Where Seagulls Soar

by Janet Woods

  What Leonard heard only added to his unease.

  Seth said, ‘Tell me the layout of the cottage.’

  ‘’Tis small. The front door is reached by a path from the road. It opens straight into the living room, which is about four strides across. On the facing wall, two doors side by side lead into the bedrooms. To the right there’s an alcove with shelves, it’s used for cooking in. To the left is a coal shed and storage space.’

  ‘Which room does your mother use?’

  ‘The one on the left.’

  ‘The back door is situated where?’

  ‘Through the coal shed. The lock’s loose and a well-placed boot should open it.’

  ‘Good.’ A few more questions and Seth knew how much furniture there was, and where it was positioned.

  It was a risky business, sailing round the curving line of the shore, especially where the quarry spoil tumbled down over the cliffs into the water, but Leonard knew exactly what he was doing.

  The five men were soon dragging the lerret up on to a small strip of beach. Leonard tied the boat to a rock by a long rope, so she wouldn’t go under, or float away when the tide covered the strip of beach.

  Not that it mattered, since Harry Cullins had died six months previously, and he wouldn’t miss the boat. Leonard leaned the boat hook against a stone block at the top of the path, so he could pull the lerret in when needed.

  The lower lighthouse had come into view. The thin tower had a pavilion-like lantern house on the top that gave it a slightly exotic appearance; in clear weather it was capable of sending a beam across the dark sea for eighteen miles.

  Tonight, the beam disappeared into the horizon. It was fuelled by six Argand lamps, their light concentrated by lantern windows that had been specially designed by Thomas Rogers. Set in copper frames, they were separated by six glass panels.

  Above them, the moon sailed in a clear sky, and was surrounded by a wide, incandescent ring.

  ‘There’s some frost on the way,’ Thaddeus said knowledgeably as he followed Leonard up a winding path through the scrub to the top.

  ‘Thaddeus’s bunions must be aching,’ Oliver whispered loudly to Edward, and he received an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.

  Over a rise and slightly below them there was a cottage, its windows dimly lit by a low-burning lamp.

  There was no sound, except the low eerie sough of the wind through the rock-strewn grass.

  The five men stopped, and Seth took out his pistol. ‘Perhaps you’d all spread out in case he tries to escape with the boy. I’m going to the window to have a look. Remember, the aim is to rescue Toby and Mrs Lind and get them to safety. That’s all.’

  ‘I’ll back you up,’ Leonard said. ‘Brian might listen to reason from me.’ But he sounded doubtful.

  Nobody bothered to question the role of leadership Seth had taken upon himself. But just as they were about to move off, a horse and cart came into view, carrying Lord Durrington and Bisley. It was being driven at a reckless speed by Bisley, who brought it to a halt in a cloud of gravel dust. The horse gave a shrill whinny of complaint at its treatment, and the light in the cottage was dimmed.

  Seth swore. ‘I won’t be able to reach the cottage before them, and Rushmore will be keeping watch at the window. As soon as they go inside I’m going to try and gain entrance through one of the bedrooms.’

  The pair thumped on the door, then disappeared inside. The light flared again.

  Oliver cracked his knuckles. ‘I’ll cause a diversion.’

  There was a string of flares bobbing in the distance. So that’s what the islanders had been up to, Leonard thought. They were going to run Brian into a corner and trap him like a rat.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll need to. Look.’

  Just then, Joanna came tearing up the path, her skirts tied to one side. Seth could almost hear the harshness of her breathing. She disappeared around the back of the cottage.

  ‘Damn woman,’ Seth said with heartfelt annoyance and, bending double, he set off at a trot.

  When he caught up with Joanna she had her back to him. One ear was pressed against the boarded-up window. He grasped her around the waist with one arm while he pressed his hand over her mouth.

  She froze for just a second, then heeled him in the shin and sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his palm.

  ‘It’s me,’ he hissed, trying not to yell.

  She released him, planted a kiss on the pain she’d caused him, then turned in his arms and hugged him tight. Her heart beat fast against his own.

