Authors: Jane Jackson
The ebbing tide had exposed a wide expanse of firm sand. Tamara loosened the reins and leaned forward in the saddle as the mare lengthened her stride and picked up speed. The cold morning air stung her face as they thundered across the beach. Hatless, her hair streamed behind her like a black banner.
Approaching the rocks she reined in, slowing to a trot then a walk. Exhilarated by the gallop, she patted the mare’s neck, guiding her along beside the rocks while she looked at what was left of the schooner.
The morning after the storm Lt Crocker had arrived with a party of dragoons. Tamara had watched them loading bodies onto a cart borrowed from one of the farms. Only two had been strangers. She hadn’t heard if they belonged to the schooner’s crew, or were wreckers from Brague.
The others were local. One woman and three men, drunk on plundered rum, had died of exposure. One man’s widow and the woman’s two children were bound for the workhouse. Another man had slipped on the weed-covered rocks and fallen into a crevice. His leg broken, unable to move, he had drowned in the rising tide.
The lieutenant had examined the wreck, shaken his head, and ridden away with his men. Tamara knew from previous occasions that he would visit the local shops and inns, and post notices warning that anything taken from the schooner was stolen property and must be returned. She also knew, as he surely must, that it was a pointless exercise.
Closing mines had thrown tinners out of work. The fishermen were at the mercy of both weather and shoals. Last year’s bad harvest meant that several farmers, unable to pay their rent, had been thrown off their land. So what the sea gave, the villagers kept.
The schooner had grounded three nights ago. The villagers, the tides and the knife-edged rocks had torn the ship apart. Another week and there would be nothing to show she’d ever been there. Only a marker in the graveyard.
Tamara halted the mare and glanced seaward, judging the state of the tide. Then she looked towards the cliff that marked the end of the beach and separated it from the rocky coves beyond. At the base of the cliff was a basin where, at certain phases of the moon, things lost from the beach or harbour were washed up by tidal currents.
She sat for a moment longer, reluctant. She could tell someone else. Who? Dr Avers? He’d feel bound to tell her mother. As for Mr Carthew, the Methodist preacher, she definitely could not tell him. ‘Holy’ Moses Carthew believed half the village – the half that drank spirits and smoked tobacco – was condemned to hellfire and damnation. It was inevitable he would consider her gift a mark of the devil. In any case, telling someone would only provoke questions. Such as how did she know?
What could she say? She didn’t know how she knew things. She just did. Anyway, she was here because if the knowledge was a gift it was also a responsibility.
Drawing a deep breath she clicked her tongue and gently kicked the mare with the heel of her boot. As they approached the basin the mare tossed her head and edged sideways but Tamara urged her on, soothing her with murmurs.
Her heart sank as she looked at the tangle of rope, seaweed torn loose by the gales, driftwood, and smashed crabpots. But as she drew closer, able now to see the area hidden from view, there it was, just as she had ‘seen’ it, white against the dark rock, small and broken like a doll.
Her eyes burned and her throat tightened. Dismounting, she flipped the reins over the restless mare’s head and looped them over her arm. Untying the holly-green sash around the waist of her jacket, she shook out the folds and laid it on the sand. Blinking away tears and biting her lip hard she gently picked up the tiny battered corpse and wrapped it closely in the fringed muslin. Then, remounting the mare and holding the tragic little bundle in the crook of her arm, she rode up the beach and through the village to the parsonage.
The Reverend Dr Trennack was a scholar, happier with his books than with his parishioners, who found him pleasant if slightly detached. But his wife was a kind woman of great understanding who had borne him seven children and buried three of them.
Caroline Trennack accepted the bundle, her gaze warm and sympathetic. ‘Oh my dear, Thank you. It cannot have been easy. I will write to his mother. Knowing he’s been found might make her loss a little easier to bear.’
Nodding, Tamara turned away. Remounting, she guided the mare up onto the moor and galloped her along narrow paths through the bracken and heather until they were both exhausted.
