Devil's Prize

by Jane Jackson

  But it didn’t pass. It grew worse. The wind howled like a ravening animal looking for a way in. As her mother’s fear became frenzy, Tamara resorted to another larger dose of laudanum. She sat holding the trembling hand as her mother slid into somnolence then eventually slept.

  Back upstairs, Tamara gathered armfuls of clothes and brought them down, laying them in an armchair where her mother would see them as soon as she opened her eyes. Outside the wind screamed. At the front of the house it roared in the chimneys, rattled doors and windows, and hurled torrents of rain at the glass until Tamara began to fear the panes would shatter. Knowing there was nothing more she could do until daylight, she rejoined her mother, lay down on the sofa, and closed her eyes.

  She was floating, weightless, the sun warm on her eyelids. Then suddenly the water roughened, tossing her about. Breaking waves slapped her face, filling her nose and mouth. Out of her depth, choking, unable to breathe, she floundered, struggling desperately, and felt one foot touch the bottom. She opened her eyes and the water was red. Her lungs strained. She had to breathe. She opened her mouth –

  – And jerked upright, gasping, her heart pounding, the rapid pulse loud in her ears. She felt the same terrible apprehension she had experienced up on the moor, and knew it meant death. But whose?

  The candle had gone out. In the grey light of morning she could see her mother still sleeping in the other chair. Sweating and shivering from her nightmare, she stood up, stretched to ease the tension from her neck and shoulders, and went to open the curtains.

  The garden was strewn with debris. But her gaze skimmed over it, drawn to tangled wreckage strewn about the harbour, all that remained of the fishing boats moored to the quay. Smashed by the waves, they had been abandoned by the ebbing tide.

  At the mouth of the harbour huge waves pounded the wall with a sound like distant thunder. Breakers reared, curled and crashed onto the beach, leaving a red line as they receded. Her dream – blood – death.

  With a strangled gasp she ran to the door and raced up to her room. Wrenching open her curtains she could see the listing hulk of a ship driven onto the rocks during the night. Rags of canvas flapped on broken masts. Already a few villagers were struggling down the beach to salvage what they could.

  She went weak with relief – it was too big, not a lugger. Not Devlin. She sagged onto the window seat swallowing repeatedly as she fought dizziness and nausea.

  As soon as she could stand, she threw off her robe and nightgown, pulled on her shift, her green habit, stockings, and boots. Tying her hair at the nape of her neck so it wouldn’t blow across her face and get in her way, she ran downstairs again and almost collided with Sally who was carrying the ash pail and small shovel she used to clean out the fireplace.

  ‘Has Mrs Voss arrived?’

  ‘Not yet, miss. I nearly didn’t get back myself. There’s chimneys down and slates flying. ’Tis some bad all the way up to the farm. Still, I got the milk all right. Mr Reece’s thatched roof was tore off. Straw everywhere, there is. The Mitchells and the Tallacks been flooded out. Their windows is all smashed and front doors stove in. The sea went in the front door and out the back. Poor souls, some terrible mess it is. I’ve never known nothing like it. The rain’s stopped for a minute but that won’t last.’

  ‘Leave the fire for now, Sally. Make some tea and toast for my mother. She had a bad night so I brought her downstairs. She’s in the small living room. I hope she’s still asleep.’

  ‘What about you, miss? Bring some for you shall I?’

  ‘I’ll have something when I get back.’

  ‘You’re never going out? ’Tidn safe –’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  Not daring to open the front door in case the wind took it off its hinges or she couldn’t shut it again, Tamara went out the back way. As she picked her way through the off-cuts of wood, pitch pots, frayed rope, and scraps of canvas blown from the boatyard to litter the grass and path, the gale tore at her clothes and made her eyes water. Once through the gate she crossed the open ground between the yard and the broad foreshore, her boots slipping on the thick layer of seaweed tossed up by the tide. No spring tide had ever reached this high.

  She stumbled across the beach trying to avoid more debris, and saw the crimson tide-line of her dream. It wasn’t blood. It was red coats. The stricken ship had been carrying marines, drowned as they tried to reach the shore.

