The Black Rocks of Morwenstow

by John Wilcox

  ‘Good morning. What can I do for you?’

  Joshua extended his hand. ‘My name is Joshua Weyland,’ he said, ‘and this is Miss Emma Acland. You must be Mr Miller.’

  ‘I am indeed. Now,’ his smile broadened, ‘please do tell me you have come to offer to buy my mine.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. May we sit down and detain you for a moment or two?’

  Miller pulled forward two battered cane chairs that stood against the wall. ‘Of course. Sit down. You can detain me as long as you like for there is little work for me to do here now, alas.’

  Rowena frowned. ‘Why is that, sir?’

  ‘Because my tin is almost worthless now, given the present market price for it, and it is an expensive waste of time me trying to bring it to the surface. But let me repeat, what can I do for you?’

  Joshua squirmed for a moment on his chair. He realised that it would be crude and tasteless for him to confront this polite man with the question, ‘Do your work people indulge in the wrecking of ships that run aground on the coast, and do they practise smuggling?’ He coughed. He would have to dissemble.

  ‘I write for the Western Morning News,’ he said – Rowena shot him a startled look – ‘and I am interested in researching the lifestyle of the tin miners of this part of Cornwall.’

  Miller threw back his head and snorted. ‘Lifestyle! My poor fellows hardly have one, for I can barely afford to pay them a few halfpennies to keep them turning up for work. In fact, they don’t now.’

  ‘Don’t do what, sir?’ enquired Rowena, with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Turn up for work. At the moment, virtually all of my main workforce has set off to march to the north, in the hope that they can find some form of alternative employment. I am doing what I can to help them by offering their wives employment of sorts at vastly reduced wages, while their menfolk are away.’ He gave a sad smile.

  ‘Ah, I am so sorry, sir,’ said Joshua. ‘We have obviously chosen a bad time to call on you. What sort of work are they hoping to find in the north of the country?’

  ‘Anything they can get their hands on. Some of the families are near starvation and I have been doing my best to provide them with basic food.

  ‘As you are a journalist, Mr Weyland, you must know that this country is going through a period of great industrial depression.’

  ‘Er … yes, of course.’

  ‘In fact, the northern part of the United Kingdom remains locked in what can only be termed a General Strike. It started with what were called the Plug Plot Riots – so called because the workers removed a few bolts or plugs that enabled the steam boilers to operate – and seems to have spread from the mines of Staffordshire and affected the factories and textile mills of Lancashire and Yorkshire and coal mines from Dundee to South Wales and even here in Cornwall.’

  Josh nodded. ‘Is this unrest among the employees, then, the reason why your workforce is hoping for better pay in the north?’

  ‘No. There is no real rift between employees and managers here in the tin mines. My people all know we just can’t get a decent price for our tin and they don’t blame me. No, it’s the international market that is ruining our industry. But there is a huge division developing between management and workers elsewhere. The Preston strike in August this year resulted in a riot where four men were shot, and another six died in a riot at Halifax.

  ‘As you will know,’ he continued, ‘this violence is getting worse, probably stoked by the politicians behind the Chartist Movement. In the north-west alone, more than 1500 strikers have been brought to trial so far this year.’ He shook his head. ‘We seem to be almost on the verge of revolution. So,’ he smiled wearily, ‘I suppose we can’t really complain in our mines down here. At least the workforce is not about to hang all the owners of the workings. They understand the position we’re in.’

  ‘I must confess,’ said Josh, ‘that I have been abroad until recently and had not realised how bad things are here. There is obviously no alternative work for your people to do?’

  ‘No. Many of them are well skilled and would be quite content to retrain to work on the land, or even as seamen. But there is nothing for them.’

  Joshua coughed. ‘Not even the occasional wrecking work on the beaches … ?’ He let the words hang interrogatively.

  ‘Good Lord, no. Yes, that can provide goods in lieu of wages but scraps from the ships that do go aground don’t pay the rent. And, anyway, that all depends upon the weather.’

  Josh looked up at the ceiling. ‘I had heard that smuggling could be a profitable sideline for workers in this part of Cornwall and over the border in Devon, too.’