With her pointed stem and stern and an outrigger to hold the mizzen sheet that mirrored the bowsprit, the lugger was a ‘double-ender’ and typical of the Mount’s Bay boats.
Devlin stood at the helm, the slim package wrapped in oiled silk stuffed down his boot and pressing against his ankle. He had brought back letters and dispatches in the past. But this packet, his uncle told him, was to be placed in the hands of Branoc Casvellan and no one else.
‘Are you mad?’ Devlin had whispered fiercely. ‘I’m running contraband and you want me to take this to our local justice?’
‘It’ll be all right,’ his uncle promised. ‘This is far more important than your cargo of brandy.’
‘You’re sure of that, are you? What is it anyway?’
‘Better you don’t know.’
‘And if we’re attacked?’
Hedley’s fingers had tightened on his forearm. ‘Weight it with an iron pig and throw it overboard. Mind me now, Devlin. It must not be found.’
Jared stood at the mizzen with the other crew forward near the mainmast: three to handle the big lug sail and the fourth to man the jib.
‘Where do your uncle get all his information from?’ Jared asked, shaking his head in awe.
Devlin shrugged. ‘He keeps his ears open. Roscoff is always buzzing with rumours.’
‘D’you think this one’s true?’
‘That there are English agents working in France? Or that the French are desperate to catch them?’
‘Both.’
‘I’d say so. If we need to know where the revenue cutters and the dragoons are on the days we make a run, the British government would certainly want to know if the French are planning another invasion.’
‘After they lost all those men in Ireland?’ Jared was sceptical. ‘They’d be bleddy mad to try.’
‘Still, it’s hardly surprising there’s a growing number in favour of restoring the monarchy.’
Jared grunted. ‘Why, fer God’s sake? ’Tis but a few years since they killed the king and queen they had.’
‘True. But what they’ve got now is a corrupt dictatorship that rules by terror. People are even worse off than they were before the revolution. There’s no work, virtually everything is in short supply, and the paper currency is worthless. Still, at least they have plenty of cheap flour.’
‘Don’t matter how cheap it is,’ Jared said. ‘If you got no work, you got no money to buy it.’
‘True again. So with the French government offering a reward in gold for the capture of enemy agents –’ Devlin broke off, stiffening as he peered into the gloom. ‘What – ?’
Jared followed Devlin’s gaze. ‘God a’mighty, ’tis a revenue cutter.’ He frowned. ‘But ’e shouldn’t be …’
‘No, he shouldn’t.’ Devlin was grim. ‘The Penryn boat is out of the water for repairs, and the two Falmouth boats are supposed to be up around Fowey and Cawsand.’
‘Well, that one isn’t.’ Jared growled.
‘Hey, skip,’ Ben Tozer had caught sight of the customs cutter. ‘That’s the
Lark
. What the ‘ell’s she doing down here?’
‘Get ready to go about,’ Devlin interrupted. This was a complicated manoeuvre as it required the heavy yard from which the lug-sail hung to be dropped to the deck, moved round forward of the mast then re-hoisted on the new tack. Yet skill and practice meant the crew usually made short work of it, even in heavy weather. But this morning Charlie Grose kept fumbling the ropes, delaying the tack.
Sam and Andy cursed his clumsiness, and Danny swore.
‘For Chrissakes, Charlie, what are ’ee doing of?’
‘Me ’ands is froze,’ Charlie whined. ‘I can’t feel to grip.’ He was certainly trembling, apparently racked by shivers. This struck Devlin as strange, for all of them – including Charlie – were dressed for the winter weather. Beneath canvas smocks they wore woollen shirts, Guernseys, or jumpers of heavy, off-white oiled wool, thick trousers, and knitted socks inside wide-topped high leather boots.
As Charlie shook and fumbled, his gaze kept darting towards the cutter. This slowed him down even further, making him more hindrance than help.
