by Jane Jackson
‘Lie to me and I swear to God I’ll kill you where you stand.’
Tears ran down Charlie’s cheeks and he began to gibber. ‘Hammer said he’d break me legs. There wasn’t no other way I could get the money.’
‘So you sold us out? You treacherous bastard.’
Charlie flinched violently at the cannon’s echoing boom. Devlin didn’t even glance up. He knew it was merely a warning shot. The cutter was too far away to have any hope of hitting them.
‘Looks like they want us to heave-to, skipper,’ Sam said.
‘Not a chance.’ Though Devlin’s gaze remained fixed on Charlie he raised his voice so they could all hear him. ‘But they can have their informer. I’ve no use for him.’
There was a moment’s utter silence as the crew realised what Charlie had done and what Devlin intended.
‘Skip,’ Jared’s voice was pitched low. ‘You sure ‘bout this?’
‘Oh yes,’ Devlin dragged Charlie to the gunwale. ‘He made his choice.’
‘No,’ Charlie gasped. ‘Jesus, Skip. You can’t.’
‘You think not?’ Devlin was implacable. ‘Five years, Charlie. Five years you’ve been on this boat. A crew is closer than family. Trust is everything. Whether we’re fishing or running contraband, trust can mean the difference between life and death. But you betrayed us. You sold us to pay your gambling debts.’
Trembling violently, Charlie wailed, ‘But Hammer was going to break me legs –’
‘Then you’d better hope he doesn’t find you.’ With strength born of anger all the more bitter because he’d liked Charlie, Devlin forced the struggling man backwards over the kegs that lined the ledge along the inner edge of the gunwale.
‘I can’t swim,’ Charlie croaked desperately.
‘Nor can Sam or Andy,’ Devlin replied. ‘They were your mates. If the cutter had got close enough to sink us, they would have drowned. You knew that, but you didn’t care. Go to the devil, Charlie.’
With a sharp thrust that pushed the crewman off-balance, Devlin seized his ankles and tipped him over the side.
Chapter Four
A splash cut short Charlie’s scream. Devlin heard ‘Bleddy ’ell,’ from one of the startled crew and someone else muttered, ‘Devil by name …’ He turned his back on the flailing figure whose choking screams were shredded by the gusting wind. The lugger bore away, the gap widening rapidly.
‘Billy, help Joe shift the ballast.’ Leaving Jared on the helm Devlin grabbed a rope. ‘Ready, lads? Right, drop her.’
A few minutes later, with the tack completed and sails re-set, the lugger creamed through the choppy swell heading shoreward. Given the strength of the south-east wind Devlin knew they were in danger of being driven onto the jagged rocks. But it was a risk worth taking. Against the dark cliffs the boat’s black hull and brown sails would be hard to see.
Laden with 80 tubs of fine cognac, the lugger sat low in the water. Yet her flat bottom and shallow draft would enable her to sail far closer inshore than the deep-keeled cutter.
Devlin looked at his crew. Their lives were in peril on every run. They didn’t do it for a thrill like the bored younger sons of the gentry did. It was a matter of survival, especially when weeks went by and the shoals didn’t come. Cornwall was a long way from the capital and a government that knew little and cared even less about the desperate daily struggle with poverty.
The slim packets of tobacco, silk, and lace stuffed inside the crew’s boots were their personal ventures and not counted as part of the cargo. Some might be kept for a mother, sister, wife, or sweetheart. But most would be sold to buy bread and meat, a length of cloth or a new cooking pot.
‘You making for the cove, skip?’ Danny enquired.
Devlin shook his head. ‘We wouldn’t have time to land the brandy. Besides, if Customs were willing to divert one of the revenue cutters down here from Fowey on the strength of whatever Charlie Grose told them, it’s possible Lieutenant Crocker will be waiting for us with a welcoming party of dragoons.’ He heard the soft hiss of indrawn breath as his crew recognised the depth of Charlie’s betrayal.
‘We’ll drop the tubs and creep for them once the coast is clear. They’ll come to no harm on the sea bottom for a few days.’
