The Black Rocks of Morwenstow

by John Wilcox

  ‘Ah, I can see that you are a good debater, young man. Just let me say that I know my parishioners and I am sure that there is no one amongst them who would be guilty of such a heinous crime. They live close to the sea, after all, and would never deliberately consign seamen to the deep.’

  ‘Well that may be so, Reverend, but, if you don’t mind me correcting you, your parishioners are landsmen, mainly farmers, working up here high above the cliff and the ocean, who would not necessarily have a respect for the calling of the sea – the respect that fishermen, for instance, would have.’

  Josh realised that his cause might not best be served by scoring debating points off the clergyman, so he hurried on. ‘But, of course, sir, I defer to your knowledge of your flock here. May I ask you, though, if you were present at the wreck of The Lucy?’

  ‘I suppose the answer to that must be rather evasive: yes and no. As you know, the storm in all its severity rose quickly in the middle of the night and, like most people around here, I was fast asleep. I was aroused by Captain Cunningham, who knocked on my door and told me that a ship was being driven onto the rocks and that it was likely I would have to make ready to receive the bodies of those members of the crew who were most unlikely to survive the shipwreck.’

  Josh looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes, you see I have made it a rule that those poor souls should have their mortal remains treated with dignity. So I have prepared one of the outhouses here as a kind of chapel to receive them until they can be committed to the Lord’s keeping with full ceremony. Alas, with this weather so unusually clement, we have been forced to bring the bodies – or what is left of them – to put them into God’s good earth, temporarily, to be followed with a proper committal later when we have retrieved them all. But, to get back to the events of that night, I hurriedly dressed; I called on the men who help me in this way to prepare the chapel accordingly. As a result, I did not witness the actual striking of the vessel on the rocks below.’

  Nodding, Josh asked, ‘So you did not see my rescue from the rock and my being carried up to the clifftop?’

  ‘No, Joshua, I did not.’

  ‘And did you see a brazier burning brightly, halfway down the cliff path?’

  The vicar took a long, indulgent pull on his pipe and slowly nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I saw that all right.’

  Joshua felt his jaw drop and heard Rowena sigh. He had not expected such a sanguine acceptance of this key point of his story. ‘You saw it, you say?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But is this not evidence of the deployment of “the false light” tactic to lure the ship onto the rocks?’

  ‘No, it is not, my boy. Now,’ Hawker settled himself onto the unyielding bench, as though to begin a long story. ‘What I am about to tell you should not leave this, ah, cabin – although, indeed, the facts are known to virtually everyone on this part of the coast, although rarely spoken about. Do I have your word?’

  Joshua paused for a moment, for he felt uneasy at giving this kind of undertaking without knowing what was to come. Then, ‘Yes, Reverend. You have my word.’

  ‘Good, I need no such undertaking from Emma, for she will be well aware, I am sure, of what I am about to tell you.’

  Josh shot a quick and surprised glance to the girl, but she was looking hard at the floor of the cave, although her face bore a heightened colour. What had she been keeping a secret during their time together? But the clergyman was continuing.

  ‘That fire, that brazier, was burning as a signal all right, but not to The Lucy. It was as a notification to smugglers that they could not make a landing that night, not only because the storm would not allow them to do so but also because the Preventers were in the vicinity. The brazier would have been lit before the storm hit the coast and would have been flickering and spluttering in the rain when your captain and you saw it, and would have been extinguished quickly afterwards, I would have thought, by the storm itself.’

  Joshua nodded slowly. ‘So smugglers lit the signal, not wreckers?’

  ‘Indeed, so, my boy. Now, before you ask your next question about my role in all of this, let me tell you that what I have just related is supposition on my part, but based upon what I know about smuggling here.’ He shook his head. ‘I do know that this is a signal used to call off a landing. I do not approve of breaking the law, of course, and therefore I oppose smuggling and, indeed, have preached against it. I play no part in it myself and do not benefit from it, but, living here as I do amongst my parishioners, I well know that it is practised by virtually everyone here – if not as active smugglers themselves, bringing in the contraband to our coves from ships out at sea, then as beneficiaries in purchasing the expensive goods that come in cheaply this way.’

