Devil's Prize by Jane Jackson

would enable her to sail far closer inshore than the deep-keeled cutter.
    Devlin looked at his crew. Their lives were in peril on every run. They didn’t do it for a thrill like the bored younger sons of the gentry did. It was a matter of survival, especially when weeks went by and the shoals didn’t come. Cornwall was a long way from the capital and a government that knew little and cared even less about the desperate daily struggle with poverty.
    The slim packets of tobacco, silk, and lace stuffed inside the crew’s boots were their personal ventures and not counted as part of the cargo. Some might be kept for a mother, sister, wife, or sweetheart. But most would be sold to buy bread and meat, a length of cloth or a new cooking pot.
     ‘You making for the cove, skip?’ Danny enquired.
    Devlin shook his head. ‘We wouldn’t have time to land the brandy. Besides, if Customs were willing to divert one of the revenue cutters down here from Fowey on the strength of whatever Charlie Grose told them, it’s possible Lieutenant Crocker will be waiting for us with a welcoming party of dragoons.’ He heard the soft hiss of indrawn breath as his crew recognised the depth of Charlie’s betrayal.
    ‘We’ll drop the tubs and creep for them once the coast is clear. They’ll come to no harm on the sea bottom for a few days.’
    As the crew began checking the ropes that linked the tubs in groups of five with a sinking stone attached, Devlin was grateful for his uncle’s foresight in having them already prepared.
    Sunrise approached, and as the sky gradually lightened the men worked hard and fast. Andy and Billy managed the sails while Joe shifted ballast.
    Devlin took the helm, steering the lugger on a course parallel to the cliffs. This freed Jared to help Ben, Danny and Sam drop the tubs smoothly and quietly over the windward side of the boat away from any watching eyes onshore. Keeping the boat moving, and timing each drop so she was in the trough of a swell, meant that even with a glass trained in their direction, the revenue cutter’s captain would be unable to see anything that might indicate suspicious activity.
    As the last tubs went overboard, Jared dropped a crab pot with a small cork buoy attached as a marker. Joe dragged the fishing nets from the cuddy and piled them in the bottom of the boat while Andy hoisted buckets of seawater inboard and thoroughly wet the nets. Returning with dry gear after a night supposedly spent chasing a pilchard shoal had caused more than one boat crew to be hauled before the justice on a charge of smuggling.
    A brilliant white-gold sun rose over the horizon and lit rag-edged clouds with flame orange and shadowy purple. The black restless sea turned to wine, then blood, then bronze. As the sun climbed higher, blurred outlines hardened to reveal a coastline of foaming surf, black rocks, wooded valleys, heather and gorse-clad hills, and small fields bounded by stone hedges. Guiding the lugger into Porthinnis’s tiny harbour, Devlin glanced back across restless grey water.
    ‘D’you think they picked him up?’ Jared kept his voice low.
    Devlin shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Better they didn’t. Bloody young fool. He could never have come back to the village.’ He turned to face his crew. ‘Any man who wants to leave will be paid up and is free to go. There’ll be no hard feelings.’ He studied each man in turn. They gazed back unflinching. Not a single glance dropped. Not a man moved.
    ‘You done what you had to, Skipper,’ Billy said.
    ‘’Twas ’im or us,’ Sam added, shaking his head.
    ‘Charlie was a fool,’ Joe growled. ‘Andy warned him about Hammer, but he wouldn’t listen.’
    ‘What shall us say, Skip?’ Ben asked. ‘People is bound to ask.’
    Devlin rubbed his jaw. His voice was as bleak as his expression. ‘We say it was an accident. We had a rough crossing with a full cargo and everyone was tired. We spotted the cutter and in the scramble to put the boat