When Mary finished, Laura asked, “Is any of that true?”
“’Course it is! Have’ee not seen the grave along the coast?”
Laura had. But like most of Mary’s tales, a liberal dose of fancy was woven among the facts.
Laura rose and put the kettle on. A few minutes later, refreshed by tea and shared cake, Laura urged, “One more?”
Mary smiled. “What shall it be this time? Smugglers? Pirates? Shipwrecks?”
Laura nodded. “Yes, please. All three.”
Outside the wind continued to rise, and Mary began another story.
“One night, a large three-masted ship was drove under Trevose Head. Her lading was all sorts of warlike stores—muskets, bayonets, boarding pikes, and the like. All hands were lost except for three men. What country these men belonged to was not known.” Mary leaned nearer and lowered her voice to an ominous pitch. “They was supposed to be pirates, and—”
The back door flew open and Laura started. Jago came in, a load of driftwood in his arms.
“Meur ras, Jago,” Mary said. “Close the door dreckly, please. It’s mizzling. I can feel the damp from here.”
The tall, broad-shouldered young man dropped the wood near the hearth, then retreated into the kitchen to shut the door.
When he returned, he bent to build up the fire.
“Say good evening to our friend Laura,” Mary prompted.
The big man with a prominent jaw and forehead shyly looked her way. “Evening, our Laura.”
Some said Jago must be related to the Cornish giants of old. Some people, like Newlyn, were afraid of him due to his size, while others ridiculed him, assuming he must be slow of mind because he rarely spoke except to friends. But Laura knew him to be a gentle, thoughtful soul.
She smiled at him. “Good evening, Jago.”
“Yer supper is on the stove,” Mary added.
He nodded and turned to go, ducking his head to avoid hitting the lintel.
“I am sorry,” Laura said. “Did I interrupt your supper?”
“Not at all. I ate while Jago was out foraging. Took him longer than usual to find enough wood to last through the night.” She drew her shawl closer around her. “Sure to be a long winter this year. Thank God for Jago.”
Jago, Laura knew, was not Miss Chegwin’s natural son. Mary had worked for many years as a midwife and had never married or had children of her own. She had found the boy as an infant, abandoned in the churchyard.
She’d once explained, “I don’t know why his mother abandoned him. Perhaps she was simply unwed and frightened. Dr. Dawe told me I was wasting my time, that the boy was too small and weak to survive, let alone thrive. Now, how I dearly enjoy parading my very tall, hale boy past him at church on Sundays.”
From the kitchen, the sound of fork scraping against plate was followed by a festive tune—Jago playing his hurdy-gurdy. The music brought Laura back to the present. The wind now rattled the windowpanes, and water speckled the glass.
She stood. “May we finish the story another time? Newlyn and I had better go before the rain worsens.”
Mary nodded. “Meur ras for the visit and the cake. Nos dha.”
“Nos dha,” Laura said, echoing the phrase for good night. She understood more Cornish than she spoke, but very little of either.
As she and Newlyn left, Laura drew the edges of her cape closed against the stinging wind, and Newlyn grumbled and held on to her bonnet. The wind moaned its ghostly wail, and Laura shivered from more than the cold.
“It’s Tregeagle, miss, I know it!” Newlyn cried. “We’re doomed.”
“We are not doomed,” Laura assured her, though any ship on open water might be. From the sound of it, a dreaded northwesterly gale had risen.
In the dark distance, a gun boomed and a voice shouted, “Ship, ho!”
Newlyn grabbed Laura’s hand. “That’s my pa.”
Desperate ships frequently tried to navigate into Padstow’s harbour to find shelter during storms. Many were carried onto the sands of the Doom Bar, where relentless waves either caused the ship to founder or sent it onto Greenaway Rocks to be pounded to kindling.
Laura hurried out to Trebetherick Point, Newlyn following reluctantly behind. From the overlook, Laura scanned the churning water below. A dark shape loomed off the rocks. It was difficult to see through the mist, but it appeared to be a ship thrashing in the waves.