As the crew began checking the ropes that linked the tubs in groups of five with a sinking stone attached, Devlin was grateful for his uncle’s foresight in having them already prepared.
Sunrise approached, and as the sky gradually lightened the men worked hard and fast. Andy and Billy managed the sails while Joe shifted ballast.
Devlin took the helm, steering the lugger on a course parallel to the cliffs. This freed Jared to help Ben, Danny and Sam drop the tubs smoothly and quietly over the windward side of the boat away from any watching eyes onshore. Keeping the boat moving, and timing each drop so she was in the trough of a swell, meant that even with a glass trained in their direction, the revenue cutter’s captain would be unable to see anything that might indicate suspicious activity.
As the last tubs went overboard, Jared dropped a crab pot with a small cork buoy attached as a marker. Joe dragged the fishing nets from the cuddy and piled them in the bottom of the boat while Andy hoisted buckets of seawater inboard and thoroughly wet the nets. Returning with dry gear after a night supposedly spent chasing a pilchard shoal had caused more than one boat crew to be hauled before the justice on a charge of smuggling.
A brilliant white-gold sun rose over the horizon and lit rag-edged clouds with flame orange and shadowy purple. The black restless sea turned to wine, then blood, then bronze. As the sun climbed higher, blurred outlines hardened to reveal a coastline of foaming surf, black rocks, wooded valleys, heather and gorse-clad hills, and small fields bounded by stone hedges. Guiding the lugger into Porthinnis’s tiny harbour, Devlin glanced back across restless grey water.
‘D’you think they picked him up?’ Jared kept his voice low.
Devlin shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Better they didn’t. Bloody young fool. He could never have come back to the village.’ He turned to face his crew. ‘Any man who wants to leave will be paid up and is free to go. There’ll be no hard feelings.’ He studied each man in turn. They gazed back unflinching. Not a single glance dropped. Not a man moved.
‘You done what you had to, Skipper,’ Billy said.
‘’Twas ’im or us,’ Sam added, shaking his head.
‘Charlie was a fool,’ Joe growled. ‘Andy warned him about Hammer, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘What shall us say, Skip?’ Ben asked. ‘People is bound to ask.’
Devlin rubbed his jaw. His voice was as bleak as his expression. ‘We say it was an accident. We had a rough crossing with a full cargo and everyone was tired. We spotted the cutter and in the scramble to put the boat about, Charlie slipped and went overboard.’
He watched as they exchange nods. ‘The truth stays on the boat. Once you’re ashore, for your own safety say as little as possible.’
‘What about his brother?’ Sam growled.
‘I’ll tell Willie exactly what I’ve told you.’
‘D’you think he’ll believe you?’ Jared asked.
Devlin’s smile was grim. ‘That depends on whether he knew Charlie had informed on us.’
‘Skip,’ Danny pointed.
Realising he’d been outwitted and further pursuit would be pointless, the cutter’s captain had altered course and was heading out of the bay.
A watery sun was climbing a sky the colour of pearl when Devlin finally returned to the quay. He was tired to his bones. Willie’s first response had been disbelief.
‘No, he can’t be dead!’ He had pushed Devlin aside, peering up and down the street as if expecting his brother to jump out, grinning at the trick he’d played on them. He looked at Devlin again. ‘Not Charlie.’ It was a plea.
‘I’m sorry.’ Devlin spoke the truth. Charlie had been popular with the crew, even if his love of practical jokes had occasionally irritated. Yet he�
�d betrayed them all for money, had been willing to see them all hanged or transported. A lifetime’s practice of hiding his feelings kept Devlin’s face unreadable as he nodded in farewell and turned away. Willie’s shock was genuine. No one could feign that waxy pallor or stunned expression.
Whether or not Willie knew what his brother had done, Charlie’s death had shaken him to the core. The crew would stick to the accident story. Willie could not challenge it without implicating both his brother and himself.
Devlin sighed, then caught himself. Regret was a waste of time and energy. The past could not be changed. Charlie had reaped what he’d sown.
