'Is this the Horse Head Inn?' The man asked. His voice was so sharp edged it could have chopped through an oaken plank, but there was an intonation in it that I did not recognise. He certainly was not a Caulkhead, a native of the island; he was an Overner, a mainlander but so obviously a seaman that I could forgive him his origin. I imagined him roaring his lungs out at the height of a Channel gale and wondered if my father was of his ilk. I pushed that thought away as well; I had no desire to court sorrow.
'It is the Horse Head Inn,' I agreed. I wondered if I should mention the sign board that swung above the front door, with the name proudly displayed.
“Then I have come to the right place.” The man removed his tricorne hat and placed it on the counter that doubled as a work desk. I ignored the moisture that ran onto the wood that I had bees-waxed with much labour only that morning, but noticed the deep cut on the hat that had been roughly cobbled together. The stitching was hurried, rough; it was the handiwork of a man but I wondered what had caused that slash. It matched the less-than-subtle patch that had been placed on the sleeve of his travelling cloak and the black paint that tried hard to disguise the scuffed leather of the riding boots. His clothes had seen hard wear indeed, augmented by a hard life, I suspected. Helping my mother run an inn gave me much insight into people.
'I want a room for a week, to begin with,' the man said.
My mother dried her hands and arms on a rag as she moved closer from her position at the wash tub. She eyed the man up and down, her eyes narrow. 'We always ask an arenest here,' she said, and quickly translated from Wight talk into mainland English for the benefit of the Overner. 'We ask for a sum to bind the bargain in advance.'
I was not sure if the man was going to laugh or snarl, but he compromised with a small smile. 'And you shall have it,' he said.
Of course I knew why my mother was being so rude. We had bitter experience of Overner guests who arrived and demanded a room, only to leave a few days later without paying a brass farthing. We were wary of strangers with long pockets and short arms, especially in these hard times. All the same, I felt quite sorry for this seaman in his battered tricorne hat and coat that had obviously seen better days. More fool me, as it turned out, but I did not know him, then.
As the man reached inside his cloak, mother pressed her forefinger onto the counter. 'I wish your name as well, sir. I do not care for strangers who remain anonymous.'
'Howard.' The man said after a short but significant pause. 'Adam Howard.'
My mother grunted. 'So you say.' She had noticed that hesitation as well. She held out her right hand, palm uppermost. 'I charge five shillings a week Mr Howard, for board and lodgings.'
Mr Howard raised his eyebrows. 'Five shillings,' he repeated, in a tone that might have contained wonderment or amusement or both.
'In advance,' Mother insisted.
Mr Howard sighed and pulled out his pocketbook. He used his hand to shield the contents as he extracted a silver crown, but I heard the musical chink of coin on coin and knew he was not quite as purse-pinched as his appearance would suggest.
He placed the coin in mother's palm. 'Here are five shillings, Ma'am.'
Mother lifted the crown piece, bit into it to test the purity of the silver and placed it in the leather purse she wore tethered from the belt around her waist. 'Sarah will show you to your room, sir. You have baggage?'
I noticed the change in Mother's term of address from a terse 'Mr Howard' to a more respectful 'sir'. She had obviously seen the contents of his pocket-book.
'I have a small bag,' Mr Howard admitted, and forestalled my offer to carry it with a swift, 'which I will bring in myself. Do you have a lad to stable my horse?'
'Sarah will see to your horse,' Mother said.
'Sarah seems to see to a great deal,' Mr Howard said, but his smile removed any sting from the words. He stepped outside into the misty darkness and quickly lifted a tarred canvas bag from behind the saddle of his horse. He held it close to him, as if it held some amazing treasure. I am no lover of cold so I huddled deeper into my shawl as I led Mr Howard's brown mare into our miniscule stable and began to remove the saddle and bridle. I could still smell the powder smoke in the air and wondered what had happened out there in the unknown dark beyond the fringe of surf that marked Chale Bay.
Mr Howard had followed me in to the stable and now watched me work, with his head still hatless and his queue pointing neatly downward.
