The Professor and the Smuggler Page 15

  “How long have you been trading with the French?” he asked bluntly.

  Mitchell didn’t try to deny it. “Gwalather come to me and Tas a few months past and asked if we wanted to earn more than we ever had with the Concern. All we had to do was move a few shipments up the coast to Penzance. He made an arrangement with a fellow but he needed partners to do the deal with him.” Mitchell snorted. “Partners! But he didn’t tell us about none o’ this.” He let a diamond necklace trickle between his fingers, then squeezed it tight, muttering under his breath.

  “What goods?” Carne asked while Mitchell was in a confessional mood.

  “We didn’t look inside. The contents weren’t our concern. But I cracked one open and nailed it right shut again. Rifles. At least in those crates. A heavy shipment to shift that was.”

  “So Gwalather sidetracked a few of the boxes from the shipments,” Carne suggested.

  Mitchell shook his head. “Naw. We took everything off the ship, and the count was the same when we delivered ’em. Nary a complaint from the man in Penzance about being short. These”—he gestured at the boxes—“are something else Gwalather’s been doing with the Frenchies. His own deal. He had no right. None at all. How’d he move these with that withered hand o’ his? That fat bastard Jacobs must’ve helped.” His voice grew even louder. Mitchell the younger had a terrible temper in the best of times. Now he stood up and began to pace in the small dark space.

  “Why store them here? Why not move them as quickly as possible?” Phillip mused.

  “He’s taking them to London.” It wasn’t even a question. Carne knew such collector’s items would be bound far beyond Penzance.

  Mitchell wheeled and picked up the pickaxe Carne had just put down. “Probably waiting to take the trip until he has enough for a wagon load. Probably not planning to come back once he’s made the sale. Why would he?” He hefted the axe a couple of times and glanced the way they’d come. “I’m going to find answers.”

  Carne was more than ready to breathe clean air again and wanted to get the hell out of the tunnels more suited to moles than men. But he also knew that a battle between Mitchell and Gwalather would spell deep trouble—and possibly hurt the entire village. He’d seen Mitchell angry more than once and knew him capable of striking out. Even in the dark, and standing behind Mitchell, he could tell the panting young idiot had blood on his mind.

  “Naw, man. Don’t bother with that. We’ll show him up. We’ll, ah, go on and find the treasure from Professor Singleton’s map. Then we’ll have it all. The cartons here and the ones we find.” Carne distracted him from mayhem by dangling more riches before his eyes.

  Muttering about what he’d do to filthy Gwalather, Mitchell stalked to another case and began smashing at the wood with the axe. The thumps and cracks filled the dark cavern.

  Phillip drew near and muttered, “I hardly think we could find anything more valuable than this, Carne. I can tell you’re eager to be gone.”

  Carne grunted, surprised and a bit dismayed that Phillip could still sense his fear in such poor light and when he thought he’d managed to tame it at last.

  “Shouldn’t we just leave?” Phillip gave a ghost of a laugh. “With the discovery of those cases, the map is yesterday’s news.”

  “Yes, soon. First I’ll let him smash away and burn off some of his anger.”

  Mitchell had stepped up onto a ledge. A narrow crack in the rock wall led into another chamber. “Christ almighty,” he snarled. “I can see the edge of another box. They buried one here.” He began swinging hard, slamming the axe against the ground, but his wild swings hit the sides of the smaller cavern.

  “You double-crossing gut worm of a coward,” he shouted as he swung the axe.

  There was a crash of wood and then glass. The heady scent of liquor reached them. He’d apparently smashed through the wooden case and hit the contents, which must have been bottles.

  “Brandy, I think,” Phillip said.

  Carne heaved a sigh and crawled into the smaller space to examine what Mitchell had discovered. In the short tunnel between chambers, dirt or small rocks rained down on Carne’s head.

  A rainbow variety of curses flowed from Mitchell, who continued to rant and slam things around.

  “He was a nearly silent man yesterday,” Phillip remarked. His light bobbed as he ducked down behind Carne. “He’s grown quite loquacious in his fury, uttering some fine insults. If I had enough light, I’d copy some down for future use.”

