With relief but at the same time caution, the younger man approached the cottage, and mounted the steps to the weather-beaten porch. The two men regarded each other a moment in silence.
“You know, then?”
“Aye, lad,” rejoined the fisherman in his clear baritone. “Three red-coated cavalry were here yesterday, searching about and makin’ a fuss. Saw fit to post a threatening bill on the door of the church. ‘Escaped traitors (traitors, mind) from Edinburgh. . .believed headed. . .fifty pounds reward
. . .death to anyone aiding or abetting.’ The usual stuff.”
“The villagers will be on the watch for me, then?”
“Nay, lad. That bill was torn down before their horses were out of sight. And you plainly don’t know sea-folk if you have to ask.” He took a puff on his pipe, and continued without haste.
“We live with death every day of our lives, and would not last one season if we grew afraid every time the word was spoken. That lady out there.” He moved his arm to indicate the sea. “She gives and takes life as she pleases, with hardly a warning. God’s mistress she is, with moods and temper to match. If we’ll not bow to her, then what have we to fear from three young hoodlums, flashing their sabers as if to wake the dead?”
“Meaning no offense,” said the other, “and I’m sure you’re right. But aren’t there some as might be tempted by the money? And might the English not have spies?”
“Perhaps,” said the fisherman thoughtfully. “The arm of the Devil is long, and no denying. But you’ll have naught to fear of that tonight. I live quite alone, as you see, and in the morning there’ll be a fog to blot out the sun.” He said this with confidence, as one who had seen it a thousand times before.
Then extinguishing his pipe against the wooden arm of the chair, he rose as if to go inside, with an open hand indicating the door. “Right now I imagine you’re hungry, and might do with a mug of stout?”