© 2006

April 1811

The Old Barn near Brancaster

Norfolk, England

Three horsemen pulled out of the trees before the Old Barn. Harness jingled, faint on the night breeze, as they turned their horses’ heads to the west. Clouds shifted, drifted; moonlight shone through, bathing the scene.

The Old Barn stood silent, watchful, guarding its secrets. Earlier, within its walls, the Hunstanton Gang had gathered to elect a new leader. Afterward, the smugglers had left, slipping into the night, mere shadows in the dark. They would return, nights from now, meeting under the light of a storm lantern to hear of the next cargo their new leader had arranged.

“Captain Jack!” As he swung his horse onto the road, George Smeaton frowned at the man beside him. “Do we really need to resurrect him?”

“Who else?” Mounted on his tall grey, Jonathon Hendon, better known as Jack, gestured expansively. “That was, after all, my nom de guerre.”

“Years ago. When you were dangerous to know. I’ve lived the last years in the comfortable belief that Captain Jack had died.”

“No.” Jack grinned. “He’s merely been in temporary retirement.” Captain Jack had been active in more devil-may-care days, when, between army engagements in the Peninsula, the Admirality had recruited Jack to captain one of his own ships, harassing French shipping up and down the Channel. “You have to admit Captain Jack’s perfect for this job-a fitting leader for the Hunstanton Gang.”

George’s snort was eloquent. “Poor blighters-they’ve no idea what they’ve let themselves in for.”

Jack chuckled. “Stop carping-our mission’s proceeding better than I’d hoped, and all in only a few weeks of coming home. Whitehall will be impressed. We’ve been accepted by the smugglers-I’m now their leader. We’re in a perfect position to ensure no information gets to the French by this route.” His brows rose; his expression turned considering. “Who knows?” he mused. “We might even be able to use the traffic for our own ends.”