by John Wilcox
Immediately, Josh leant forward, in approved fencing style, his left hand raised behind his back, as Cunningham had displayed, and he presented the point to the throat of the Preventer. ‘If you bring your sword down, you will be a dead man,’ he said, gently pricking the skin of his opponent.
The man sprang back, as though he had been stung, but then stamped forward, slashing with his cutlass fiercely, clearly determined to kill the stranger who now confronted him. A cheer rose from the rest of the Preventers, who closed round the two swordsmen to witness what they obviously presumed would be an execution.
In fact, the Preventer lacked the skill of his captain and, despite his injured leg, Josh was easily able to avoid the clumsy swings that threatened him. Coolly, he parried four of them, leaving his opponent panting for breath. He then engaged his cutlass by tapping the end of the other’s steel, so provoking another swing, this time a horizontal swish that Josh ducked under.
‘Oh, for God’s sake stop,’ cried Rowena. ‘He will kill you, Josh.’
The cry of ‘kill, kill’ was taken up by the ring of Preventers. Josh was hampered by the pain that now shot up his injured leg as he tried to move away. Instead, he moved forwards. He slid his blade down the blade of the Preventer’s cutlass until it reached the pommel, then, with a twist of the wrist – as demonstrated days before by Cunningham – he thrust the point of his weapon under the curve of the man’s hand-protector and then flicked the sword out of his hand, so that it swung away, causing the nearest watchers to scatter.
The man, who did not lack courage, cursed and swung his fist at Joshua’s head. It, however, was easily avoided and, picking his target with care, Josh thrust his cutlass forward, so that the point took the man in the shoulder, producing a spurt of blood and causing him to stumble and fall. Immediately, there was a massed intake of breath from the onlookers, who stepped back, as one man, from this stranger who demonstrated that he could, indeed, handle a sword with skill.
Then, there came a shout from the man on the ground. ‘Go on, kill the bastard,’ he called. ‘’E’s on ’is own. Kill the bugger.’
This seemed to give life to the Preventers, who now surged forward again towards Josh, their swords raised.
‘STOP!’ The shriek came from Rowena, who was now standing in the donkey cart, a huge, old-fashioned, double-barrelled, cavalry pistol, held in both hands and with its firing hammers cocked. She swung the muzzle slowly to cover the main protagonists. ‘If you don’t lay down those damned cutlasses now, I will shoot to kill,’ she shouted. ‘You too, Joshua. Put down those fuckin’ swords.’
Joshua’s jaw dropped – as much at Rowena’s language as at the sight she presented, her jaw thrust forward, her eyes blazing and her hair flowing out behind her. She resembled some kind of avenging angel. He threw his cutlass to the ground. It was a gesture which, strangely, had the effect of encouraging the Preventers to do the same, and there was a clang as the steels were thrown down.
‘Well, well, well, Emma. What a feisty little creature you are!’
The voice was modulated and the tone cool. Captain Cunningham urged his horse through the ranks of the Preventers and miners alike, the reins curled around the hook at the end of his left arm, his right hand holding his cutlass.
‘Now really, Emma,’ he went on, his teeth grinning whitely against the dark tan of his face, ‘when I tell your father the kind of language you seem to have picked up from Mr Weyland, he will probably disown you. And, for God’s sake, put that antique pistol down. If it was loaded, which I am sure it is not, it would probably blow your arm off if you tried to fire it. Now, put it down, there’s a good girl.’
‘Not until you throw that cutlass to the ground.’ She swung the pistol round to aim it at Cunningham. ‘And it is loaded and I will happily kill you if I have to, officer of the law or not.’
‘He is not an officer of the law, Rowena,’ interrupted Joshua. ‘He is an officer of the Revenue and Customs, which is a distinctly different thing. Why, Cunningham, have you set up your men to stop these miners travelling to find work?’
Cunningham dismounted and, carefully, laid down his cutlass. ‘Because, my dear fellow – oh, and congratulations on your swordsmanship, by the way, you must have been practising since we last met – I do not want this rabble marching through my territory, threatening to disturb the peace.’
