Pengarron Land

by Pengarron Land (retail) (epub)

  It was just after two o’clock and men and boys were gathering around the top of the wooden ladders, waiting their turn to go down into the black depths when the last of those on the morning core had surfaced. All wore the large round hard hats with dripping tallow candles attached to the front to light their way underground. Pasties wrapped in brightly coloured kerchiefs were stuffed inside their shirts or peeping over the tops of pockets.

  Some of them looked across at the man clad in white linen shirt, riding breeches and black leather boots. They assumed correctly that Sir Oliver was waiting for Hunk Hunken to come to grass with the men finishing their core.

  They moved back to give room to the first exhausted miner to clamber out on to the surface and lie on his back to regain his breath. His breathing came in loud rasps. Although the man was about thirty-six years of age, old for an underground miner, he could easily be mistaken for twenty years more. Such was the lot of a man working and breathing in damp cramped conditions where no fresh air could be found.

  Gradually, more blackened, sweat-streaked men and boys, some as young as eight or nine, appeared on the stony, sparsely grassed clifftop. They blinked hard as their eyes painfully adjusted to the bright sunlight, thankful to have survived the core without explosion or other incident, and not to have plunged from fatigue off the thousands of wooden rungs of the ladders to certain death.

  Hunk Hunken, a tough but likeable ginger-haired man in his late twenties, staggered over to Oliver as soon as he noticed the baronet close by. Oliver had turned to watch the ascending men, giving each one a curt nod as they acknowledged his presence. He waited several minutes for Hunk, who was bending forward with giant hands on his thighs, to recover his breath. When the mine Captain was at last able to straighten up, he furiously rubbed his pale blue eyes against the light. Finally he was able to speak.

  ‘Good afternoon, m’lord! Phew! It’s like the bowels of Hell down there.’

  Having taken a water flask off Conomor’s saddle, Oliver passed it to Hunk.

  ‘I believe you enjoy it underground, Hunk Hunken, bowels of Hell or not,’ he said pleasantly.

  This was another ordinary man in whose company he felt at ease. Hunk took the flask with a nod of thanks, gulped several mouthfuls of water, swilling out huge spits of dust and swallowing the rest. Rubbing his hand across his face, he left channels in the dust on his cheeks and beard.

  ‘Reckon I do have an affinity with the depths of the earth, sir,’ he answered Oliver at last, ‘same as the farmer does with the surface. We’re both trying to get a living out of it. I take it Cap’n Solomon is due in soon, then?’

  ‘Three nights from today. Can I leave you to make the usual arrangements?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Trelynne Cove, or the little place beyond Pengarron Point this time?’

  ‘Trelynne Cove, and we’ll keep a look-out as before.’

  Straightening to his full height Hunk flexed his arms and moved his head from side to side, the strain in his muscles from the arduous climb to the surface beginning to subside.

  ‘You still reckon Old Tom’s about somewheres, then?’

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ Oliver informed the mine Captain, ‘he’ll show up sooner or later.’

  ‘Trembath brothers won’t go to Trelynne Cove to run goods, sir.’

  Oliver sighed. ‘I’d offer them the usual payment but Ted would not accept it. He’s been up on the cliff where Davey went over, staring out to sea, many times since that night. I am wondering if he shares my suspicions concerning old Tom.’

  Hunk met the other man’s dark eyes and they both looked in the direction of Trelynne Cove.

  A small girl hurrying on bare feet towards the miners waiting to descend the ladders captured their attention. Her long straggly hair streaming out behind her as she ran, the girl stopped in front of the man who had been the first to grass.

  ‘What’s up me ’an’some?’ Carn Bawden asked his daughter.

  ‘Mam sent me to tell ’ee to tell Ted Trembath, ’fore he goes down the shaft, his brother’s body been found, washed up in Perranbarvah,’ the girl gasped out between deep intakes of breath.

  Carn Bawden looked across to Ted Trembath who had been with his two brothers, they having not long come to grass. There was no need for Carn Bawden to repeat his daughter’s tidings, Ted Trembath was staring at him with a face like granite.