Watching him through narrowed eyes, Devlin’s impatience was suddenly swept aside as shocked realisation was swiftly followed by icy rage.
‘Jared, take the helm.’ Plunging forward, Devlin seized a handful of the stained canvas covering Charlie’s chest and jerked him close. ‘You tipped them off.’
In the pre-dawn gloom Charlie’s eyes widened in fear. Despite the knife-edged wind, sweat beaded his face, giving the lie to his claim of being cold. His lips parted but before he could speak Devlin backhanded him across the mouth. A drop of blood bloomed darkly on the pallid skin.
‘Lie to me and I swear to God I’ll kill you where you stand.’
Tears ran down Charlie’s cheeks and he began to gibber. ‘Hammer said he’d break me legs. There wasn’t no other way I could get the money.’
‘So you sold us out? You treacherous bastard.’
Charlie flinched violently at the cannon’s echoing boom. Devlin didn’t even glance up. He knew it was merely a warning shot. The cutter was too far away to have any hope of hitting them.
‘Looks like they want us to heave-to, skipper,’ Sam said.
‘Not a chance.’ Though Devlin’s gaze remained fixed on Charlie he raised his voice so they could all hear him. ‘But they can have their informer. I’ve no use for him.’
There was a moment’s utter silence as the crew realised what Charlie had done and what Devlin intended.
‘Skip,’ Jared’s voice was pitched low. ‘You sure ‘bout this?’
‘Oh yes,’ Devlin dragged Charlie to the gunwale. ‘He made his choice.’
‘No,’ Charlie gasped. ‘Jesus, Skip. You can’t.’
‘You think not?’ Devlin was implacable. ‘Five years, Charlie. Five years you’ve been on this boat. A crew is closer than family. Trust is everything. Whether we’re fishing or running contraband, trust can mean the difference between life and death. But you betrayed us. You sold us to pay your gambling debts.’
Trembling violently, Charlie wailed, ‘But Hammer was going to break me legs –’
‘Then you’d better hope he doesn’t find you.’ With strength born of anger all the more bitter because he’d liked Charlie, Devlin forced the struggling man backwards over the kegs that lined the ledge along the inner edge of the gunwale.
‘I can’t swim,’ Charlie croaked desperately.
‘Nor can Sam or Andy,’ Devlin replied. ‘They were your mates. If the cutter had got close enough to sink us, they would have drowned. You knew that, but you didn’t care. Go to the devil, Charlie.’
With a sharp thrust that pushed the crewman off-balance, Devlin seized his ankles and tipped him over the side.
A splash cut short Charlie’s scream. Devlin heard ‘Bleddy ’ell,’ from one of the startled crew and someone else muttered, ‘Devil by name …’ He turned his back on the flailing figure whose choking screams were shredded by the gusting wind. The lugger bore away, the gap widening rapidly.
‘Billy, help Joe shift the ballast.’ Leaving Jared on the helm Devlin grabbed a rope. ‘Ready, lads? Right, drop her.’
A few minutes later, with the tack completed and sails re-set, the lugger creamed through the choppy swell heading shoreward. Given the strength of the south-east wind Devlin knew they were in danger of being driven onto the jagged rocks. But it was a risk worth taking. Against the dark cliffs the boat’s black hull and brown sails would be hard to see.
Laden with 80 tubs of fine cognac, the lugger sat low in the water. Yet her flat bottom and shallow draft would enable her to sail far closer inshore than the deep-keeled cutter.
Devlin looked at his crew. Their lives were in peril on every run. They didn’t do it for a thrill like the bored younger sons of the gentry did. It was a matter of survival, especially when weeks went by and the shoals didn’t come. Cornwall was a long way from the capital and a government that knew little and cared even less about the desperate daily struggle with poverty.
The slim packets of tobacco, silk, and lace stuffed inside the crew’s boots were their personal ventures and not counted as part of the cargo. Some might be kept for a mother, sister, wife, or sweetheart. But most would be sold to buy bread and meat, a length of cloth or a new cooking pot.