Joshua took a deep breath to control himself. ‘Firstly, this is not your territory. This is Her Majesty’s highway, open to any of her subjects who wish to walk upon it. These men are not a threat to the peace of the parish here, for I – and … er … Emma – can vouch for the fact that they are law-abiding men. We have travelled with them from Bude and they wish to look for work in Devon, where they will stand a better chance of finding it. If you bring charges against them – and I am not sure you have the power to do that, anyway, because they are not attempting to avoid paying customs duty on contraband goods – but if you do, then Emma and I will give evidence on their behalf and I am sure that their employer in Bude, Mr Miller, will do the same. Now call off your hounds, Captain, before we lay charges against you and them for attacking defenceless men.’
A ragged cheer rose from the ranks of the miners. Cunningham slowly nodded.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you add the skills of a barrack room lawyer to those of a qualified second mate.’ He raised his voice. ‘Very well, men. Let this rabble through. Pick up your cutlasses but sheathe them. Stand back and let the bloody miners march.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And for all our sakes, Emma, put down that ridiculous old pistol. It must have last been used by Oliver Cromwell.’
Josh walked back to where Rowena still stood, uncertainly holding the heavy pistol. ‘Where on earth did you get that thing from, Rowena?’ he hissed. ‘Why did you bring it with you?’
The girl lowered her lashes. ‘I picked it off the wall in Papa’s study,’ she murmured. ‘I put it in my bag in case it proved useful.’ She looked up defiantly. ‘And it did, didn’t it?’
Cunningham strode towards them. ‘Get that injured man into the cart, Brown,’ he ordered one of his men. ‘And put some sort of compress on to stop the bleeding, otherwise,’ he shot a stern gaze at Josh, ‘there will be a murder charge to be placed against Master Weyland. Now, Emma, pick up the reins, offload those tinners, they are not wounded so they can walk, and take the wounded man to your father for treatment. I have work to do so cannot accompany you. Good day.’
He touched the brim of his top hat, climbed back onto his horse and urged it forward so that he was able to wave the tinners through the gap that had now opened for them.
Clemence took Josh’s hand. ‘You have proved yourself to be a real friend of ours,’ he said. ‘And you are a most courageous man – and you, young lady,’ he turned towards Rowena, ‘have the sort of spirit that I remember from my late wife when we were first married. You remind me very much of her. Now we must be gone. But I am sure we shall meet again. Thank you both.’
He shook hands with each of them in turn, and then followed his men as they trudged up the hill ahead of them. At the top, he turned and waved.
Joshua and Rowena returned the gesture and then climbed back into the donkey cart. Josh looked down at the man he had wounded. ‘Keep holding that compress to the wound,’ he said. ‘It is important that you don’t lose more blood.’
‘What the hell does it matter to you?’ the wounded man growled. ‘You caused it, anyway.’
‘And I will stick that cutlass of yours through the other shoulder if you retain that truculent manner. Now keep the cloth pressing down hard and we should get you to the doctor before you bleed to death – which is no more than you deserve. Carry on, Rowena.’
The girl shook the reins and turned the donkey’s head down a little lane that led, across the heath, towards what seemed to be the cliff edge, beyond which Cunningham had disappeared some moments before.
Joshua leant towards Rowena. ‘I just wanted to say,’ he said, keeping his voice
low so that the Preventer could not hear, ‘that I thought you were splendid back there. I was quite proud of you, in fact.’ He gave her a slightly embarrassed grin.
Immediately, she turned and, taking advantage of his nearness, planted a quick kiss on his lips. ‘If I was splendid, Joshua Weyland,’ she said, ‘you were magnificent. I didn’t realise that you were such a good swordsman.’
He quickly leant away. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘neither did I.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
They jogged along without speaking for a little while, then Josh, keeping his voice low so that the wounded man could not hear, said, ‘I noticed that most of the Preventers had their sleeves rolled up but I did not see one who bore any sign of wounds on the arm or, for that matter, a bruised cheek. Did you?’
‘Ah, you were trying to identify the men who attacked you just above the village. But no, I did not. Perhaps they were not Preventers.’
‘Perhaps not. But who were they?’