  Some villagers were dragging their finds up the beach. Others pulled corpses out of the water only to rifle their pockets. Moses Carthew, the Methodist preacher, ran from one group to another, waving his arms as he threatened hellfire and damnation. They ignored him. What need had the dead of possessions?

  The rain began again, hard, heavy, and almost horizontal. Realising there was nothing she could do she retraced her steps. The wind shoved and pushed, making her run while the rain hammered her scalp and soaked through her jacket.

  Sally met her in the passage. ‘I done me best, miss, but she won’t eat nothing. Working herself into some state she is.’

  Struggling against anger and impatience, Tamara nodded. ‘I’ll see to her. Make a pot of coffee and cut three thick slices of heavy cake, will you?’ She went in to her mother. Knowing reassurance would be a waste of time she measured out a dose of laudanum and poured it into her mother’s open mouth.

  ‘Mama, I’ll be back again in just a moment.’

  ‘Where are you going? Don’t leave me!’

  ‘I’m taking coffee and something to eat to Papa and the men in the yard.’

  ‘Sally can do that,’ her mother cried pitifully. ‘I need you –’

  Shutting the door, Tamara hurried to the kitchen. She wrapped the cake in a clean napkin, put it in a basket beside the coffee pot and three cups, and went out once more into the driving rain.

  The devastation at the yard shocked her. Toppled from its props, Devlin’s new lugger lay on its side amid the wreckage of the smaller boat onto which it had fallen. Her father crouched beneath the only boat still standing, hammering wedges to hold additional props in place while two of his shipwrights anchored the hull with ropes and iron spikes.

  Seeing her he straightened and waved her away. ‘Go back in the house. It isn’t safe.’ He had pulled an old black oilskin over his clothes, but his head was bare, his hair plastered to his scalp.

  She held up the basket and waded through the debris towards him. He looked exhausted and beaten.

  ‘Papa, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Go on, lass. Nothing you can do here.’

  The wind pushing her along, Jenefer tried to avoid broken roof tiles and scattered bricks from fallen chimneys. She had stayed at the Sweets’ just long enough to tell Betsy, Inez, and Arf where Jared had gone and why.

  But now as she passed alleys leading down to the harbour and caught glimpses of the raging, white-capped water, she wondered whether knowing that Jared was somewhere out in that maelstrom had added to their worry rather than relieving it. Yet recalling Betsy’s pallor, the dark circles under her eyes, and the anxiety emanating from both Inez and Arf at their son’s sudden and unprecedented disappearance, their dread that he had been snatched by a press gang, how could she not have told them?

  She had seen Dr Trennack down on the beach supervising the loading of corpses onto a wagon.

  Ahead of her, carrying whatever they had been able to rescue from their flooded homes, Denzil Laity, Arthur Tallack, and Jacca Benney ushered their wives and children up the through the alleys to higher ground. The tide was rising again, and with the wind behind it, would flood the properties on the quay.

  This was her chance to repay all the kindness she had received. As chapel steward, George Ince would hold a key.

  When he opened his door to her urgent knock she didn’t waste time. ‘Mr Ince, please will you open the chapel? I’ve just seen three families who’ve been forced out of their homes. There will be many more before this is over. They need somewhere safe, warm, and dry to wait
out the storm. I’m going to fetch Lizzie Clemmow and Ernestine Rowse. I’ll ask them to contact everyone they think will be willing to bring any food and blankets they can spare and meet me there.’

  As she was speaking his expression altered from surprise to relief that someone had taken charge and something was being done. Nodding, he reached behind the door to grab his coat from the hook.

  ‘I’m on me way. Put up a notice, shall I? There’s a blackboard and chalk in the back room.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ince. That’s an excellent idea.’

  Hurrying home she saw Moses Carthew.

  ‘Kneel in fear of the Lord, all you sinners!’ he bellowed as he marched towards her, wild-eyed and gesticulating. ‘He has sent a tempest to punish those who traffic in the demon drink!’

  Jenefer knew that both the Laitys and the Benneys were staunch Methodists and teetotal. Furious with the minister, she resisted the temptation to suggest that he come to the chapel and do something to help. Those people had suffered enough. The last thing they needed was this deranged man shouting at them.

