A Scandal By Any Other Name

The night sky over the rugged coast was completely black, completely devoid of any stars or moonlight. The air was incredibly cold and bitingly dry. A thick, eerie gray fog had rolled in off the ocean, wrapping the tall, jagged cliffs in a dense blanket of mist. The sound of the ocean waves crashing against the sharp rocks below was a constant, heavy roar.

Hidden down a steep, narrow dirt path, completely tucked away from the prying eyes of honest village people, sat a massive wooden building. It was Lord Farrington’s secret coastal warehouse.

Inside the warehouse, Several oil lanterns hung from the thick wooden beams, casting long, dark, dancing shadows across the floorboards.

Mr. Higgins, the warehouse manager, stood in the very center of the large room. His face was completely pale. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He held a crumpled, thick piece of parchment tightly in his trembling hand.

"Move those crates faster!" Higgins shouted, his voice cracking with pure, nervous panic. He waved his arm frantically toward the wooden doors that led to the cliff’s edge. "Do not just stand there! The Earl’s orders were absolute! Every single crate must go into the sea before the sun rises!"

A dozen rough men hurried around the dusty floorboards. They were seasoned smugglers and hired thugs who usually moved the illegal goods into London. Tonight, they were doing the exact opposite. They grunted and swore loudly as they pushed the heavy wooden crates toward the open back doors.

One of the men, a tall, broad-shouldered smuggler named Silas, who had a thick, unkempt beard, stopped pushing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his dirty sleeve and glared at the manager.

"This is complete madness, Higgins," Silas argued, his deep voice rumbling with heavy frustration. He pointed a calloused finger at the massive stack of crates. "We are throwing a king’s ransom directly into the ocean. Why in heaven’s name are we destroying it?"

Higgins marched over to the tall smuggler. He held up the crumpled letter, shaking it in Silas’s face.

"Are you mad? They are all bad and Lord Farrington also commanded it!" Higgins hissed, his eyes wide with absolute, frantic terror. "After our letter yesterday, the Earl sent a fast rider this morning. He is beginning to suspects the Crown is looking into him. He heard from one of his men that the Flying Squad is patrolling the local roads. He wants all the evidence completely destroyed. He wrote it right here: Destroy the tobacco. Leave absolutely no trace. Dump it into the churning waters where no magistrate can ever recover it."

Silas crossed his thick, muscular arms over his chest. He looked at the deep, dark fog rolling through the open doors.

"We should burn it, then," Silas suggested grimly. "It would be much faster than carrying two hundred heavy crates to the edge of the cliff in the dark."

"Are you entirely foolish?" Higgins snapped, his patience completely gone. "A massive fire on the coast will act as a bright beacon! It will attract every local magistrate, every passing naval ship, and every nosey villager within ten miles! We dump it in the water. The sea will swallow the wood, and the salt will ruin the leaves further. Now, get back to work!"

Silas grumbled a harsh curse under his breath, but he turned back to the heavy wooden crate. He dug his boots into the floorboards and pushed.

The men rolled the crates to the very edge of the steep cliff behind the warehouse. With a synchronized heave, they pushed the heavy boxes over the side. The crates vanished into the thick gray fog. A few seconds later, the distant, heavy splash of wood hitting the dark, churning water echoed up the cliff face.

Higgins paced back and forth near the lanterns. He rubbed his face with his trembling hands. He felt completely sick to his stomach. Those tobaccos were the highlight of their smuggling business. Even if they sell the smuggled French silk, it wouldn’t even cover quarter the loss of the tobacco. Even the men didn’t know about the French silks.

"Keep moving!" Higgins yelled again, trying to calm his own racing heart. "We have fifty more crates to go!"

Silas and three other men walked back inside the warehouse, panting heavily from the physical exertion. They reached for the next stack of tobacco.

But before their hands could even touch the wood, a new sound completely pierced the quiet night.

It was not the sound of the ocean, and it was not the sound of the wind.

It was the sharp, synchronized, heavy crunch of leather boots marching over the gravel path.

The smugglers froze completely. Silas slowly turned his head toward the wide open front doors of the warehouse. The thick, gray mist swirled lazily in the opening.

Suddenly, dark figures began to emerge from the fog like ghosts.

They did not shout. They did not announce their arrival. They moved like highly trained military men.

Dozens of men stepped into the dim light of the warehouse. They wore crisp, perfectly tailored dark blue uniforms with shining brass buttons. They wore heavy black boots and thick, warm coats against the sea chill. They were the Crown Guards, the most elite, feared, and unforgiving authority of the King’s law.

At the very front of the group stood Captain Reynolds.

He was a tall, incredibly stern man with sharp, cold eyes, a strong jawline, and a thick, well-groomed mustache. He moved with absolute, rigid authority. He held a long, gleaming silver sword in his right hand. In his left hand, he held a loaded pistol, pointed directly at the center of the dusty room.

Behind him, two dozen guards stepped into the warehouse in perfect unison. With a loud, terrifying series of mechanical clicks, they raised their heavy rifles, pulling the hammers back. They pointed the deadly weapons directly at the completely surrounded, terrified smugglers.

"Nobody move a single muscle!" Captain Reynolds shouted.