  Joshua, who felt now he could taste once again the doctor’s fine French cognac, stared once more at Rowena but the girl still had her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. He understood now her reluctance to let him talk to the vicar. Her father, with his taste for fine European porcelain as well as vintage brandy, must himself be a prime supporter of the smuggling ring. And his own naive enquiries about wrecking must have been taken as a threat to unveil the existence of the practice in this part of Cornwall–Devon.

  But the vicar was continuing. ‘Smuggling here, Joshua, is deeply rooted. Why, when I arrived here I was told that the folks on the coast for a long ways north and south of here would teach their children to say in their prayers at night times, “God bless Father n’ Mother, an’ zend a ship to shore afore mornin’.”’ Hawker’s chuckle briefly lifted a sense of oppression that had descended upon the little cabin.

  Frowning now, Joshua broke the silence. ‘But Reverend,’ he said, ‘when I asked Captain Cunningham if he had seen the light, he swore that he had not. If his presence with his men that night was a belated attempt to apprehend the smugglers, as was his duty, why should he not explain that to me – and, indeed, give me the reason for the light?’

  The vicar shrugged and once again picked up his pipe. ‘That is not for me to say, my son, perhaps he had motives of his own. But you will see that the recent attack on you was an attempt, I would say, to warn you off, so to speak. Ah, these are evildoings, whichever way you look at them, Joshua, all prompted by men’s greed.’ He sighed. ‘Smuggling, you see, is thought here to be a man’s right to exercise his ingenuity to outwit wicked politicians in London who are taking his money unfairly via taxes. Even men of good virtue benefit from it.’

  The vicar might well have directed that last remark at Rowena but, instead, he puffed his pipe and looked out to sea. He seemed now to be immersed in his own thoughts and Josh recognised the sedative effects of the opium and determined to make the most of the vicar’s honest openness while the opportunity existed. He had one last point to check.

  ‘Do you know the men who carried me up the cliff face, Reverend?’

  Hawker nodded. ‘I know one of them, Thomas Pengelly, for he lives here in Morwenstow, at the top in the cottage of his widowed mother who died some time ago. The other man I know not, but I understand he also was a seaman, though from Hartland Quay. Young Pengelly is a very fine sailor. I once sailed with him. I understand that he acts often as a pilot for ships sailing up the Channel and approaching Bristol.’

  Josh nodded. He disregarded this last piece of information, however, for he knew that piloting was a highly specialised occupation and that pilot cutters operated out of Bristol, often racing each other to be first to pick up a piloting assignment from a big ship at the end of its trans-Atlantic passage. There would be no role in that fiercely competitive environment for a ‘part-time’ pilot from a tiny harbour at Hartland. But he let it go.

  ‘I am grateful to both of those men for saving me from that rock,’ he said. ‘But I can’t help wondering what they were doing here at Morwenstow in the middle of a terrible storm.’

  ‘Oh,’ the parson waved his pipe, ‘people hereabouts will gather on the clifftop if there is the prospect of a ship
going aground. They will want to save lives, of course.’

  Or to be early on the scene to indulge in profitable wrecking, thought Josh, but he did not put the thought into words. Instead, he struggled to his feet. ‘Mr Hawker,’ he said, ‘you have given me much to think about and I am most grateful. Perhaps you could send word to the quay when you have fixed a date for the final committal of my shipmates. I would like to attend if I may.’

  ‘Of course, my dear fellow. I must wait a little longer for it can be weeks before the sea gives up its dead here. But as soon as we decide on the date to complete their passage to the next and happier world, I will send word to you, if you are still here. Now,’ he took Emma’s hand, ‘give my warmest regards to your father. Tell him he must make an effort soon to ride here to share lunch with us – and you would be most welcome too, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend.’

