by Jane Feather
A low rumble ran around the room and the lieutenant nodded his satisfaction. “It’ll be some time before we can transport him to Bodmin. You’ll have him in custody here some days, I shouldn’t wonder.”
That thought was more than sufficient inducement to give the lieutenant a willing and eager force to hand. “We start tonight,” he said briskly, unrolling a detailed map of the immediate area.
That night, there were men deployed at significant positions along the headland between Fowey and Mevagissey, and, if a light had been shown from Devil’s Point, it would not have escaped notice. All was quiet, however, as those that they sought went about their legitimate business.
Lord Rutherford, leaving the lovers’ nest in the cliff just before midnight, wore a preoccupied frown. Meredith had been as gay and loving as ever, and he had held his tongue on the subjects of marriage and smuggling. He had helped her dismantle their playhouse in preparation for the following night’s arrivals, and the grimly serious nature of the business had stood out in stark contrast to the flippant gauze of their play. On parting, she had clung to him just a little longer and tighter than usual, and he had known full well that, for all her appearance of carefree insouciance, she was fully sensible of the dangers. If only she were not so blindly obstinate, he thought with the now familiar sense of helpless frustration.
Saracen whinnied a soft greeting as Rutherford gained the copse where the black had become accustomed to his nightly stable under the trees. Deciding for a change to take the cliff road rather than the fields back to Mallory House, Damian turned his mount toward the dark sea where white-tipped breakers gleamed in the moonlight. It was a magnificent coastline of craggy cliffs rising sheer from foaming surf, long sandy beaches in quiet coves, its treachery hard to believe on a quiet night; yet only the most skilled sailor, well-versed in the ways of these waters, would venture beyond the headland.
A movement on the field side of the path set the hairs aprickle on the nape of his neck. Who else would be abroad at this hour? Unless there were other clandestine lovers returning from the trysting place. A remote possibility! Rutherford realized that foolishly he was unarmed except for his riding whip. Somehow, the presence of footpads in this small, close-knit community had not occurred to him. Saracen tossed his head, the skin of his long sinewy neck rippling. He, too, was alerted to the possibility of danger, the sense of someone close by.
Whoever it was did not show himself, but throughout the ride, Rutherford could almost feel disembodied eyes on his back. His scalp tingled with the knowledge of hidden watchers, and his sense of foreboding increased.
The next morning he rode over to Pendennis. “You will find Lady Merrie in the library, m’lord,” Seecombe said. Rutherford nodded his thanks. He was never sure whether the manservant accepted his visits with equanimity. He was certainly not accorded any especial courtesies, but Seecombe’s countenance was a little less forbidding than it had been in earlier days.
“Good morning, sir.” Rob appeared at the head of the stairs and threw one sturdy leg over the banisters.
“Don’t you dare, Master Rob,” Seecombe expostulated. “Those banisters’re not made to carry great lumps of boys!”
“Oh, pshaw!” Rob scoffed, sliding with a high-pitched squeal of delight down the shiny rail to come to a sharp halt at the newel post.
His beam faded under a withering look from his lordship, who said nothing, merely drew off his gloves, laying them and his crop on the hall table before following Seecombe to the library. The chastened Rob decided not to follow and returned upstairs.
“Lord Rutherford, this is a surprise.” Meredith looked up from the pile of ledgers on the desk.
“A pleasant one, I trust.” He bowed.
Seecombe closed the door and Meredith said, “What’s to do, love? I thought you were to leave me free of distractions, today. I do find your presence most distracting.” It was said with a suggestive smile, a sensual narrowing of the sloe eyes.
“I’ll not keep you long,” he replied, without responding to the invitation. “I would not have disturbed you except that it may be a matter of some importance.”
Meredith frowned at his gravity. “You appear a little annoyed, sir. Have I done something to offend you?”
“It is anxiety, not annoyance,” he answered. “Although, in my dealings with you, the two become somewhat enmeshed, I’ll confess.”
The door opened to admit Seecombe with the sherry decanter. Merrie offered some casual remark about the weather. Damian accepted a glass of sherry and responded punctiliously. Seecombe left once more.
“Has something happened to cause more than your usual anxiety?” Merrie asked directly.
“Not exactly.” He told her about his experience the previous night and was relieved that she did not dismiss it as a figment of an overanxious imagination.
