The Black Rocks of Morwenstow

by John Wilcox

  The sailor frowned. ‘An’ what would ’is word be worth? I’m just a humble seafarin’ man, with no influence. The doctor might get off, but not me. Look, I can’t stand an’ talk here any longer. There are two smacks to be brought in yet and I can smell that bad weather is on its way. Why don’t you take Rowena with you and bugger off to where you first started from. Hartland Quay, at least, will be glad to see the back of you.’

  He turned on his heel and strode away.

  Joshua shook his head in frustration. Was no one else going to stand up against Jack Cunningham? He walked to the quayside. Pengelly was right, black clouds – very black clouds – were forming low on the horizon to the north-west. It looked as though a very severe storm was brewing.

  Reluctantly, he made his way back to the doctor’s house and was met by an anxious Rowena.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He will not give evidence against Cunningham. He is frightened of deportation.’

  ‘So, what will you do now?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Rowena. I just don’t know. I am not sure that just your father’s evidence, backed up by us, would be sufficient to persuade the militia to make an arrest. Frankly, I just don’t know what else we can do.’

  Rowena drew herself to her full height. ‘Then, my dear, you must get on with your life. Leave us here and go to your Mary. We will be all right. I shall look after Father, Cunningham knows that. If he touches a hair on his head I shall kill him myself.’

  Josh couldn’t resist a smile. ‘I am sure you would, because you are the bravest, strongest and most beautiful girl in the whole world.’

  Rowena grimaced and Josh could see that tears were not far away and wished he hadn’t been so fulsome.

  ‘So brave and beautiful that you will leave me for your fat fiancée in Dover? No. Don’t answer that, I know you must go. When will you leave?’

  ‘Will you and your father allow me to stay for one more night, anyway, while I think things through? At the moment, I am very tired and a bit confused.’

  Immediately, Rowena’s haughty air disappeared. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I forgot that you spent a terrible night in the barracks. Now, go this minute to your room and take a rest. You don’t need to leave until you are good and ready. Please …’

  He nodded and climbed the stairs and threw himself onto his bed. He was tired but knew he had to face up to the choice he had to make. He lay quietly and summoned up the face of Rowena, black-eyed, always near to tears, impetuous and, it had become clear, probably Pengelly’s lover. Then Mary, apple-cheeked, loyal, balanced and faithful, appeared. She had done nothing wrong, how could he betray her? Put like that, he knew what his decision must be. Almost relieved, he slipped into sleep.

  A thunderclap that seemed to shake the house woke him and he realised that he must have slept through much of the daylight hours. Rain was now pounding the roof and windows and he decided that there was little left to do but to shed his clothes and slip between the sheets. At least his mind was made up.

  He was awoken rudely by Rowena shaking him by the shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Josh, Josh,’ she cried. ‘Get dressed please. It is after midnight and we are in the middle of a terrible storm. I heard Father going down the stairs and tried to stop him going out in this weather. But he tells me that he has seen with his telescope that there is a ship in great distress out in the Channel. He has consulted the Register and he believes it to be one of the Blue Cross vessels. He is sure that Cunningham will know this and try and lure it onto the rocks at Morwenstow. So Papa has rushed out, saddled his mare and ridden off to stop him. What’s more, he has taken a cutlass with him. We must stop him.’

  ‘Of course. Get dressed. Do you have oilskins?’

  She nodded, wide-eyed.

  ‘Good. Is your pony still up on the heath where I left him?’

  ‘Yes, I meant to go and get him but I forgot.’

  ‘Never mind. We will hitch up the donkey cart. I doubt if we can overtake your father but we might be able to get there before he gets himself into trouble. Go now.’

  She nodded. Joshua threw on his clothing, pulled on his boots and ran down the stairs. On impulse, he ducked into the living room and took down the one remaining cutlass that hung over the mantelpiece, then, head lowered, he ran through the rain to the stables, where Rowena was already pushing the reluctant donkey between the shafts.

