The Barbed Crown Read Free

flashes of French cannon fire than on our manly brilliance. A waterspout wet us again.
    “It’s good to have an escape plan at the gaming tables as well,” I went on, the rocks looming huge.
    “I’m beginning to understand why I lose to sharps,” Johnstone said. “One of our cleverest moonshine tricks is to make a rope out of twist tobacco and then wind it into a thicker hawser. You can’t see the sot weed inside the hemp.”
    “And even easier than holding out a card is pocketing another man’s winnings,” I returned. “When you push a pile of coins or chips, have some gum on your wrist and pick up one or two for yourself.”
    “You’ve got the mind of a smuggler, Gage. When you get tired of fighting Bonaparte, come see me for employment.”
    “I appreciate the compliment, but a gambling den is warmer than a smuggler’s smack. And it doesn’t sound like you need my advice. It’s a wonder the king collects any duties at all.”
    “The free trader doesn’t always win. The sharp, neither, I suppose. We’ve both spent time in jail.” He shrugged. “Time is a tax in itself.”
    “A gambler who always wins advertises he is cheating,” I agreed. “There’s a fine art to pinching just enough.” The passage looked no wider than a door.
    “So I’ll run from the king’s men, but if they wish to pay me to smuggle you, I’ll run from Bonaparte’s instead.” Another cannonball sent up a spout near our bows.
    “Sir Sidney would call you an expedient patriot, Captain.”
    “And you, American, a man who doesn’t know to leave well enough alone.”
    “Reef is on us, dammit!” the watchman cried.
    A small cannonball clipped our rail, splinters flying, and one of Johnstone’s boys let out a howl. Our own swivel gun went off in my ear again. Foam heaved up between the barnacled obstacles like a giant lung taking a breath.
    The captain finally slammed his heavy bulk against the other side of the tiller, and our bow swung just slightly. “Nicely timed, Gage, but allow for drift. Steer for the windward rock until the last moment.”
    We pointed straight at destruction. But no, we were pushed sideways and sailed neatly into the gap, our boom scraping stone on one side and our hull the bottom on the other. No normal skipper would try pinching through, but Captain Tom had studied the intricacy of this coast for years. The hull shuddered, and suddenly, Comtesse Marceau clutched my arm.
    “Lantern ashore!”
    And as the surf sucked and thundered, the faintest green light shone.

C HAPTER 2
    T he French cutter chased us to disaster. It followed through the gap and grounded so violently that its mast snapped, its sails collapsing like an unpegged tent. There were oaths, yells, and a final frustrated cannon shot that passed a good fifty yards off our stern. Captain Johnstone gave a satisfied cackle. Comtesse Marceau balanced to peer backward with a slight smile of triumph. My hand on the tiller was sore and sweaty.
    “Will Lacasse sink?” the comtesse asked our captain.
    “More likely left dry when the tide drops. Companions will take them off tomorrow, and their government will get them another ship.”
    She clutched her pistol, a silk reticule with her purse and necessaries tied with a silver cord to her wrist. “The French navy has been helpless since the officers of the aristocracy were driven from the kingdom. It’s one more way the revolutionaries have betrayed France.”
    “A more prudent commander might have rounded up and given a parting broadside,” Johnstone agreed. “Better to lose us than your own vessel.”
    “Curious luck for them to stumble on us like that,” I said.
    “If it was luck.”
    We sailed on toward shore. High gray cliffs materialized in the murk. Surf pounded their base. It looked like the devil’s worst place to go ashore.
    “You promise a way off such a bleak beach?” I asked.
    “A smuggler’s path,” said Johnstone.
    Behind us, red light flared. The wrecked cutter had