'What is her name?' I asked as I blew into the mare's nostrils and looked deep into her eyes.
'Why do you ask?' Mr Howard was immediately on the defensive.
I looked at Mr Howard as he stood just inside the doorway. He tilted his head slightly to one side and raised his eyebrows. He was handsome enough, I thought, in a rough and tumble sort of manner. Or rather he had been handsome some twenty years or so ago.
'Horses are like people,' I told him. 'They like it better when you call them by name.' I smoothed my hand over the mare's fetlocks, lifted a brush and set to work.
'Her name is Chocolate,' Mr Howard said, and I swear there was nearly a smile in his voice. I liked him better for his choice of name.
“That is a good name,” I approved, but I did not lift my eyes to meet his.
Mr Howard was silent for a while but I was aware of his eyes on me as I bent to wash Chocolate's legs.
'I presume you are a local girl?'
“Born and bred in the Island” I told him, as I put the saddle aside and piled the harness on top. It was heavy leather, as battered and scarred by hard usage as its owner but at one time this had been a saddle of the highest quality. I noticed rub-marks on both sides of the crupper where something had hung down, and wondered exactly who Mr Howard was and why he was here. You will forgive my suspicion when you recall that this was1803 and Britain was at war with Bonaparte's France. We on the island were on the front line and fearful of invasion at any time.
'Then perhaps you can help me?' Mr Howard asked. I saw the gleam of silver between his fingers.
'I am not that sort of girl, sir,' I felt my heart begin to thunder; I had heard of men like Adam Howard but had never met one. All the men in the Back of the Wight knew me well enough to let well alone. No man had ever used me ill and I swore I'd give a pretty tannen – that's a hard beating if you do not understand island speak - to the man that tried. I backed toward the pitchfork I always left leaning against an upright in case of a sudden onslaught by the French or a drunken smuggler. I rested my hand on it and tried to look fierce.
'I am not for an instant suggesting anything untoward,' Mr Howard said. He did not look afraid of my scowling face. Instead he gave that small smile again. 'I only require some information that only a local person would know.'
I stopped trying to look as savage as a French guardsman but kept my hand hovering close to the long haft of the pitchfork. 'What sort of information would that be, sir?' I prepared myself to deny any knowledge of the free traders who frequented this part of the Island but Mr Howard surprised me with his request.
'Are you aware of a place called Knighton Hazard?' He held out the silver shilling, keeping it beyond arms-length so I could not quite reach it.
'I am indeed, Mr Howard,' I said. 'It lies slightly inland of here and to the west. It is a large manor house with a dragon weathervane. You can't miss it; there is a folly on a rise beyond the house and a square chapel outside.'
Mr Howard nodded. 'That is what I was told,' he said.
'Then why ask for something you already know?' I asked hotly. 'Are you making game of me?'
'I am not making game of you,' Mr Howard retained hold of his shilling. 'I was merely testing your knowledge.'
Or my honesty, I thought. This Mr Howard had heard of our island way of leading strangers astray.
'Does Mr Bertram still own Knighton Hazard?' Mr Howard asked.
'He still does,' I said, slightly sulkily. I was beginning to not like this handsome man with the battered hat.
&nbs
p; 'Well and good,' Mr Howard spun the shilling and caught it in the palm of his hand. 'And do you know Limestone Manor?' He finally held out the silver shilling, which I took of course, although I would have imparted with the information for nothing if he had been less offensive. I also knew that Limestone Manor was the real object of his questioning.
'I know it equally well,' I said. I tested the shilling and secreted it inside my boot lest he demand it back. 'It is only a mile or so along the coast.'
'To the east?' Mr Howard's eyes were sharp.
I shook my head. 'To the north west,' I said and pointed in that direction. 'But if you intend to visit sir, you will be wasting a journey. There's nobody there. Limestone Manor has lain empty for years.'
