one’s to move ’til I call out, aye?”
“Aye, sir.” The casual tone of the answer made it apparent that this was a customary exchange, and Joey was plainly surprised when Jamie gripped his arm.
“Be sure of it,” Jamie said. “Tell them all again—no one moves ’til I give the word.”
“Aye, sir,” Joey said again, but this time with more respect. He faded back into the night, making no sound on the rocks.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, pitching my voice barely loud enough to be heard over the breakers. Though the beach and cliffs were evidently deserted, the dark setting and the secretive conduct of my companions compelled caution.
Jamie shook his head briefly; he’d been right about Young Ian, I thought—his own dark silhouette was clear against the paler black of the sky behind him.
“I dinna ken.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Tell me, Sassenach—d’ye smell anything?”
Surprised, I obligingly took a deep sniff, held it for a moment, and let it out. I smelled any number of things, including rotted seaweed, the thick smell of burning oil from the dark lantern, and the pungent body odor of Young Ian, standing close beside me, sweating with a mix of excitement and fear.
“Nothing odd, I don’t think,” I said. “Do you?”
The silhouette’s shoulders rose and dropped in a shrug. “Not now. A moment ago, I could ha’ sworn I smelt gunpowder.”
“I dinna smell anything,” Young Ian said. His voice broke from excitement, and he hastily cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Willie MacLeod and Alec Hays searched the rocks. They didna find any sign of excisemen.”
“Aye, well.” Jamie’s voice sounded uneasy. He turned to Young Ian, grasping him by the shoulder.
“Ian, you’re to take charge of your auntie, now. The two of ye get back of the gorse bushes there. Keep well away from the wagon. If anything should happen—”
The beginnings of Young Ian’s protest were cut off, apparently by a tightening of Jamie’s hand, for the boy jerked back with a small grunt, rubbing his shoulder.
“
“But—” I said.
“Uncle!” Young Ian said.
“Do it,” said Jamie, in tones of steel, and turned aside, the discussion concluded.
Young Ian was grim on the trip up the cliff trail, but did as he was told, dutifully escorting me some distance past the gorse bushes and finding a small promontory where we might see out some way over the water.
“We can see from here,” he whispered unnecessarily.
We could indeed. The rocks fell away in a shallow bowl beneath us, a broken cup filled with darkness, the light of the water spilling from the broken edge where the sea hissed in. Once I caught a tiny movement, as a metal buckle caught the faint light, but for the most part, the ten men below were completely invisible.
I squinted, trying to pick out the location of Mr. Willoughby with his lantern, but saw no sign of light, and concluded that he must be standing behind the lantern, shielding it from sight from the cliff.
Young Ian stiffened suddenly next to me.
“Someone’s coming!” he whispered. “Quick, get behind me!” Stepping courageously out in front of me, he plunged a hand under his shirt, into the band of his breeches, and withdrew a pistol; dark as it was, I could see the faint gleam of starlight along the barrel.
He braced himself, peering into the dark, slightly hunched over the gun with both hands clamped on the weapon.
“Don’t shoot, for God’s sake!” I hissed in his ear. I didn’t dare grab his arm for fear of setting off the pistol, but was terrified lest he make any noise that might attract attention to the men below.
“I’d be obliged if ye’d heed your auntie, Ian,” came Jamie’s soft, ironic tones from the blackness below the cliff edge. “I’d as soon not have ye blow my head off, aye?”
Ian lowered the pistol, shoulders slumping with what might have been a sigh either of relief or disappointment. The gorse bushes quivered, and then Jamie was before us, brushing gorse prickles from the sleeve of his coat.
“Did no one tell ye not to come armed?” Jamie’s voice was mild, with no more than a note of academic interest. “It’s a hanging offense to draw a weapon against an officer of the King’s Customs,” he explained, turning to me. “None o’ the men are armed, even wi’ so much as a fish knife, in case they’re taken.”
“Aye, well, Fergus said they wouldna hang me, because my beard’s not grown yet,” Ian said awkwardly. “I’d only be transported, he said.”
There was a soft hiss as Jamie drew in his breath through his teeth in exasperation.
“Oh, aye, and I’m sure your mother will be verra pleased to hear ye’ve been shipped off to the Colonies, even if Fergus was right!” He put out his hand. “Give me that, fool.
