The Admiral's Daughter

by Julian Stockwin

  There was a sudden tension in the room. Puckey laid down his spoon very deliberately and glared at Stirk. “We doesn’t talk about such here, cuffin. Ye understan’ me?”

  “O’ course. Me bein’ in the trade as a kitlin’ an’ all,” Stirk added quietly, meeting his eyes. There was no response and he bent to his meal again.

  A ragged child came up and stood gazing at the strangers. “Good day, y’ young scamp,” Stirk said.

  The boy continued to stare at him, then suddenly broke into a chant:

  Mother at the cookpot, Father with his brew

  Waitin’ for the gennelmen who’ll dish the Revenoo!

  Mrs Puckey clapped her hands and scolded him. He disappeared.

  It was bright outside as the three men made their way to the quay, the early-morning sun drying the effects of the overnight rain and setting off the little village to gleaming perfection. Gulls wheeled and keened about the fish quay in front of the Three Pilchards while boats bobbed and snubbed at their lines in the harbour.

  On each side, the land sloped up steeply with, occasionally, cottages perched at seemingly impossible angles. It was as individual a place as could be imagined, every house set to suit its tiny plot of rock and thin soil, the dwellings of all hues, owing more than a little to shipwreck timbers.

  Along the seafront fishermen were taking advantage of the clear morning light to mend nets and work on tackle. Past the tavern was a jumble of rocks and a final jagged cliff soared at the narrow but picturesque harbour entrance. A short pier beyond the Three Pilchards gave shelter to the inner harbour.

  “Well, now, an’ here’s Boy hisself,” said Puckey, as they reached the level area of the fish quay. “Mornin’, Mr Cowan.”

  Cowan was well into his sixties and white-haired, but had a genial manner that gave him a serenity beyond any cares. “Jan, are these th’ noo hands ye told me of?”

  “Aye. Jem here, an’ that’s Harry.”

  “Ye’ve whiffled f’r mackerel, Jan tells me.”

  “I did.”

  “An’ can ye tell me what yarn y’ used fer y’ snoods?” Cowan asked casually.

  “Cobbler’s thread, mebbe gut,” Stirk answered, in the same tone, “an’ a long shanked hook if we’s expectin’ hake.”

  Cowan eased into a smile. “We likes horse-hair in Polperro, Jem. Like t’ bear a hand on th’ nossil cock, you an’ young Harry both?” This was a simple wooden device that twisted together yarns for greater strength into a snood—the final length carrying the hook that stood out from the main hand-line.

  Calloway was set to pulling an endless cord passing over a series of whirligigs that were set into a frame to spin hooks with the yarns beneath. Stirk, with a piece of soft leather, took the strands and evened out the twists, lead weights giving it all a momentum. Finally the nossil was detached, and a hook whipped to the line with a mackerel feather. “There we is, mate,” said Stirk, looking with satisfaction at his finished snood. “Where’s the backin’ line?”

  Forty fathoms of line looked an overwhelming amount lying in a heap, but Stirk faked it out in six-foot coils and patiently began the task of working a figure-of-eight knot every half a foot, needing to heave the whole length of line through for every knot. These would be where the snoods would attach and it would see him occupied for hours.

  Calloway was sent away to help with the barking—dipping nets and sails into the boiling cutch, a nauseating mix of Burma bark and tallow.

  “Can’t we not fin’ ’em some breeks, darlin’?” Puckey said, when his wife came with the noon tea. “They’ll be haulin’ fish b’ evenin’.”

  From somewhere she found smocks, knit-frocks and canvas trousers reeking with old fish-slime, and two seamen were translated on the spot into fishermen. Later, the most important article appeared: sea boots, the like of which Calloway had never seen— huge and thigh-length, they were of hard leather encrusted on the soles with hobnails.

  Boy Cowan cocked an eye skyward and, with a seraphic smile, pronounced, “Mackerel or herring, they a-goin’ t’ be about t’night. Bait up, boys.”

  His work finished until evening, Stirk decided to wander round the narrow lanes to the Consona rocks where the boat-yard was seeing the last touches to a repair on the skipper’s boat. “Which ’un is Mr Cowan’s?” he called, to an aproned shipwright working on a vessel propped up in the mud.

