Late Harvest

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Since I now knew that they had gone on into the wood, I supposed that they had wanted to hide from the rain and thunder. But at the time, I hadn’t considered that. And yet, I had ridden on, telling myself that I might as well be thorough.

  I remembered that feeling of being summoned. Had some part of me known that on the other side of the trees, I would find Ralph?

  ‘I just don’t know,’ I said casually, as I resumed my stirring. ‘That pie won’t take long to cook; you must be hungry after being out all day. I think I went on because I’d already come so far that I thought I might as well press on, and make a job of it. It’s as well I did. How far did you have to go to find the rest?’

  ‘Right on to Standing Stone land. We met Stephen Duggan’s foreman, out lookin’ for his stock,’ James said, and then broke off as William arrived at the kitchen door, also muddy and looking exhausted. ‘Ponies are rubbed down and fed. Fred and Reggie have got that door back on hinges, I see. Dad and I had a midday meal at Standing Stone. The foreman asked us back and we went, didn’t we, Dad? Mr Duggan seemed quite pleased to have our company.’

  ‘Has he lost much stock?’ I asked.

  ‘Some sheep and three cows that he knew of by the time we left,’ James said. ‘Said he never remembered a storm like that in all his life. His Three-Corner Field is awash – his duck pond overflowed and a stream spated and water poured into the field from two directions and dumped all manner of rubbish there; alder branches and stones and mud. We found two of his cows there, drowned. The ducks were all right! That’s something, Mr Duggan said.’

  ‘We got some gossip from Duggan, too,’ said James.

  ‘Oh?’ I said, reaching into a cupboard for a jug. The bubbling stock would make a good rich gravy to pour over the pie. I set about pricking some big potatoes to go into the oven alongside the pie dish.

  ‘He’s mighty lame now; and no strength in his legs; poor old man can hardly get out of his favourite chair without someone to give ’un a heave,’ said James. ‘And he’s worried about more than cows and sheep and Three-Corner Field. He’s bothered about his great-nephew, that he wants to leave Standing Stone to. Says he’s afraid, now Boney’s defeated, that Ralph’ll start smuggling again. He wishes Ralph would bring his family to live at the farm and get away from that boatyard. The Hathertons could run that for him and run it well. Too much temptation, he said, Ralph being near the harbour and having boats to play with.’

  ‘Seems the boatyard made a near fortune during the war,’ William remarked. Though born tiny, he had nevertheless grown up strong, yet he was still only thirteen and it had been a hard day for him, after such a terrible night.

  ‘Yes, Duggan said that too,’ James commented. ‘Said Ralph doesn’t need to go free-trading for money. Just that he likes taking risks, it seems. Gurt fool if you ask me, though it won’t worry me overmuch if he gets caught and transported to Van Diemen’s Land or the West Indies as a convict.’

  ‘Where’re they?’ asked Rose, looking up from her pastry.

  ‘Hasn’t Mr Baker shown you yet on the globe?’ William asked, teasing her.

  ‘He hasn’t shown my class every place in the world, not yet,’ retorted Rose. ‘There’s a lot of world, he says.’

  ‘The West Indies are islands before you get to the New World proper,’ I informed her. ‘And Van Diemen’s Land is an island off Australia. Convicts are sent to either of them. Good, Rose, you’ve got the pastry lid on to the pie. Give it here. I’ll push it into the oven.’

  ‘Transportation – yes, that’s what will happen to a good many men if smuggling starts up again,’ said James. ‘I’ve heard that from Benjamin Hartley. The government’s not going to stand for it. Stephen Duggan knows that, too. That’s why he’s worried. Said he’d have to make hisself responsible for Harriet and the children if Ralph got caught and sent halfway round the world. Seems to me that Ralph Duggan could be asking for trouble. Me, I wouldn’t care if he gets it. Edmund Baker and Uncle Stephen’ll see the family right.’

  The malice in his voice was unmistakeable. At that moment, I was at the oven and had my back to him. This was fortunate, because he couldn’t see that my hands were shaking. My mouth still remembered the taste of Ralph’s kiss that morning, and in my mind, my guilty mind, I could see the top of the track that now led all the way down to the cave, and had encouraged Ralph in dangerous ideas, to which I was privy. Which I had sworn to protect.