  That steady cheerful chatter behind him helped Carne cope with moving into darkness.

  In the smaller chamber, they found Mitchell swinging and striking at the walls, the floor, and the time-blackened wood of a very old crate as if his life depended on it. Carne instinctively slid away from the frenzied man, and Phillip followed him, muttering something about the way anger or perhaps treasure brought on more inhuman strength than one would think possible.

  The clunk of axe on rock seemed to grow louder and more frequent. Suddenly Carne understood Mitchell’s axe wasn’t responsible for all the noise echoing through the cavern. A groaning whine of wood was followed by a snap as an ancient support gave way. The grumble of rocks shifting against each another filled the small space.

  “Hey.” Mitchell’s light bobbed up and down as he darted backward. A moment later, there came a clatter, a smash, and then a huge roar of sound.

  “Cave-in!” Carne shouted, but the sound of his shout was swallowed by the cavern wall collapsing.

  Choking grit filled his nose, mouth, and eyes. The rumble of tumbling stone deafened him. In the blackness, he grabbed hold of Phillip’s arm and sheltered him from the barrage of stones that slammed against his own back. In the dust and dark, he and Phillip cowered together at the far end of the chamber, against a granite wall that still held firm.

  When the noise of the collapse diminished and the stone stopped pelting him, Carne was in utter darkness, the sort of deep black that almost had weight, it was so complete. He was completely blind, his lantern gone from his hand, the light on the bill of his cap extinguished.

  “Phillip?” His hands traveled up the professor’s arms to find his face. Eyelashes brushed against his seeking palms, and his lips moved.

  “Still alive. Are you all right?”

  Carne grunted in reply, then went to work trying to reignite his headlamp. When he finally managed to get the flame to catch, Carne cast light on the pile of rubble where Mitchell had been smashing and cursing. The young man was gone. Several brandy bottles he’d laid out on the ground remained undamaged. In place of Mitchell was a very large boulder and the swirling motes of settling dust.

  Chapter Twenty

  Carne scrambled forward. “Christ almighty! Mitchell?”

  He began to shift rocks, looking for a sign of the man’s body.

  “I’m here,” came a muffled shout with no groans of pain or weakness. “I moved my arse fast enough. Got hit by a few rocks, but nothing too bad. My damned light is out. Can’t see my finger in front of my face.”

  Carne sat down hard in relief. From the other side of the pile of rocks, Mitchell’s voice sounded closer. “I can’t find any tools. Maybe I dropped the pickaxe?” He sounded out of breath. “This mess can’t be shifted by hand.”

  Carne eyed the rocks. He began to move smaller rocks. Phillip came up beside him.

  “Be careful. The whole thing would have to be braced,” Mitchell called. “Or so I imagine. Can’t see a damned thing. Ouch.”

  There came the sound of wood creaking and ripping.

  “What’s that?” Carne asked.

  “I’m making a tool to feel my way along.” Mitchell’s voice was more muffled. Perhaps he was moving away from them. “I’m going to get out of here.”

  Making a tool or grabbing some loot? a treacherous part of Carne’s brain wondered.

  “Be careful,” Phillip called. “You can lose your way down some tunnels. Travel uphill.”

  “I know more about
any mines than you do, Professor.” Mitchell sounded calm for the first time since they’d set out on this adventure. That couldn’t be a good sign.

  “Mitchell. Hey, Mitchell,” Carne called. “Come back soon.” He cleared his throat, hoping to get rid of the dust and the note of fear. “Bring help, Mitchell.”

  He didn’t hear any answer, just a small muffled thump as a rock fell or was kicked on the other side of the newly created wall.

  The air suddenly seemed too thick. His lungs burned. Carne pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose and tried to take smaller breaths.

  “Mitchell? Hallo?” No answer.