  The man looked up briefly. “This ’un,” he said, and went back to his planing. Polperro Fancy was lettered on her square transom, and she was a beamy half-decker, well used by the sea and in pristine order. But so small!

  “Sprit main?” Stirk guessed, noting the snotter. Without sails it was difficult to make out her rig beyond the single mast and long bowsprit, which, no doubt, would sport at least two jibs for balance and speed.

  The shipwright straightened slowly, squinting up at Stirk against the sun. “An’ who’s askin’?”

  “I’ll be goin’ out wi’ Mr Cowan t’night.”

  “Hope they’re bitin’ for ye,” the man said, wiping his forehead, apparently unwilling to pursue why a complete stranger would be going out to the hard work of the fishing grounds with his client. “Yes, ye’re in th’ right of it, we call ’em ‘spreeties.’ Y’ only fin’ luggers at Looe.”

  Stirk nodded. Looe, three or four miles away, would have different local conditions, different traditions of boat-building handed down. This fore-and-aft rig was almost certainly to keep as close by the wind as possible when passing through the narrows at the harbour mouth.

  He looked again. There was only a tiny cuddy forward and two compartments amidships before the open afterdeck, probably a fish hold and net stowage, and was certainly not suited to the running and concealment of contraband.

  “How is she, Mr Butters?” Cowan hailed respectfully from the end of the pier opposite. “Ready for ye an hour afore sundown,” the shipwright shouted back.

  At the appointed time, and replete after a meal of scrowled pilchards and back-garden potatoes, Stirk and Calloway trudged over to their boat. Their hobnailed sea boots crashed on the cobbles but caused not the slightest interest as others made their way down to the harbour, a busy and amiable throng.

  The gathering sunset was gilding the hilltops and shadows were lengthening among the tightly huddled dwellings of the village as they reached their craft, now afloat and nudging the quay playfully.

  “Ye’re a Puckey then, I see,” one said to Stirk, as they jostled down the narrow lane.

  Stirk blinked and Cowan chuckled. “As ye’re wearin’ a Puckey knit-frock an’ all. The women knit ’em in th’ family pattern fer their men. If we’re misfortunate, makes identifyin’ the bodies easier.”

  They clambered aboard the Fancy and were joined by Bunt and Puckey, who seemed to know instinctively what to do as Cowan mustered his fishing gear and set the rigging to rights. The two seamen tried to keep out of their way. Evening drew in, and it was time to join the many boats heading out to the grounds.

  Cowan had a last look round, then took the tiller, gave the orders to loose sail and called, “Let her go then, Davey.” The bowline dropped, and the Fancy caught the wind and slewed before crowding with the others through the rock-girded Polperro harbour entrance.

  Most fishing-boats stood out to sea towards the setting sun but Cowan, with an inscrutable smile, put down the tiller and, taking the wind astern, the Polperro Fancy set her bowsprit for up the coast.

  Stirk tried not to show his interest: from seaward, Polperro and its snug harbour was almost completely hidden. So close to the rugged shore he could easily distinguish where run cargoes could land—the sandy coves, small beaches in obscuring twists of shoreline, suggestive caves. No wonder the Revenue was so hard-pressed to cover the coast.

  “Here’s yourn,” Bunt said to Stirk, handing him a small frame, “an’ I’d get y’ line on th’ cater here ready, mate.”

  The beamy boat was lively even in the slight seas that evening but Stirk knew that its res
ponse to every wave meant it would remain dry. He wound the line, ready baited, round the cater frame and waited.

  “Mr Cowan, how does y’ know where the fish are?” Calloway asked, noting that several of the other boats had turned about and were now following them.

  At first Cowan did not speak, his face turned into the wind to sniff gently, his grip on the tiller firm. Then, as they sailed on, there came quietly the distilled wisdom of the Cornish fishery: talk of sea marks to fix favourite sub-sea rocks; the arcane habits of mackerel and ling, conger and pilchard, spur dog and dab; herring shoals square miles in size rising stealthily to the surface at dusk that could be detected by bubbles fizzing upward from below and the faint smell of oil on the surface of the sea, the whole to sink down again at dawn’s light. The dexterity of the long-liners and the seiners, the willow withies of the crabbers, the ever-vital pilchard fishing, all were testament to the multitude of hard-won skills of the fishermen.