  He nodded to her, feeling ridiculously relieved that he was being called upon to take some form of action, at least. ‘Wrap up,’ he called. ‘I think it’s going to be a long night.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They pulled out onto the street, where the brown rain had turned the gutter into a millstream. Rowena had taken the reins, Josh acknowledging her to be the better driver, and she forced the poor donkey to head uphill into the wind and rain. The noise of the sea crashing against the harbour wall behind and below them demonstrated that this storm had developed into one of the worst of the nor’westerlies. Crouching beside Rowena, clutching the cutlass under his oilskin, Josh could not stop the words of the old cliché ‘God help sailors on a night like this’ running through his brain.

  They were even more exposed, of course, once they had turned into the clifftop road to Morwenstow. Sleet was now mixed with the rain and stung their faces and eyes. ‘Are you all right?’ he mouthed to Rowena. She nodded her head and he could not help but marvel at the skill this young girl demonstrated now, as the donkey slipped and slithered in the mud, she holding him firmly, flicking the whip into the wind and onto his rump to keep him pulling forward.

  Josh prayed that the doctor had been able to keep in the saddle on this exposed road in such conditions and, at every turn of the path, he half expected to see a riderless horse standing, shivering, at the clifftop edge. The old man, he reflected, must be as good a horseman as his daughter was a cart driver.

  In such conditions, the journey that would normally have taken them just over an hour, lasted for nearly ninety minutes. As they crested the hill, leading down onto the plateau above the vicarage at Morwenstow, Joshua stood, clutching at Rowena’s shoulder to steady himself and peered out to sea, which in all its foam-topped majesty, was sporadically lit by flashes of lightning.

  Great billows of white-tipped waves were surging toward the shore from the north-west and yes, there she was! – a brigantine, running with only scraps of sail hoisted now, but still pressing, her starboard rail well underwater, to round Hartland Point. Certainly, there seemed to be no pushing the helm over to change her course towards Morwenstow. Had, then, their journey been in vain? Perhaps there was no brazier lit halfway down the cliff face? Certainly, there was no sign of Preventers here on the clifftop.

  Motioning Rowena to halt and tie up the donkey, he slid down the side of the cart – wincing a little as the old wound twinged – and hurried down, past the vicarage, huddling safely against the storm in its niche in the hillside, and began the perilous descent down to the rocks and the little shingled beach. He stopped for a moment and sniffed the air. Yes, he thought so. Smoke – smoke from a brazier was being borne inland on the wind. It must be down ahead, where it was before, on the little shelf that was partly sheltered.

  Suddenly, as the wind dropped momentarily, he heard a sound behind him on the path. Whirling, he saw Tom Pengelly, slipping and sliding towards him, cutlass in hand.

  So this was to be the moment of truth, here on the cliff face!

  He pulled his own cutlass from under his waterproof and prepared to defend himself. But Pengelly, hardly pausing in his run down the path, waved him to stand away and rushed by him, pushing him against the mossy cliff face to make room for his passage. He disappeared, still descending in great leaps, as sure-footed as a mountain goat.

  And then, inevitably, Rowena came into view, doing her best to hurry downwards but hampered by her long oilskin and the slippery surface. He gestured to her to go back but, her face hidden by the hood of the wat
erproof, she shook her head violently.

  Torn between following Pengelly in the hope of preventing whatever mischief he might create and waiting for Rowena to help her down the path, he decided to wait. She could so easily slip and be pitched down onto the rocks below. He held out his hand and, with a gasp, she took it.

  ‘Did you see Pengelly?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes,’ she was sucking in rain and air desperately to fill her lungs.

  ‘What the hell was he going to do with that cutlass?’

  ‘Going to rescue Father. He had seen him from his cottage window going down the path and ran after him.’

  ‘Good Lord! Let me go on, too. You wait here.’

  He knew she would not and, sure enough, as soon as he turned and continued his descent she followed him down, one hand on the cliff face to steady her descent.

  Sparks from the brazier were now being borne on the wind and flashing past his head as he grew nearer to the little plateau. Then, as he rounded a bend in the path, he saw the fiery light, in exactly the position that had been betrayed by the ring of ash he and Rowena had found. This time, however, the shelf was lit by the glow from the brazier and further illuminated by sporadic flashes of lightning, as though some heavenly stage manager was turning up the spot lamps to dramatise the scene being played out below.