  Rowena and Joshua made their way back to the donkey cart – a silent, introspective Rowena for once. Josh also made no attempt at conversation for his mind was in turmoil. It seemed clear that Cunningham and his men had gathered at Morwenstow on the night of the storm because they had picked up intelligence of a smuggling landing operation in the little hidden cove at the foot of the cliffs, an operation that the storm, and probably their presence, had aborted.

  Who, then, was at the centre of the smuggling ring and who had determined to protect it by employing the thugs who had attacked him? And what was the role of Pengelly? That staged saving of Josh from slipping on the cobblestones near the harbour, was that, too, a warning? Wasn’t Pengelly known to be a fine sailor – and it would take a fine sailor to make a smuggling landing on that patch of shingle at the foot of the steepling cliffs of Morwenstow. Did that creepy, gossipy publican, Jacob Millbury, have a role in this? And, he shook his head at this thought, where did Doctor Acland fit into this complex pattern? After all, Rowena had said that he was the senior figure of the little community. A man of fine taste for opulent furnishing and great French brandy! Acland had said that he should get away from Hartland while he ‘would make some enquiries’, and he had sent his daughter to ensure that he did, in fact, leave.

  The two settled into the donkey cart, still in silence, until Josh said, ‘Rowena, why on earth did you not tell me about the role of the brazier and why would your father deny its existence?’

  She turned a face towards him that was drained of colour now and put a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, Josh, we all know about smuggling here. It is part of our heritage and we do not think it wrong. But everyone is sworn to secrecy because it is an offence and there would hardly be anyone in families along this coast who would not go to jail if these secrets were revealed. That is why I tried to discourage you from asking all your questions. I knew it could lead to harm for you.’

  ‘Who, then, is trying to warn me off? Who is at the head of this smuggling ring? Do you know?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t Josh. It is all kept so secret. Nobody will talk.’

  ‘Well, the reverend did, up to a point. Do you think he knows?’

  ‘No, I don’t. He is outside of it all. I am sure of that. In view of what you have learnt today, do you still want to visit the tinners? Do you think they could still be involved?’ She was frowning, hanging on his reply, for it was clear she did not want to turn back to Hartland.

  Josh looked up at the sky. ‘Yes, I don’t feel I am anywhere near the bottom of this business and I can’t help feeling that the men who are working in the mines – and, so poorly paid, or so it seems – might have some role to play in this miserable affair. So let’s keep moving. We don’t want to be on this road after dark.’

  Rowena smiled with relief, tossed the reins, flicked the whip but only lightly – she was a gentle horsewoman – and they resumed their journey. At Joshua’s insistence they ate their lunch as they rode and Rowena’s usual equable state of mind returned as they jogged along in the sunshine. Once, she quickly leant across and kissed him on the cheek and, when Josh pushed her away, she grinned and put out her tongue to him.

  The sun was setting beneath dark clouds on the horizon as they arrived at The Dolphin, a new, handsome inn a little way from the harbour. Joshua asked for two rooms and presented a letter from the doctor to the receptionist, who bowed, asked them to wait and took it away. A large, red-faced man with grey mutton chop whiskers appeared and immediately made a fuss of them.

  ‘Please give my regards to your father, my dear,’ he said. ‘And you, sir, are most welcome. The doctor has enclosed ample funds for a two-night stay here, including breakfast and dinner, so there will be no worry about payment. Joseph here will take you to your rooms. I hope you enjoy your stay.’

  Their rooms were side by side, looking down on the little canal that trickled down in front of the hotel into the sea on their left. There was an interconnecting door, which Josh firmly locked, and the two arrived promptly for dinner in the dining room at six-thirty.

  Josh could not help but feel ridiculously uncomfortable, sitting tête-à-tête with this beautiful young woman, who had, of course, dressed for dinner in what he assumed must be her best dress of fine silk. She had applied a little powder and rouge and played the part of a young wife, studying the other diners with care and sipping very slowly at the glass of white wine that Josh had reluctantly conceded to her.

