Pengarron Land

by Pengarron Land (retail) (epub)

  ‘I suppose I’ll find out more about Sir Oliver if I really do have to marry him,’ she said stiffly, then turned her attention to the clumps of snowdrops growing against the shelter of the parsonage wall.

  ‘Try not to become bitter, my dear. I don’t approve of what has happened, but your grandfather did what many would have done in his position, to secure a good marriage.’

  ‘A good marriage! But who for?’ Kerensa asked, getting a little heated. ‘I don’t want this good marriage and I can’t understand why Sir Oliver would want to marry me. I don’t know anything about being a lady, and the rest of the gentry won’t want anything to do with me. Surely you don’t approve of people marrying out of their class, Reverend?’

  She was looking him straight in the eye and he was taken by surprise at the question. ‘I don’t really believe it’s a good idea, but… but I also believe that all people are equal… like the Good Lord does… we all have our value, worth. Your future will be difficult for you, but the only way forward now is to try to forgive and forget. When you’ve settled in, why not go into the church and sit awhile and pray? It will help, I’m sure.’

  Unaware of how uncomfortable she was making him feel Kerensa warmed to the elderly parson with his kindly face; without his wig he had long wisps of grey hair encircling his high shiny pate, like an egg in a basket.

  ‘Yes, I think I will,’ she said, giving him a trace of a smile, ‘and visit my mother’s grave at the same time.’

  The smile erased some of the sadness from her lovely young face, and slightly eased the burden of the Reverend Ivey’s guilt.

  * * *

  Mrs Tregonning was a plump, middle-aged, bustling sort of woman. She fussed over Kerensa as she showed the girl up the dark creaking stairs to her room. It soon became apparent that Mrs Tregonning strongly disapproved of Sir Oliver, frequently referring to him as ‘he up there’. Kerensa wasn’t sure whether to find this shocking or amusing.

  Entering a bedroom that overlooked the sea, Mrs Tregonning smoothed down the thick quilted bedcover on a bed twice the size of the one Kerensa usually slept in, then fussed with the fire burning heartily in the hearth.

  ‘I do hope you’ll be comfortable here, my handsome,’ the plump woman carried on breathlessly, ‘though there isn’t much for you to take comfort in at the moment. I couldn’t believe it when the Reverend told me why he’d been summoned up to the Manor yesterday. Summoned indeed! The trouble with he up there is he’s got no patience, more’s the pity. When he says jump, you jump, or watch out for it. And your grandfather… well! How could he do such a thing? Marrying off his only grandchild in a business deal, and to he up there of all people! Then there’s poor Clem to think of. What’s that poor soul going to do. That’s what I want to know. I don’t know what my late husband would have said about all this, God rest his soul. We both worked at the Manor in Sir Oliver’s father’s day. My, it was a grand place in they days before Sir Daniel let it get run down, and he was a worse man even than he up there is now. Now, my handsome, I don’t want you to worry about nothing while you’re here, I’ll look after you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Tregonning,’ Kerensa began. ‘I…’

  ‘I suppose he up there will send word about the wedding arrangements? Not that you’ll have any say in the matter.’

  Mrs Tregonning prattled on and on, and although Kerensa was sure she meant well, she had a distinct feeling the housekeeper was enjoying making a drama out of her misery. Kerensa was relieved when she eventually bustled out of the room, leaving her alone.

  The room was light and airy, but so much larger than her own small bedroom in the cottage that Kerensa fought back the feeling that she was shrinking into obscurity. She took no interest in her surroundings but walked to the window to look out over the sea, hoping to gain some solace in its familiarity. It didn’t work and she looked down at the garden below. The delicate movements of a greenfinch as it flitted along the high wall enclosing the spacious garden caught her eye. She watched its confident performance until a jealous robin protecting its territory chased the greenfinch away. Kerensa gripped the curtains: the rivalry of the two birds had served as a cruel reminder of Clem being ousted from his rightful place as her husband. Turning sharply back into the room she unpacked her trunk, but did not put Clem’s lock of hair under her pillows. It was too precious to her to be glimpsed by Mrs Tregonning’s curious eyes.