  I felt as though my perilous knowledge must be written in fiery letters across my forehead. I was slow to turn round.

  ‘Do you not like him because he was once engaged to Mother?’ William asked, quite casually, as though he were enquiring whether it was likely to rain again tomorrow. James sat up straight and stared at him, and his eyes, once more, had that blue-marble look.

  ‘What do ’ee know about that, son? Who told ’ee that?’

  ‘I’ve known since I was nine,’ said William, surprised. ‘Mr Duggan – Mr Stephen Duggan, I mean – he told me. I’ve dropped in on him, now and then.’

  ‘Have you indeed? And not a word to me or your mother – or did you know of this, Peggy?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said tersely. ‘William, it seems to me you’ve been getting independent a bit soon in life.’

  ‘I’d second that,’ said James. ‘And ’ee hearkens to Stephen Duggan’s gossip and never let on what ’ee told ’ee?’

  ‘Mr Duggan said, maybe he shouldn’t have told me and then he said to me, don’t let on that you know. So I didn’t,’ said William simply. ‘Only, I’m older now and I’ve thought sometimes, well, why shouldn’t I know? There’s nothing wrong about it, surely? But it does sound as if you don’t like Mr Ralph Duggan much. I wondered if that was why, that’s all.’

  ‘No, I don’t like him,’ James said. ‘And I’d sooner not have to listen to his name being bandied round. What are we having to follow the pie?’

  Christmas passed and the March of 1816 brought the day that changed everything, so that afterwards, none of our lives were ever the same again. It began though as just another ordinary, busy day. The day before, James had gone to Exford with two hams in a satchel, to have a drink in the White Horse with a huntsman and had returned with a parcel of good venison occupying the satchel instead. James liked such barter transactions and we often did well from them. I had decided that we would have the venison in a casserole for supper. The men would appreciate it, for they had a hard task ahead, clearing a drainage ditch of leaves from the alders that had grown up beside it.

  ‘Might as well deepen it a bit, too,’ James said when he set out with William. The two of them and Fred would be busy with spades for hours.

  It was grey, chilly weather but dry. They came back to the house for a midday meal – that was substantial too, finishing up a rabbit pie – and then, across the table, without warning, James remarked: ‘I heard a bit of news in Exford yesterday, Peggy. Didn’t mention it to ’ee straightaway; maybe it won’t be welcome news. But it’ll get around anyhow. I had that drink in the inn with Marshall, the huntsman, like I said I would, but someone else come in while we were there. Benjamin Hartley.’

  ‘The Riding Officer?’ I said.

  ‘Aye, the same. Ralph Duggan’s had his day, by the sound of it.’ He grinned. ‘If he don’t end up in Van Diemen’s Land, he’ll be lucky. The Revenue men are on to him. Seems he’s found a landing place under the cliffs that he thinks is secret, but it b’ain’t. It’s some cave or other, with a fairly safe way up the cliff, so Hartley says. Seems he’s heard that Duggan and his friends are planning a landing there tonight but the Harpy or one of the Waterguard rowing galleys’ll be standing by to catch them red-handed, so to speak. She’ll land a squad of officers the moment the first barrels start being heaved ashore.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. I added: ‘I wish you hadn’t told me.’

  ‘You’d hear, sooner or later. Thought it might be kinder to prepare ’ee. I know there’s a kindness in ’ee for the fellow, even a
fter so long.’

  The words appeared to be thoughtful, a husband warning his wife that news was coming that might hurt her. Only, he wanted me to be hurt. Yes, the malice was there, as strong as ever.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said carefully. ‘I mean I’m sorry that Ralph Duggan has been so foolish as to start free-trading again and put himself at such a risk. Anyone would be sorry for someone being sent away in a convict ship! And what about poor Harriet, and their children!’

  ‘Better off without ’un. I’ve said it afore, Stephen and Edmund, they’ll look after Harriet,’ said James easily. He set about eating, in haste. ‘Come on, Fred, William. We’ve a good bit to do yet, with that there ditch.’

