The Ghost of Smugglers Run Read online

The Ghost of Smugglers Run

  The 14th Installment in the

  Chronicles of the Team of Four

  Copyright © 2017 by Robert Sullivan

  ‘I am sure of nothing but the heart's affections

  and the truth of the imagination.’

  John Keats

  ‘I be a rich man tonight me lads

  But that the seas run smooth

  I be a rich man tonight me lads

  For there be no Revenooer’

  17th century folk (smugglers’) song

  Cornwall (anonymous)

  Preface

  Pat O’Leary, Max Priestley, Georgina Greene and Charlene Anderson are the Team of Four. They live in Murwillumbah on the north coast of New South Wales and attend Year 8 at Murwillumbah High School. They’ve had many adventures. They’ve been deep sea diving in the Pacific, crawled through the caves under Eight Mile Plains, and climbed the temples of Yucatan. They’ve explored the pyramids of Egypt, trekked the icy wastes of the Himalayas, and ridden camels across the endless sands of the Gobi. But those are other stories. This time they had their 14th adventure. An adventure on the rain swept coast of England. An adventure that brought them face to face with a mystery that spanned two centuries. This time they went treasure hunting in Cornwall.

  Table of Contents

  1. The Rocks of Gold

  2. Barney’s Tale

  3. Mrs. Mahoney

  4. Rohan’s Journal

  5. The Map

  6. The Powder Mill

  7. Three hundred Steps

  8. The Princess Cave

  9. Epilogue

  The Rocks of Gold

  We left the warmth of the Cod’s Roe in the gloom of early morning, stepping onto the slick cobbles that circled Polperro harbour. A dozen blue and white fishing boats rolled gently on the light swells curling in from the headland, their lines and ropes creaking and rattling against gantries and moorings. The air above the harbour was filled with gannets, gulls and kittiwakes, wheeling and crying as they swooped and circled, feathers flashing white in the weak rays of the sun. On the deck of one boat, close by the end of the seawall, several fishermen clustered near the bright halo of a lamp. It looked like they were cleaning fish, and half the birds of the North Sea had come for breakfast.

  As we neared the fishing boats we could hear someone whistling, and the clank of metal against metal. It was coming from a faded wooden fishing boat with the name ‘Myrtle’ painted on the stern. The clanking sounds were coming from an open hatch in the rear deck of the boat. The Myrtle was similar to all the other boats in the harbour. She was about twenty-five feet long, with a small wheelhouse set in the middle of the deck, just forward of midships. The wheelhouse had thick windows at the front and sides, and was barely large enough for two people. The interior held a captain’s chair and a white formica dashboard, with various dials and switches on the left, and a ships-wheel and radio on the right. The wheel looked just like the steering wheel of a car. For some reason I felt disappointed. I thought all boats had a huge wooden ships-wheel.

  The wheelhouse was open at the rear, with a series of small lockers stacked four high on each side. On the top of the wheelhouse two long antennas sprouted, thick cables snaking from their bases across the roof of the wheelhouse, through a small opening at the top of the windows, and down to the radio. In the deck behind the wheelhouse there was a raised engine hatch, set in the middle of the deck, with lockers below the railing at each side. At the rear of the port side lockers a small winch was set on a heavy metal base, its drum wound with a braided line.

  Like all the other boats in the harbour, the Myrtle was painted blue and white, though her colours had obviously dimmed. The hull, the wheelhouse and the inner decks were painted a faded foggy white, mottled with the black marks of buffer burns and dock strikes. At the bow, on the port side, an arrow shaped anchor hung at the opening of a small anchor slot. The shank of the anchor was at least three feet long, its surface wrinkled with rust. The anchor was secured by a thick rope that passed through the head ring, then back through the anchor slot into the boat. Rust streaks ran across the faded white paint below the anchor slot. Low down on the water line, amidships, there was a row of rounded black blotches, each larger than a fifty-cent piece, the result of recent caulking repairs. The deck railings, lockers, engine hatch and wheelhouse roof were all painted a murky blue, bleached by years of salt to the colour of old work boots, and wearing the stains of rusted cleats and broken bolts and screws. The Myrtle was an old timer, battered and well used, but she seemed sturdy. Most people would say she had character.