‘You making for the cove, skip?’ Danny enquired.
Devlin shook his head. ‘We wouldn’t have time to land the brandy. Besides, if Customs were willing to divert one of the revenue cutters down here from Fowey on the strength of whatever Charlie Grose told them, it’s possible Lieutenant Crocker will be waiting for us with a welcoming party of dragoons.’ He heard the soft hiss of indrawn breath as his crew recognised the depth of Charlie’s betrayal.
‘We’ll drop the tubs and creep for them once the coast is clear. They’ll come to no harm on the sea bottom for a few days.’
As the crew began checking the ropes that linked the tubs in groups of five with a sinking stone attached, Devlin was grateful for his uncle’s foresight in having them already prepared.
Sunrise approached, and as the sky gradually lightened the men worked hard and fast. Andy and Billy managed the sails while Joe shifted ballast.
Devlin took the helm, steering the lugger on a course parallel to the cliffs. This freed Jared to help Ben, Danny and Sam drop the tubs smoothly and quietly over the windward side of the boat away from any watching eyes onshore. Keeping the boat moving, and timing each drop so she was in the trough of a swell, meant that even with a glass trained in their direction, the revenue cutter’s captain would be unable to see anything that might indicate suspicious activity.
As the last tubs went overboard, Jared dropped a crab pot with a small cork buoy attached as a marker. Joe dragged the fishing nets from the cuddy and piled them in the bottom of the boat while Andy hoisted buckets of seawater inboard and thoroughly wet the nets. Returning with dry gear after a night supposedly spent chasing a pilchard shoal had caused more than one boat crew to be hauled before the justice on a charge of smuggling.
A brilliant white-gold sun rose over the horizon and lit rag-edged clouds with flame orange and shadowy purple. The black restless sea turned to wine, then blood, then bronze. As the sun climbed higher, blurred outlines hardened to reveal a coastline of foaming surf, black rocks, wooded valleys, heather and gorse-clad hills, and small fields bounded by stone hedges. Guiding the lugger into Porthinnis’s tiny harbour, Devlin glanced back across restless grey water.
‘D’you think they picked him up?’ Jared kept his voice low.
Devlin shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Better they didn’t. Bloody young fool. He could never have come back to the village.’ He turned to face his crew. ‘Any man who wants to leave will be paid up and is free to go. There’ll be no hard feelings.’ He studied each man in turn. They gazed back unflinching. Not a single glance dropped. Not a man moved.
‘You done what you had to, Skipper,’ Billy said.
‘’Twas ’im or us,’ Sam added, shaking his head.
‘Charlie was a fool,’ Joe growled. ‘Andy warned him about Hammer, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘What shall us say, Skip?’ Ben asked. ‘People is bound to ask.’
Devlin rubbed his jaw. His voice was as bleak as his expression. ‘We say it was an accident. We had a rough crossing with a full cargo and everyone was tired. We spotted the cutter and in the scramble to put the boat about, Charlie slipped and went overboard.’
He watched as they exchange nods. ‘The truth stays on the boat. Once you’re ashore, for your own safety say as little as possible.’
‘What about his brother?’ Sam growled.
‘I’ll tell Willie exactly what I’ve told you.’
‘D’you think he’ll believe you?’ Jared asked.
Devlin’s smile was grim. ‘That depends on whether he knew Charlie had informed on us.’
‘Skip,’ Danny pointed.
Realising he’d been outwitted and further pursuit would be pointless, the cutter’s captain had altered course and was heading out of the bay.
A watery sun was climbing a sky the colour of pearl when Devlin finally returned to the quay. He was tired to his bones. Willie’s first response had been disbelief.
‘No, he can’t be dead!’ He had pushed Devlin aside, peering up and down the street as if expecting his brother to jump out, grinning at the trick he’d played on them. He looked at Devlin again. ‘Not Charlie.’ It was a plea.