  They chatted animatedly enough, however, over the meal – mainly with Rowena explaining how she had been sent away to boarding school in Exeter, which she had hated, and of how she wished to follow her father into the medical profession if she could persuade him to allow her to be trained. Josh found himself enjoying her company and finding it extremely difficult now to conjure up the image of Mary, while sitting opposite such an animated and attractive companion.

  She offered him a demure cheek to kiss at the doors to their rooms and waved him goodnight. He was not at all surprised, however, an hour later to hear the handle of their connecting door turn.

  ‘Go away and go to sleep, Rowena,’ he called.

  ‘Oh let me in, just for a minute, Josh,’ she whispered plaintively.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘But I have something to tell you. Let me in, just for a moment, please.’

  ‘No. Tell me in the morning. Now, goodnight Rowena.’

  He heard her turn away, deliberately dragging her heels, and a creaking of springs as she flounced onto her mattress. He shook his head and grinned before burying his head in his pillow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A brief conversation with the hotel’s proprietor in the morning gave Josh the location for the nearest tin mine, near to Bude, together with the name of its owner and manager. It was inland a couple of miles south of the town and it did not take them long to find it, for the great winding wheel and engine, which took the miners down to the bowels of the earth, could be seen prominently rising from the moorland long before they approached the buildings.

  ‘I know a bit about this mining business,’ said Rowena proudly as they approached. ‘I learnt about it at school in Exeter.’

  ‘Really? Tell me about it, then. It’s quite a traditional industry hereabouts, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Father used to say that a mine was a hole in the ground with a Cornishman at the bottom.’ She shot him her quick, all-embracing smile. ‘Mining here, Josh, goes back to almost 2,000 BC and—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh yes. We used to export tin, more or less just scraped from the ground in those days, to the Romans. They had open pits then. Now they go really deep, and mining for other stuff, like copper, began in this century. It’s all grown with the steam-pumping engine, and tin and copper ore is mined even in the old mines now.’

  Josh nodded. ‘I am impressed,’ he said. ‘Have you ever been down a mine?’

  ‘Oh no. Papa would never let me go. And the tinners, as they are called, are skilled men but I think Father thought that they were a rough lot and I should be somehow …’ she sought for words �
��… somehow defiled by contact with them.’ She threw back her head. ‘What nonsense!’

  ‘What do you know about present conditions, Rowena?’

  ‘Well, as best as I understand it, the tinners have always been up and down in terms of earnings, depending upon the price for base metals, which fluctuates a lot.’ She was frowning now and speaking earnestly. ‘The price has been down for some time now and I know that a lot of the miners have been thrown out of work. They are living in desperate conditions. It is a great shame.’

  ‘Would they ever have taken part in wrecking, then?’

  ‘Oh yes. The word would spread that a ship was in trouble, near, say, Bude and they would appear as if from nowhere. They certainly stripped clean Father’s ship, when it was wrecked.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The Evershot.’

  The little donkey plodded into a rough, open space in front of the tall timber framework that was topped by the winding wheel, now still. Two women, sitting in the sunlight with their backs against the timber of the tower, sewing, looked up at them with interest. Their faces were black and the hair that hung scraggily from underneath turbans of old cloth looked as if it had not been washed for months.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Josh.

  They both nodded but did not reply.

  ‘Can you tell me how we can find Mr Robert Miller, the owner of this mine?’

  One woman pointed to a brick-built building. ‘That’s ’is office there,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Rowena pulled the donkey’s head round, jumped down and tied the reins to a little hitching rail outside a door marked ‘Manager’.

  Then she reached up and helped Joshua to alight. Together they walked up four stone steps – every building except the winding tower seemed to be made from rough stone – and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Miller was sitting behind a table, one leg of which was broken and had been tied to a piece of wood. He was a man of middle age, with a jet-black beard and a battered top hat, which had long ago lost its sheen, pushed to the back of his head. He stood and offered a smile, which immediately lit up his face.