  They went back to their work, leaving me to clear up the kitchen with Annie and await the return of Rose and John from school. I washed dishes in apparent calm, while my thoughts whirled round in my brain in panic-stricken fashion.

  I ought to warn Ralph. Love for him and fear for him told me that and besides, I had made a promise. Out there on the cliffs, I had sworn an oath.

  If I learn of danger to any of us, I will warn those in peril if I possibly can.

  Only, how could I do any such thing? Walk out of the house, take a pony and ride off to Minehead now, at once? What excuse could I possibly give for doing such a thing? James would see through any invented tales.

  Nor could I send a messenger. I couldn’t send any of the men off the farm without James hearing of it. I could ask one of Fred’s older children to go, but Minehead was a long way off and children shouldn’t be involved in this kind of thing and Mattie certainly wouldn’t like it. Also, she was expecting her ninth child any minute and shouldn’t be upset.

  No. The responsibility rested with me. And the risk.

  Could Ralph, could Luke Hatherton, expect me to throw my entire marriage into jeopardy, for love of Ralph, or fear for him, or to keep my vow? If James found out, he would not forgive me; I knew it. Part of me pitied him. If I had never seen Ralph, I could have loved James properly and I knew well enough that in his fashion, he did indeed love me. But that wouldn’t save me if he ever thought I had betrayed him. Besides, I would be breaking the law. I had done that once already and I hadn’t worried then about being caught but I worried now. I was older and shrank from such dangers.

  The truth was that I was afraid. I admitted it. In gnawing misery, I did the usual tasks of the afternoon, and I was there, in the kitchen, preparing my casserole, when, later, Rose and John came home, using the trap, since Rose was now old enough to drive Lady. James and William came back together only a few moments later.

  James, remarking that it was growing colder, went out again to bring Goldfinch and Copper into the stable for the night. There was nothing unusual about that. We left the horses out when we weren’t using them, but although the Exmoors throve well outdoors even on winter nights, Copper and Goldfinch, with their Arab blood, were more susceptible to cold.

  James returned looking exasperated. ‘Goldfinch has cast a shoe again and oh my, she’s lookin’ so pathetic, hobbling as if she’s got nails in her off fore, when she hasn’t a nail left in that hoof at all! And it would happen at this hour! I can’t leave her like that. Anyhow, I don’t want to waste any time tomorrow. Lambing’s started now and I’ve got to see Searle …’ His voice trailed irritably off.

  ‘Fred could take her into Exford,’ said William. ‘Shall I run to his cottage and ask him?’

  James shook his head. ‘He won’t want to leave Mattie. It could mean staying overnight at the inn. He’ll have to lead the mare dead slow; it’ll take him an hour at least to get her there, maybe more, and it’ll be black dark by the time she’s shod. Mattie’s near her time and she’s not been well. And you b’ain’t goin’! Can’t have ’ee stayin’ in inns alone at your age, and I don’t want ’ee ridin’ in the dark either. I’ll have to go. I’ll ride Copper and lead the mare. Save my feet, after the day I’ve had. Damned animal; her feet are never anything but trouble. I’ll stop the night and eat in the inn. You make that casserole just the same, though, Peggy. Keep my share and heat it for me tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

  He would be away all night. All night. I could slip out as soon as everyone was abed. I need not go to Minehead. I could go straight to the cliff and the cave and hope to find Ralph there and warn him before the landing took place. I might not get there in time but at least I would have tried.

  While I was thinking this out, I was continuing to do this and that in the kitchen, remarking that if James meant to stay at the inn in Exford, he must take his nightwear and shaving gear with him, and a clean shirt, too. My face and voice were as calm as I could make them. Terror was like a fire in my guts.

  If anything went wrong. If I was caught, creeping out. If James found out …

  If Ralph was taken …

  I thought of Ralph. Not lasciviously. I was remembering all I had heard about convict ships, about men chained in the hold, about the slavery – for it was slavery in all but name – that awaited them at the end of the journey to the West Indies or the Antipodes, about the many who never reached the end of it, but died on the way, of disease, malnutrition, or in shipwrecks.

