The night was inky black and the wind, coming off the German Ocean, was biting into Pippa’s bones, numbing fingers and toes and making her huddle into her cloak and wish herself back home and in the warm. The summer, coming on top of the worst winter anyone could remember when the rivers and even the sea froze, was wet and cold. It was a foolish idea to come out. The sea was rough; huge breakers were rolling up to the sandbanks just off the shore, so perhaps they would not land, or she might have been mistaken in thinking that there was going to be a delivery in Narbeach this night. The signs had all been there earlier in the day: everyone whispering and hurrying home after evensong; no one showing any lights; dogs chained up, stable doors left unlocked and a ship hove to half a mile out to sea. It was a beautiful vessel, long and sleek, rigged fore and aft with a long bowsprit to take a jib sail, intended to outrun the revenue cutters. Now the sails were furled and it was simply a dark outline against the horizon.

      She wanted to witness a landing, to watch the cargo being brought ashore, to find out where they hid it and how many men were involved. What could she learn that reading the reports of smuggling trials in the news sheets would not tell her? she asked herself. The atmosphere of the landing, she supposed, which dry-as-dust accounts could not give: the drama and tension, the sheer volume of goods piled up on the beach, the essence of danger, which she had to feel in order to convey it in writing. But if she were seen …

      She pulled her dark hood over her head and huddled even farther into her cloak, crouching down behind a sand dune, as much to shelter from the wind as to hide herself. If she were seen and accosted, they would not hesitate to kill her. They had too much at stake to let her live.

      As she watched she heard the jingle of harness and the rumble of wheels on the lane behind her and threw herself down into the sand and prayed they would pass by without noticing the dark heap almost at their feet. She dare not look up and expose her pale complexion, which would easily be seen even on so dark a night. From beneath her shadowing arm, she could just see their feet as they passed, leading horses and carts down onto the beach. There were dozens of them, silently tramping past the spot where she lay. No one spoke, not even a whisper.

      At last they were gone and she risked lifting her head. The beach, which a few minutes before had been empty, was swarming with men, pack mules, horses and carts. It seemed as if the whole male population of the village was there. Someone struck a flint and lit a lantern and swung it to and fro. It was answered insimilar fashion from the darkened ship. Now everyone was facing seawards and Pippa dared to stand up and watch. Two boats were lowered and two men scrambled down into each to receive and stow the goods being slung down to them in nets. She could not see what the cargo was, but when the boats were riding low in the water the oarsmen began pulling for the shore.

      When the boats were within wading distance, those on the beach went to help haul them out. Almost before they grounded, the unloading began. Soon the sand was littered with kegs, barrels, boxes and bundles and the boats went back for a second load. The carts were filled and some of the kegs were roped in pairs and slung, fore and aft, on the shoulders of the strongest men. Stooping under their weight, they made their way inland past Pippa. It was time to fling herself down on the sand again.

      The boats returned from the ship and more contraband was deposited on the beach, put in carts or slung on backs. They had unloaded each boat three times when a single warning shot rang out. The men on the beach had been working quickly before, but now there was desperation in their movements. The rowers set off back to their ship, leaving the land party to salvage what they could and make themselves scarce. Some of them carried what they could inland, or on to the marshes to the east of the village, others whipped up the horses and left with carts only half-loaded. There were still a few men on the beach when a party of dragoons, led by a Captain and a Customs Officer, appeared on the lane and began firing on the stragglers, who fired back. Pippa, her heart in her mouth, watched the skirmish, her frozen toes forgotten. She dare not move.

      Some were injured and were hauled away by their mates, others ran, dodging the bullets. One of the dragoons was winged, resulting in a more frenzied attack of retribution. It was too much for the remaining smugglers and they threw down their weapons. As Pippa watched they were roped together none too gently by their captors. There were six of them and a boy. Some of the dragoons stayed to guard what contraband had been left behind, others marched the prisoners off the beach, prodding them with their riding crops to hurry them along. It was then Pippa recognised her cousin, Benjamin, dressed in a dark belted tunic and breeches, his face smeared with dirt. Fifteen years old and he had been caught smuggling! Her first impulse was to rush out and try to reason with his guards, but common sense prevailed. She would not save him that way and might very well be taken up herself. She watched them go, unable to move until the coast was clear. Then she ran.

      Hampered by her skirts, she raced up the lane and along the coastal path to Windward House, which stood on a slight promontory