‘I’m sorry.’ Devlin spoke the truth. Charlie had been popular with the crew, even if his love of practical jokes had occasionally irritated. Yet he’d betrayed them all for money, had been willing to see them all hanged or transported. A lifetime’s practice of hiding his feelings kept Devlin’s face unreadable as he nodded in farewell and turned away. Willie’s shock was genuine. No one could feign that waxy pallor or stunned expression.
Whether or not Willie knew what his brother had done, Charlie’s death had shaken him to the core. The crew would stick to the accident story. Willie could not challenge it without implicating both his brother and himself.
Devlin sighed, then caught himself. Regret was a waste of time and energy. The past could not be changed. Charlie had reaped what he’d sown.
Devlin left the quay and turned into a cobbled alley alongside the building where he kept the gig and spare gear for both boats. The main entrance was at the front. Inside, wooden stairs led up to the net loft and sail store. At each change of season the nets were dropped through a trapdoor into wheelbarrows then taken along the quay to the barking shed. There they were steeped in a boiling liquid made from shredded oak bark to protect and preserve them.
Halfway up the alley Devlin lifted the latch on a tall gate in the high wall. It led into a yard with a lean-to privy in one corner. Climbing a flight of stone steps to the building’s third storey, he removed a key hanging on a cord around his neck, unfastened the hasp and padlock, and opened the stout door. Once inside he shot the thick oak bar across. He was in no mood for company.
Then, despite exhaustion and the stress of the trip, the corners of his mouth lifted. Neatly arranged on the scrubbed sycamore table were a crusty loaf, a dish of butter, and a jar of blackberry jam. The blue and white china jug was covered with a circle of muslin weighted with blue glass beads, which meant it was full of fresh milk. Beside it lay a parcel wrapped in a crisp white cloth. After cleaning up, Inez had left him a pasty for his dinner.
Pulling off his canvas smock he hung it on the back of the door and sank into the bentwood armchair by the hearth. Kindling sticks and furze were piled in the grate ready to be lit. Yawning hugely he tugged off his boots. Packages fell out onto the floorboards, among them the oiled silk. He gathered them all up and, silent in his thick socks, padded across to a battered oak chest, opened the lid and dropped the packages inside.
Ignoring the small keg that had been emptied of brandy several years ago, he lifted out a stone jar. Taking a pewter mug from the crowded shelf, he poured a generous measure of cognac and tossed it down.
The spirit burned his throat. But as the heat spread through him he felt knotted muscles loosen and tension began to dissolve. He knew he should eat. But food would have to wait. His head ached and his eyes were sore from salt spray and lack of sleep. Stripping off his thick sweater he stumbled across to the neatly made bed that occupied one corner of the large room. Falling onto it, he pulled up a blanket and fell instantly into deep sleep.
Dimly aware of hammering he tried to ignore it, hoping it would stop. But it didn’t. Then someone called his name. Cursing as he recognised his brother’s voice he forced his eyes open.
‘Stop the noise,’ he croaked. ‘I hear you.’ Lifting the bar he opened the door and turned away, padding over to the grate. There he crouched and used flint and steel to light the fire.
Thomas walked in, his caped greatcoat swirling around the ankles of his polished boots. ‘At last.’
As the fire caught and crackled, Devlin added more wood. Pushing the brandis – an iron triangle on three legs – over the flames he set a large pot of water on it then stood up, yawning as he raked both hands through unkempt hair. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost eleven. When did you get back?’
‘Just after dawn.’
Thomas peered out of the small-paned window. ‘I hear you had trouble. What happened?’
Devlin watched his brother. ‘We were chased by a revenue cutter and I lost a crewman.’
Thomas turned round, gave a brief nod. ‘I saw Willie. He’s very upset.’
‘He would be.’
‘What about the cargo? Where – ?’
‘Overboard.’
