Previously on A Smuggler's Life. Ned has followed his father, a smuggler down to the beach to watch them unload a ship. He's hiding but a snapped twig gives him away. He's chased by the smugglers and trips and falls, falling down the cliff. He manages to get home, but he's hurt.
“Ned!” Ned’s father was chopping firewood
and was waiting for Ned to bring the wood. “What’s wrong with you?”
Ned was struggling with even the lightest
of logs. He hobbled towards his father.
“Nothing,” Ned said, he was trying to
disguise the pain, but it was easier said than done. Each footstep hurt a little
more, ouch, oooh, ouch, ow, ouch, oooh, ouch, ow.
“Come on boy, stop messing around.”
Ned handed his father the wood and grimaced
as the big man punched him lightly on the arm.
“What is the matter?” his father asked.
“Nothing,” he said again. But his dad
wasn’t stupid. He reached out and tore Ned’s shirt clean off his back revealing
the blue, black, red and grey marks caused by Ned’s journey down the cliff.
“What have you been up to?” His father
boomed.
Ned stood still, he didn’t know what to do.
Should he tell the truth? Hearing her husband raise his voice, Ned’s mother
came out of the house.
“Oh my god,” she said looking at her son’s
bruised body. “What’s been going on?”
Ned looked at his feet.
“I was at the beach last night,” he said.
“You were where?” his father boomed.
“At the beach. The men heard me, they
thought I was the Revenue man. They chased me. I fell down the cliff.”
“That was you?”
Ned nodded.
“You silly boy,” Ned’s father raised his
hand to strike him.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” his mother said
kindly, and took Ned away from the angry eyes of his father.
Later that night, as Ned was clearing the
last of the tables in the Inn, his father came over to him.
“How are the bruises?” he said.
Ned shrugged, if he told him they were
better then his father would probably give him some new ones.
“The men said you were like a whippet last
night, too fast for them.”
Ned smiled. “I could out run the lot of
you.”
“So next month, you’ll come with me. You’ll
run messages and keep look out for the revenue men, okay.”
“Really?” Ned couldn’t believe what he was
hearing, he thought his father was going to beat him not reward him.
“I’m gonna be a smuggler,” he said.
“Yes, but you mustn’t tell anyone, not your
best friends, not your sisters and not your mother, you hear me? Don’t tell a
soul.” Ned’s father held his lips together.
“I promise,” Ned said. He knew the rules
but he wanted to skip and jump and shout and scream. He was going to be part of
the gang.
But there was no time to be excited.
Boom boom boom boom. Someone was banging on
the alehouse door.
Boom boom boom boom.
“We’re closed. Go home,” Ned’s father
shouted.
“Customs and Excise. Open this door, Mr
Rogers.”
Ned froze, the revenue men! here?
Ned’s father went to the door and pulled
back the bolts. It swung open and in came three men in the King’s uniform. The
captain carried a torch while the other two had rifles.
“We have reason to believe you are hiding
smuggled goods.”
Ned watched as five more men came through
the door, each with a torch and a rifle. Their uniforms weren’t as smart as the
officers.
“Search the place lads.” The men spread out
and started to search the rooms, two of them disappearing into the cellar. “And
you’re coming with us, Mr Rogers.” Ned watched the two of the men drag his
father away. Why wasn’t his dad putting up a fight? Why was he so calm?
It took fifteen minutes for the men to complete
the search but they found nothing. Ned locked the doors behind them and blew out
the candles. Then sat in the dark,
waiting for his father to come back.
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