Laura’s stomach tightened, and her heart began to pound with a combination of fear and determination. “Come. Let’s go down to the beach.”
“Are’ee certain, miss? I don’t think yer uncle—”
“I’m certain. Come on.”
Laura turned and started down the narrow path, slipping on the wet sand and stumbling over a rabbit warren but managing not to fall.
Others were on the beach before them, gathering to wait. To watch. To hope.
From there, she could see more clearly. Weak moonlight now penetrated the rainy gloom, and streaks of lightning cracked the sky and illuminated the vessel. A ship a few hundred yards offshore was struggling. She rocked back and forth, listing too far to one side. She’d run aground on the rocks, and if she didn’t lift off soon, the waves would tear her to pieces. Laura had witnessed it before.
Seeing a stocky fisherman nearby, Newlyn ran to his side and clutched his arm. “Oh, Pa!”
“Steady on, my girl.”
Most local men were either fishermen like Mr. Dyer or boat builders, or employed as crews of sloops, loading and unloading vessels that traded in Padstow. Others worked in local slate and lead mines.
As Laura watched, small male figures on the ship’s deck heaved crates and barrels overboard. One wiry youth climbed to the rigging to evade the encroaching water, but a huge wave struck the ship, washing him off the topsail yard and into the sea. He did not rise again. Had the crew already lowered their boats or had the sea torn them loose? Had they no way of escape? Few people Laura knew swam, but even if the sailors knew how, the waves and rocks were likely to crush them before they reached shore.
“Dear Jesus, help them,” Laura cried. She wished there were something she could do. Something anyone could do.
Their parish had no rescue apparatus or official lifeboat. However, Cornish gigs manned by experienced pilots often acted as lifeboats, their size allowing them to maneuver into dangerous coves to reach victims. Why had no pilots responded tonight? Yes, the risks of rowing out in heavy seas were great. Many had paid with their lives for such bravery in the past. Had they not heard the shouts? The ship’s gun signaling its distress?
As if reading Laura’s thoughts, John Dyer looked around. “Where are the dashed pilots?” He called to a group of men loitering nearby, “Come on, lads—let’s try to get to ’em.”
“Pa, no,” Newlyn pleaded. “It’s too dangerous.”
The brawny man loosed himself from his frightened daughter’s grip. “Someone has to try.”
Most men hung back, but three brave souls climbed into Dyer’s boat and took up oars.
Laura thought of her own father—gone to sea in a ship and never returning—and grasped Newlyn’s hand.
The men rowed hard, but the pounding surf drove them back. Twenty yards out a wave flipped the boat over as if it were a toy.
“Pa!” Newlyn cried, squeezing Laura’s fingers tightly.
The men disappeared beneath the boat, beneath the waves. Laura held her breath and prayed. One by one their heads began to reappear, struggling to keep their mouths above water and return to shore. Other men on the beach, more motivated to help their own than some unknown sailors, grabbed a rope, and the bravest among them sloshed into the surf to help the struggling men. Thankfully, all four would-be rescuers made it back to shore, tired and bruised but alive. The boat, however, had suffered damage.
“How’s Pa to fish now?” Newlyn wailed. “To support the little’uns? To live?”
More people gathered on the beach, lamps or torches in hand, others carrying pick
axes. Laura surveyed the torch-lit faces, heard the stomping of feet against the cold, and saw the eager rubbing of hands.
The first discarded barrel floated to shore, and the people pounced on it, circling it like ants to a spill of honey. This was followed by one crate and then another. With their axes, they pried them open, finding treasures like salted fish, a crate of figs and another of oranges, then a cask of wine. People exclaimed and called to their neighbors, some helping themselves then and there to the wine, others filling their pockets with fruit and fish. The scene took on the atmosphere of a macabre village fete.
Laura glimpsed golden-haired Treeve Kent among the revelers. What was he doing there?
He made to turn away, but realizing she’d seen him, he sauntered over, saying archly, “Home with a cold, I see.”
“Entertaining my uncle’s family, I see,” she countered.