  Miller removed his top hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair, before replacing it on the back of his head. ‘There is a lot of nonsense talked about that.’ He slapped one finger into the palm of his other hand. ‘In the first place, it is true that there are some quite ruthless and profitable smuggling rings in operation. But not round here. They are much further north, round little places like Morwenstow and Hartland, for instance, where there is no industry, except some farming and a bit of fishing.’

  Josh and Rowena exchanged glances covertly, as Miller continued.

  ‘In the second place, these are quite sophisticated operations, which are organised to slip through anything the Preventers or the militia and the dragoons can do. My fellows are honest workpeople – and so are their wives – and they wouldn’t get involved with anything so complicated as smuggling. And certainly not deliberate shipwrecking. Those days have long gone.’

  He stood. ‘So you will see, I am afraid I can’t paint you a happy presentation of honest folk working in the tin mines of Cornwall. The lifestyle that you may be pursuing has gone with the wrecking. Now my poor folk have to march to the north to get bread. It is sad, very sad and, if you are to write about the lifestyle of Cornish tin miners, then you must paint a sombre picture indeed.’ He extended his hand. It was clearly a dismissal.

  Joshua was glad that he could drop his awkward impression of a daily newspaper writer and gladly accepted Miller’s hand, as did Rowena. ‘I will report accordingly, Mr Miller,’ he said. ‘But we can perhaps do more than that and follow the trail of your workmen and, even, perhaps, lend a hand to help them, if we possibly can. Either way, I wish you luck and sincerely hope that your mine can return to profitability soon.’

  ‘Thank you. The men set off late yesterday afternoon. They took the inland road, due north. You should be able to overtake them easily.’ He smiled sadly. ‘They will not be moving fast. Good day to you both.’

  Once they were on their way, Rowena turned to Joshua and frowned. ‘Josh, I did not approve of you lying to that good man,’ she said. ‘Was it really necessary? He will probably now scan the Western Morning News for signs of your reporting for some days now.’

  Josh wearily shook his head. ‘I quite agree, but I had to think of some excuse for calling on him and virtually asking him outright if his workpeople were criminals. Let us see if we can catch them up.’ He lifted out a well-thumbed map from his bag. ‘I got this from the hotel. Let’s examine the way they might have gone. Yes, the coastal path would have been too arduous to take because it follows the line of the cliffs. Make the next turning to the right, Rowena.’

  ‘Do we not return to our hotel for the night, then, Josh?’

  ‘No. I will write and ask for our things to be sent on to us. We can manage for one night. I want to talk to the tinners. I have a feeling that they might well be running into trouble.’

  Rowena prodded the donkey. ‘Oh, how exciting,’ she said, her eyes sparkling.

  They did not overtake the emigrating workforce until dusk was falling and making it difficult to follow even the tracks of forty men who had trampled across the moorland turf. Then they saw the glow from campfires ahead of them – ten or twelve of them that could only come from the tinners bedding down for the night. Josh consulted the map and estimated that they were more or less level with Morwen
stow on the coast, some two or three miles to the west. He pulled on the reins and reached behind them in the cart.

  Rowena’s grin virtually lit up the semi-darkness. ‘Where do we sleep, then, Josh?’ she asked.

  ‘Off the road, right here. There is a ground sheet and a blanket in the back. Let us just hope it doesn’t rain. I fear we will not be comfortable.’

  ‘Oh yes we will. We can gather wood and light a fire and we still have the sandwiches we saved from the inn. If it gets cold, Josh, then we shall just have to cuddle. Do you know how to cuddle, Josh?’

  Josh scowled. ‘There will be none of that nonsense, Rowena. I promised your father, remember? And so did you, for that matter. Now behave yourself.’

  He said all of this with as lofty a demeanour as he could summon but he could not deny to himself that his body was beginning to tingle at the thought of Rowena – slim, svelte, smooth-skinned Rowena – pressing her body to his to gain warmth. He coughed.

  ‘See if you can find some wood,’ he commanded. ‘I will unload the cart and tether the donkey. If we lose him in the night it will be disastrous. It looks as though there is a stream here and I can gather water and boil it so that we can have tea.’

