Short Story: Black Shuck

Short Story: Black Shuck

Black Shuck

“I dare not turn, see. I felt his breath on my neck. Hot and damp. It smelt sour. His whiskers brushed against my cheek. I knows it was him. Old Black Shuck. But I was lucky. He took one last sniff and padded off into the night. I watched him go. Big as a pony he was. I’d seen him. I’d seen the divil dog and I’d survived.” With this Old Ben looked around at his audience and was met with an appreciative shiver.

“and...” he said pausing for effect, then he drew back his sleeve revealing four angry purple welts on his forearm. “I got his mark see. He’ll know me next time. Next time I mayn’t be so lucky. There’s few who have seen Black Shuck and lived to tell of it. ” Ben supped the last of his ale and demanded another.

I was more than happy to take his tankard for a refill. Old Ben had entranced me with his stories since I was a young boy and now I had another reason to value them. As night came on the inn emptied and we prepared for the night’s work. Owlers’ work. Done in the dark of night, when all were abed. Afraid to leave the comfort of their blankets. For who knows what creatures were abroad in the night time?

“Look lively lads,” I said. “The Dutchman won’t wait if we’re not there to take his cargo.”

Silently we set off towards the river mouth. The Dutchman would lay offshore and unload the merchandise into smaller craft. Half ankers of French brandy and Geneva. Tea, tobacco, lace, silks, gloves, perfumed waters, even playing cards. All fetching a pretty price and not a penny going to the Revenue. I smiled to myself as I thought of the King’s revenue men ten miles up the coast waiting for the same ship. Too late they would discover the intelligence they trusted was a falsehood.

The Dutchman’s craft hove into view. What a beauty she was. A lugger with fourteen guns. Although heavier than the revenue men’s cutters, she had outrun them many a time. The Dutchman was a master of the seas. Old Ben had told me many a tale of the Dutchman’s prowess. My favourite one was of him heading for a rocky cove where the revenue men dared not follow. They thought he would founder, but he did not. He cut close to the rocks and made for a passage way between outcrop and mainland. The revenue men knew nothing of this escape route. Soon the Dutchman had set a course for home while the crew of the cutters waited for him at the entrance to the cove.

The lads made short work of unloading the cargo and stacking it on the waiting carts. They were honest, hardworking men. Times were hard and such work that could be found on the land paid little. Smuggling paid well and there was adventure too. Aye there were risks; fines, prison, even impressment into the Royal Navy, but buying a dollop of tea for ten shillings and selling it at forty or fifty shillings, sometimes more. Who could resist such riches? Not I.

I watched as the carts made their way to the halfway house. Jim Dore’s sheep followed on, masking the tracks left behind. His shaggy, black hound nipped at the heels of the sheep, keeping them in a tight bunch. I stood to admire his work for a while. He raised his head, returning my gaze. His eyes glowed red in the torchlight and he bared his teeth in warning.

“That’s a fine new dog you have there, Jim.” I said, pointing to the hound.

“What dog be that Master Richard? I just got my Bess with me tonight. You know Bessie.”

Puzzled I looked again at the hound, but there was no sign of him. He had vanished. I shook my head. I was letting Old Ben’s stories get to me. I was beginning to imagine things.

At the next dark of the moon, my lads and I set forth to meet the Dutchman again. We waited in the reeds. I nibbled some bread and mutton I’d brought along to ease the wait. A sea fret was coming in off the water. Beads of moisture formed on my coat and swirling tendrils of mist floated in front of me. I raised a finger to twirl them some more and watched trancelike. A rustle in the reeds woke me from my reverie but, turning my head, I saw nothing. The air had become foul and fetid. The smell of rotten meat. Hairs on my neck rose and cold as I was I felt colder. Chilled through to my very marrow. Then I felt his hot breath on my neck. I could see his breath in the night air, but I could not see him. I could feel his whiskers close to my face. I could smell his shaggy wet coat, but still I saw nothing. I was frozen to the spot with fear. My heart pounded and the blood raced through my ears. I tried to breathe quietly, tried to hear him breathe. But nothing.

“Master Richard?” A voice hissed in the dark. “The Dutchman is coming but the revenue men are close behind.”

I barely suppressed a scream. All thoughts of ghost hounds forgotten, I jumped up from my reed bed. “What? They’re supposed to be waiting at Gorlstone tonight.”

“Well that’s as maybe Master Richard, but they’s here now.”

The Dutchman’s lugger had turned about and was heading out for the open sea. The Revenue cutter was close behind. Someone had split on us. When I discovered the informer I would split him wide open.

All about was confusion.

Dragoons on foot and horseback had joined forces with the Revenue men.

We were outnumbered.

My lads did not turn tail, they stood to fight. Shoulder to shoulder, armed with cutlass and flintlock pistols, we put up a good show. Jed was the first to fall. A musket ball took him in the stomach. He lay screaming. His blood made the ground treacherous and slippery. I cursed the revenue men and caught one with my heavy cutlass. We were too close to use our pistols but the dragoons stood back from our little band with their muskets. I saw Mark clutch his arm and collapse to his knees. One by one my men were wounded and eventually we succumbed to the combined forces.

Now prisoners of the Revenue men we were loaded onto our own carts but I saw my chance. I ran and was soon hidden by the reeds.

A dragoon had spotted me and gave chase.

I ducked down to load my pistol. As I stood to shoot the dragoon raised his musket.

I fired.

Nothing!

Time stood still as I waited for his musket ball to pierce my flesh, but I was knocked off my feet. Winded, I lay there as the hound whimpered and licked my neck. He had taken the shot for me. We laid low in the reeds. The dragoon sought us out. We could hear the bog sucking at his boots. We listened to his grunts and muttered curses. Then he was called back to the troops and he gave me up to the quicksand.

I dragged the hound deeper into the marshland making ourselves a bed deep in the reeds. I felt over his bony body.

There it was. In the shoulder. Not too deep.

I took my knife and dug the musket ball out. I staunched the flow of blood with my neckerchief. The hound growled throughout but there was no anger in his brown eyes. He placed a paw on my forearm as if to show thanks. What else could I do? Had it not been for him the musket ball would have been in me. He curled up and I placed some of the bread and mutton in front of him. He sniffed it but put his head on his paws. To keep warm I curled myself around him. He felt so cold. I was sure he would die. During the night he raised his head and placed it on my leg. He still felt cold. As I drifted off again I felt as if the weight of his head had passed through my leg. I felt clammy and cold and hugged the hound closer.

When I woke the hound was gone. My neckerchief was on the ground, dirty but with no sign of the hound’s blood. The bread and mutton were still there. Wearily I stood up and looked around. There was no sight of him. Nor when I looked down was there any indication that he had been there. The trampled reed bed showed only where I had slept.

I reached down to my pocket where I had placed the musket ball. As I did so I felt my forearm adhere to the linen of my shirt. I pulled back the sleeve. Four angry purple welts were already healing.

Now, I too, had his mark.

The End