  Not Ralph. Oh, please God, don’t let that happen to Ralph.

  I also thought of Harriet, who had never done me any harm and whose heart would surely break. I was trembling inside but I knew that I must act. I went to bed early, saying that I felt a little unwell. It was an understatement. The state of fear I was in made me feel very unwell indeed.

  But I wasn’t going to betray James in any way. I was simply going to try to protect someone who had once been very important to me from a terrible fate. I was going to discourage someone from breaking the law (well, for tonight, anyway). Since when was it a crime to dissuade someone from committing one? I surely wasn’t going to do anything that was really wrong.

  Only neither James nor the law would think so. I changed into night things and went to bed. And yet, all the time, I was listening to the sounds of the house, the voices saying goodnight, the slam of bolts as William took over the task of locking up for the night; the feet on the stairs as people retired. Annie put her head in to see if I needed anything and I pretended to be asleep. I heard her go away. I heard bedroom doors closing. Two of them. John and William shared a room; as did Annie and Rose.

  I waited, shivering under my blankets. And then I got up and lit a candle, and dressed. My heart was thundering like Ezra Kent’s mighty hammer. But I must warn Ralph if I could, and that was that, no matter what came of it.

  I put on socks and leggings and a thick skirt, and a patched old jacket that James no longer used but which still had warmth in it. I put my usual knife in the pocket and made sure I had my keyring on the belt of my skirt so that on return, if I found I had been locked out, I could get back in, quietly. I blew out the candle and then set out in socks, carrying my boots, and in the dark, I made my way downstairs.

  It wasn’t actually full dark because the sky, which had been overcast earlier, had cleared and there was a half-moon, which shone in through windows here and there, letting me see my way well enough. The dogs in their baskets raised their heads but didn’t bark, just thumped their tails in amiable greeting as a familiar human being tiptoed past.

  I put on my boots, undid the back door, stepped out, closed the door noiselessly behind me. I made for the tack room, collected a saddle, a bridle and a halter with a lengthy rope, and then went to the paddock where the Exmoors had been left out. Lady had been to Exford and back that day, but Brownie had spent it in the field. I would take Brownie. I was thankful that she hadn’t been in the stable. There was no risk of being heard as I led her out into the yard.

  I saddled her, mounted, and set off.

  I went on being afraid. It felt as though I had swallowed a lump of ice and it was sitting in my stomach and refusing to melt. Across the moorland I went, pausing on a hillcrest, looking to the distance where the sea was a
silvery streak. Then I pressed on, downhill and into the woods. The darkness under the trees wasn’t too intense because the trees were not yet in leaf and the moonlight found its way in. It was very cold. My teeth showed a tendency to chatter, and not just with fear.

  In the middle of the wood, there was a small clearing, an open patch of grass, pale in the moonlight. I halted. Anxious thoughts had come into my head. I could only guess just when the landing would take place. At high tide, most likely, but I didn’t know the state of the tides. What had I overheard the smugglers say? Something about dragging goods up the cliff path on some sort of trailer, presumably to meet a pack train of ponies at the top. Mr Hartley had said something to James about the Harpy but it was likely enough that Revenue men would come overland as well and wait at the top of the cliff, where they could see the ship arrive with its contraband cargo, and they might catch the pony train.

  Perhaps there would be a pincer movement, from sea and land both at once. If any of them were going to come to the clifftop, then I was about to ride straight into their arms.

  I dismounted. I took off Brownie’s saddle and exchanged her bridle for the halter, which I had carried slung round my shoulders. I tethered her to a tree. The long rope would let her graze or lie down if she wanted; I hoped she would come to no harm. Saddle and bridle I stowed in the fork of another tree. Then, treading as softly as possible, I went on, on foot.

  At the edge of the wood, I stopped, wary as a wild deer, wondering whether it was safe to emerge into the open. I listened. There were no human or animal sounds at all, only a fretful wind and the murmur of the sea below. Cautiously, I moved forward.

  No one was there. I stopped, rubbing a hand across a tired forehead. I had hoped to find some of the smugglers, perhaps with the ponies, at the head of the path. Had I come in vain? Wasted my efforts, taken a serious risk for nothing?