Devlin left the quay and turned into a cobbled alley alongside the building where he kept the gig and spare gear for both boats. The main entrance was at the front. Inside, wooden stairs led up to the net loft and sail store. At each change of season the nets were dropped through a trapdoor into wheelbarrows then taken along the quay to the barking shed. There they were steeped in a boiling liquid made from shredded oak bark to protect and preserve them.
Halfway up the alley Devlin lifted the latch on a tall gate in the high wall. It led into a yard with a lean-to privy in one corner. Climbing a flight of stone steps to the building’s third storey, he removed a key hanging on a cord around his neck, unfastened the hasp and padlock, and opened the stout door. Once inside he shot the thick oak bar across. He was in no mood for company.
Then, despite exhaustion and the stress of the trip, the corners of his mouth lifted. Neatly arranged on the scrubbed sycamore table were a crusty loaf, a dish of butter, and a jar of blackberry jam. The blue and white china jug was covered with a circle of muslin weighted with blue glass beads, which meant it was full of fresh milk. Beside it lay a parcel wrapped in a crisp white cloth. After cleaning up, Inez had left him a pasty for his dinner.
Pulling off his canvas smock he hung it on the back of the door and sank into the bentwood armchair by the hearth. Kindling sticks and furze were piled in the grate ready to be lit. Yawning hugely he tugged off his boots. Packages fell out onto the floorboards, among them the oiled silk. He gathered them all up and, silent in his thick socks, padded across to a battered oak chest, opened the lid and dropped the packages inside.
Ignoring the small keg that had been emptied of brandy several years ago, he lifted out a stone jar. Taking a pewter mug from the crowded shelf, he poured a generous measure of cognac and tossed it down.
The spirit burned his throat. But as the heat spread through him he felt knotted muscles loosen and tension began to dissolve. He knew he should eat. But food would have to wait. His head ached and his eyes were sore from salt spray and lack of sleep. Stripping off his thick sweater he stumbled across to the neatly made bed that occupied one corner of the large room. Falling onto it, he pulled up a blanket and fell instantly into deep sleep.
Dimly aware of hammering he tried to ignore it, hoping it would stop. But it didn’t. Then someone called his name. Cursing as he recognised his brother’s voice he forced his eyes open.
‘Stop the noise,’ he croaked. ‘I hear you.’ Lifting the bar he opened the door and turned away, padding over to the grate. There he crouched and used flint and steel to light the fire.
Thomas walked in, his caped greatcoat swirling around the ankles of his polished boots. ‘At last.’
As the fire caught and crackled, Devlin added more wood. Pushing the brandis – an iron triangle on three legs – over the flames he set a large pot of water on it then stood up, yawning as he raked both hands through unkempt hair. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost eleven. When did you get back?’
‘Just after dawn.’
Thomas peered out of the small-paned window. ‘I hear you had trouble. What happened?’
Devlin watched his brother. ‘We were chased by a revenue cutter and I lost a crewman.’
Thomas turned round, gave a brief nod. ‘I saw Willie. He’s very upset.’
‘He would be.’
‘What about the cargo? Where – ?’
‘Overboard.’
Thomas frowned. ‘When can you retrieve it?’
‘When I’m sure the coast is clear.’ Devlin took down the teapot and a tin caddy.
‘I need that cargo, Devlin.’
‘Then you go and get it.’
‘There’s no call to –’
‘We could have been caught.’
‘Yes, well, it’s a risky business.’
‘For some,’ Devlin said dryly.
Thomas’s lips compressed. ‘I must go. I’m extremely busy today.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you have any letters for me?’
Devlin stretched and scratched himself. ‘Who from?’
Thomas sighed. ‘Our uncle, of course.’
‘No.’
Thomas crossed to the door. With one hand on the latch he scanned the room, his expression disparaging. ‘I don’t know how you can you live like this.’
Devlin glanced from his rumpled bed to the food on the table. Above it a large brass lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling beam gleamed like gold. Beneath the crowded shelf a long narrow bench held a large bowl and a neatly folded towel, and under that stood two buckets – one with a lid – and a stoneware ewer filled with fresh water.
‘I’m perfectly comfortable.’
‘I could let you have some pieces from the house –’
‘I have all I need.’