  When she had freshened up from the journey Kerensa quietly slipped out of the Parsonage, grateful not to be faced on the way by the chattering housekeeper. She made her way to her mother’s grave, the headstone simply bearing the words, ‘MARY TRELYNNE, 1716-1743’.

  Her mother had been a good woman. Everyone who’d talked of her did so from fond memories. Gazing down at the lonely grave Kerensa realised she knew little of her mother’s death. She pondered on this for a few moments then bent and scratched at the lichen intruding on the granite around her mother’s name.

  ‘I wish you were still alive,’ Kerensa whispered, ‘then you could tell me what to do. Perhaps you could’ve put a stop to what Grandfather did. I’m so frightened, Mother. I can’t bear to lose Clem and I’m so afraid for him. If Sir Oliver won’t change his mind, what will I do? What will my future be like… living as his wife? Watch over me, please, Mother, help me if you can.’

  Kerensa wiped away silent tears then, covering her head with her shawl, left her mother’s resting place and entered the old Norman doorway of the ancient granite church.

  Chapter 3

  A week later, during the first hour after midnight, Oliver Pengarron was back in Trelynne Cove. Partly sheltered from the winds that veered around the cliffs and the light mist blowing in off the sea, he and several other men were concealed behind the largest rocks on the shingle beach close by the shoreline. There were more men stationed up on the clifftop with a long line of pack ponies, mules and carts. There was nothing to shelter them from the cold gusting winds that sliced their way across their path and pierced through their clothes. In an effort to keep warm, they rubbed chilled hands together and tugged in rough working coats against tense bodies.

  They were there on that bleak moonless night to smuggle in uncustomed goods. Trelynne Cove, typical of the small coves, creeks and fishing harbours of Mount’s Bay, afforded a clear run for contraband to be brought across from France and the Channel Islands. There were no caves at Trelynne Cove in which to hide the goods but access was easy, with its path leading from the cottage, so contraband could be carried up to the livestock and carts and stealthily conveyed inland along the well-worn cliff track.

  In total there were over seventy men secretly hovering about the cove. Miners, fishermen, farm labourers and local craftsmen, all eager for a small share of the tea or tobacco brought in, and the few shillings that would put more food in the bellies of their all too often hungry families. All the men had made smuggling runs before, if not for Sir Oliver then for other men of forceful character who could command their respect, or even in some cases in groups of their own. Some of the fishermen among them brought in goods in their own boats, cleverly hidden in folded sails or hollow spars or under anonymous canvas.

  One of the men crouching patiently behind the rocks was a young fisherman, Matthew King. Known as the ‘Barvah Giant’ for the extremity of his height and hefty bulk, he scanned the sea through wide excited eyes for the first sign of an approaching vessel. Brought up in a quiet, austere, religious household Matthew was grateful to be involved in the excitement and possible dangers of the smuggling ventures. He was well accustomed to pulling in heavy nets of writhing fish and it was no daunting task to him to carry the four and a half gallon tubs of gin and brandy, two at a time, across his massive chest up the steep dark cliff.

  A man moved carefully up to his side. ‘See anything, Matthew?’ he whispered.

  ‘Nothing yet, Hunk. Shouldn’t be long now, though. I d’believe Cap’n Solomon don’t like to hang about, do he?’

  Hunk Hunken was t
he lander of the operation, second in command. While Sir Oliver Pengarron planned the run with the captain of the vessel, arranged to borrow the ponies, mules and carts for the night and for some of the goods to be carried up to London a few days later, Hunk was in charge of recruiting the men and for tipping off those who hid the goods about when to be ready.

  Hunk scratched his long nose before answering Matthew. ‘That’s true enough. I just hope nothing goes wrong tonight, what with Sir Oliver being in such a bad mood and all. Mind he don’t hear we talking, I heard un giving someone his tongue just now for doing it.’

  ‘Mmm,’ acknowledged Matthew King. His expression changed at the thought of the reason for the baronet’s bad mood. Sir Oliver must know that most of the men here tonight did not approve of what he was doing to Clem Trenchard and Kerensa Trelynne, the girl who by right should be sleeping safely in the cottage above them. The men felt they had no right to be here in the cove. That feeling challenged Sir Oliver’s authority and that was what he hated most.