  Back at the cottage she put all her vegetables, cheese, and butter into a basket, rolled up a blanket and grabbed her purse. Running next door to Lizzie she outlined her plan.

  ‘If you take my veg, I’ll bring my big pan,’ Lizzie said, opening the table drawer and taking out one large and one small knife.

  ‘We’re going to need plates, bowls, and spoons,’ Jenefer said.

  ‘Mrs Avers,’ they spoke simultaneously. Every summer the doctor’s wife hosted the village fete in her large garden.

  ‘Do you think Harry might come and help?’ Jenefer asked, referring to Ben Tozer’s father, Lizzie’s other neighbour.

  ‘He’ll be mad as fire if we don’t ask’n,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ll go and fetch him while you get Ernestine. She got a lovely great pan she use for making jam.’

  Jenefer nodded. ‘Now all we need is a stove.’ She turned to Lizzie’s ten-year-old son and gave him her purse. ‘William, take this to the bakehouse. Ask Mr Rowe for as many loaves as the money will buy. Tell him I’ll be in shortly.’ As William scampered off she turned to Lizzie. ‘I’d use my range, but Mr Rowe’s is bigger and much nearer the chapel.’

  Lizzie snorted. ‘That man wouldn’t give you a cold if he could charge for it.’

  Jenefer’s brows rose. ‘Do you really think he’ll refuse me, when it’s for such a good cause?’

  Pausing for a moment, Lizzie eyed her. ‘No. He won’t bleddy dare.’

  Standing at the living room window, Thomas peered through the eye-glass that had been his father’s. Despite the fire burning in the grate and his warm clothes, a shiver tightened his skin as he peered through the eyepiece at the turbulent sea. Low grey cloud raced above mountainous spume-streaked waves.

  No one could survive in that. Not even his hated brother who had the luck of the devil and more lives than a cat. The dragoons would find nothing but wreckage and bodies.

  He turned to look towards the harbour. Even inside the seawalls the broken, foam-capped waves were several feet high. Sturdy fishing boats that last night had been moored alongside were now splintered planks tossed on the water. On the quay huge stones lay amid shingle hurled up by the waves.

  Bearing the brunt of wind and sea, parts of the eastern sea wall had disintegrated. If the gale continued the rising tide would demolish the rest of it, leaving the inner harbour and quay without protection.

  But of more immediate concern to him was the visible damage to workshops, cellars, barking sheds, and net stores. Not only had windows been smashed and their frames broken, on several buildings, including Devlin’s, the heavy double-doors had been stoved in and now lay flat on the ground or hung askew on their hinges.

  People milled about, battling against the wind. But there was little left to save. Already the waves were exploding against the quay, hurling a spray roof high.

  He had been up for hours, waiting impatiently for the gale to ease. But this was no ordinary storm. Instead of blowing itself out, it was growing stronger. The wind had veered round to the south-east, directly behind the rising tide.

  Thomas knew he dared not wait any longer. If he didn’t go now, the building and everything in it might fall to the storm.

  With a small axe concealed up the sleeve of his caped greatcoat, and his beaver hat pulled low over his eyes, he hurried down through the village. Though he kept to the narrow streets behind the quay, the thunder of the waves was deafening. Feeling the shock through the soles of his boots, his heart tripped on an extra beat. Moistening his lips he tasted salt. The air was dense with spray that made his eyes sting.

  As he opened the gate in the alley it crashed back against the wall. He struggled to shut it again. He didn’t want anyone to see him, or coming in offering help he didn’t need. Keeping close to the wall he climbed the stone stairs and used the axe to smash the padlock. It clattered onto the stone by his feet, the sound drowned by the screaming wind and pounding waves.

  Inside the loft he paused for a moment. Two windows overlooked the harbour. But salt and spume had frosted the small panes blocking much of the grey morning light. Crossing to one of the windows Thomas peered out, and stumbled backwards as a huge wave smashed onto the quay with a deep boom that shook the building. It exploded into a blizzard of froth and spray, flinging broken planks, stones, mangled crab pots, and other debris against the front wall and in through the broken doors.

