A shout came from the cliff’s edge. “There’s a path here, Sergeant! What are we to do? The boat’s gone, and there’s nought to be seen on the sands.”
A burly man nudged his horse to the cliff and looked down. He swore. “Never mind that now. We saw that boat. Half of you-down onto the sand and go south. The rest keep to the cliffs. We’re bound to come up with them, one way or t’other.”
“But south’s Sergeant Osborne’s region, Sergeant.”
The burly man cuffed the speaker. “I know that, fool boy! But Osborne’s out to Sheringham way, so’s it’s up to us to police this ’ere stretch. On you go, and let’s see what we can find.”
To Kit’s delight, she saw them split, then both groups head south. Satisfied, she returned to the small band trudging doggedly northward, still on the sands.
“You’re safe. They’ve gone south.”
The men downed their burdens and sat on the sands.
“Thanks be we only had one boatload.” The speaker glanced toward Kit and explained: “Normally we have a lot more.”
The large man, who seemed to be their spokesman, looked up at her. “This quarry you spoke of, lad. Where be it?”
Kit stared. It had never occurred to her that they wouldn’t know Snettisham quarries. She and her cousins had spent hours playing there. It was a perfect hiding place for anything. But what if she took them there?
Delia pranced sideways; Kit gentled her. “I’ll give you directions. You won’t want me to know exactly where you’ve stowed your goods.” Using the mare’s nervousness as an excuse, Kit backed her up. At least one man had a pistol.
“Hang about, lad.” The large man stepped forward. Delia took exception and danced back. He stopped. “You’ve got nothing to fear from us, matey. You saved us back there, no mistake. Smugglers’ honor says we offer you a cut of the booty.”
Kit blinked. Smugglers’ honor? She laughed lightly and drew Delia around. “Consider it a free service. I don’t want any booty.” She set her heels to the sleek black sides and Delia surged forward.
“Wait!” The panicky note in the man’s voice made Kit rein in and turn. He stumbled through the sand toward her, stopping when he was close enough to talk. For a moment, he stared at her, then looked to his companions. In the dim light, Kit saw their emphatic nods. The spokesman turned back to her.
“It’s like this, lad. We don’ have a leader. We got into the business thinking we could manage well enough, but you saw how ’tis.” His head jerked southward. “You thought fast, back there. I don’ suppose you’d like to take us on? We got good contacts an’ all. But we’re not good on the organization, like.”
Disbelief and consternation warred in Kit’s brain. Take them on? “You mean…you want me to act as your leader?”
“For a slice o’ the profits, o’course.”
Delia shifted. Kit glanced up and saw the others hoist their burdens and draw nearer. She didn’t need to fear a pistol while they were so laden. “I’m sure you’ll manage well enough on your own. The Revenue just got lucky.”
But the big man was shaking his head. “Lad, just look at us. None of us knows where these quarries of yours be. We don’ even know what’s the best road home. Like as not, as soon as we’re back on the cliffs, we’ll run slap bang into the Revenue. And then it’ll all be for nought.”
The moon sailed free and Kit saw their faces, turned up to her in childlike trust. She sighed. What had she got herself into now? “What do you run?”
They perked up at this sign of interest. “Show ’im, Joe.” The big man waved the smallest one forward. The man shuffled over the sand, one wary eye on Delia. He smiled up at Kit as he drew near-an all but toothless grin-then stopped beside the mare and peeled back the oilskin enclosing the packet he bore, a rectangle about three feet long and flatish. Grubby hands brushed back layers of coarse cloth.
Moonlight glimmered on what was revealed. Kit’s eyes grew round. Lace! They were smuggling Brussels lace. No wonder the packages were so small. One boatload, carried to London and sold through the trade, would surely feed these men and their families for months. Kit rapidly revised her assessment of their business acumen. Organizationally hopeless they might be, but they knew their cargoes.
“We sometimes get brandy, too, depending.” The big man had drawn closer.
Kit’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing else?” She’d heard there were things other than goods brought ashore in the boats.
Her tone was sharp, but the man’s face was open when he answered: “We ain’t done no other cargoes-this’s been enough t’present.”
She could sense their entreaty. Her Norfolk blood stirred. A leader of smugglers? One part of her laughed at the idea. A small part. Most of her unconventional soul was intrigued. Her father had led a band for a short time-for a lark, he’d said. Why couldn’t she? Kit crossed her hands over her pommel and considered the possibilities. “If I became your leader, you’d have to agree to doing only the cargoes I think are right.”
They glanced at each other, then the big man looked up. “What cut?”
“No cut.” They murmured at that; behind her muffler, Kit smiled. “I don’t need your goods or the money they’ll bring. If I agree to take you on, it’ll be for the sheer hell of it. Nothing more.”
A quick conference ensued, then the spokesman approached. “If we agree, will you show us these quarries?”
“If we agree, I’ll take over right now. If not, say so, and I’ll be off.” Delia pranced.
The man sent a glance around his companions, then turned back to her. “Deal. What moniker do ye go by?”
“Kit.”
“Right then, young Kit. Lead on.”
It took them an hour to reach the quarries and find a suitable deserted tunnel to use as a base. By then, Kit had learned a great deal more of the small band. They contracted for cargoes through the inns in King’s Lynn. Whatever they brought ashore, they hid in the cave for a few nights before transferring it by pack pony to the ruined abbey at Creake.
“S’been a clearinghouse for years, hereabouts. We show the goods to the old crone who lives in the cottage close by, and she’s always got our cut ready an’ waiting.”
“The old woman has the money?”
“Oh, aye. She be a witch, so the money’s safe with her.”
“How very convenient.” Someone, somewhere, had put considerable effort into organizing the Norfolk smugglers. An unwelcome thought surfaced. “Are there any other gangs operating about here?”
The large man went by the unenviable name of Noah. “Not on the west here, no. But there’s a gang east of Hunstanton. Big gang, that is. We’ve never come across ’em, though.”
And I hope you never will, Kit thought. These poor souls were a remarkably simple lot, not given to unnecessary violence, fisherman driven to smuggling in order to feed their families. But somewhere out there lurked real smugglers, the sort who committed the atrocities proclaimed in the handbills. She’d no desire whatever to meet them. Keeping clear of this Hunstanton Gang seemed a good idea.
Once the lace was stored, she gave orders, crisply and clearly, about how they were to pass the cargo on. She also insisted they operate from the quarries henceforth. “The Revenue men will be suspicious of that stretch of beach, and the cave’s too close. From now on, we’ll work from here.” Kit threw out a hand to indicate their surroundings. They were standing before the dark mouth of the abandoned tunnel in which they’d stashed their goods. “We’ll be safer here. There are places aplenty to hide, and even in broad daylight it’s not easy to follow people through here.” She paused, then paced before them, frowning in concentration. “If you have to go out in your boats to bring in the cargo, then the boats should just land the goods and go directly back to your village. If the rest of you bring ponies, then we can load the goods and transfer them here. When it’s safe, they can go on to Creake.”