  Matthew and Hunk exchanged rueful glances when Sir Oliver crept up behind them. He had been working his way round the groups of men, checking on their readiness for the task ahead.

  ‘Boats ready to put to sea, Hunken?’ he asked, under his breath.

  ‘Aye, m’lord, saw to it meself,’ Hunk replied.

  ‘Good. Are you ready, King?’

  ‘That I am, m’lord,’ Matthew answered. He couldn’t make out Oliver’s features but he knew they would be tense and severe and that he would be monitoring all their responses to him for signs of dissent.

  The sky was dark and smudgy. A few feet away waves rolled then crashed on the rocks but the ones that reached the shingle seemed only half-hearted in their progress. Oliver felt that way about this run, rather than triumphant as he’d anticipated he’d be on repossessing Trelynne Cove. He was almost disinterested, totally lacking the usual controlled excitement he felt when undertaking an illicit operation. He had dampened the spirits of the other men. They were more tense than usual, too, and wanted only to finish the night’s work ahead and go home to their beds.

  Hunk Hunken shivered and pulled his neat beard between forefinger and thumb. He was uneasy, even though there was no firm reason for him to be feeling this way. There were only a few Revenue men stationed at Penzance and an inept elderly Riding Officer at Marazion, who had been ensconced there for many years and whom the authorities seemed to have forgotten to retire. Hunk was sure the Riding Officer was taking bribes from Sir Oliver to turn a blind eye to his well-organised runs. A more duty conscious Revenue man could be stopped in a chase by dropping a tub of spirits in his path, although not all could be counted on to be interested in self-gain. Quite recently a man from Breage had been hung just for hindering an officer. There was always good reason for secrecy and caution but it wasn’t that kind of worry that was attacking Hunk tonight; dodging the Customs was part of the game. He felt he and the others wouldn’t be there if something underhand hadn’t occurred. It wasn’t right and he was afraid it would bring them bad luck.

  The men were like taut springs, ready to jump into action, their heads spinning round or jerking from side to side at the slightest noise. Even so, some risked Sir Oliver’s wrath and snatches of whispered conversation were indulged in to offset some of their tension.

  ‘Wonder what’s comin’ in tonight.’

  ‘The usual, I ’spec. Wine, brandy, tea, lace. P’raps bales of silk fer gowns to dress that poor little maid in when she becomes his wife,’ came a sarcastic reply, but not aimed at the other speaker.

  Among the fishermen: ‘At least with his lordship’s frequent runs tes stoppin’ some of they blamed tinners runnin’ like vultures and bein’ so violent over a wreck.’

  ‘Aye, hope there’ll be some French salt comin’ in. Tes better fer the pilchard curin’.’

  Elsewhere: ‘I d’believe she’s comin’ in from Guernsey.’

  And somewhere else: ‘Now don’t ’ee be tempted to ’ide somethin’ fer yerself, mind. You went want Sir Oliver comin’ after ’ee.’

  Hunk Hunken continued to peer round the horse-shoe shape of the cove, searching intently for a reason for tonight’s unease. He longed to light his pipe and let the strong tobacco take away the sourness in his throat.

  Matthew King fidgeted with his belt buckle, made tight by a furtive downing of four tankards of homemade ale and several plates of thin watery broth in another smuggler’s cottage on the way there. With Sir Oliver in close proximity, Hunk knocked urgently on the fishermen’s arm for him to be still.

  At a sudden whinnying from a pony the men looked up anxiously and held their breaths. When all was quiet again, with only the sounds of the whistling winds and the shifting sea, Matthew silently eased his belt loose by three holes before it stopped his breathing.

  A miner close by with congested lungs cleared his throat. Oliver drew in a deep angry breath and Hunk inwardly sighed and was relieved that Clem Trenchard had elected to stay on the top of the cliff with the animals.

  ‘The coast should be clear all night, sir, I d’reckon,’ Hunk whispered, although not feeling that confident.

  Oliver nodded his agreement. He was peering through the darkness, listening hard for a different sound through the strangely muffled waves in their eerie misty world.