He smirked. “Evening grew boring without you there. I . . . went out for a pint, heard the gun, and came down to see what was happening.” He avoided her gaze as he explained, she noticed.
“How long until the agent arrives?” she asked.
“Sooner than any of us would like, I imagine.”
“You too?”
He sketched a shrug. “Why not?”
Laura held her tongue and returned her attention to the foundering brig.
Apparently having seen the wiry youth washed overboard and drowned, the rest of the ship’s company remained on board. She counted nine or ten men and a boy, screaming for help. A wave crashed over the deck, sending others into the sea. One of the brig’s two masts fell, and as it floated toward shore, Laura saw a man hanging on to it with one arm, his other wrapped around a comrade, trying to keep the man’s head above water. Another wave swept over them and both men went under. The foremast popped up a few yards on, coming dangerously close to impaling one of the men in the shallows.
A desperate hand appeared above the water, before sinking again.
“He’s close now, lads. Let’s get ’im!” Newlyn’s father called. He tied the rope around his waist and strode bravely into the water, while the others held the rope. Stretching as far as he could, Mr. Dyer reached down and grabbed the man by the back of his collar and dragged him toward shore. An incoming barrel knocked them both underwater, but friends came to John Dyer’s aid and finally both men fell onto the sand.
Mr. Dyer rolled to his back, panting. Newlyn knelt at his side. But the other man lay unmoving.
Tom Parsons—an infamous wrecker and smuggler—strode across the beach toward them. His sandy-red hair stuck out in unkempt curls beneath his hat. He had faded freckles and deep scowl marks between his brows. He must have been a darling child, but as a man of fifty, he made Laura’s skin crawl.
Seeing the unresponsive victim, Tom prodded him with a careless boot and muttered, “Good thing.”
Laura looked around for help. If only Dr. Dawe had not gone to visit his sister . . .
“Roll him over,” she said.
Mr. Dyer was too tired to move, and no one seemed willing to cross Tom Parsons to do so.
“Someone help me!” Laura bent and attempted to push the man over herself. A waterlogged adult male was heavier than he looked.
“Let ’im be,” Tom commanded.
She looked up and saw the wrecker looming over her, cudgel in hand.
Horrified to think anyone would strike a helpless person, Laura felt righteous indignation steel her nerves. “No, you let him be.”
In the past, people had the right to claim cargo from a “dead wreck,” with no survivors, but the law had changed over thirty years ago. Now, goods washed ashore were supposed to be handed over to the rightful owners or duchy. Even so, many country people clung to the old ways, especially when their families were hungry, or worse, when there was a profit to be made. The penalties for wrecking ranged from fines to death, but perpetrators were rarely caught and convicted.
Laura shoved with all her might and rolled the man onto his side and then onto his stomach. A great deal of salt water came out of his mouth, and a little life began to appear.
Tom’s voice remained deadly calm. “Back away, lass.”
With a wary eye on the cudgel, she leaned protectively over the man. “No.”
He raised the short, heavy club.
Treeve Kent stepped between them. “Everything all right, Miss Callaway? Ah. Good evening, Tom.”
Parsons froze. “What’ee doin’ here, Kent?”
Treeve gave the man a strained smile. “Same as you, I imagine.”
“Doubt it. This don’t concern’ee.”
The shipwreck victim sucked in a watery breath and stretched out a hand, grasping at the sand.
“Newlyn!” Laura called. “Hurry and fetch Jago, and tell Miss Chegwin to meet me at the house.”
“But—”
“Now!”
Though Laura had rarely used such an authoritative tone with anyone, she had no other choice but to do so now, to assert herself as mistress over the timid servant. She would not leave this helpless man lying on the beach a moment longer than necessary. Unless she did something, she doubted the victim would live much longer, exposed to the brutal Atlantic and cold night air, let alone Tom Parsons’s cudgel.
Whether due to her resolve in remaining at the fallen man’s side or the presence of someone from one of the parish’s leading families, Tom Parsons backed off, turning his attention to the barrels, casks, and crates instead, no doubt determined to salvage all he could before the duchy agent or a customs officer showed up.