  There was no need to dramatise it, however, as Joshua stopped in his tracks and held out his hand to warn Rowena, close behind him.

  Doctor Acland lay on the turf, clutching at his shoulder where blood was oozing between his fingers from a savage cut from, obviously, a cutlass. Cunningham, painted a fiendish figure now by the brazier, was stacking the fire with brushwood and what looked like faggots, a bloodstained cutlass thrust into the ground at his feet.

  Then Josh saw Pengelly, crouched by the side of the doctor and partly hidden by a projection of rock. The young man was desperately trying to fix a neckerchief around Acland’s shoulder to stem the bleeding. He tied a knot at last and slowly rose to his feet, cutlass in hand. He shouted something at Cunningham who, probably seeing him for the first time, laughed at him, his teeth flashing in the brazier’s light, picked up his cutlass and beckoned Pengelly forward with a derisive, wagging finger.

  Pengelly shouted again and then bounded forward, his sword blade high above his shoulder.

  ‘No,’ cried Josh, but his voice was lost in the howl of the wind.

  The young sailor had obviously never taken a fencing lesson in his life, but the anger and hatred he expressed now in his wild swinging of the cutlass had the effect of making Cunningham duck and dance around that firelit arena as though the Devil himself was bearing down on him.

  Josh dropped to one knee to look out to sea beneath the glare of the brazier to see if the brig had altered course. At first, he could not make out her direction, but then he could see the foreshortening of the hull as the wheel was turned. Damn! She had taken the bait and was heading now straight for the rocks. It was enough, and with the despairing cry of Rowena in his ears, he bounded down the last few feet of the path and, ignoring the two combatants, he made for the brazier, hooked the blade of his cutlass between the iron bars of the cradle and wrenched it around, so that, with a crackling hiss, its burning contents fell to the ground, sending a shower of sparks to be borne away by the wind. The light of the fire was still there, but it was defused immediately by the burning brands being scattered around on the sodden turf.

  Still ignoring Cunningham and Pengelly, Josh stamped around the shelf, kicking away the embers so that they sizzled and died. Rowena’s scream made him turn. Cunningham had brought Pengelly to the ground and had thrust the point of the cutlass into his breast. Then, in one terrifying movement, he swung his hook back and down and slashed open the young sailor’s throat so that blood gushed from it in a crimson torrent.

  But Rowena’s scream had alerted Cunningham as well and he looked up and saw Joshua. He had stripped off his uniform jacket and his sodden, white shirt was clinging to his body as though bonded to it, his hair was plastered to his forehead and he now advanced on Joshua with the light tread of a fencing master, his bloodstained blade pointed directly at him.

  He shouted above the raging of the wind and rain. ‘Second Mate. You seem to have completely ruined my life here. It is time, therefore, to cut out your heart and throw it into the surf. But first, I shall make you bleed and give you pain. Look out!’

  He feinted to Josh’s face and then bent low and thrust forward to the midriff. Clumsily, Joshua parried the move.

  He tore off his heavy oilskins to free his arms and then threw them to one side. ‘You’re mad, Cunningham,’ he shouted. ‘Look, the ship has put about and is making out to sea again. She sees no light now, you deranged swine. Your work here is done. Even your Preventers have disappeared.’

  Cunningham replied, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face, by stamping forward and attempting to repeat the move that had disarmed Josh on their previous encounter – sliding his blade down that of Josh’s, engaging the point in the hand protector and, flicking the wrist to throw the weapon away. Josh, however, remembered the move and countered by forcing his opponent’s blade downwards. Cunningham immediately swung his blade upwards in a circular motion and tried to then bring it down vertically. But the move was telegraphed and Josh skipped away.

  For a moment, the two men stood, breasts heaving, regarding each other. ‘You won’t win here, Weyland,’ shouted Cunningham. ‘You are an amateur, facing a professional. This will be the death of a thousand cuts for you, Mr Mate. En garde!’

