He had been right; there was a storm brewing. Jack could feel it in the air, in the way the Revenge skittered under his feet, sending little waves through the bilge water. In the distance he could hear the rumble of thunder. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories that a storm always brought.
Jack had been ten the first time he'd gone out with the Gentlemen. His mother had created such a fuss he'd thought he'd never go. But Dad had won and had taken him down the dark lane and across the frost-covered fields until they had met the others on the steep path to the shore. Lookout was his job, and for the next two hours he had lain as quiet as could be on the cliff top, eyes and ears open for any sound of approach. He'd been frozen to the marrow long before his dad had returned, but elated that he'd been of help.
The rush of excitement had always been there, right from the first night. From his vantage point Jack had watched the flash of a lantern out at sea, and heard the splash of oars as a boat was rowed into shore. Around him, the night dwellers had ignored the humans on the beach. A fox had scurried by, sending shivers down Jack's back as he heard the rustle of the undergrowth. Almost he'd given the alarm, but common sense had won out. All his life he'd heard the sounds of night and not worried. The owl that screeched over his head had almost been his undoing though. The sound had torn into him, setting every nerve quivering until he had almost wet himself. He'd never been so happy to see his dad as when he had came to fetch him home.
As he'd grown, and still over his mother's arguments, Jack had progressed from lookout to carrying the signal lantern - though the first time he'd been allowed down the beach, his dad had cuffed him a good one round the ear for making too much noise. From then on he'd tiptoed across the crunchy pebbles until he stepped foot on the clean sand. Two years it had taken to get to that stage; it would be another year perhaps before he could help with the unloading.
He'd met young William Turner there, a lad only a few years his senior but already a trusted member of the smugglers. 'Bootstrap' they'd nicknamed him on account of when he was young his dad was forever telling him to tie his shoes up properly. Jack had heard that the first time Turner had gone out with them he'd come a cropper down the steep path to the beach on account of his shoelaces being undone. Jack was thankful he only owned a pair of boots and had vowed that would always be the case.
For two years they had had no trouble. Oh the excise men had their suspicions all right - but they had yet to catch them. Everyone in the village had someone involved in the trade - there would be no telling tales from any of them. And the gentry, well they were more than happy to turn a blind eye to what was going on; after all wasn't it them who profited by paying less for their fancy clothes and fine brandy?
It was a filthy night. It had been raining steadily since morning. Clouds heavy with water hung over the coast, keeping honest folk indoors. The Gentlemen had congregated near the byway to discuss the likelihood of the cutter being able to make it that night. It wasn't so much the cargo ship they were worried about, but the long boat that would have to deliver the goods to the shore. The sea was angry, lashing against the shore and the base of the cliffs in neverending rollers. Jack had often wondered what it would feel like to be tossed by the sea like that. The closest he'd ever got had been going out on one of the small fishing boats when he'd been a lad. It didn't frighten him at all, and whenever he had a chance he had gone up to the cliffs to spend hours just watching the changing colours and the constant movement of the sea, dreaming of distant lands.
"We'd best be there, just in case," Jem stated, spitting into the rain.
"Ah, but the riders," his dad said. "They've been nosing round just lately. What if they knows something's up? Maybe we should leave the boy behind? I don't want him being taken up; his mother'd have me guts for garters."
Jack stood next to his dad, shaking his head. "I can take care of meself, dad, no bother. You'll need me to hold the lantern for you."
His dad landed a warm hand on his shoulder, grinning at the other men. "Ripe for anything ain't he? But you can't come on the beach tonight lad. You go on lookout, and mind you keep a sharp eye. If them excise men come looking we need to know right sharp!"
Jack felt a wave of disappointment go through him, but he knew the importance of keeping watch.
His dad slapped his battered hat onto Jack's head, the brim dipping down over his forehead. The hat was a good few sizes too big but it kept the rain out of his eyes. "Here lad, take care of me hat for me. It's too wild down on shore to keep it safe."
Jack grinned then and tossed his dad a casual salute before taking up his watch.
And so it had gone. Come the early hours, when the tide was right for the landing, Jack was positioned high up on the cliff watching the by-lane that led from the village. William Turner was at the other end, keeping a weather eye on the coast road. Above them the clouds seemed oppressively low. Thunder rumbled out at sea and great forks of lightning sizzled into the water, brightening the sky for brief seconds at a time. It was a foul night to try to land, but the weather had already put them off for two nights now. The French cutter couldn't hover out at sea for much longer without the coastal patrols finding them. And if the ship were caught she would either be blown out of the water or escorted into port, and all the crew imprisoned…or worse.
