A Castaway in Cornwall

by Julie Klassen

  “Brittany . . .” Realization flared. “Miss Chegwin said something about that. Is that why you understand Cornish?”

  He nodded. “I had always heard there were ancient ties between our region and Cornwall, and that Breton is quite similar to the old Cornish language, though I’d never heard it till I met your Miss Chegwin.”

  “I see.” Noticing his eyebrow and lip were still bleeding, as well as his hand, Laura retrieved a cloth and Mary’s medicine case and began cleaning his wounds with one of her fragrant salves.

  Barely hiding a grimace, he explained, “After a few terms at Cambridge, I returned home and enlisted in the navy. About a year and a half ago, my ship, the Victorine, was captured during a battle, and I was taken prisoner along with my men. We were transported to the Norman Cross prison, north of Cambridge.” He added wryly, “Not exactly how I imagined returning to my alma mater.”

  She dabbed the ointment on his cut eyebrow as he continued.

  “I was surprised to find François also in the prison. He was from my home village. I had known him since boyhood and heard he’d begun spying for the British. At first I did not believe those rumors. I reasoned that if he was working for the British, they would not leave him locked up in that remote prison. They would covertly have him released, perhaps in a prisoner exchange. But no.

  “I saw him talking to the prison superintendent more than once, and it made me wonder. . . . With that many captive French officers, not to mention the Dutch and other French allies from Spain, Italy, and some German states, there was plenty of information to be had at Norman Cross. And although clandestine correspondence was prohibited, some sneaked through, especially among the paroled officers. François hinted that this was why he stayed.”

  She moved on to his injured mouth, lingering there, noticing again that his lips were fuller at the center.

  “For some time I lived in the barracks with my men. The place was overcrowded, but being an officer, I was eligible for parole in a neighboring town. When . . . conditions in the prison worsened, I accepted. It was not true freedom, as we were required to remain within the town limits and observe a strict curfew, but once on parole, I was able to send and receive a few clandestine letters of my own. Through one of these, I learned Daniel’s wife was expecting a child and my father was ill, and through another, that my brother, Alan, had been arrested as a spy and was being held in a French prison. I feared every day would be his last. So many royalists had already been executed.”

  Compassion swept over Laura. She longed to comfort him but—still stung by his deception—concentrated on treating his wounds instead.

  Alexander went on, “They allowed me to have one of my men live with me as a servant, providing I would vouch for his character. I requested Daniel. Once I learned of Alan’s imprisonment, I determined to try to get home to help him, but I never should have asked Daniel to escape with me. He might have lived out the rest of the war in prison and then gone home to his wife and child. At the time, I felt justified because Daniel was sickly. I thought I was helping him. I did not think through the possible consequences. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

  Laura’s heart squeezed. “You were trying to help a friend. You could not have predicted shipwreck.”

  “True. Still, I knew the risks, though we were both eager to return home. Him for the birth of his child and me to help Alan. We disagree politically, but he is my brother, and I love him.”

  “That’s why you said you could understand my mother’s urgency to go to Jersey and try to save her sibling,” Laura observed.

  “Exactement.”

  Laura blinked. It was the first time he had spoken French to her.

  He went on. “While on parole, I formed a relationship with a neighbor woman.”

  Her wariness must have shown on her face, for he raised his hand. “Not that sort of relationship. She was a widow far older than I. We were friends, and she was eager to help. She gave me her late husband’s clothes. Daniel wore the blue trousers and shirt from the depot under a civilian coat, thinking no one would be any the wiser.”

  Laura nodded her understanding. She took his hand, glad for an excuse to do so, and began treating his bloody knuckles.

  “Before I left on parole, François boasted that he had an important letter hidden safely away, his ticket to freedom whenever he wanted it.” Alexander shrugged. “At first, I doubted his boast was true. I assumed he simply enjoyed provoking me.”

  Laura stopped her work to look up at him. “Why? Why does he hate you?”

  “Among other things, because we loved the same woman.”

