Julian Stockwin - Inferno

‘Spanish Armada, like.’

‘You could say that, yes.’

Stirk and McFadden exchanged triumphant glances. ‘Well, that’s right good in ye t’ tip us the wink. We’s obliged.’

Kydd’s face tightened in suspicion. ‘You’ve found this, haven’t you? Came up in your fishing gear. A wreck or similar.’

‘Told ye he was a sharp ’un,’ Stirk muttered.

‘Your duty’s clear – it’s to report to the Receiver of Wreck directly, no delay. Else you’ll have every kind of juggins up to hookum snivey to plunder it.’

‘I never said it come from a piggin’ wreck, did I?’ McFadden retorted hotly. ‘’S mine, an’ that’s the truth!’

‘Stow it, Laddie. It came from y’r poor ole aunt as died, didn’t it? No need t’ trouble that Receiver gullion then.’

Next morning the inaugural meeting of the Dunlochry Treasure Company took place, Tobias Stirk in the chair and secretary Brian McFadden recording. There being no others present they came quickly to the business before the meeting.

‘Equal shares – equal rhino,’ Stirk stated. ‘All them in favour?’

‘If it means if a cove puts in more pewter an’ he gets back more’n the other’s share o’ the cobbs, I’m agin it!’

‘No, mate. Chair says as we all puts in the same. Them as hangs back loses their share.’

‘How much-’

‘I’ve a bit put by, if ’n you’s short. Now we votes. All in favour?’

‘Aye.’

‘Carried. So y’r boat comes in wi’ Maid o’ Lorne . Rest of it is-’

‘Hold, y’ scallywag. If your boat’s in that means Jeb Stirk has t’ be in on it too. Can’t sail her else. Does he get shares?’

‘Does yourn Wee Laurie get shares? No, cully. Boat ’n’ crew all the same – one share.’

Chair then called an intermission. After pots had been duly refreshed the meeting came to order.

‘So what’s next up?’

‘We go get the treasure!’

‘Not s’ fast, Toby! If we goes and-’

‘It’s Mr Chair.’

‘Bugger Mr Chair! I’m sayin’ as how I stand t’ lose everything once ye sees where it is. What’s to stop ye crackin’ on one night an’ liftin’ it all for y’r self?’

‘Ye’re a chuckle-headed ninny, Laddie, but you’ve a fine heart. If ’n that was m’ lay I could’ve asked y’r little skinker where ye went that had a wreck in a cave, right? We got to be in it as muckers or we’ll get nothin’, savvy?’

Early the following day two fishing boats hoisted their red sails and left Dunlochry, heading south-west past the holy island of Iona as if making for the rising shoals of mackerel in the open sea.

Aboard Aileen G and Maid , however, there was unrestrained glee, for in a few hours they could be as rich as barons. Both Jeb and Wee Laurie had been told their mission only once they were out, their silence secured by the strictest oaths and the certain promise that if any blathered a word they would end up with nothing.

When they were well out to sea and the horizon innocent of land, they bore up for Tiree, to its remote south-west tip, passing inside the long, menacing black reefs of the Skerryvore to reach the end of the island. Even in the glory of the early-morning sun there was an unsettling, sinister air about the place. On this side the light of day could not touch the gloom of the craggy fastness. The sea heaved and struck in sullen white explosions against the dark coast, and as they neared the tortured tumble of rocks, it seemed impossible that they could reach through to the glittering prize that lay inside.

Aileen G sailed by a long grey-sand beach and low pass leading down it to the precipitous pinnacles of the next point. Following on closely, Maid doused her main at the same time and the two eased on their sheets to come to, just beyond the highest headland and close to an inward twist in the tall crags.

It was as Laddie had said: a narrow inlet flanked by two majestic buttresses and there, on a stony slope leading to the impenetrable dark of a sea cave, the blackened remains of a considerably sized wreck.

All about were seaweed-covered rocks, even in this good weather seething and soughing – some unknown captain had achieved a miracle to con his ship through into this last haven in dark and storm to what he must have thought was blessed safety.

The cave, however, had been a deadly trap for there was no way out: the vertical outside rock-face was a hopeless barrier, and no soul could have survived the swim of a mile or more through the currents while being hurled against razor-sharp barnacled reefs.

Anchors were cast – two, this close.

The malefic aura reached out and quietened both boats as Stirk prepared. He looked down into the opaque green depths and shuddered. No sailor cast himself into the sea without good reason but there was nothing else for it.

In loose tunic and trousers he eased himself over the side.

The cruel cold bit into him but he wasn’t going to let it deter him. He struck out for the slope, feeling the great surge and pull of the swell as he made for his goal, now looking so far away.

A clumsy swimmer, Stirk progressed slowly across the thirty yards to shore. He’d taken it on partly to be sure there was fair play but also to see for himself what lay in wait for them. Puffing like a walrus, he finally felt the pebble seabed under him and emerged on all fours next to the wreck timbers.

He had a light cord tied to his trouser belt at the back, which he used to pull in an oilskin bundle floating on a pig’s bladder. It contained a warm jacket, a short spade and a pick.

Throwing a quick reassuring wave, he crunched forward, sizing up the task.

The ship lay sagging and spiritless, the ribs gaunt and jagged, weed slimed and decayed. The decks had long since collapsed and the timbers been driven clear; the outline of the frames was now stark and unrelieved. Stirk moved past the beached hull towards the bow and entered the cave proper. It was dim and stank richly of seaweed and brine. Every step on the shards and pebbles echoed sharply.

He shivered: up this far he might be coming on the bones of long-dead sailors – or, worse, trespassing on the haunt of mermaids and sirens. Every nerve on edge, Stirk fought down his fears and entered the wreck through the skeletal ribs. It was almost unrecognisable, a jumble of anonymous weathered timbers and decay above the tide-line and below it more of the same, green-slimed.

He stumbled about inside, looking for anything that could bring life to the remains, but it was quite bare. The ship’s bottom timbers curved away and he made out foot-waling above it; the decks overhead were completely gone. The wreck had been scoured clean.

It was a bitter blow. Here and there were shapeless, encrusted masses but a few exploratory blows with the edge of the spade showed them to be mast stumps, the iron of fittings, a tangle of heavy cable nearly eaten away – nothing resembling a treasure chest.

Shuddering with the bite of the wind he stumped about, trying to think. It was no good hacking at the wreck – these were the last vestiges, the hold and bottom timbers. Nothing more was below it.

If anything had fallen out, could it be on the tiny beach next to the remains? He clambered out and at random attacked the hard-packed silty sand and rock fragments.

Half an hour’s solid work revealed nothing more than sand fleas, a pair of energetic little crabs and a rapidly filling hole.

He straightened, glancing out into the brightness of the sea. Maid was there, dutifully ‘fishing’, while Aileen would be out of sight around the point expecting a signal. All aboard were waiting for his sudden cry of discovery.