  They were trapped, and why would Mitchell come back for them? The loot was on the other side of the pile of rocks. All Mitchell had to do was wait….wait for them to die from thirst? A lack of air? Another cave-in? He could have everything for himself, no need to share, no need to confront Gwalather or anyone else. Just take the cache of goods and disappear, rather the way Carne and Phillip would vanish, never to be seen again unless their skeletons would be unearthed by future miners….

  Something touched his back, and he flinched, though he was grateful to have those scurrying fears interrupted.

  “We should see if we can move any of this debris. I’d ask you to relight my miner’s cap, but perhaps it’s best if we conserve the air in here.” Phillip sounded more than calm. He was downright cheerful. “Ah, at least he left the brandy safe and off to the side for us. Three bottles, one and a half each.”

  Phillip moved up to stand beside Carne. Carne’s heart thumped too hard, and then the darkness began to win again, until Phillip leaned against him, lending him more warmth and strength than he’d thought a simple touch could generate.

  Phillip squatted, picked up a bottle, and rose to hold it in the single remaining light from Carne’s cap. He chattered on about what made a good brandy versus a rough ill-begotten bottle, about winemaking and the grapevines he’d seen in France. Carne closed his eyes and listened to the soothing voice and even paid attention to the words. For a wistful moment, he wondered if he’d ever feel the sun beating down on him the way it did on those vineyards in France. When Phillip stopped to draw breath, Carne said, “I’d like to see that someday.”

  “I was thinking about going to visit some of the caves in France too. Do you know of them? They contain artwork some estimate to be thousands of years old. Although, no, I don’t suppose we should want to visit caves after this.”

  For the first time in what felt hours, Carne smiled. “No. And what does you mean, we? We will visit France? You and me?”

  “Yes. Once we finish this adventure, I think we should have more, don’t you?”

  Carne considered pointing out that the end of this adventure might mean their end, period. But he didn’t want Phillip catching his own despair. The professor might be using up precious air with his chatter, but Carne hardly cared.

  He would let the man form dreams and fantasies, because they were a bloody sight more interesting than the reality.

  “I do hope you are willing to journey with me, for I have come to care for you.” Phillip suddenly interrupted his ideas about what they might see in France.

  “Oh.”

  “I can hardly use the word love, for we barely know each other.”

  “No, that would be ridiculous.” Carne cleared his throat. “And I like girls, remember?” Bea’s words came back to him. He’d smiled at Phillip in a way he hadn’t smiled at her, ever. But no one he’d ever met, man or woman, behaved like Phillip. Even that thought made Carne smile.

  “Yes, I suppose you do have a penchant for women.” Phillip didn’t sound upset. “But I have some proof you like me as well.”

  “Mm.” Carne felt a little dizzy.

  He remembered hearing someone say the air was better lower down in a mine. Or was that in a fire? He might as well sit at any rate. He squatted near the pile of rocks, heaving and tossing some of the smaller ones into the far corner. Would too much exercise use up their air faster? Would more of the wall collapse even if he did manage to open up a space?

  A moment later, Phillip dropped down and started clearing rocks too.

  “I wanted to tell you about my regard for you in case Mitchell doesn’t return,” Phillip said, still remarkably calm. “One wishes one had said things more often than one wishes one hadn’t spoken out, if you understand what I mean.”

  “I don’t imagine you’ve kept your feelings silent about anything, ever.”

  Phillip’s laugh rang off the cave walls. “Yes, I do tend to be chattier than your average clubman or stockbroker or man about town. I’m even chattier than any professor, and we are fond of speaking. But so much talk, talk, talk is something I have actually cultivated. When my uncle died suddenly and I hadn’t had a chance to thank him for all he’d done for me, I decided gratitude and good feelings should not be hidden, no matter how vulgar such conversation might be considered.”

  Carne sniffed. He hadn’t actually spent much of his time contemplating gratitude or good feeling, much less discussing it over a pint at the Stoney Ground. Wouldn’t it be funny if he should suddenly profusely thank Trennick or Robin for the times they’d helped on the Magpie? They’d back away from him bug-eyed with worry.

  “Thank you is enough sometimes,” he said.