  Laura’s breath caught to hear him say those words. “Honora?”

  His head snapped toward her, eyes blazing. “How did you know? Did François have the gall to mention her name?”

  “No, nothing like that. When you had the fever, you muttered the name.”

  For a moment longer he stared hard. Then his ire faded. “Enora, the French version of Honora. Sadly, she did not live up to her name. Although I didn’t realize until it was too late and she was my wife.”

  Laura’s throat tightened, and she felt light-headed. “You have . . . a wife?”

  “I had a wife. When Enora married me, I thought she had chosen me over François. But no. After we wed, she saw no reason to stop seeing him. I had to ship out, but François stayed in the area. When I received Enora’s letter and read that she was with child, my momentary joy quickly faded as I counted back the months. I knew it could not be mine. I had been gone more than a year by that point, and I am not an imbecile. The humiliation and betrayal are forever with me.”

  Seeing the anguish on his face, Laura whispered, “I am sorry.”

  “So was I. Despite her infidelity, I felt no satisfaction when I learned the child was stillborn and Enora died from childbed fever a few weeks later.”

  Pity washed over Laura. She thought of her poor aunt Anne, who had died in similar circumstances.

  “At all events,” he continued, “I was determined to help Alan and see my ailing father, and to return Daniel to his beloved wife. So he and I made our plans.”

  His wounds tended, Laura repacked Miss Chegwin’s supplies.

  Alexander rose and began pacing the room. “We broke curfew, and my neighbor sneaked us out of Peterborough in her coach. We made our way to Yarmouth. There, we hoped to find a ship to take us to the south coast or even farther, but the only southbound ship we were able to find that day was the Kittiwake. We didn’t want to wait around and increase our risk of recapture. We knew the Kittiwake wouldn’t take us to France, but it would get us far away from the local militia pursuing us and to the southwest coast, where we thought we’d find plenty of ships crossing the Channel. The captain welcomed us and our money and gave us a small cabin, and we went in, praising God we’d made it.

  “But moments later our cabin door burst open and there stood François, triumphant. He said if we objected to sharing the cabin, he would tell the captain we were escaped prisoners of war, and I believed he would have, even if it meant implicating himself.”

  Alexander slowly shook his head. “Such uncanny bravado. He didn’t seem to worry about being caught. It convinced me he really did have British connections who would come to his aid if worse came to worst.”

  “He stayed in that small cabin with us throughout the journey. Shared our food and sprawled across one of the two bunks, leaving Daniel and me to take turns on the second.

  “One day he again boasted about the important letter in his possession. . . .”

  In their small cabin, François pulled a folded page from his pocket with a flourish. “You, Alexandre, would find this especially intéressante. If only your brother possessed such a letter. Mais, non. Tant pis pour lui.” Too bad for him.

  With a self-satisfied grin, François tucked the letter into his pocket, out of sight.

  Might that paper, whatever it was, truly exonerate Alan? Alexander wondered. Or was François merely taunti
ng him to provoke a fight? Alexander’s fingers curled into a fist, ready to oblige him. But remembering how François had tormented Daniel in the prison camp, he feared his smaller friend would end up being hurt if violence broke out in that confined space. Alexander clenched his teeth until his jaw ached and he’d mastered his anger.

  “What is your plan once we reach Portreath?” Alexander asked him. “If you think we will take you with us to France, you are badly mistaken.”

  François shrugged. “I have no wish to go to France. Jersey is my goal.” Again he patted the letter in his pocket.

  A crewman delivered a simple dinner of boiled salt beef and biscuits, his expression more harried than usual.

  “Anything amiss?” Alex asked.

  “Heavy seas, sir. Captain says it ain’t safe to enter the harbour at Portreath. We have to go farther. Sure to be a long night.”

  Alex sent Daniel a concerned look, wondering how this delay would affect their onward travel plans. Unwilling to discuss it with François present, the men settled into tense silence broken only by idle conversation.

