A Barrel Of Rum (standard:mystery, 1071 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Nov 26 2005	Views/Reads: 4045/2503	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
On a hot, humid summer day, a walk across Suffolk heathland presents unexpected hazards

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

grey mist, dust started to rise from the east. 

And then I saw why – the horses and carts I'd seen earlier were
returning, but this time at a furious pace, bearing down towards me. 
Convention or no convention, I thought this was stretching it a bit. 

I turned back to the parson but he'd disappeared so quickly he might
have been vaporised. 

My heart was keeping pace with the horses' hooves as they charged
closer, two horses and one man to a chaise, perhaps a dozen carriages 
in all and each one laden with barrels. 

The leader glared down at me, his dark eyes the only prominent feature
in a heavily bearded face; suddenly he pulled sharply on the reins, his 
horse whinnied and the chaise slithered sideways alongside me, only 
inches away. 

His mean eyes were fixed on the poster I still held, ‘I'll take that my
friend.' 

I shook my head aghast, I felt like I'd been hauled from the audience
into the midst of some crazy pantomime. 

He lowered his head towards me, ‘It's either that or I plant a bullet in
your skull – now which would you prefer?' 

I smelled the alcohol on his breath, saw his rotted teeth, the lower set
ground to stumps. Some pantomime – 

‘Look,' I said shakily, ‘there's playing games but there are limits.' 

‘Games – games, you think I jest?' He turned incredulously to his chums;
the collection of riders and chaises had encircled me – from beneath 
his black frock he drew a blunderbuss, ‘Listen, folks in these parts 
know better than to cross us,' his frown seemed to split his forehead 
from temple to temple, ‘was that your intention – is that why you're 
holding the poster?' The weapon was an inch away from my nose and 
perfectly still, ‘If you're not our friend you'll be counted as foe...' 


‘Okay, okay,' I shoved the poster into the big chap's free hand, held my
arms aloft. I'd play the daft game their way, because it was a game in 
the loosest sense – the intimidation was as unbearable as the humidity. 


I glanced at the barrels in his chaise, ‘Trinidad 1734 was printed in
black. Very authentic, I thought. 

But I breathed a huge sigh of relief as they sped off with just a grunt
from the big chap. I mopped my brow and headed straight back to the 
inn. 

I was just in time, thunder and lightning was crackling across the sky
and large drops of rain had begun to fall. But at least I was back to 
reality; at any rate I assumed so. 

I opened the door to the inn and greeted the cellar-man as he came up
from the basement; he looked at me oddly, nodded, hoisted a barrel to 
his shoulder and proceeded back down the cellar steps. It was an old 
wooden cask, stunk of age. I glanced at the inscription – 

Trinidad. 1734. 


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