Mr Howard nodded. 'All the same, I think I will take a small ride in that direction tomorrow. Thank you Sarah.' He slipped away from the stable without another word, leaving me to finish stabling his horse and cleaning his equipment. I took my time for I do not care to rush such an important job, besides the poor horse had been ridden hard and needed some attention. Yet all the time I was rubbing Chocolate down I was thinking about Mr Howard. My curiosity forced me to find out more about him, and there was only one way to do that. However, fate had me in its grasp and there was other work for me that night.
Chapter Two
Something had wakened me, although I did not know what. I slipped out of bed and opened the shutters for light. The mist had cleared, maybe chased away by the cannonade, and there was moonlight above the sea. It glinted on the smooth waves that eased northward to hush on the broad sands of Chale Bay and surge up the narrow St Catherine Chine, the narrow gulley- like passage that allowed access from our inn to the shore.
A single strand of moonlight slipped into my room, glinted on the blue pitcher that stood on my table and allowed enough light for me to see by. Do you remember a few short moments ago when I told you that I was curious and intended finding out more about the mysterious Mr Howard? Well that was exactly what I intended to do.
Moving as quietly as a mouse skirting a wakeful cat, I lifted the latch of my door and entered the creaking corridor that connected the rooms in the upper floor of the Inn. I paused here to listen but save for the constant surge and suck of the sea there were no sounds. I stepped out and froze.
'Is that you Sarah?'
Mother had appeared at her door like a ghost, except this spectre was fully dressed in boots and long cloak and carried a couple of canvas sacks over her arm.
'Yes, Mother,' I whispered. I thought quickly. 'I heard a noise.'
Luckily Mother chose to believe my tale. 'That would be me,' she said. 'Throw some clothes on and come outside. Hurry girl, else I will give you a right spat.'
I did not ask further but dressed as quickly as I was able. Mother followed me into my room and watched me to make sure I remembered how to complete the complex procedure of putting on my clothes in the correct order 'Hurry girl,' she repeated, and although I obeyed her as best I was able she gave me the promised spat, which rang bells in my ears. 'Take a bag,' Mother ordered, and threw one across to me. Made from tarred canvas, it was sufficiently deep to hold a whole host of contraband, if that had been Mother's intention.
I was still unsure where we were headed as Mother lifted a lantern from its hook against the taproom wall and we led us out of the inn. The night was clear and cool, with a westerly breeze that carried the hush of the surf to us as we descended the chine to the beach below. Light from Mother's lantern bounced to illuminate our path, as our feet slipped and slithered on the chalk path. I held the hem of my skirt away from the fringe of damp grass, wondering what mother had in mind.
'You'll see, Sarah,' Mother read my mind and told me.
And I did see. We were not alone on the beach. In the flitting light of a cloud-smitten moon, the surf glittered silver along the edge of Chale Bay, with the sea surging deceptively soft as if it had never taken the life of a boat or a sailor-man. Sometimes I hated that sea and at other times I loved it but always I respected it, as Chalkheads do. It was and is part of our lives and even in its most destructive mood it can send bounty to those who live by its edge. There were at least a dozen people walking along the whispering tongues of surf. Occasionally one would bend down and lift something from the water and either crow with delight or throw the object back into the waves.
'There was a ship damaged in that gunfire last night,' Mother explained quickly as if I needed to be told, 'so there will be wreckage washed ashore. We might pick up something useful. The tide is on the flow so anything that got shot away will be coming ashore now.'
I nodded. You may be aware of the meaning of the Horse Head in our inn sign. The horse head is an ancient symbol, granted by the Crown that allows the owner to legally glean flotsam from the beach. Of course all islanders look on whatever the sea gifts us as our right, but in our case it is different. The Bembridges have lived at Chale Bay since God created this Eden, and we have sailed our seas since they were salt, so all that the sea casts us is ours by law and habit for evermore. Amen.
Before I waded into the sea I slipped off my boots for I did not want the salt water to damage them, and neither did I want the labour of cleaning and oiling them later that night. There is enough toil in this vale of tears and joy without creating more. Mother was correct; every surge of the tide carried in more wreckage. There were shattered spars and pieces of shot-ridden timber together with lengths of cable that a group of Ventnor fishermen immediately grabbed and spirited away before somebody challenged their actions.
