Black Ship by Carola Dunn

debris and clambered out of the remains of the wheelhouse. He turned to thank the skipper, receiving a silent nod in response. With a wave to the deckhands, he went over the side and landed nimbly enough in the dory to preserve his self-respect. His natural inclination was to introduce himself, but he recalled the ban on naming names and refrained, uttering merely, “How do you do?”
    “Uh, howdy.”
    “What went wrong, sir?” Patrick asked the local man as he rowed them towards the riverbank. “Why is the
Barleycorn
going into the town?”
    “Farmer called the feds.”
    “After taking our money for the use of his barn!” the Irishman exclaimed. He sounded more American than Irish, and very angry.
    “Changed his mind,” the skipper’s brother said mildly. “It’s a free country. Man’s allowed to change his mind.”
    “Not after taking our money. He’s going to regret it, I can tell you.”
    “Not too badly, if you want folks hereabouts to cooperate in future.”
    “He called the feds.”
    “And his boy called us. So what happens? The feds rope in the local cops and every last one of ’em heads out to the farm to set an ambush. So ‘stead of a dozen men tramping to and fro through the mud from river to farm with their arms full,
Barleycorn
sails into town and unloads at the dock, straight onto the trucks. Sounds like a good deal to me.”
    He shipped his oars as the dory nosed into the bank. Patrick jumped ashore with a painter. He tied up securely to a stake he found there, then turned to take the oars and boat hook from the boatman.
    “Thanks.” The man joined him, handed him his kit bag, and took the oars.
    “Thank
you
, for ferrying me from
Barleycorn.
”
    Patrick used the boat hook to bring the dory close and then gave the Irishman a hand up onto the bank. The air was so thick with animosity, he felt a nervous desire to chatter but managed to keep his mouth shut. The local man led the way into the woods, along a barely visible path. Birds fell silent as they passed.
    In the rear, the city man, wearing utterly inappropriate shoes, picked his way with care through the damp leaf mould. Patrick paused to let him catch up.
    “Where are we going?” he ventured to ask.
    “To see a man. You don’t need to know his name, but he works for the Eyetie who works for the big boss, your customer. That is, you are Patrick Jessup, I presume?”
    “Yes. And you?”
    The man considered a moment. “I guess you’ll have to know sooner or later, seeing I’m going to England with you.”
    “You are?” Patrick exclaimed.
    “Yeah, so they tell me. Someone’s gotta make sure our competitors don’t get at you. But don’t let’s talk about that here. It’s none of the hick’s business.” He nodded towards the man trudging ahead. In a low voice he added, “You can call me Mickie Callaghan. Pleased to meetcha.”
    “Callaghan! That’s my mother’s maiden name.”
    “No kidding. Well, is that a coincidence or what?”
    The local man was waiting for them beside an unpaved road. He had stowed the oars in a farm cart pulled off onto the verge. The cart horse was looking back at him with patient hope.
    A little farther along, a large Packard was parked; half-concealed by bushes, it faced in the opposite direction from the cart. Callaghan pointed. “That’s us.” He looked Patrick up and down. “Mary Mother of God, you’re a mess altogether. You brush yourself down before you get into my auto. I guess I better pay this guy off, or he’ll be calling the feds on us.”
    Patrick handed the boat hook to the boatman and went on to the car. As he took off his jacket and shook the wood and glass debris out of it, he watched Callaghan hand over a wad of banknotes. Both he and the recipient looked grim.
    Patrick was glad he was not the object of their anger. His energy was beginning to flag. He hoped he wouldn’t be expected to crank the Packard. When Callaghan came over and curtly gestured to him to get in, he