  ‘You fool, Seth Adams. You gave me such a damned fright. Tilda is on the other side of those boards. I think Toby’s with her, I heard him.’ Pain and longing filled her voice. ‘I can’t bear it that he’s so near to me and I can’t hold him. Can we pull the boards off the window and get them out?’

  Setting her aside, Seth tested his strength against the boards and found that they held fast. ‘It would take too long, and make too much noise.’

  From the other side of the window, Tilda shouted, ‘No, you can’t take Toby—’

  Joanna let out a sobbing breath at the sudden cry of pain Tilda gave, which was followed by silence. Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh God! What have they done to her?’

  ‘I’m going in.’ Locating the back door, Seth threw caution to the winds and heeled it open. It smashed back against the wall. He leaped over the coal rattling underfoot, palming his pistol.

  Inside, the light was suddenly extinguished. Seth flattened himself into the nearest shadow, hoping Joanna would have the sense to stay outside. He could make out the outline of Durrington, the child in his arms. Toby was screaming with fear. Of Bisley there was no sign.

  Brian Rushmore was creeping across the floor towards the door. Seth put his pistol away, he couldn’t risk hitting the child.

  A commotion erupted outside, momentarily distracting Brian. But as Seth threw himself across the room to tackle him, Bisley rose up from the floor and hit him in the gut with something hard. Seth doubled up, badly winded. The next moment the three men were out of the door.

  Seth staggered out after them. Outside the cottage, a fight was going on. Leonard and the three captains were exchanging blows and insults with the four drunks from Weymouth. The seamen seemed to be having the most success.

  The line of flares was about a hundred yards away and closing in fast. They’d begun to chant. ‘Brian Rushmore . . . Brian Rushmore . . .’

  Brian gave the line a panicky look.

  Going in fast, Seth managed to snatch the child from Durrington’s arms. Instinct made him leap back, just as Bisley slashed out with his knife. Blood flowed warmly under Seth’s coat. Durrington produced a pistol, shooting over his shoulder as they left.

  Crouching low, Seth zigzagged through the darkness, soothing the child, whose screams gradually quieted to a whimper. ‘Papa,’ he whispered, and clung tighter to him.

  Seth coughed to clear the lump in his throat. ‘That’s right,Toby lad. You’re safe now.’ Returning to the cottage with his prize, Seth found Joanna in the bedroom.

  He stood in the doorway, unnoticed, savouring the moment when she’d look up and discover what he’d brought her.

  Tilda looked dazed; blood seeped from under her hair and trickled down her face. ‘I tried to stop him from taking Toby, but he hit me on the head with his stick. I’m so sorry, Joanna.’

  There were tears running down Joanna’s cheeks. ‘My poor little Toby. What he must be going through.’

  At the sound of his mother’s voice Toby shouted joyfully, ‘Mama! Want Mama.’

  ‘You’ve got her,’ Seth said.

  Joanna’s head jerked up. ‘Toby?’ She plucked her son from Seth’s arms and held him tight, tears pouring down her face as she laughed and cried at the same time. ‘My darling love. I’ve missed you so much. But how feverish you are.’ She gazed up at her son’s rescuer, her eyes shining despite the worry in them. ‘Thank you so much, Seth. I’m truly indebted to you.�
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  To have her look at him with such adoration in her expression wasn’t too hard to take. Seth knew he was full of reckless pride, pumped up with the successful outcome of what could easily have been a disaster. He should take Joanna to task for placing herself in danger, but he didn’t have the heart. ‘That you’re not.’ He gazed at Tilda. ‘Are you badly injured, Mrs Lind?’

  She managed to smile at him while Joanna fussed over her son, but the fright in this gentle young woman’s eyes was still dark inside her. ‘I’ve survived worse.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘You’re a brave woman, Tilda, and it’s been a privilege to meet you. I’m going off now, to watch those three felons captured by the islanders. I might as well be in on the finish. Stay here and rest until I get back, then I’ll escort you both home. We might have to make a statement if they’re to be charged.’

  The two women exchanged a glance, and a faint smile, as if they knew something he didn’t.