‘I cannot imagine anyone from the village doing such a grievous thing, Josh. Maybe,’ she jerked her head to the rear, ‘he might know.’
‘He might indeed.’ Josh let the matter rest there for the moment. ‘Can you stop for a minute?’ He hauled himself clumsily over into the back and looked down at the wounded man. Bending, he removed the pad that protected the wound.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘The bleeding has stopped. The wound looks reasonably clean. Are you still in pain?’
The Preventer looked puzzled by the attention and care being shown. ‘It still bloody hurts, if that is what you mean.’
‘Well, of course it does. We will see if the doctor can give you something to ease the pain when we arrive. Alas, we have nothing with us that can do so, but we don’t have far to go now.’
He removed his jacket, rolled it into a pillow and pushed it behind the man’s head. ‘That might make you more comfortable.’ He examined the man’s forearm. ‘It looks as though you were not one of the two men who attacked me a few days ago.’
The man looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Attacked you? No. I never attacked you – and, as far as I know, none of our men did. Why should we?’
‘Why should you, indeed? But two men, who kept their faces concealed, did so and I would like to know who they were, for I was able to wound one of them in the arm and the other on the face, and those wounds should betray them.’
‘Well, it weren’t one of our lads, that’s for sure. I would know if it was.’
Josh nodded. He had a feeling that the man was telling the truth.
They turned down the steep path that led down to Hartland Quay. There was no sign of Cunningham and, as usual, the hamlet looked sleepily empty of human activity, although shouts could be heard above the sound of the waves breaking down by the harbour.
They stopped at the front door of the doctor’s house. Rowena slung the reins over the brake handle and vaulted down, fumbling for her key. She opened the door and Joshua could hear her shouting inside. He carefully let himself down and then helped the wounded man to descend. Rowena reappeared, a puzzled frown upon her face.
‘Father is not here,’ she said. ‘Mrs Brown, a neighbour, has been looking after the house. She says that Papa left for London two days ago and is expected to be away for a little longer. How strange.’
‘Who is going to look after this fellow? That wound needs treatment.’
Rowena tossed her head. ‘Oh, I can do that easily enough. Here.’ She took the man’s arm on his uninjured side and put it around her shoulders. ‘Lean on me and keep the other arm still. We will go into the surgery. Josh, go on and open doors and start boiling some water.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
The Preventer turned a startled face towards Josh. ‘She ain’t a doctor, is she? I mean a proper doctor. I want a real doctor to see me.’
‘Of course she is. There are two Doctor Aclands here. She is by far the better one. And the prettiest.’
Rowena shot Josh a grateful smile and before long she was gently bathing the wounded man’s shoulder, carefully picking out the few threads of fibres from his coat that had been thrust into the wound, while Joshua held a bowl of warm water at her side.
The man gave a startled cry as iodine was trickled onto the wound. ‘Oh, damn!’ muttered Rowena, ‘another shoulder dressing. Couldn’t you have cut his arm off? Bandaging a shoulder is so awkward.’
‘Well, you made a good enough job of mine, Doctor.’
Eventually the wound was dressed and the man’s jacket was draped over his shoulders. ‘Can you walk up to the barracks?’ asked Josh.
‘No,’ interrupted Rowena. ‘I don’t think he should walk. He has had quite a shock. Can you take him up there in the cart? I have things to do here.’
‘Of course.’
Josh walked the man into the street, helped him into the cart and climbed up beside him. They climbed the hill in silence until they reached the great front gate of the barracks.
Josh helped the man down. ‘Bang on the door and I presume they will let you in. Come back in a couple of days to the doctor’s house and we can change that dressing. The wound needs to be kept clean.’
The man looked at the ground for a moment, then switched his gaze to Joshua. He held out his hand. ‘I am very grateful – not for the bloody wound – but for the care you and that doctor ’ave given me. I will ask about that attack on you and will let you know if I find anythin’. I honestly don’t think it would ’ave been any of the Preventers who would ’ave gone at you like that. Not without provocation. I will let you know.’
