A BARREL OF RUM
The heat had been building up all morning and my tiny
room in the inn’s attic was stifling; I felt I was breathing in
soup. I headed downstairs needing air but outside it was almost
as still and stale, just a flutter of a breeze.
Standing surveying the greying shroud of the heavens I
thought I heard thunder rumble. But I needed to walk, needed
to think. My personal problems close to getting out of hand I’d
come to this country backwater for a break.
At the crossroads I took the lane towards Thorpeness, my
brow already clammy from the oppressive heat. The trunk road
carried most of the traffic but unusually not a car passed me
by. The only vehicles that did being the horse-drawn variety –
novelty rides aren’t unusual in these parts but I remember
thinking some convention must be taking place.
I reckoned that getting trodden on by a horse wasn’t much
less painful than being clipped by a car and so I took the
sensible option, I headed off road, into the heath land,
following a narrow twisting track which wound between purple
heather and bracken; the air was thick and still, and it seemed
to me that the only sound carried on the limp breeze was the
occasional rustle of coarse grass.
I’d progressed about a mile towards the coast when I came
across the sheet of paper. It was entwined in bracken and like a
blot on a landscape that was spotlessly clean. Litterbugs seemed
scarce so I felt a sense of responsibility in retrieving the waste
– only I hadn’t reckoned on what I’d find –
“THIS DAY – 1st JULY 1735
A reward of ONE HUNDRED POUNDS is hereby offered
for information leading to the capture of smugglers
terrorising this district and the forfeit of their contraband.
Contact the undersigned
Signed J.Tabbs – for H.M. Customs Preventatives.”
I frowned, looked across the heath, puzzled at how the
reward poster could have ended up entangled in the bracken –
from the museum in Aldeburgh perhaps? But who’d drop it
here? And it could hardly have blown three miles.
There was something else though – the parchment seemed
new, the ink hardly dry – I prodded it tentatively with my
forefinger and it left a slight stain.
Part of the convention perhaps, I recalled the column of
chaises that had galloped past me – some kind of festival that I
hadn’t heard about?
Yes of course, what else could it be?
‘One hundred pounds friend – a fair reward I’d say – ah but
smuggling is the scourge of our times, aye – so it is.’
I spun in shock at the deep voice, I could have sworn
there wasn’t a soul in sight but he stood before me, a portly
man dressed in boots, breeches and a yellow waistcoat.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘you startled me – I’m afraid I don’t
follow.’
‘Parson Prendergast my man,’ he looked me up and down as
though I were an oddity, from my clean-shaven chin, checked
cotton shirt to my stonewash jeans and then swiped the back of
his hand across his nose.
‘Of course you understand, I don’t abide by your clothes
but you hardly look a dimwit – smugglers, my man. They’re
running amok – we must stamp them out – we must stamp
their evil out!’ His voice rose as I became aware of a
developing rumble, but deriving from the ground rather than
the skies.
I realised I’d been standing on a broad parched track and
along it like grey mist, dust started to rise from the east.
And then I saw why – the horses and carts I’d seen earlier
were returning, but this time at a furious pace, bearing down
towards me. Convention or no convention, I thought this was
stretching it a bit.
I turned back to the parson but he’d disappeared so
quickly he might have been vaporised.
My heart was keeping pace with the horses’ hooves as they
charged closer, two horses and one man to a chaise, perhaps a
dozen carriages in all and each one laden with barrels.
The leader glared down at me, his dark eyes the only
prominent feature in a heavily bearded face; suddenly he
pulled sharply on the reins, his horse whinnied and the chaise
slithered sideways alongside me, only inches away.
His mean eyes were fixed on the poster I still held, ‘I’ll take
that my friend.’
I shook my head aghast, I felt like I’d been hauled from
the audience into the midst of some crazy pantomime.
He lowered his head towards me, ‘It’s either that or I plant
a bullet in your skull – now which would you prefer?’
I smelled the alcohol on his breath, saw his rotted teeth,
the lower set ground to stumps. Some pantomime –
‘Look,’ I said shakily, ‘there’s playing games but there are
limits.’
‘Games – games, you think I jest?’ He turned incredulously
to his chums; the collection of riders and chaises had
encircled me – from beneath his black frock he drew a
blunderbuss, ‘Listen, folks in these parts know better than to
cross us,’ his frown seemed to split his forehead from temple
to temple, ‘was that your intention – is that why you’re holding
the poster?’ The weapon was an inch away from my nose and
perfectly still, ‘If you’re not our friend you’ll be counted as
foe…’
‘Okay, okay,’ I shoved the poster into the big chap’s free
hand, held my arms aloft. I’d play the daft game their way,
because it was a game in the loosest sense – the intimidation
was as unbearable as the humidity.
I glanced at the barrels in his chaise, ‘Trinidad 1734 was
printed in black. Very authentic, I thought.
But I breathed a huge sigh of relief as they sped off with
just a grunt from the big chap. I mopped my brow and headed
straight back to the inn.
I was just in time, thunder and lightning was crackling
across the sky and large drops of rain had begun to fall. But at
least I was back to reality; at any rate I assumed so.
I opened the door to the inn and greeted the cellar-man as
he came up from the basement; he looked at me oddly,
nodded, hoisted a barrel to his shoulder and proceeded back
down the cellar steps. It was an old wooden cask, stunk of age.
I glanced at the inscription –
Trinidad. 1734.
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