A short while later, Jago came lumbering across the sand, drawing a few curious or disapproving gazes from those he passed. Fortunately, most people were too engrossed in rummaging through crates or going through the pockets of drowned men to pay him much notice.
“Jago, please carry him to Fern Haven.”
The big man nodded, sank to his knees, and picked up the survivor as though he were a child.
Laura followed Jago across the beach, then turned back to Treeve. “Dr. Dawe has gone to his sister’s. Please ask your brother to come as soon as he can.”
“You think Perran can help?” His brows rose in surprise. “I suppose it’s possible. Though I’d rather you asked me to call.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. But if you want me, you need only ask.” The handsome man stepped nearer, an impish gleam in his eye. “I am yours to bid.”
Laura hesitated. Treeve might flirt with her, but she could not imagine his intentions were serious.
She met his gaze straight on. “Somehow I doubt that,” she retorted, and hurried from the beach.
The captain, half drowned and unconscious, was carried up to a nearby house in the hope of [reviving] him.
—BELLA BATHURST, THE WRECKERS
Chapter 2
The man had looked small in Jago’s arms, but he looked larger laid in the modest guest-room bed. His shoulders were noticeably broader than his trim waist. He was perhaps thirty years of age with thick, wavy brown hair and a slim nose. Whisker stubble a shade darker than his hair shadowed the lower half of his face. He wore basic breeches, stockings, a shirt of cotton lawn. If he’d had shoes, hat, or greatcoat, the sea had claimed them. Nothing about the garments gave her any clue to his identity, though the fine shirt might be that of a gentleman.
“Let’s get him out of these wet things,” Miss Chegwin said.
With Jago’s help, the older woman stripped off his clothes and began washing the sand and blood from the injured man. Laura carried the wet garments down to the laundry.
Before she settled them into the tub, Laura searched for but found no identifying marks in the neck of his shirt or waistband of his breeches. As was common, the breeches had a buttoned fall flap that covered the front opening. This broad flap concealed a hip pocket. In it, she found three gold guineas and a silver pocket watch. The face displayed the usual Roman numeral hours and nothing else.
Leaving the clothes
to soak, Laura returned to the guest room.
There Miss Chegwin was examining the man gently and methodically, his lower torso covered by a sheet.
After her years as a midwife, Mary Chegwin had worked as chamber nurse for Dr. Dawe, attending patients during their convalescence or journeys to eternity. Dr. Dawe had insisted she retire a few years ago due to her age, but the woman knew a great deal and had far more experience than Laura, especially where shipwreck victims were concerned.
The fact that she was needed again seemed to buoy Mary’s spirits, and she suddenly appeared younger than her years, bending over her patient and testing the wholeness of his limbs.
“Ankle is swollen and bruised. I don’t think it’s broken, but can’t be sure. Rope burns on his wrists. Maybe he tried tying himself to some wreckage. There’s also an abrasion on the back of his head. Perhaps the mast or some other debris hit him.”
She paused at a cut in his side. “Oh now, here’s the worst yet. Deep it is. We’ll have to clean and bandage that. Good thing he’s out of his senses, for salt water stings something fierce.”
Mary opened her old medicine case and began treating the wounds with murky tinctures and odoriferous salves while Laura assisted. Laura had been rather young to be of much help to her physician-father, but she had done what she could and had seen him working with enough patients that the actions now seemed natural.
Newlyn knocked and announced, “Mr. Kent, miss.”
Perran Kent entered, a leather case in hand that gleamed as though brand-new. Laura introduced him to Miss Chegwin.
“Sure and I know’ee, lad. Nursed’ee through the croup years ago. Never knew a lad to cry so much. I hope you’ve outgrown it.”
Perry cleared his throat. “I have.”
He examined the patient much as Mary had, taking in the bruises, abrasions, and swollen ankle, which he declared was only sprained. “This is my first shipwreck, thank God, so I don’t know if such injuries are common or not.”
A Castaway in Cornwall Page 2