He nodded, turned and banged on the door. Josh stifled a smile and turned the donkey’s head down the hill. Mrs Brown came out to help him unharness the animal, before Josh rubbed him down and fed him oats in the little stable at the back. When he re-entered the house, Mrs Brown was bustling about and Rowena was carefully replacing the old pistol on the wall.
‘Was it really loaded?’
‘O’ course not.’ She gave him her great life-reaffirming smile. ‘And I’m sorry about the bad language but I was worried no one was listening to me and believing that I wouldn’t fire.’
Josh lifted an eyebrow. ‘Where on earth did you get that sort of talk?’
She blushed. ‘From Tom Pengelly. He has quite a vocabulary. I know a few other words if you would like to hear them.’
‘No, thank you. Now, Doctor, if you could manage to make a mug of coffee I would like to sit and think for a moment or two.’
‘Oh yes, Captain. Put your great mind to work.’
Josh settled in the drawing room and this time looked around him with care. There were decorative plates fixed to the walls, hand-painted by the look of them. Tentatively, he pulled open a large walnut sideboard and inspected the fine French Limoges dining service that was stacked inside. It would serve at least sixteen people, he estimated. On the other side of the sideboard, this time with a key inserted in the door, was a spirits cupboard. Josh removed a couple of bottles to examine them. In all, there were six bottles containing fine Jamaican rum and double that number labelled French Armagnac, obviously purchased in one consignment, for they were all marked with the same vintage, 1812. This sideboard contained no wine, but Joshua knew that the doctor had a wine cellar, the entrance to which was in the kitchen and was kept permanently locked. He shook his head. The doctor certainly lived in some style. How did he do this on the earnings he made from treating the poor people of Hartland Quay?
Rowena came in carrying a pot of coffee, which she put by the side of his chair. ‘I will leave you,’ she said, ‘for I have work to do.’ At the door she turned, a mischievous grin on her face. ‘If Papa does not return tonight,’ she said, ‘we shall be in the house alone. You had better lock your bedroom door.’
Josh sighed and rested his head on the back of the chair. It was time to take stock. He moved his shoulder. No problem there, for the pain had gone. He lifted his injured leg off the floor. This, too, caused him no distress. He
frowned. Surely, it was time now to hurry to Dover to see Mary? She would have received his letter posted from Bude and in it he had promised he would be on his way to meet with her as soon as he was allowed to travel. He felt a huge twinge of conscience. She was his fiancée and yet, here he was, half flirting with an eighteen-year-old girl who, to say the least, was less than respectable, and he himself was seemingly brushing the edge of a gang or gangs engaged in law-breaking and violence. Why, he had even become a swordsman! Yes, it was time he moved on.
But … He closed his eyes. Could he leave behind him so many unanswered questions, here, on this iron coast – questions about the wrecking of The Lucy, about smuggling, about the violence that seemed to lurk just under the surface of these villages. And, of course, about the beguiling daughter of a gypsy. What to do about her?
He stirred in his chair and took a sip of coffee. It was excellent, of course. She made good coffee, naturally. Could he turn his back on her and leave her at the mercy of whatever villainy was being practised here? He reviewed the characters he had met so far. Cunningham, who professed designs on Rowena and had illusions of power here. The doctor, obviously a man of influence in this small community, who lived remarkably well. Then there was Tom Pengelly, the highly skilled sailor who allegedly knew this coastline like the back of his hand. However much Rowena shrugged him off, he was close enough to her to share language of the commonest nature. And what of the publican, who seemed to know everyone’s business?
There was another player in this drama, however. Continually overlooked to the point where he could well be called ‘the forgotten man’ was the sailor who had helped Pengelly and who would, in all probability, have lifted him into the donkey cart. Why did Rowena seem to lie about seeing them there?
He shook his head. It was time he had a proper discussion with the girl. What was she hiding and why? His mind went back to what Miller, the owner of the tin mine, had said about smuggling. Without knowing from where they had come, he had specifically named Morwenstow and Hartland as centres of profitable and sophisticated smuggling operations. These two sleepy hamlets perched atop the cruel cliffs, with one tiny and hard-to-enter harbour between them. It was to think of them as nests of depravity.