'There, Sarah: take that!' Mother pointed to a section of fine canvas that gleamed white under her lantern light. 'You can fashion that into some work wear.'
I squeezed off the worst of the water and folded the canvas into my bag. There were other objects: ragged pieces of canvas, a seaman's trousers, a broken chest and unidentified pieces of wood, a few bottles that were most unfortunately empty; all the rubbish that remains from a shattered ship. As you can see, the misfortunes of poor seaman can work to our advantage. We are not wreckers at the Back of Wight, not like the men of Cornwall, yet we do not turn our backs when the sea offers us her bounty. This time, however, the pickings were meagre and as the tide turned the searchers drifted away, some with treasure but most disappointed.
'The ship was damaged,' James Buckett the smuggler said, 'not sunk. There are only bits and pieces to salvage here.'
'And all the better for that,' I said, hotly, glancing at Mother. 'A ship going down means men drowning, wives widowed, daughters and sons orphaned…'
Buckett glowered at me. 'The sea has taken two sons of mine,' he said. 'It owes me.'
I decided to stop being so righteous. 'I'm sorry; I did not know…' I realised that I was speaking to myself as Buckett stalked away.
Mother pointed to a pile of seaweed that floated raggedly on the ebb. 'Have a look there Sarah. I think there's something hidden underneath.'
I did as I was told, pushing aside the sodden tangle and looking beneath. When a man's hand flopped out, all white and limp I recoiled at once. 'Mother!'
Mother was there in seconds, 'is it anything worth having?' She frowned when she saw the hand. 'It's only a dead body, Sarah; dead men don't bite. Check the pockets; there may be money.'
I backed away, shaking my head. 'We can't rob the dead,' I said in genuine shock.
'Oh don't be such a buffle head,' Mother stooped down and pushed aside more of the seaweed. 'How will we give him a proper burial without money? God knows the inn is not making us any just now.' She looked at me and even in the dark of the night I saw the sorrow in her eyes. 'This is somebody's son, Sarah, and maybe somebody's husband. It's not right to deprive him of a Christian burial.'
He had been handsome in life, a tall, brown haired young man with broad shoulders and the whitest skin I had ever seen on a man. When mother pushed away the last of the seaweed I saw he wore nothing at all to cover himself.
'Poor boy,' Mother replaced enou
gh of the seaweed to regain the poor drowned boy his modesty. 'The sea must have ripped his clothes off. It does that sometimes.'
I knew she was thinking of Father and I touched her arm, briefly. Then I thought how this young man must have felt when he was blown off his ship by cannon fire, I could nearly sense the terror in his face. I looked at him, wondering what his last thoughts had been, wondering if he had thought of his mother or his sweetheart, and then I saw a tiny movement in his chest; just a flicker, but enough to catch my interest.
'Mother,' I said, 'he's not dead! Look!' Mother looked and shook her head. 'He's dead as a rat, Sarah. Come on girl, there are no pickings here. We'll attend to the body tomorrow.'
Taking hold of my arm, Mother pulled me away, but for some reason I turned aside, just as the corpse moved again. I shook my arm free. 'Mother; he is alive.'
Despite my mother's tut of disapproval, I knelt beside my naked castaway and placed my ear against his chest. His skin was cold but surprisingly soft beneath the thin coat of crisp dark hair. 'I can hear his heart,' I said. 'Come on Mother.'
Mother may be a bit crousty at times, as we say of women with a touch of temper, but when things need to be done there is nobody better. She whistled as loudly as any carter, and waved to attract the attention of the retreating men. 'We need your hands here now!'
They came of course, half a dozen hang-gallus rascals who were more used to clinging to the yards of a Ryde privateer than in any legitimate employment, but who carried my naked young man up the chine as tenderly as any mother with a new-born babe. Of course, being men as rough as the sea-coast, they worked with muted curses that were followed by quick apologies to Mother. Nobody apologised to me, I noticed, somewhat ruefully. Mother had left the door to the inn open, as was normal in our part of the island, so the men walked in unhindered.
Sarah's Story Page 2