  We stopped on the seawall, looking into the stern of the Myrtle. The clanking sounds were louder. “Anyone home?” called Dad. Immediately a round red face popped up above the edge of the hatch. The face was topped with white hair and a dark blue sailor’s hat, a corn pipe clamped between its teeth. This would be Barney Applegate. He was taking us fishing.

  “Well blow me down” he said. “Would ye look at ‘em now? What a sorry lot o’ land lubbers, bless me soul.” Barney climbed up out of the hatch and stepped down onto the seawall and shook hands with everyone. “Been fixin’ the motor right enough” he said. “The Good Myrtle ain’t what she used te be.”

  Barney wasn’t very tall, not much more than George, but he looked tough, like the Myrtle. He wore a heavy navy woolen sweater, with ratty sleeves and a worn neck, and thick grey woolen trousers, tucked into knee-high gumboots. A woolen scarf was wrapped round his neck. It was so blotchy I couldn’t tell what colour it was. He had huge hands, with fingers the size of sausages.

  “Ok” he said. “We be headin’ out on the mornin’ tide. ‘Bout eight o’clock I’m thinkin’, so ye right on time. We’ll tog up and be gone in no time, God willin’.”

  “What’s the weather forecast?” asked Dad. “Is it going to be a fine day?”

  “Weather, scmeather” rasped Barney. “Don’t be listenin’ te that malarkey. The glass is good and the wind is fresh. We’ll have some rain tonight, that be sure from the look o’ those clouds, but today we just be dandy. It be right good on the water today. Calm and clear. We be fishin’ off the wreck. Fine fishin’ thereabouts by gum. But be takin’ ye seasick tablets I’m thinkin’. Don’t want no sick and sorry souls on board.”

  “What’s the wreck?” asked George.

  “First let’s be getting’ ye togged out. We always be needin’ the wet weather gear” replied Barney, opening a large locker in the stern of the Myrtle. “Then we be on our way, and I kin tell ye about the wreck. And it be a good tale too.”

  Barney quickly ‘togged us out’ in our wet weather gear. “I bain’t be thinkin’ there be rain comin’ today” he said. “But better than not ye wearin’ full clobber.” Barney gave us green-grey ‘sou’westers’ for hats. They were made of a heavy, waterproof material and had a long beak that hung low over our necks. “That be keepin’ the cold stuff out o’ ye collars” chuckled Barney. Over our sweaters we pulled on heavy, navy blue waterproof jackets that reached to our knees, and over our jeans thick yellow waterproof pants that felt like they were made of rubberized canvass. Finally, Barney handed everyone a pair of green lace-up gumboots. These reached to our knees and were lined with felt. By the time I was finally ‘togged up’ I could hardly move. I looked at the rest of the team. We looked like abominable snowmen. It was very uncomfortable.

  “Now I know ye be feelin’ like a sausage wrapped in plastic, true and all, but just be waitin’ till we hit the westerlies me boys and girls. Then ye be feelin’ the chill, right quick, and ye be real glad o’ the oilskins.” Yet Barney wasn’t finished. We still had to struggle into our life vests. The vests were bright orange, made of tightly
woven nylon, each with a thick flotation collar at the neck, and large round flotation blocks on the chest. The vests had no sleeves, and were sealed at the front with a heavy plastic zipper, a short lanyard tied to its toggle. At the waist there were two flaps with matching snap studs. Now we looked worse than abominable snowmen. We looked like a small herd of abominable Santa Clauses.

  “Ye should always be wearin’ the life vest” said Barney. “Ye should never be goin’ te sea without ye vest.” With that he clamped his pipe between his teeth and jumped on board the Myrtle. “Let’s be goin’ then” he said. “We bain’t be havin’ all day ye know.”

  After we all clambered aboard and grabbed a seat, Barney kicked the engine into gear and spun the wheel, and the ‘Good’ Myrtle started to move out towards the open sea, a soft phut-phut-phut coming from the exhaust on the starboard side. Barney and Dad stood in the wheelhouse chatting, their faces blurred by the crusted glass. The rest of us sat on the lockers near the stern, our gumboots knocking on the engine hatch. “It not be far” said Barney “Just a short run and we be droppin’ anchor. Today is mebbe a mite unusual mind ye, what with a smooth sea and a fair wind, but best be careful. The anchor kin drag easy as there bain’t be much down there te hold ye firm, only the small rocks and sech. It be a sandy bottom right thereabouts, and we be only a tad away from