  ‘I heard the little maid, Carn,’ Ted murmured. ‘Perranbarvah beach she said?’

  ‘Aye, Ted. I’m sorry,’ Carn Bawden replied, hugging his daughter to him. Without looking down he said to her, ‘You’re a good girl, Heather, you run along home now, off you go.’

  Heather glanced up at the serious faces of the miners who had now fallen silent. Without a word she bolted through their legs and away from the scruffy buildings.

  Oliver and Hunk Hunken moved in and joined the group of men. Hunk stretched out his hands to Ted Trembath, and in slow movements, Ted placed his tools in them.

  ‘I’ll take them back to your cottage, Ted,’ Hunk said grimly. ‘Yours too, Will… Curly.’

  The two younger Trembaths repeated their brother’s actions.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Ted?’

  Blinking back tears he answered, ‘Just… just make sure Mother’s all right, will you, Hunk?’

  The mine Captain nodded.

  Putting a hand firmly on Ted’s shoulder, Oliver spoke.

  ‘I’ll ride on ahead, Ted, to see what can be done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the Trembaths whispered in unison.

  When Oliver reached Conomor he found the girl Heather Bawden looking up at his horse from a distance, her eyes glowing with admiration. She jumped back guiltily when Oliver passed her and gathered up the reins. He mounted and surprised the girl, as she edged nervously away, by smiling down at her. Very shyly, she smiled back and attempted a makeshift curtsey. A few moments later Heather was happily skipping home to show her mother the shiny sixpence she was clutching tightly, a sixpence Sir Oliver Pengarron himself had given to her.

  * * *

  Some two hours before Oliver had spoken to Hunk Hunken, the Laity, Drannock, and King children had been playing near to a shallow salt water pool on Perranbarvah’s beach when a scream from one of the tiny girls brought the others running to her.

  ‘What’s up with you, Becky Laity?’ Paul King, who reached her first had asked. At seven years old he followed the family trait and was head and shoulders taller than his counterparts.

  Tiny Becky Laity had not answered. Her eyes stood out large and glazed as she pointed among the rocks. Paul King peered past her upraised arm and stifled a scream of his own. Taking the toddler’s hand and shielding her eyes from a further look at the distressing sight, he led her away to meet the other running children.

  ‘What’s going on, Paul? What’s she scream for?’ It was Bartholomew Drannock who wanted to know, the wilful eldest son of the King family’s seine-boat partner.

  ‘She saw something awful, that’s what. There’s a body over there among the rocks, and a stinking horse’s body beside it.’

  ‘See it, did ’ee?’ asked another child.

  ‘Ais, I did,’ Paul said, a shiver of horror passing through his grubby body, ‘and it was proper awful. Better get back quick and tell Tas and Grandtas… they’ll know what to do.’

  ‘You lot can go back,’ Bartholomew Drannock said scornfully, ‘I’m going to have a look at they bodies first.’

  Paul left Becky in the care of an older girl then ran on before them, leaping expertly over the rocks and shingle on his gangly legs. He ran past the cottages and down the narrow quayside. Brightly coloured sails hung up to dry on spars surrounded the men busily making or repairing nets, tarring ropes or working on the upkeep of their boats.

  Grandfather King, always the first to sense a change in the weather or direction of the wind, or to see the silvery flash of fish at sea, looked up from the net spread over his knees. He moved his pipe to the
other side of his mouth as his grandson ran towards him with the smaller children endeavouring to keep up in his wake.

  ‘Solomon,’ he said to his son, hard at work behind him.

  ‘Tas?’

  ‘It’s trouble comin’.’

  Solomon King collected his sons, Matthew, Mark and John, his nephews Jeremy, Josh and Christopher, and his brother Jonathan, to gather around the head of the family. If Grandfather King said there was trouble coming, no one doubted his word.

  Bartholomew Drannock had joined the other children by the time Paul had told his grandfather, father, and the rest of his family of Becky Laity’s gruesome discovery. The children, with the exception of Paul and Bartholomew, were ordered away to join their mothers in the fish salting cellars. Grandfather King sent a man to inform the Reverend Ivey, another to Matthias Renfree, yet another to Pengarron Manor, and one more still to Mrs Trembath and the mining community. With the two small boys to point out the exact spot, he sombrely set off with his sons and grandsons to reclaim Davey Trembath’s body back from the sea.