  As the red orb of the sun met the horizon two lanthorns were lit and sails were lowered with a small island barely in sight in the soft dusk. Cowan glanced over the side once and waited for the boat to drift further, the only sound the chuckling of water and creak of gear. He scanned the shoreline for some sea mark, then said quietly, “This’ll do, Jan.”

  Obediently Puckey took up his cater and began to lower.

  Stirk made to do the same but Cowan stopped him with a gesture. After an interval Puckey grunted, “Fish is slight, Mr Cowan.”

  Small sail was shown to the wind and they ghosted inshore a little way and the sail was doused. Puckey repeated his work, and after a longer time he showed satisfaction. “Now will do,” Cowan said, and in the increasing darkness their lines went down.

  Stirk felt the fish strike, the tugs connecting him with the unseen world far beneath, which must now be a swirl of glinting silver in the blackness as the shoal orbited the unlucky ones jerking on his line, just as they had in those all-but-forgotten days of his youth.

  Bunt was first to haul in with a full line; over the gunwale hand over hand, grunting with effort until the first fish jerked into view, flipping frantically. There was a craning to see but Cowan peered over and announced, “Mackerel, lads, sure ’nough.”

  Puckey soon followed, and then an excited Calloway, and before long the midships was a welter of hooks, line and slippery striped fish. Then the work started.

  Two hours later the shoal had left and, aching in every bone, Stirk and Calloway were allowed first rest in the stinking confines of the cuddy, only to be woken not long after when the shoal was rediscovered further eastwards.

  With eyes strained and sore from the effort of baiting hooks by the faint gleam of a lanthorn, the lines went out again—and again came the toil of heaving in and the messy work of gutting afterwards. All the while they fought a clamping weariness. A lull followed as the mackerel sounded deep again, and then there was blessed rest, but with the suspicion of luminance to the east the mackerel returned and it was to the lines again until the sun’s orb rose and the fish sank down once more.

  “Brave bit o’ fish, Jan!” Bunt said, with tired glee, as the hold showed near full.

  “It is that,” Puckey replied, and glanced at Cowan.

  “Aye, I’ll grant ye,” Cowan said cautiously. “Shares all roun’— what do thee men say t’ these two gettin’ a whack?”

  The cover was placed on the hold and Polperro Fancy made for home. Stirk lay back exhausted; this was a job like no other. However, their readiness to bear a hand must have been noted and their acceptance into this small village would be that much the closer.

  Around fifteen boats converged with them in the final entry to harbour on the flooding tide; sails were brailed and they lay to a scull at the transom waiting for room at the fish quay.

  They found a place and Stirk bent his back once more in the task of keeping the baskets filled to sway up and disgorge on to the noisy quay where an auction was taking place. For some reason the others in the boat were downcast and when they had finished and taken the Fancy to her moorings Stirk asked Cowan why.

  “Chancy thing, mackerel fishin’—some days y’ finds nothin’, other days . . .” He was without his smile as he went on, “Well, t’day every soul in Polperro—save us—has good luck.” They stopped at the edge of the fish quay and he pointed out a strapping woman with a basket on her back and voluminous pockets filled with salt. “That’s a fish jowter, sellin’ our fish all over th’ parish. She’s sittin’ pretty ’cos with everyone lucky the market’s flooded and prices go t’ the devil.”

  He gave a theatrical sigh and added, “Will we be seein’ ye again, Mr Jem?”

  After crumpling into their bed of nets Stirk and Calloway slept until midday, at which point hunger drove them to re-enter the world. Mrs Puckey had seen the boats arrive and land their catch, and her lips were thin.

  “What’s fer vittles, darlin’? I’m gut-foundered,” Puckey said, sprawling wearily in his chair.

  “Teddies ’n’ point—what else c’n thee expect?” she muttered, bringing over a pot.

  “Th’—the what, Mrs Puckey?” Calloway asked hesitantly.

  Puckey grinned, without humour. “Taties as we grows at the back, an’ she’ll point out th’ meat fer thee in case y’ misses it.”