  17

  Leonard had finished with his Weymouth troublemaker, who was now staggering off back in the direction he’d come from. He was to one side of the line of islanders, who’d begun to pick up speed now their quarry had been spotted.

  The flares curved around the hillside like the pincers of a crab, and were closing in on the fugitive. It was one of their own they were after, not the Kimberlins – the Rushmore who’d gone bad and who’d brought disgrace down on the heads of the islanders.

  No Weymouth men, however just their cause, were going to come between them and their purpose, though it was rare for Portlanders to turn on one of their own.

  Up ahead, Lord Durrington was beginning to tire. He was an old man, not used to such rough terrain. Bisley had him by the arm and was half pulling him along, swearing at his slowness. ‘Get a move on, would you? Damn that poxy brat. I’ve pandered to your every wish. I’ve lied, cheated and killed for you. I’m your son. If you think you’re going to change your will in favour of that by-blow and give him what I’m entitled to inherit, think again. I knew the brat would be more trouble than he was worth. If I ever see him again I’m going to cut his throat. Yours as well if you don’t give me my due.’

  Charles Durrington knew what Bisley was capable of. He believed him. He’d not expected the affair to turn out as badly as it had. As soon as he got back to the Joanna Rose he’d order the captain to set sail for Ireland, where he could lie low for a while.

  Brian turned to see how much ground they’d made up. Spotting Leonard in hot pursuit, he shouted out in panic, ‘You’re my soddin’ brother. Help me.’

  Help Brian? Leonard thought. After what he’d done to Joanna and Tilda. Brian had brought down shame on the Rushmore name. The islanders had had enough of him, and were driving him into the sea because of it. Leonard wasn’t about to get in their way when he had a wife and children to support. But the islanders seemed in no hurry to catch up with their prey.

  The reason came to him suddenly. The tidal race! It was a feature of the island, the danger their fathers and grandfathers before them had made them all aware of – a place that should be avoided at all costs. He should have remembered it before and his blood ran cold. But then perhaps what was about to happen would be preferable to a life sentence in prison.

  Leonard slowed to a halt, and said before he turned away, ‘There’s a sailing lerret at the bottom of the path. The sail’s still rigged and the boat hook’s leaning against the stone. Take that. Could be you can get yourself away to Weymouth in it.’

  Releasing Durrington, Bisley grabbed Brian around the neck and pressed a pistol against his head. ‘You’re going nowhere without us, unless you want a bullet in your brain.’ He pushed Brian before them down the path.

  ‘Keep out of this if you know what’s good for you, Len,’ somebody shouted.

  ‘I’m not in it. I was here to find my sister. Brian is heading for Cullins’s boat.’

  ‘That won’t get him far.’

  ‘D’you think I don’t know that?’

  It was passed along the line. ‘Cullins’s boat . . . Cullins’s boat . . .’ Somebody gave a harsh laugh as the line of men overtook Leonard, their flares burning acrid black smoke. Their weather-worn faces were set and determined. Some had smeared soot on their faces so they couldn’t be recognized.

  The islanders didn’t bother going down after their prey. They just stood at the top of the path, chanting Brian’s name to single him out for the devil. The sound was unnerving. Leonard joined them, waiting to witness the inevitable result of his brother’s bid to escape – the result he’d taken a hand in. Suddenly sickened by the thought, he turned and walked away.

  Thank God for Leonard, Brian thought as he hooked the boat in and held it steady for his companions to board. He scowled at them, knowing he’d have left them behind if Bisley’s pistol hadn’t been trained on him.

  Durrington said. ‘Take us to the Joanna Rose.’

  ‘I’ll have to sail around Bill Point for that, and I’m not doin’ it. ’Tis too dangerous. I’ll drop you off on the pebbles at Chiswell. You can walk to Castletown and get the dinghy to the ship from there.’

  Durrington said, his voice stronger and more authoritative now, ‘Drop us at Chiswell, then. Put the pistol away, Bisley, unless you know how to sail a boat. In which case you can shoot him and throw him overboard.’

  Brian’s mouth dried. Instinct should have told him he couldn’t trust these men. He should’ve left the kid with its mother and just taken off, since the two men obviously had no intention of paying him for his services.