  Hours later, François restlessly stood. “Excusez-moi, garçons. I think I will go on deck to speak with the captain.” He opened the door and, before he closed it, smirked, saying, “Don’t talk about me while I’m gone.”

  When his boot steps faded, Alex sat on a low stool facing Daniel on the bunk. The two shared a long, sober look.

  In a low voice, Daniel asked in French, “What should we do about François?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think he will betray us to the authorities when we land in Cornwall, him with his powerful letter and us with nothing?”

  “It is a possibility.”

  “He is up there ingratiating himself no doubt to the captain and crew.”

  Alexander had not thought of that. “What can we do? It will be our word against his.”

  “But you sound like an Englishman. He does not.”

  “Nor do you, mon ami,” Alexander reminded him. He might be able to talk his way out of arrest, but his friend with limited English and no passport could not.

  “True.” Daniel winced in concentration. He glanced at the coil of rope on the floor and asked, “Could we restrain him here in the cabin? Just to give us time to put some distance between us?”

  “Not if a storm is—”

  The door flew open, and they both started. François stood on its threshold, knife drawn and a look of triumph on his face, even as his blue eyes sparked with fury.

  “I knew it! I knew it was only a matter of time until you two plotted against me. Now I shall do to you what you planned to do to me. Merci for the excellent idea.”

  He turned a flintlike face toward Alexander while he pointed his knife at Daniel. “Resist and your weak little friend will pay the price. You used to have much better taste in friends. But beggars cannot be choosers, I suppose.”

  Gesturing with his knife, he kicked the rope toward Daniel and commanded, “Tie his wrists and ankles securely. No tricks or you both die. I know you are a sailor who is trained in tying knots.”

  Daniel glanced at Alex, brows high with fear and uncertainty. Alexander nodded back. Daniel proceeded to tie him up as directed—and he was indeed proficient in tying knots. Once Alexander was restrained, François cut off a length of rope and tied Daniel’s wrists to a bunk chain.

  Over his pounding heart and swirling thoughts of escape, Alexander became aware of other noises. Howling wind. Lashing waves. The cabin, he belatedly realized, had begun rolling and pitching. He knew the sounds and sensations too well. The storm had intensified.

  From above came barked commands and shouts of confusion. The crew and ship were struggling. Everything in Alexander wanted to assist them.

  “François, release me so I can go and help,” he urged. “It’s a storm. A violent one by the sounds of it.”

  “Nice try.”

  “I am in earnest. You can tie me up again if and when we reach safe harbour, but let me help now.”

  Another smirk. “Not afraid of a little rough water, are you, Capitaine?”

  François gathered his few belongings, then turned back. “Before I go, there is one more thing I need from you.” He squatted behind Alex and wrenched the ring from his finger, whispering slyly in his ear, “I have taken your wife and your brother, why not this too?”

  Then François straightened and strode from the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.

  When the echoing slam faded, the sound of the wind, waves, and shouts of alarm seemed to fill the cabin. Alexander realized the possible threat of authorities was secondary to the imminent threat to their lives.

  Suddenly the ship struck something, lurching violently. Alexander flew across the cabin and, with no way to stop his fall, landed hard on his shoulder and side. Daniel, tied to a bunk chain, was lifted from his perch but fell back against the rails.

  “Are you all right?” Alexander asked.

  “Yes. You?”

  Breathless, Alex nodded and awkwardly rose to a sitting position, which was dashed difficult with ankles bound and hands behind his back.

  Above them, he heard more panicked shouts and the captain trying in vain to keep his men on task. “Remain calm! Stay at your posts. Down helm. Sheets up. We’ve got to lift her off.”

  Alexander had experienced similar chaos when the Victorine was captured. And from the keening sounds the ship was making, he knew they were in serious danger.

  He struggled against the ropes to no avail. God help us, he prayed. Then, with a battle cry, he yanked at his bonds with all his might, not caring if he scraped off every layer of skin or dislocated his wrists. He managed to wrench free his hands, his skin flaming, but at least he did not dislocate or break any bones.

