Page 2 of Echo in the Wind

Most of England was buying free traded goods but, rich or poor, noble or common, she never forgot smuggling was a hanging offense. It wasn’t the typical pastime of an earl’s sister, but she had decided long ago to ignore her qualms about her part in the illegal activities.

As soon as they arrived at the ship, Zack steadied their small boat and she reached for the rope ladder. “Stay with the boat,” she reminded Freddie.

The climb was mercifully short. A moment later, she stepped onto the deck with Zack right behind her.

A quick glance told her the wood planks of the deck were clean and everything neatly stowed. The ship’s crew were busy shifting casks, folding sails and coiling lines. Their wary glances told her the Frenchmen did not trust her and her men. Curious covert glances came her way over a shoulder or around a mast, and just as quickly were turned away.

A thick-chested man approached her. He had swarthy skin and dark russet hair, long to his shoulders.

“Is there a problem, M’sieur?” His voice was rough with a deep French accent. Though his tricorne shadowed most of his face, his downturned mouth exuded suspicion.

Thankful for her deep voice, she summoned her resolve and cast a glance toward the barrels and chests yet to be loaded. “Before I pay, I would see the goods.”

“As you wish,” the man replied, too politely for his harsh demeanor. He gestured to the casks and chests waiting to be loaded. She turned toward them but did not miss the look of disdain he gave his captain, as if to question a demand for inspection by what appeared to him a beardless youth.

It would not be the first time her authority had been questioned by the crew of a smuggler’s ship.

Shrugging in what she intended as a very male gesture, she returned her attention to the goods cast in dim relief against the hull of the ship, for no lantern on deck had been lit.

Zack strode to the chests and lifted one of the lids. Unwrapping an oilskin bag, he pinched a bit of tea between his fingers, first sniffing, then tasting the dried leaves. Nodding his acceptance to her, he moved on to the casks. Drawing his knife, he was about to pry open the lid when the swarthy Frenchman went to the cask and deftly opened it.

Taking a tin cup from the nearby water cask, the Frenchman dipped the cup into the cask and handed it to Zack. “Ye’ll find none better in all of France.”

Zack sipped the liquid, carefully tasting. It would be clear, because the French did not color their brandy, nor did they dilute it. Only cognac, aged in oak barrels, had the rich cinnamon color.

“Ah,” Zack breathed out, licking his lips. “Ye speak the truth. ’Tis fine.”

As the examination of the cargo proceeded, the ship’s captain never moved from the rail, but kept his attention focused on her. Now that she knew he did not mean to cheat her, that his goods were of fine quality, she ignored his intense perusal.

Nodding to the captain’s swarthy mate, she reached into her pocket, lifted out a leather pouch and handed it to him. “We accept the cargo. Thank you for your courtesy.” If her tone carried a hint of sarcasm, she did not mind. She hated being underestimated.

The Frenchman accepted the pouch, heavy with coin, and escorted her and Zack to the side of the ship. Zack climbed down the manrope and dropped into the small rowboat. Joanna quickly followed.

A last look up at the deck told her the captain still watched her. But with his face in shadows, she could not tell if his expression was hostile or benign.

“Well?” asked Freddie, looking to Zack as he reached for the oars.

“The cargo is sound.” Then, shooting her a glance, Zack added, “’Twas still good we checked.”

The ship’s crew soon had the remaining barrels and chests loaded into the last of the longboats. They followed Joanna’s small boat to shore.

With the end of her task in sight, Joanna’s anxiety began to dissipate. Zack pulled the rowing boat up on the beach. Freddie jumped out and went to consult with the men.

By the time the French longboat made it to shore and the crew handed off their cargo, Joanna’s men were already loading goods into the two wagons.

Freddie came back to her. “That’s all of it, Jo. The wagons are nearly ready.”

With a wave to Zack, who would drive one of the wagons, Joanna and Freddie went to where they had left their horses. Mounting up, she looked over her shoulder to see the French crew taking up their boats and preparing to set sail.

The lone figure in black standing at the rail turned to his crew.

Minutes later, the black brig slanted away into the gathering darkness.

Joanna and her men headed up the narrow road leading to Chichester, seven miles north. Tonight they would color and thin the brandy and parcel the tea into smaller pouches. Soon, the storerooms of The Harrows would be bulging with stock.

It had been her idea to use her family’s estate near Chichester as a place of temporary storage for the smuggled goods. Wagons and carts frequently came and went unnoticed and Richard’s business in the House of Lords often kept him in London.

What had begun with Joanna’s baskets of food for the village poor had blossomed into a full-fledged venture in ill-gotten gain. Dangerous though it may be, she was at the center of it all. The need to help the people she cared for compelled her to accept the risks.