  ‘Yes, Captain Weyland. Oh, Josh, what fun – and how romantic.’

  ‘You won’t think it quite so romantic, my girl, if a storm comes in from the west. There is little to cover us.’

  ‘Then, we shall just have to cuddle. I am sure you can manage it, Josh. I will teach you.’

  He swung himself awkwardly to the ground. His leg was improving day by day but he still moved with difficulty in alighting. ‘I am sure you know how, my dear girl, but you really must behave yourself, otherwise I shall call back the donkey and we shall proceed onwards in the dark.’ But he was secretly grinning.

  Luckily, the night remained starlit, although, with October breathing its cool breath, the temperature fell with the disappearance of the sun. One blanket hardly covered them but Rowena insisted on tucking the edge underneath Josh’s body to anchor it. He turned his back towards her but that did not deter her for one moment, for she folded her body to match the shape of his and put an arm around him to pull her own completely close to him.

  ‘There, Captain Weyland,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘That is cuddlin’. Nice, isn’t it?’ and pulled him even closer.

  They both awoke just after daybreak, tired and stiff from lying on the unrelenting ground. Rowena had fallen asleep almost immediately and Josh lay still for what seemed like hours, anxious not to disturb or, indeed, incite her. He fetched water from the stream, poked the dying fire into life and managed to make tea for them both.

  ‘What do we do now, Josh?’ asked Rowena, stretching her arms above her head.

  ‘Go on and catch up with the tinners before they really get moving,’ he said. ‘I would like to talk to whoever is their leader.’

  The miners’ camp was astir early. Most of the men had brought with them single bivouac tents and it was clear that they were used to sleeping rough, for the tents were being packed away with quick efficiency. Josh was directed to a Mr Tom Clemence, who, he was told, was their foreman.

  The man was in early middle age, dressed, like the others in old work clothes splashed with dried mud and wearing heavy boots. It was just as if they had all finished a shift in the mine and taken off as soon as they had reached the surface. Clemence had a worn, lined face and dark eyes that regarded Josh from within deep caverns. He looked ill, in fact, and Josh wondered if malnutrition had attacked him, for he was thin and bowed.

  ‘What can I do for you, sur?’ he said. ‘We ain’t doin’ no ’arm in sleepin’ out on the ’eath, now, are we?’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Clemence. I have spoken with Mr Mitchell, your mine owner, and he has told me of your plight. I believe you are heading north in an attempt to find work?’

  ‘That is true, sur. Do you know where we might find employment?’

  ‘Alas, I fear not. But may I advise you to keep away from the coastal path, which is damned hard walking and will lead you only to a few hamlets and villages and there will be no work there for you. Keep on this inland road, heading towards the east – that is on the right – and it should take you, first to Bideford and then to Barnstaple and, if you continue north, to Ilfracombe. As I remember them, these are busy little towns where, if you break up, you could find some sort of work.’

  ‘Thank you, sur. We will take your advice.’

  ‘Now,’ Josh fumbled beneath his waistcoat, ‘I understand that you are short of money and of food.’ He produced his little bag that had survived the rough surf of Morwenstow. Rowena’s jaw dropped as she observed him open it. ‘I have some savings here, Mr Clemence. Alas, I cannot spare you much, but I hope that these five guineas might provide a little sustenance for you.’

  He pressed the gold coins into the other’s hand.

  Clemence looked down and raised his weary head. ‘I am most touched by your kindness, sur, but I hope you won’t be offended if I decline it. We all made up our minds not to accept charity on this journey. We seek work, not the kindness of strangers such as yourself.’

  Josh nodded. ‘I understand your feelings entirely but I insist you take the money. It just might make a little difference if one or two of you fall ill, which,’ he looked around him, ‘could well happen by the look of it. Some of your fellows seem to be all in.’

  ‘Well that is so. Very well, sur. If you will give me your name and a place where you might be found, I will ensure that we shall repay you – although I fear it might take us some time to do that.’