  * * *

  Since her marriage Kerensa had been allowed to travel the short distance to Perranbarvah unescorted, presumably because Oliver now felt that Clem Trenchard would not be so troublesome in trying to see her. While the children from the village below were rushing to Grandfather King, Kerensa had been standing beside her mother’s grave with the Reverend Ivey. She had been about to discuss the details of her mother’s untimely death with him. She felt it was a matter left unsatisfactorily explained from her old life and it had become a matter of some importance to her to learn all the facts behind it. Her interest, however, had been caught by the steady trickle of people who were gathering below in a fair-sized crowd on the little quayside.

  The Reverend had slipped aside to gain a better view, concern crossing his face as he watched the scene with her.

  ‘I had better go down and enquire what is wrong,’ he said gravely.

  ‘All the boats are in,’ said Kerensa, frowning. ‘What else could it be?’

  A fisherman ran through the lychgate at that moment and answered their anxious questions. Kerensa gripped the Reverend’s arm, a feeling of unreality sweeping over her as the fishermen told them what was happening.

  ‘I’ll come down presently,’ the Reverend said in solemn tones. When the man had gone he turned to Kerensa. ‘I’ll take you in to the Parsonage, my dear.’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘No… I mean, I’ll be all right. I’d much rather stay here in the fresh air. Please, Reverend, you go down to the village, you’ll be needed down there.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’ he began, but at the pleading in her eyes he said, ‘Very well Kerensa, perhaps it would be best if you were to stay here.’

  Shame and fearfulness dominated her as the elderly parson left Kerensa alone. He threw one last worried look back at her before he disappeared round the side of the lychgate. Kerensa sat down dejectedly on the dry grass beside her mother’s grave, sadly touching the petals of the speedwell flowers that spread their blueness like a gently undulating summer sea over the graveyard. The sound of voices brought her back on her feet again. A pregnant woman with a struggling infant in her arms, and dragging another protesting child by his hand, waddled around from the side of the church building. Managing to free his hand the child ran away from his mother, leaving her to call ineffectually after him to stop. He only halted when he saw Kerensa standing in his path.

  ‘Hello,’ she said very softly, holding out a hand to him.

  The child, swaying from side to side, locked his fingers together and pouted at the pretty girl standing before him. When his mother caught up with them she dropped a perfect curtsey to Kerensa despite her burdens and tried to retrieve the boy’s hand, but he only stuffed them firmly under his armpits.

  ‘Good afternoon, my lady,’ the woman said, ‘I apologise for my son’s behaviour, but he’s not being at all co-operative this afternoon.’ The woman’s voice was clear and cultured, and out of keeping with her clothing.

  Kerensa was surprised and it took her a moment to speak.

  ‘He’s got a nice smile, your little boy,’ she volunteered.

  ‘All of my boys are rather strong-willed,’ the woman explained, smiling pleasantly. She held out her hand to Kerensa. ‘I’m Jenifer Drannock. My husband Samuel is a fisherman from the village.’ The woman inclined her head towards the village, rapidly becoming alarmed as she saw the gathering crowd below.

  ‘It’s not a fishing accident,’ Kerensa hastily reassured her, ‘some of the village children have found Davey Trembath’s body by a salt pool on the beach.’ She took Jenifer Drannock’s hand. ‘I wish we could have met in different circumstances to this. Mrs Drannock. I see you know who I am.’

  Jenifer made another futile attempt to take her son’s hand as she said, ‘I am relieved it’s not another tragedy. Will you excuse me if I go down to pay my respects with the others?’ The infant in her arms began to wail and beat at her with tiny clenched fists.

  ‘I’ll take the little one if you like, Mrs Drannock,’ Kerensa offered without hesitation, ‘you’ll manage much better without him.’

  Jenifer studied Kerensa, who was as pale as a white primrose. She recalled the supposed connection between Old Tom Trelynne and Davey Trembath’s death and she felt sorry for the girl.

