A Smuggling story for February

From the archive, a short story set in February... 

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE BY  S. R. CROCKETT
From Tales of Our Coast, 1896. 
 
‘Rise, Robin, rise ! The partans are on the Sands!’
 
The crying at our little window raised me out of a sound sleep, for I had been out seeing the Myreside lasses late the night before,  and was far from being wake-rife at two by the clock on a February morning.

It was the first time the summons had come to me, for I was then but young.  Hitherto it was my brother John who had answered the raising word of the free- traders spoken at the window. But now John had a farm-steading of his own, thanks to Sir William Maxwell and to my father's siller that had paid for the stock.
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So with all speed I did my clothes upon me, with much eagerness and a beating heart,as who would not, when, for the first time, he has the privilege of man?  
As I went out to the barn I could hear my mother (with whom I was ever a favourite) praying for me.
'Save the laddie — save the laddie!' she said over and over.
 
And I think my father prayed too; but, as I went, he also cried to me counsels.
 
'Be sure you keep up the grappling chains— dinna let them clatter till ye hae the stuff weel up the hill. The Lord keep ye! Be a guid lad an' ride honestly. Gin ye see Sir William, keep your head doon, an' gae by withoot lookin'. He 's a magistrate, ye ken. But he’ll no' see you, gin ye dinna see him. Leave twa ankers a-piece o' brandy an' rum at our ain dyke back. An' abune a', the Lord be wi' ye, an' bring ye safe back to your sorrowing parents!'

So, with pride, I did the harness graith upon the sonsy back of Brown Bess, — the pad before where I was to sit, — the lingtow and the hooked chains behind. I had a cutlass, a jockteleg (or smuggler's sheaf - knife), and a pair of brass-mounted pistols ready swung in my leathern belt. Faith, but I wish Bell of the Mains could have seen me then, ready to ride forth with the light- horsemen. She would never scorn me more for a lingle-backed callant, I'se warrant.
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‘Haste ye, Robin! Heard ye no' that the partans are on the sands '
 
It was Geordie of the Clone who cried to me. He meant the free-traders from the Isle, rolling the barrels ashore.

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