  After a moment of silence Bisley lowered the pistol, though he kept it handy.

  Brian couldn’t see his brother at the top of the cliff. He was surprised Leonard had come to his aid, since there was no love lost between them. But blood had proved to be thicker than water in the end, though you wouldn’t think so, the way Tilda had carried on.

  Tilda had got her fancy ideas from Joanna. Not that Joanna had anything to be fancy about, for everybody knew she wasn’t a Rushmore by birth, only an orphan brought in by the storm from one of the wrecks. It was a pity his uncle hadn’t left her to drown, considerin’ the trouble she’d caused everyone.

  Water slopped about in the bottom of the boat, covering his shoes. As if his feet weren’t bleddy frozen already.

  He pushed them away from shore and took his place at the tiller. As he was about to turn the craft in order to take them to Chiswell, Durrington said, ‘What are those lights in the distance?’

  There was a string of them in a line. He swore. ‘Damn. It’s the fishermen. What the hell are they doing out at this time of night? We can’t go through them, else we’ll be caught in the nets.’ That said, Brian guessed the answer to his own question. The fishermen were there to prevent his escape.

  ‘Go round them,’ Durrington ordered.

  They headed out from the land. With no lights showing, there was a chance he might get past the fishermen undetected, even though the moon was bright.

  Behind them, spaced along the hill, was a line of sputtering flares. The chanting had stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Cold vapours streaming from the men’s mouths were lit by the flames. They resembled devils, breathing fire.

  There was no wind. Even the water was silent, except for a gentle lapping, like a giant tongue licking at the shore. Wetness slopped into his boots. It was slack water and the silence was unnerving. What were they waiting for?

  Fear suddenly churned in his stomach and his bowels turned to water. ‘You bastard, Leonard,’ he suddenly screamed out, as he remembered the tide.

  The sea moved under them, as though it were suddenly waking from slumber. The small craft began to move rapidly away from the shore, being drawn inexorably into the race of water that came with the tidal change.

  Brian began to laugh when Bisley gave a high-pitched scream and brought up his pistol, shouting, ‘Take us back to shore.’

  ‘I can’t. We’re going to drown in the race.’ With not
hing left to lose now, Brian backhanded Bisley. The shot Bisley let loose went straight through Brian’s heart.

  ‘You fool, now there’s nobody to steer the boat.’ Durrington pushed Brian’s body aside and clung grimly to the tiller. His efforts had no effect on the course the boat took.

  Bisley was cowering in the bottom of the boat, whimpering in fright.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bisley, die like a man,’ Durrington said calmly.

  The men on the clifftop watched as the waters beyond the lighthouse became a maddened maelstrom of white froth.

  The moon shone serenely down on the drama as the tragedy unfolded – limelight on a stage of water. Sixty-five feet or more above it, the lighthouse beamed a friendly warning to shipping eighteen miles away.

  Buffeted by the savage currents, the lerret was skewed this way and that. Then the leaky craft was gone, pulled under by the currents and torn apart. The sea chopped over the wreckage in a fury of cold, frothing water.

  Somebody spoke. ‘That was Harry Cullins’s auld lerret, weren’t it? He tried to sell it to me afore he died, but I heard it let the water in.’

  ‘If it didn’t then, it does now.’

  One by one the islanders extinguished their flares and dispersed, walking off alone or in pairs. Some went to their homes, others to the inns, where not a word was spoken about the events of the night.

  Down at Chiswell the fishermen pulled their boats up on to the pebbles, to find some of the revenue men waiting for them.

  ‘Catch anything?’ one of them asked the fisher folk.

  ‘The moon was too bright. It frightened the bleddy fish off, that it did.’

  ‘Mind if we search your boats?’

  ‘Since when have you needed to ask? Help yourselves.’

  When the revenue men shrugged and turned away, the fishermen went off towards the inn, laughing.

  The four Weymouth men, eyes blackened, noses bleeding, supporting each other, staggered off down the road, hoping they had enough strength left to row over to Weymouth, and vowing never to return to the island.