Emits a brighter ray.” —Oliver Goldsmith, The Captivity, an Oratorio Chapter Eleven That night, Katrina learned the true reality of smuggling: it wasn’t romantic, but bone-chilling, backbreaking work. True, prosperity literally rested upon the backs of the men, but it was hard won. Trip after trip they made through the shallows to the anchored luggers, carting tub upon tub of brandy and bolt upon bolt of oilskin-wrapped silk and lace. They seemed tireless to Katrina, who was already exhausted from the rough crossing and the long, bitter price negotiations. Nevertheless, she persisted in loading the silk until a gentle but firm Davie led her to the beach and pushed her down on the sand. “Staay, my girl. ’Ee’ve done enough for one night.” Davie glared at the source of Katrina’s tiredness, a cadaverous Frenchman who stood, skinny buttocks resting against his huge wagon, and watched the laboring Englishmen.