  After the thin meal Stirk made his excuses and the two shipmates wandered down to the harbour and the outer pier where they sat leaning companionably against a pile of nets. At first Stirk said nothing, letting the keening of the gulls wheeling over the fish quay form a backdrop to his thoughts. He lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his aching limbs.

  He heard Calloway stir. “What d’ we do next, Mr Stirk?”

  He grunted. “Fer now, cully, I’ll allow it’s ‘Toby’ till we’re back aboard.” But were they getting any closer to uncovering anything to do with smuggling? It was odd, but here the fisher-folk were clearly dirt-poor and hard-working, not as would be expected if they were living high on the proceeds of smuggling.

  “Aye aye, Toby,” Calloway replied, and went on more soberly, “I don’t want t’ go back t’ Mr Kydd wi’ nothing, y’ know.”

  “As we both don’t, mate,” Stirk muttered.

  “What d’ ye think he’d do if’n he was here, Toby?”

  “I don’t know what Mr Kydd would do if’n he was here, younker,” Stirk said sarcastically. But of a surety in his place Kydd could be relied on to find some cunning way through. If there was one thing Kydd had, it was a right sound headpiece that had set him apart from the start, that and the sand to stand up for himself when it was needed.

  He didn’t want to let the man down: what must it have cost Kydd to claw his way to the quarterdeck and now be captain of his own ship? In a way Stirk took personal pride in this, one of his own gun crew of the past reaching for the stars and getting there.

  And besides which, Kydd was a right true seaman, not like some he could put a name to. No, he had to do something. “Luke, step down t’ Mr Butters an’ help him. See if y’ can hear aught o’ this smugglin’—but steer small, cuffin. They’s a short way wi’ them as runs athwart their hawse.”

  He stood up stiffly. There was nothing to be gained from sitting about and waiting. He would take a stroll, see something of the place, keep a weather eye open.

  Polperro was as distinctive a fishing village as it could be. Its focus was the small harbour, of course, and the steepest sides of the coombe were bare of dwellings but as he walked he could see that this separated the settlement into a working western side with the fish quay and humble homes, and the eastern area, with more substantial residences.

  A charming rivulet ran down to the sea, along which ageless buildings crowded together in a communal huddle. Stirk walked the narrow streets, passing the chapel by the tiny green and one or two humble shops. Nothing in any wise betrayed the presence of smuggling.

  Folk looked at him curiously but he could detect no suspicion or hostility. Either P
olperro’s reputation was undeserved or the Revenue was getting the better of the problem, both of which contradicted what Mr Kydd had been told. It was a conundrum and Stirk knew he would have to try harder to resolve it.

  Puckey was outside his house, mending nets. He gave a friendly nod and Stirk went inside for his bundle. Then he had an idea. Carefully he cleared the fishing gear and clutter away from the far corner, exposing the dusty earth floor. He found a stick and brought it firmly across, feeling as he went. Nothing. Then again, a few inches further—and the stick caught. He smoothed the surface and looked closely until he found what he was looking for: a faint line in the dust.

  He slipped out his seaman’s knife, prodded and twisted until he had the disguised trapdoor free, then swung it up to reveal a cavernous space below. A candle stub in a pottery dish stood nearby. He took a sniff. This hiding-place had been used recently.

  He replaced everything and left quickly. Outside, Puckey looked up. “If thee has th’ time, m’ wife would thank ye well fer a hand at th’ taties.”

  She was half-way up the hill, scraping a furrow in the thin soil of a little plot and was grateful for Stirk’s help. He didn’t mind: without this to sustain them in bleak times they would starve and, besides, it gave him time to think.

  They worked on silently until Mrs Puckey stopped suddenly and listened; from afar off there was a faint cry—it was repeated with an urgency that set Stirk’s hair on end. “It’s th’ huer,” she breathed. “God be praised!”

  “Th’ huer?” Stirk asked, in astonishment, as the cry was taken up from windows and rooftops along the steep hillsides and round the harbour. People hurried from their houses and fields and began to scramble for the lower parts, the cry now plain. “Hevva! Hevva! Hevva! ”

  “Wha—”

  “See?” She pointed down to the rocks that guarded the entrance to the harbour. On the highest Stirk could see a figure capering about, clutching what looked like a tin trumpet through which he kept up his cry.