  Dropping the axe he turned to flee. But after two steps dizziness made him stagger. He grabbed the back of a chair and held on with both hands, head bent, eyes closed. His heart pounded so fast his gorge rose and he feared he might vomit. He plunged trembling fingers between his throat and collar, wrecking the careful arrangement of his cravat in his haste to loosen the starched cloth.

  As he sucked in shaking breaths his pulse began to slow. He straightened, flexing his shoulders and jutting his chin. He wasn’t leaving until he found what he had come for.

  Picking up the axe he crossed to the oak chest. He smashed the padlock and threw back the lid. Tossing shirts and stockings onto the floor, he found a small brandy keg and a stone jar. Setting both aside to take with him he continued emptying the chest. With the last of the clothes thrown aside revealing nothing, he stood up, flinching as another wave battered the building.

  Crossing to the shelf he swept everything to the floor, watching for a leather purse. The sound of smashing crockery and clatter of pewter and enamel was lost in the deafening noise outside. He upended the ewer and the buckets, flung them aside, and peered into the two lanterns. He wrenched open the wooden cupboard and went through the pockets of Devlin’s waistcoats and the jackets he sometimes wore instead of his oiled wool guernsey.

  Another wave hit making the floor shake. He heard a loud crack then a deep grinding rumble and quickened his search, reaching under folded shirts and trousers. He felt inside shoes then threw them behind him and turned spare sea boots upside down. Nothing.

  He slammed the cupboard door in temper but it fell open again as he staggered towards the bed, disoriented and off-balance. The rumbling stopped. The cupboard toppled forward and crashed to the floor making him start. He should leave. He would go in just a minute.

  Breathless from the unaccustomed exertion, he lurched toward the bed with the strangest sensation of walking uphill. Seizing the bedclothes he flung them into the mess on the floor. Where was Devlin’s money? He staggered to the table, wrenched open the drawer and fumbled for a sharp knife. Slashing first the pillow and then the mattress he pulled the stuffing out, shouting his frustration when once more he found nothing.

  He glared around him, panting and sweating, and his gaze fell on the keg. Too light to be full. Yet there had been no sound when he shook it.

  As he lunged forward to grab it the windows shattered. Glass flew inwards, slicing his face and hands. The wooden frames buckled and snapped. Weakened by the barrage of waves, the lower walls crumbled. In a salvo of loud
cracks the floor collapsed. Thomas knew brief outrage then bowel-loosening terror. He was falling …

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Returning to the house Tamara found her mother gazing sleepily into the fire. Backing out and quietly closing the door, she went upstairs to change. The gale shook the window and blew a chilly draught under the door. Shivering, she stripped off her wet clothes and pulled on a clean shift, a simple white petticoat, and a high-necked long-sleeved gown of pale green figured muslin. After towelling her hair almost dry she combed out the tangles then twisted it into a chignon.

  Pausing by the window she peered out at wild sea and low cloud blurred by spray into a grey murk. Where was he? Wrenching her gaze away, she gathered up her linen and her sodden habit and took them downstairs. In the kitchen Sally had set her boots on the brass fender to dry.

  ‘Take this through to the dining room shall I, miss?’ Sally poured steaming brown liquid into a china cup. ‘I made chocolate. I know you can’t stomach coffee just now.’

  Remembering Devlin’s pewter mug and the brandy he had given her to stop her shivering, Tamara dragged her mind back to the present.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll stay here. It’s warmer.’ She sat down at the kitchen table. Sally put a plate in front of her. On it was a slice of heavy cake studded with currants and lemon peel. ‘I’m not –’

  ‘C’mon now, miss.’ Sally didn’t let her finish. ‘You need your strength. Got to think of the little one,’ she added softly. ‘Eating for two now, you are.’

  Tamara’s eyes filled and she compressed her lips to still their quivering. Not trusting her voice she gave a brief nod and raised the cup.

  Swallowing the cake she drained the last of the chocolate. Already she felt stronger. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was. As she stood up, someone knocked loudly on the back door. Sally opened it and William Clemmow looked past her to Tamara.

  ‘Please miss, I got a message from Miss Trevanion. She’s in the chapel looking after people who been flooded out. She says if you aren’t busy please could you go and help?’