  ‘Are you sure, my lady? He may ruin your lovely riding habit. I brought flowers to put on my mother-in-law’s grave and he tore most of the heads off. And he’s always being sick.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Kerensa, anxious to have the infant’s company to vanquish some of her own wretchedness. ‘I’d really like to take him for a while. What’s his name?’

  ‘Jack,’ replied Jenifer, handing over her son. ‘He’s not long been fed and should stay dry for a while. I’ll try not to be very long.’

  The other little boy tugged at Kerensa’s skirt.

  ‘I’m called Charles,’ he said politely.

  Kerensa smiled warmly at him. ‘Hello, Charles. Be a good boy for your mother,’ she told him kindly.

  The baby was aged about eight months and a miniature copy of his brother Charles. He didn’t seem to care at all that his mother and brother were leaving the churchyard without him. Kerensa hugged his little body close, hoping he would not sense her uneasiness as she paced up and down with him.

  ‘Well, Jack. You’re a lovely baby aren’t you?’ she told him.

  Jack didn’t know. He pursed his fat lips together and his eyes seemed to cross as he stared into her face, then clutching at the satin ribbons on her bodice, he tried to cram them into his mouth. Kerensa gently rubbed her nose against his and Jack rewarded her with a chuckle, and a long wet dribble down her neck. She kissed the top of his downy head and held him closer.

  After ten long minutes she saw no change in the stillness of the villagers below.

  ‘Let’s go and see if Mrs Tregonning has something nice for you to eat, shall we, Jack? I ought to tell her what’s happening anyway.’

  He chuckled again, then returned to the now sodden ribbons clutched in his equally wet fist as he was carried towards the parsonage.

  * * *

  If a man farmed the sea for a living he soon became used to tragedy upon its awesome vastness, and of the putrid conditions of a waterlogged body. Altogether the King family had seen several, but confronting them didn’t get any easier. As soon as they arrived at the grisly scene Paul and Bartholomew Drannock were ordered home and Grandfather King quickly set his sons and grandsons to work by the salt pool.

  With their neckerchieves pulled up to cover their mouths and noses, Jeremy, Josh and Christopher cut the seaweed-strewn reins that had joined boy and pony together in their death plunge and the weeks spent in the devouring sea. They deftly tied ropes around the pony’s legs and kicking away crabs, flies and other shore scavengers, the brothers dragged the rotting carcase of the animal a long, long way along the shore. Rounding a large outcrop of ro
cks, accessible only in a deeply receding tide, they piled the remains with driftwood and dry seaweed. Setting the putrefying mass alight they stood well back, away from the stench-bearing smoke. When the fire had consumed all the pony’s flesh they were to bury what was left deep enough to avoid any health hazard and to conceal the location from curious children. As the brothers stood and silently watched the blaze they rubbed their stinging eyes.

  Beside the pitiful scraps left of the once handsome boy, Solomon, Matthew and Mark carefully laid out a tarpaulin. Their faces grim under their neckerchieves, they were helped by Jonathan and Grandfather King to lay a small net over Davey’s body. On a count of three they skilfully twisted the net round to contain the body, and reverently placed it down on the tarpaulin. Solomon and his brother wrapped Davey Trembath up into a neat parcel, finishing it off with firmly tied rope.

  With the gruesome task completed the King men stood respectfully in a circle around the body, their kerchieves pulled down, as Grandfather King said a few words of prayer. Hoisting the small bundle on to their shoulders, Solomon and Matthew, following Grandfather King and Jonathan, formed a sombre procession for the short journey back to the fishing village.

  Down on the shoreline Mark King was comforting his younger brother. John, one of the youngest members of the King brood, was violently retching into the water. It was the first time he had witnessed the vile consequences of what the unrelenting sea does to those lost in the depths of its deceptive majesty.

  * * *

  Jack was almost full of tiny broken off pieces of Mrs Tregonning’s saffron cake. He sat happily on Kerensa’s lap, his tiny face smeared with dribble and bright yellow crumbs.

  ‘Here, give the little mite to me,’ Mrs Tregonning cooed, ‘and I’ll wipe his face clean before he gets you all mucky too.’