  Then he untied his ankles.

  From the bunk, Daniel urged, “Go. Save yourself.”

  “I will not leave until you are free.”

  François had tied a proper knot on Daniel, and the more he struggled the tighter it became.

  “My carving tools,” Daniel shouted. “In my pocket!”

  Alexander found a likely tool and began cutting away at the rope. Water flowed beneath the cabin door, and Alex sawed all the faster. If François had realized the danger, would he still have trapped them? Surely his intention had been to detain them and perhaps turn them over to the authorities, not see them drowned. Either way, anger seared Alex, burning hotter than his blazing wrists.

  Finally, Daniel’s hands were free. Thankfully, François had not bothered to tie Daniel’s ankles as well, for by then water was gushing into the cabin.

  Alexander sloshed to the door. “I am going after François.”

  “Be careful. I will join you as soon as I find my knapsack.” Daniel frantically searched the small cabin.

  “Don’t be long.”

  Alexander pushed open the door against the flow of water and bolted up the narrow stairs as though climbing a waterfall.

  When he reached the deck, he saw François roll up the folded paper he had taunted Alex with and shove it inside a silver flask. Alexander guessed he’d stolen the flask from among the crew’s belongings to protect his prized letter. The crew had no doubt been too busy trying to save the ship to notice the theft. Nor did they seem to notice the passengers now, clustered as they were on the elevated quarterdeck, with one terrified youth perched in the rigging above.

  Remembering LaRoche’s hints that the letter might help and perhaps even save Alan, fierce determination swept over Alex. He charged across the deck and grabbed at the flask, trying to wrench it from his clutch. François took a swing at his head. Alex ducked and kicked the man’s legs out from under him. With the two still gripping hands over the flask, they fell hard to the deck, which tilted at a precarious angle, water rushing over its rails. They wrestled through the icy flow. Alex managed to jerk the flask free, but François drew his knife and shoved it into Alex’s side. Pain flared. Flask in one hand, Alex
pressed the other to his wound and made one final lunge at his foe, but injured as he was, he fell short, and the flask went sliding across the deck.

  For a few moments, Alex lay there in the water and his own blood, stunned and winded. Then Daniel knelt at his side.

  “Capitaine, are you all right?”

  “Been better,” he muttered. “Find your knapsack?”

  “No, but that’s hardly important now.”

  “We . . . must . . . stop . . . François,” Alex panted.

  His friend helped him to his feet, and together they moved to the rail in time to see François rowing away in one of the Kittiwake’s lifeboats. The second was floating away, empty and useless.

  “The devil!” Daniel cursed.

  They were too late. Alex did not see the flask anywhere and assumed François had taken it with him—and all his hopes of saving his brother with it.

  As he finished describing that awful night, Laura murmured, “That’s why you were injured and your wrists rope burned.” Taking one of his hands in hers, she turned the wrist up and gently stroked the newly healed skin.

  He nodded, mouth dry. The sensation was most pleasurable, and soon the terrible scenes in his mind faded. “Thank you again for saving me, Miss Callaway. I am sorry I repaid you with less than the absolute truth. Can you understand now why I want that flask?”

  “Yes.”

  Then he noticed her shiver and began rubbing both arms to warm her. “You are cold, and Miss Chegwin is out of firewood. Let’s get you home.”

  The escapes of French prisoners-of-war in this country, and especially those on parole, having of late become exceedingly frequent, and such prisoners being in the practice of proceeding to [the] coast and seizing upon any vessel which they may not find properly guarded, a caution is hereby given to all owners of boats.

  —WEST BRITON, NOVEMBER 1810

  Chapter 15

  Together, they walked back to Fern Haven. There, they stood warming themselves by the kitchen fire, quiet at this time of day, when Wenna rested between meals. After a few moments of silence, Alexander asked, “Will you give me the flask and a few minutes of privacy to read the letter—assuming it’s still there? I have been waiting a long time to discover what it contains.”