Thomas frowned. ‘When can you retrieve it?’
‘When I’m sure the coast is clear.’ Devlin took down the teapot and a tin caddy.
‘I need that cargo, Devlin.’
‘Then you go and get it.’
‘There’s no call to –’
‘We could have been caught.’
‘Yes, well, it’s a risky business.’
‘For some,’ Devlin said dryly.
Thomas’s lips compressed. ‘I must go. I’m extremely busy today.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you have any letters for me?’
Devlin stretched and scratched himself. ‘Who from?’
Thomas sighed. ‘Our uncle, of course.’
‘No.’
Thomas crossed to the door. With one hand on the latch he scanned the room, his expression disparaging. ‘I don’t know how you can you live like this.’
Devlin glanced from his rumpled bed to the food on the table. Above it a large brass lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling beam gleamed like gold. Beneath the crowded shelf a long narrow bench held a large bowl and a neatly folded towel, and under that stood two buckets – one with a lid – and a stoneware ewer filled with fresh water.
‘I’m perfectly comfortable.’
‘I could let you have some pieces from the house –’
‘I have all I need.’
‘You don’t have to stay here.’
‘This is my home.’
Thomas snorted. ‘You can’t possibly –’
‘Thomas, where I live, how I live, is none of your business.’
‘People talk.’
‘Let them.’ Devlin shrugged. Then he realised. ‘Oh you mean they talk about you. Fame at last, brother.’ Devlin’s mockery made Thomas flush.
‘The business – Father’s name – I have a position to uphold. But you – this –’ he waved a gloved hand. ‘Look, what I’m trying to say is that now Father has … gone, we can put the past behind us. You could come home.’
Their father’s house had never been home to him, and never would be. Devlin eyed his brother thoughtfully. ‘What’s going on, Thomas?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Why this sudden desire for my company? You’ve hated me since the day I was born.’
Thomas flapped a hand. ‘That’s ridiculous. It’s all in your mind.’
‘Oh yes? And the boys you paid to beat me, did I imagine them too?’
‘I never paid – that’s a lie!’
‘Everyone lying but you, eh, Thomas?’ Devlin’s mouth quirked. ‘The funny thing is, you did me a favour. Jared took me back to Arf and Inez, and I found out what a real home was.’
‘For God’s sake, that was years ago. Anyway, Father offered to have you back.’
‘Only when he realised I could be useful to him.’
‘You owed him –’
‘I owed him nothing,’ Devlin snarled. ‘All my skills I learned from Arf Sweet, and Inez was the mother I never had.’
She was still looking after him, bless her. She’d done so since he moved in here, keeping the place clean, doing his washing, bringing a pasty or a thick warming stew several times a week.
He had begun paying her for his keep when he was thirteen and Arf gave him his first wage. Understanding his fierce pride she had accepted the money without protest. Though Arf had no quarrel with free-trading, and enjoyed the brandy his son brought home, he preferred to earn his living fishing, where he was less of a target for the press-gang than men of his son’s age.
But this had been a hard winter with poor catches and low earnings. While Inez accepted help from her son, she had refused Devlin’s offer of extra money – until she discovered additional jobs she wanted done. Then honour was satisfied.
Thomas shrugged. ‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t offer.’
‘What exactly are you offering, Thomas? Any man shaking your hand would be wise to count his fingers afterwards.’
Thomas swelled in indignation. ‘How dare you –’
‘Easily,’ Devlin cut across the protest. ‘I’ve known you a long time. By the way,’ he continued, ignoring his brother’s spluttering fury. ‘Hedley sent a message.’
‘Well? What is it?’ Thomas demanded.
‘Pay what you owe or find another supplier.’
Thomas seized the latch. ‘You bastard.’ Rage and embarrassment had turned his face dusky crimson. ‘You think you’re so clever.’ Saliva sprayed from his lips. ‘But I’ll make you crawl.’ The door slammed behind him.