Smuggler's Legacy

LaMotte ordered his men to begin their inspection. Bedard felt the hostility of his own crew emanate as they reassembled around him and glared at the Douaniers.

"Steady," Bedard murmured. “Steady. Don’t give them any reason.” Ker'riou stood quietly. Bedard knew that despite Ker’riou’s apparent calm, he was furious and with good reason; the Ker'riou family had been one of the hardest hit that year.

Bedard and his crew waited in silence, their faces taut in the orange light of the lamp as the Douaniers searched La Belle Chienne belowdecks. Occasionally she pitched forward, or yawed left or right, port or starboard, as if to protest this violation of her privacy. Bedard swallowed a snicker as he heard an occasional curse from the hold as someone stumbled against a bulkhead. LaMotte sucked on a peppermint drop and Bedard took satisfaction at the unease of this sanctimonious young man and his darkening expression as he examined the Ker’jean identity parchments in the swaying lamplight.

LaMotte said, “Captain Ker’jean, these are not the papers I want.”

“I don’t know what you mean; what other papers?”

“You don’t expect me to believe ‘Denez Ker’jean’ is your real name?”

“Ya, Sir, ‘tis.” He adopted a humble expression and scratched his head.

LaMotte scanned the anxious faces of Ker’jean’s crew. “By the Cross, is this true? You swear, on the heads of your children?” As one, they crossed their fingers behind their backs and nodded. LaMotte glanced at the drunken Captain before him, head to toe and back again. He studied the parchments one more time. Bedard and his crew held their breaths. In a subdued tone LaMotte sniffed. He returned the documents and sniffed again, closer to Bedard.

One of the Douane crew appeared. He had a small barrel balanced on his shoulder. He saluted. "Sir. He’s not the smuggler."

LaMotte's face paled. "Impossible. This is Denez Ker’jean. The Belle Chienne. Between the Saint-Yves and the Saint-Michel."

“Sir, the hull's empty yet reeks of cod. Extra sails, nets. Aft, we found naught but a ship’s boat and this cask.”

“Oh," Bedard said. "The olive oil.”

“What’s that?” “Italians use it. For cooking. Instead of lard or butter. My wife has a cousin who lives south of Rome. Gave us a recipe for pig's innards. Quite tasty, once you get past the smell." He brought up another fake belch. "‘Tis sausage; you leave the entrails in the sun for three days, brush off the flies and sear the meat in a copper pan coated in olive oil. Then, in a separate pot, you simmer ognons in a sauce of vinegar and --"

LaMotte paled. "Enough." He popped another peppermint.

"But wait ‘til you hear what they do with the guts and the gizzard --"

"Monsieur, for the love of God --" He bent over the side. Bedard heard a chuckle yet in the shadows he couldn't be sure of the source.

LaMotte wiped his mouth and studied Bedard. "Well, Captain, apparently your crew, the emptiness of your hold, and those papers agree on your identity.”

Bedard pocketed his parchments. "If you say so, Monsieur le Douanier."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Alas, I neither read nor write."

LaMotte sniffed once more. "Neither can you control your drinking, it seems. Take my advice, Ker'jean; imbibe at your own hearth. Where you belong."

Ker'riou coughed. LeCroyen whacked him on his back and Bedard nodded. "As you say, Douanier, Sir. We'll be on our way. Trugarez, Monsieur le Douanier." LaMotte’s away crew rowed him back to the Ariel, while the rest of her Douane crew prepared her for departure. Each ran to his station in accordance with their many drills. This included hauling back the grapples, some of which had missed their mark and dangled limply below the water line. The crew hauled the lines up, hand over hand. The remaining lines were still attached to La Belle Chienne’s deck and rail.

Bedard hid a smirk. "Men, help the good Douane." His crew grinned; they rushed the rail, anticipating this opportunity for revenge. They dislodged the heavy hooks and heaved them overboard. LaMotte's men were not prepared; they watched in shock as the huge grapples plunked into the waves, plummeted to the ocean floor and carried their lines with them. They tangled with the rocks on the bottom and served as anchors. Despite her size and power, the Ariel now sailed in jeopardy and her entire crew knew it. The anchor was already weighed, the main hoisted and filling with heavy air. LaMotte hollered, “Ho! Look lively there!” Wind and current continued their push; Ariel was in motion, easing away from the sunken grapples. LaMotte bellowed, “Cut those lines! Cut them, I say!” His men raced to the side and drew their daggers. They sliced and hacked at the tightening, straining grapple lines. Slowly, Ariel began a subtle list, as if she and her grapples were parting lovers wanting to keep contact until the last possible moment. LaMotte's crew grumbled as they slashed through the creaking ropes and watched them drop into the waves. They knew LaMotte: He’d give a quiet, ‘Good work,’ for saving life and ship, and not berate them for the loss of equipment. Nevertheless, rope and iron were costly; he’d still take it out of their pay.

Bedard sighed in relief and turned to Ker'riou. “We’ve had our fun. Weigh anchor; get us the Hell out of here.”

"Ho, La Belle Chienne!" It was LaMotte again, hollering above the wind. "Captain Ker'jean!"

Bedard strode to the rail and shouted, "Sorry about the grapples, LaMotte, but you’ve had your fun. We’re headed home."

"Not so fast; look what we hauled up."

Bedard's crew gaped at Ariel’s side, at the remaining grapples still being hauled up and the items caught in the hooks. One by one the faces of La Belle Chienne’s crew fell. LeCroyen whispered, “Well, I’ll be damned; who knew tobacco pouches could float?”