  A few moments later he asked, very quietly, ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  They had seen the light overhead of miner Ted Trembath’s snout lantern, signalling back to a vessel out at sea, the silhouette of which, made hazy by the mist, could be just made out by those with better eyesight.

  ‘I’ll get the men ready, sir.’ Hunk moved off, hunched over and padding like a farmyard cat.

  The rhythmic splash of oars brought the men on the beach expectantly to their feet. On a signal from Sir Oliver they made their way down to the water, some to unload the incoming boat, others to row their own boats out to the waiting ship, which had dropped anchor in deep waters, a safe distance from submerged rocks. Some of the men on the clifftop moved to form a chain along the length of the cliff pathway, to take the goods and pass them upwards to be loaded on to the ponies and mules and into the carts. They would work quickly. If there were any Customs men about the most dangerous time during a run was the unloading and reloading of the cargo.

  It had been decided not to take the animals down the narrow rocky pathway in the dark for fear of accidents. Clem moved two ponies closer to the path’s edge to await the first tub-carriers with their heavy burdens. He stood in front of the ponies, borrowed for the night from the Wheal Ember mine, their bodies well greased, their tails and manes clipped so they could not be caught in the event of trouble. He held on firmly to their bridles, every few moments tossing back his head to remove the damp strands of hair that threatened to get in his eyes.

  Clem was anxious for the run to be over, then he would seek out Sir Oliver and challenge his right to take Kerensa away from him. He had worked out so many sentences and phrases in his head, a counter reason or appeal for each of Sir Oliver’s expected retorts or angry threats. It would not be easy, might even as Kerensa feared make matters worse, but he had to take the risk. He could not go on any longer and just do nothing about it.

  Further along the line of ponies and mules, the excited boy standing beside Ted Trembath, who was on watchman’s duty, tapped his brother’s arm.

  ‘What happens now, Ted?’

  He ruffled the boy’s untidy hair and grinned at his growing delight. ‘Well, Davey boy, we’ll keep watch up here for Revenue men and their cutters out at sea while they below bring the goods ashore and carry ’em up here,’ he said as quietly as his strong voice would allow. ‘Then Clem ’n’ the others will put ’em on the carts ’n’ animals and take ’em off to the hides.’

  ‘Where are the hides, Ted? Do we know anyone who takes the goods in?’

  ‘Tes best ’ee don’t know who takes in what, boy. The folks who’re able to take in good
s tonight will stick a bottle in their eaves. I can tell ’ee, though, the hides are all different places—hayricks, churchyard, hollow trees and the like.’

  Davey Trembath’s curiosity was not yet satisfied. ‘What about the Revenue men, Ted? They have muskets, don’t they? If they find us up here will they shoot us?’

  Ted Trembath looked seaward before answering, for signs of a Revenue cutter bearing down on the smuggling vessel. Satisfied nothing ill-favoured to their cause was lurking about he swept his eyes over the beach and cliff path. He sensed rather than saw the activity below, of men working quickly in an attitude of stealth, their bodies poised ready for trouble as the first tubs of spirits were passed arm to arm along the human chain. Men sweating and trying to silence their grunts, concentrating in the darkness so as not to drop a tub, smash it and waste the precious liquid. Men savouring the contents of their burdens, hoping that Sir Oliver wasn’t in such a bad mood tonight as to deny them a tub to be taken away later and shared out among them. Ted could hardly see the men but could hear the crunch of their boots on the shingle which no amount of care could keep silent.

  ‘Don’t ’ee be concerned about the Revenue men,’ Ted said to his brother, hoping to allay any fears he might have; a nervous man could endanger a smuggling run and he began to doubt the wisdom of bringing Davey with him. ‘There’d only be a few of ’em and they’m more likely to be afeared of we with we outnumbering ’em; what with Sir Oliver being behind the run and we being on his land.’

  ‘Then why all this need for secrecy?’ Davey asked, with the scorn of youth.

  Ted gave his brother a slight cuff round the head that told him not to be so stupid. ‘Don’t ’ee ferget tes against the law, boy. And another good reason fer keeping an eye out fer the Revenue men is if they don’t try to arrest ’ee on the spot, they’ve bin known to follow ’ee to the hides, seize the goods next day and arrest they people who took ’em in.’