  “True enough.” Phillip turned and put a hand on his. Phillip’s fingers were even chillier than his own. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

  Carne began to laugh. “I think getting you trapped underground doesn’t deserve any sort of thanks.”

  “Ah, but I sparked this miserable excuse of an adventure with my encounter with Mitchell and my map. I suppose I must learn to say I’m sorry as well? Not nearly as gratifying as gratitude. But I am sorry I have been a nuisance to you, Carne. Sorrier than I could ever say if something…if the worst happens.” His voice dropped down a bit. “Damnation,” he whispered. Then he leaned over, grabbed a brandy bottle and smashed it on the rock. No, he hadn’t smashed the whole thing—he’d gotten the stopper out.

  “Oh.” He examined the top and glass that lay on the rock strewn ground. “I didn’t need to do that. Ah well, overkill as usual. At least I have gained access to the sweet elixir. Bottoms up.” He tilted his head back, drank deep from the jagged neck, then handed the remains of the bottle to Carne. “It’s quite tasty, I assure you.”

  Carne handed the bottle back to Phillip, who was talking away, and Carne realized it wasn’t conversation but poetry.

  “Say it again,” he demanded and made him repeat and explain the words.

  Phillip chanted along, swaying the bottle back and forth. He had no head for drink, but his memory was good, for he did seem to say the same words.

  “Oh for a draught of vintage! that hath been

  Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,

  Tasting of Flora and the country green,

  Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

  Oh for a beaker full of the warm South,

  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

  With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

  And purple-stainèd mouth;

  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

  And with thee fade away into the forest dim…”

  He interrupted that recitation and said, “Keats. He died quite young and the poem’s about death.”

  “And drink,” Carne said.

  “Yes, I suppose. Drink, death, leaving behind pain and forgetting it all. And a bird singing at night.” Phillip sighed. “Wish we had a canary to sing to us. A canary in a coal mine.”

  “Now you’re just babbling,” Carne said. “Tell me more stories about your time in school. Is that where you learned that poem? Say it again.”

  So Phillip talked, and eventually Carne memorized “Ode to a Nightingale.” And Phillip asked about the pull of tides.

  “That’s just basic knowledge,” Carne said. “Knowing high tide and low and wh
ich animals hang about in tidal pools. Don’t they teach that sort of thing in your fancy school?”

  “I doubt it, although perhaps some of those details are covered in the study of geology and perhaps biology as well. But I’ve always been more interested in human goings-on and history,” Phillip said. “I must say, though, I’m not so terribly good at judging people after all. You seemed dreadfully upset to discover that Mitchell turned out to be a smuggler. Please don’t grow offended, but…”

  “Go on.” They sat side by side now, and Carne jostled him with an elbow.

  Phillip sighed. “I had supposed you to be one too. I’d decided you’d assigned yourself the task of keeping me out of the way while your merry crew conducted shady deals. But now I guess you’re a fisherman, honest and true.”

  Carne snickered. “Don’t forget poor. Honest, true, and poor.” He laughed harder, wondering why it was so amazingly funny.

  “What has turned you into a hyena, my dear man?” Phillip demanded.

  Which only made Carne gasp, choke on the brandy in his throat, and laugh more. At last he wiped his eyes and hiccupped. “I am. One of them,” he said. “Have been most of my life. Still poor, sad to say. But we work together, the whole of Par Gwynear. Little fishing and no mining left, you see? None. Just moving contraband along, foreign goods brought in tax-free and transported to Penzance.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Phillip clapped his hands. “So wonderful. You are a smuggler.”

  “Funny thing to be so pleased about,” Carne muttered.

  But Phillip seemed not to notice. “I won’t put any of that in my book, of course. I can’t have the whole village, or especially you, dragged in front of a judge.”

  Carne didn’t suppose there’d ever be a book now, but only said, “Thank you for that. What the Concern transports is nothing like the weapons Mitchell mentioned. Seems those three had their own contacts and ships dropping anchor at night near the Mitchells’ cove. I’ve guessed for some time they were up to something.”