‘You don’t have to stay here.’
‘This is my home.’
Thomas snorted. ‘You can’t possibly –’
‘Thomas, where I live, how I live, is none of your business.’
‘People talk.’
‘Let them.’ Devlin shrugged. Then he realised. ‘Oh you mean they talk about you. Fame at last, brother.’ Devlin’s mockery made Thomas flush.
‘The business – Father’s name – I have a position to uphold. But you – this –’ he waved a gloved hand. ‘Look, what I’m trying to say is that now Father has … gone, we can put the past behind us. You could come home.’
Their father’s house had never been home to him, and never would be. Devlin eyed his brother thoughtfully. ‘What’s going on, Thomas?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Why this sudden desire for my company? You’ve hated me since the day I was born.’
Thomas flapped a hand. ‘That’s ridiculous. It’s all in your mind.’
‘Oh yes? And the boys you paid to beat me, did I imagine them too?’
‘I never paid – that’s a lie!’
‘Everyone lying but you, eh, Thomas?’ Devlin’s mouth quirked. ‘The funny thing is, you did me a favour. Jared took me back to Arf and Inez, and I found out what a real home was.’
‘For God’s sake, that was years ago. Anyway, Father offered to have you back.’
‘Only when he realised I could be useful to him.’
‘You owed him –’
‘I owed him nothing,’ Devlin snarled. ‘All my skills I learned from Arf Sweet, and Inez was the mother I never had.’
She was still looking after him, bless her. She’d done so since he moved in here, keeping the place clean, doing his washing, bringing a pasty or a thick warming stew several times a week.
He had begun paying her for his keep when he was thirteen and Arf gave him his first wage. Understanding his fierce pride she had accepted the money without protest. Though Arf had no quarrel with free-trading, and enjoyed the brandy his son brought home, he preferred to earn his living fishing, where he was less of a target for the press-gang than men of his son’s age.
But this had been a hard winter with poor catches and low earnings. While Inez accepted help from her son, she had refused Devlin’s offer of extra money – until she discovered additional jobs she wanted done. Then honour was satisfied.
Thomas shrugged. ‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t offer.’
‘What exactly are you offering, Thomas? Any man shaking your hand would be wise to count his f
ingers afterwards.’
Thomas swelled in indignation. ‘How dare you –’
‘Easily,’ Devlin cut across the protest. ‘I’ve known you a long time. By the way,’ he continued, ignoring his brother’s spluttering fury. ‘Hedley sent a message.’
‘Well? What is it?’ Thomas demanded.
‘Pay what you owe or find another supplier.’
Thomas seized the latch. ‘You bastard.’ Rage and embarrassment had turned his face dusky crimson. ‘You think you’re so clever.’ Saliva sprayed from his lips. ‘But I’ll make you crawl.’ The door slammed behind him.
‘That will be a cold day in hell,’ Devlin murmured.
After a wash, a shave, and something to eat, he took the oiled silk packet from the chest, pulled on a clean pair of boots and a short seaman’s jacket and set off for Trescowe. The wind had eased and backed round to the west. But though the day felt milder, low cloud threatened more rain to come.
Skirting the harbour, Devlin climbed the hill that led out of the village and took a short cut across two small fields to join the rutted track that led him across a stretch of moor between Porthinnis and the next village along the coast. Outcrops of granite pierced a dense carpet of heather and brown bracken. Patches of gorse were sprinkled with butter-yellow flowers that blossomed all through the year regardless of the weather. Kissing is out of season when the gorse is out of bloom.
As the old saying came into Devlin’s mind, so did Jenefer Trevanion. Had she ever been kissed? Properly kissed, by a man who knew what he was doing? He doubted it. He only had to look at her and she blushed up. Which meant her careful indifference to him was thin as a fish scale. Yet she had accepted Erisey’s proposal. Of course she had. Her father would have been delighted with Erisey’s money and background, and Jenefer Trevanion was a dutiful daughter as well as a caring one. Not like Tamara Gillis, who was wild and headstrong and who looked as if she knew a damn sight more about kissing than a girl should.