  And he advanced, flickering his blade point, forcing Josh to move backward. Then he made a lightning thrust and his point brought blood from the upper part of Josh’s left arm.

  ‘Just a touch, you see,’ shouted Cunningham. ‘But it hurts, doesn’t it? There are plenty more to come.’

  Once more he stamped forward, always using the point of the clumsy weapon, thrusting with it as though it was a rapier or foil. Somehow, Josh survived this latest onslaught, holding his blade high and parrying each thrust.

  Round and round they circled, with Cunningham usually attacking and Joshua somehow defending, blocking, ducking and occasionally rallying, albeit clumsily. The end almost came when, retreating again before the thrusts of the big man, Joshua stumbled on the slippery turf, just where Rowena was tending her father. Josh went down on one knee and his cutlass slipped from his fingers.

  Immediately, Cunningham stamped on the blade preventing Josh from retrieving it. He stood for a moment, looking down and grinning at his helpless opponent, savouring the moment. Then, he drew back his cutlass to deliver the coup de grâce.

  It was then that Rowena threw into his face the handful of gravel that she had been nursing and waiting for an opportunity to deliver since the duel began. The tiny stones caught Cunningham in the eye and, as he cursed and tried to clear his vision, this gave Josh just time to regain his sword and his footing, parrying the two vicious swings that were now directed at his head.

  It was becoming clear, however, that although Cunningham had the superior skill, he was facing a much younger man, who, unlike the Preventers’ captain, had spent his whole life at sea, climbing rigging, hauling on heavy sheets and struggling while holding helms against strong currents. He lacked Joshua’s fitness and his constant attacks were making him gasp for breath now and, frantically, to look around for some new form of attack.

  It was now Josh’s turn to move forward and, feinting to the right, he thrust to the left, his blade cutting through the other’s shirt and grazing his skin. The cut, though superficial, caused Cunningham to wince and, for the first time, Josh saw fear come into the captain’s eyes. Perspiration was mingling with the rain that coursed down the man’s cheeks and, sensing Cunningham’s tiredness, Josh decided to use brute force. Forsaking any attempts at finesse, and ignoring the pain from the flesh wound in his arm, he swung his heavy blade down, beating aside Cunningham’s listless parry and then looping it round
horizontally, cutting into the man’s neck and producing a gush of blood.

  Cunningham uttered an oath and, dropping his cutlass, he put his good hand to his neck to stem the bleeding. At the same time, he staggered backwards and, then, on the edge of the ridge, he slipped on a wet rock. There was nothing to save him and, with a scream, he fell backwards down onto the jumbled, foam-covered rocks some forty feet below.

  A breathless Joshua fell to his knees and crawled to the edge. He just had time to see Cunningham’s body being tossed on the crest of a wave and thrown down onto the very rock that had held his own body. The man desperately clawed at the rock’s slippery surface to gain some purchase but to no avail. Back he slipped into the surfing water, a trace of blood now just discernible on the white foam. He raised one despairing hand, as though in supplication, before being pulled beneath the surface. Josh stayed watching, but the captain’s body did not surface again.

  He suddenly realised that Rowena was by his side. ‘Oh, Josh,’ she cried. ‘Has he gone? Is he really dead at last?’

  ‘I think so.’ Josh breathed heavily to regain his breath. ‘Nothing could live in that sea. He will be ground like chaff against the rocks, becoming … what is that awful word? Yes, a gobbet.’ He shuddered. ‘Thank you for doing what you did back there. You undoubtedly saved my life. Oh, but sorry, I had forgotten. What about Pengelly and your father?’

  He could see the tears on her cheeks. ‘Oh, Josh. Tom is dead, brutally killed by that terrible man. But Father, I think, will be all right.’ She tried to smile. ‘He is tough as old leather and he now has a good nurse to look after him.’

  They both turned and looked back at where the doctor was painfully crawling on his hands and knees towards Pengelly. He reached the body of the young man and examined the dreadful cut to the throat. Then he looked across at the couple and shook his head negatively.