  ‘Very well.’ Josh produced a scrap of paper and stub of pencil and scribbled his name and Dr Acland’s address. ‘I am in no hurry, Mr Clemence. Now … er … my companion and I must turn off this road towards the coast soon, but for a couple of miles, at least, we can offer transport for two of your men, those, perhaps, who are feeling the effects of this hard walking the most. Perhaps you will nominate them. I can walk and my … er … companion will be happy to find room in the donkey cart for them.’

  ‘You are a kind man, indeed,’ Clemence looked at the scrap of paper myopically and Josh realised that the foreman probably could not read. ‘My name is Weyland,’ he said, ‘and I am lodging with a Doctor Acland in a little hamlet called Hartland Quay. They will know there where to find me but, let me repeat, I do not wish to have the money returned. Your need is much greater than mine. Now, I don’t wish to hold up your march. We will accompany you for a little way before we have to turn off.’

  Two men, quite old, judging by their grey hairs, were helped into the back of the donkey cart where they sprawled gratefully. Before stirring the donkey into motion, Rowena leant down and hissed at Josh: ‘But that was the money you were saving for your wedding. Have you changed your mind about that?’

  ‘No, lass. It will just have to be a quieter wedding, that’s all.’

  Rowena stayed looking down at him for a few moments more. Then she said quietly, ‘You are a good man, Joshua Weyland,’ blinking back tears. ‘Come on, donkey. Giddy-up.’

  The cavalcade, with the tinners stretching out on either side of the path onto the moorland and the donkey cart bringing up the rear, continued its passage until Clemence, who had been plodding along with Joshua, suddenly halted and pointed ahead.

  ‘I smell trouble,’ he said.

  Stretching ahead of them and spreading out on either side of the path stood a thin line of men. Shielding his eyes from the early sun, Josh could see that there were about thirty of them, standing perfectly still, but clearly denying further progress to the miners. What’s more, they all carried unsheathed cutlasses and one or two had muskets.

  Instinctively, he looked to the left, to where the cliff rose to present a skyline. Yes, there he was. The figure on horseback, perfectly still, looking down on them from that familiar, hunched-back posture.

  ‘It’s the Preventers,’ called Rowena. ‘They are going to stop the tinners
marching.’

  ‘They can’t do that,’ muttered Josh, half to himself. ‘These men are not the enemy of the Revenue.’

  The men in the van of the tinners had now reached the Preventers. ‘You go no further,’ cried one of them. ‘You are not allowed into these parishes. Turn and go back the way you came. You are not welcome here.’ He emphasised his words by prodding a miner in the chest with the point of his sword.

  Immediately, the tinner, a large man, swung his fist and caught the Preventer on the side of the jaw, sending him sprawling and the cutlass spinning away to land, point down, quivering in the turf. Most of the tinners had shaped sticks from fallen branches to help them walk and they now brandished these and moved towards the Revenue men.

  Josh’s jaw dropped as he witnessed these happenings. The sky above them was that soft, cloudless blue that often brightens the beginning of October. It contrasted sadly with the aggression that was developing beneath it. The tinners outnumbered the Preventers, but not by many, and the miners were clearly not fighting men. Their work-stained clothes contrasted with the blue and white garments, sun-bleached but still clearly uniforms, of the Revenue men. The tinners’ sticks, cut to aid their walk along uneven paths, were clearly going to be no match for the steel of the cutlasses, gleaming now threateningly in the pale sunlight.

  ‘My God,’ breathed Josh, ‘there’s going to be a massacre, wooden staves against swords. Stop!’ he cried loudly and began pushing his way through the ranks of the miners to where the fallen Preventer was now rubbing his jaw and picking himself up. He reached for his cutlass, its point still buried in the turf, but Joshua was there before him.

  He grabbed the hilt of the weapon and wrenched it free. Raising the cutlass he cried out loudly, ‘None of you Preventers should use your swords against these men. If you do, you will be breaking the law and I shall report you to a magistrate.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ A burly Preventer pushed his way through to face Joshua. ‘So what ’appens if I cut your bloody ’ead off, then?’ he sneered and he raised his cutlass menacingly.