Rain had collected in the brim of his hat and Jack tipped the water from it while sparing a look over the cliff edge. He could see nothing of the men there, though he knew that his father and ten other strong men from the village were huddled against the cliff. Out to sea there was a brief flash of orange, the signal that the long boat had been launched. From where he lay he couldn't see the return signal but he could hear the slight crunch of gravel underfoot as the villagers moved forward.
The boat was almost unloaded when it happened.
The excise men had avoided the roads entirely and had snuck along the shore, coming at the villagers from both sides, calling for them to desist and give themselves up in the name of the King.
Someone - Jack never knew who - fired a pistol, a man cried out, and Jack's heart was suddenly racing as fear gripped him. Men were running in all directions, some heading for the cliff path and Jack's hiding place, others tussling with the soldiers on the beach. Jack stood up, not knowing what to do. Part of him was terrified - he had never even heard a gun fired before, let alone seen such violence as was occurring on the beach below.
And somewhere down there was his dad.
Scrambling quickly down the path, Jack passed men coming up, all of whom tried to grab him, to drag him back up to the cliff with them. He dodged their grasping hands, taking extraordinary risks to keep out of their reach, the only thought in his head to find his dad and get him out of there in one piece.
It was William who stopped Jack's headlong flight, having come down the steeper path at the other end of the beach. He'd seen the men coming but couldn't make himself heard over the pounding rain and rumbling thunder. One look at the debacle on the beach, and William had turned and run to the pathway Jack was trying so hard to descend, slamming straight into him and grabbing hold.
"Get back up there, young Jack. Nothing we can do down here."
Even as William spoke, another pistol went off. William was pushing Jack now, hurrying him back up the path, overbearing him with his extra inches. Over the last two years William had grown into a substantial young man as opposed to Jack's comparatively willowy form. Fear-enhanced strength or not, Jack was no match for the heavier boy.
Something flashed below them and Jack, working on some inner instinct, stopped dead in his tracks and used all his strength to push William to one side, catching him by surprise, and throwing himself backwards as he did so. Quick Jack may have been, but not fast enough to dodge the bullet that barrelled past his face, clipping his eyebrow and sending a rush of blood down his face. He didn't remember much after that, only William's arm around him, dragging him back to the cottage and then his mother's horrified face.
All that night he dreamed - terrible, terrible dreams. His father shot down by an excise man. His father, drowning in the violent sea. His father's smile as he slapped Jack on the shoulder, telling his friends how proud he was of his little smuggler. And over it all, the rumble of thunder.
Next morning when Jack awoke, his first thought was for his dad. Head pounding, right eye almost shut where swollen flesh pressed against his eyeball, he quietly made his way into the other room. There his mother sat, her face almost frozen though he could see she had been crying. Her eyes held a wealth of sadness that cut him to the core.
"Mum?"
There was something in her stillness that made his heart begin to batter itself against his ribs.
"I warned him. Didn't I warn him, Jack? But he never listened to me. Always knew best, he said. Well not this time."
He came to stand at her side, his arm curling around her shoulder in an awkward gesture of comfort.
"They cut him down, Ned said. Bullet took him right in the chest. He didn't stand a chance. Excise men took him away and he won't ever be coming back." The bleak look on her face told him everything he didn't want to know. In his mind Jack relived the gunshot he had heard, and the scream that had followed. Even then some part of him had known whose cry he had heard.
Afraid of the tears that threatened his control, Jack tore out of the cottage, running across the fields to the cliff top, to stare down at the now empty beach. Then, more slowly, Jack worked his way down the steep path, made more treacherous by the heavy rain the night before, his hand touching the cliff face as he tried to judge his steps with only one good eye. It was halfway down that he found the hat. Battered and stained by the rain, it lay where it had fallen during that mad flight just a few short hours ago. Jack picked it up, fingers running round the brim to straighten out the soggy leather and once more he heard his dad's voice, telling him to take care of the hat for him.
"I will, dad," he promised softly.
Two days after the funeral Jack was on his way to Bristol to stay with his Uncle Edward. He was to learn a trade and become respectable. His mother had been most insistent - she would not lose her son the same way she had lost her husband. And, for all the rebellion that Jack felt in his soul, he couldn't deny her this.
He was supposed to be the man of the house now – at twelve years of age. His place was in Cornwall, looking after his mother, filling his father's shoes as best he could. It wasn't what he wanted but what was right. He had dreamed of a life out at sea when he was full-grown, visiting lands he'd only heard tell of. And now he was to draw the maps that would guide travellers to the places he so wanted to visit.
His dreams might lay elsewhere, but his heart still remained in Cornwall, in the little village that had been his whole life until this moment.
And, even in his sorrow and guilt, Jack couldn't quite help the way his heart beat just a little faster at the thought of seeing more of the world – even if it were only Bristol.