“There is an alternative plan for emergencies,” she said slowly. “We have never had cause to use it before, but it would seem a wise precaution in this instance. If our friend Oliver is indeed on the watch, then we will give him a little activity of the wrong kind.” Her eyes gleamed and the tip of her thumb disappeared between her teeth in that telltale gesture of excitement.
“What do you mean?” Rutherford asked.
“I mean, my love, that there will be no run to the cove this night,” she replied cheerfully. “The lieutenant will be disappointed, and I do not think his men will happily cool their heels night after night for very long.”
“You will cancel the run?” He looked at her closely.
“Well, not exactly,” Merrie said evasively, wishing she could lie to him as easily as she could to everyone else.
“What exactly?” he demanded.
“We will not make the run to the cove as I have just said. While the coastguard look here, the goods will be delivered to another destination, near Polruan, the other side of Fowey. We do not use it as a rule because it is not so convenient for delivery afterward. The lieutenant will not suspect, and we shall provide a little diversion for him here just to maintain his interest in this part of the world.” She smiled with kindly reassurance as she stood up. “I am grateful to you for the warning; you may be sure I shall act upon it. But I must ask you to excuse me now. There are people I must talk to if we are to change plans at such short notice.”
“There will come a time, Merrie Trelawney, when you will not dismiss me so easily,” Damian stated. “Be warned of that.” He placed his sherry glass on the table, inclined his head in curt farewell, and left.
Meredith looked unhappily at the sharply closed door. She had sounded brusque and dismissive; no doubt his pride was hurt. But it was near impossible to play the sweet, loving kitten when all her thoughts and energies were concentrated on the formation and implementation of a daring plan that would achieve the confusion of the coastguard and the safe landing of the contraband. It was yet further indication of the impossibility of a marriage between a Lord Rutherford and a Merrie Trelawney. Perhaps Damian was beginning to see this. He had not brought up the subject in an age. What had he meant by that last warning though? Probably it had meant nothing. Shrugging, she put the question to one side and went to change into her habit. She must ride into the village and speak with Bart. He would pass the message and instruction to the others.
Thus it was that a fishing boat left Landreth harbor at sunset, sailing beyond the headland and treacherous reefs. In the open sea, it hove to, lights at bow and stern. The French boat, sailing without lights, changed course at the sight. When the fishing boat turned toward Polruan, extinguishing its own lights, Jacques sucked in his bottom lip, nodding his comprehension. Something was amiss, but Merrie was not willing to give up the run. The alternate destination involved Jacques in no more danger, but it exposed the Cornishmen to greater risk. They had further to go afterward to reach the safety of home and many extra miles to cover when it came to delivery. However, that was not Jacques’s concern. Merrie would have made the decision, and, if her
men were prepared to follow their leader, then they presumably knew what they were doing.
Meredith, herself, was not in the fishing boat or one of the party waiting on the beach near Polruan. With three others, she was in the cave beneath Pendennis.
“It is agreed then. Luke, you will signal with the beacon from the beach. It will draw our quarry like moths to a candle. Tod, you will be there with the ponies. When the coastguard come, you will scare the beasts so that they create a great confusion in the dark. The revenue will be expecting ponies and will think they have surprised the men who go with them.” She chuckled, her teeth gleaming white in a face blackened with burnt cork. “They will find no one since, in the confusion, you two will have made off up the trail. Joss and I will do our part then. Hares to their hounds. We’ll lead them a merry chase, I swear. And while they’re busy with us, they’ll not be looking toward Polruan.”
Her companions were men of few words and signified understanding and agreement by moving toward the entrance of the cave.
Lieutenant Oliver and his men, strung out along the coast road, stamping their feet and picking their teeth in expectation of another wasted vigil, saw the unmistakable flash of a signal—a light showing for an instant, then doused. The signal was repeated often enough for them to pinpoint it, much to the lieutenant’s amusement. Cornishmen were fools for all their suspicious hostility. It took nearly an hour before they were all gathered together at the cliff head above the beach from where the beacon had shown. The delay did not concern Lieutenant Oliver. He intended to catch the smugglers redhanded, and it was to be assumed that it would take at least an hour for the signaled boat to make landfall. When he peered over the cliff, the sight that met his eyes would have gladdened the heart of a corpse. Dark shapes milled on the sand, men and ponies. A dinghy, smaller than he had expected but a boat nevertheless, was pulled clear of the surf. It was enough. He fired his flintlock pistol in the air—a dramatic warning for those on the beach, but they had no avenue of escape, and a fearsome signal for his own men who leapt down the path after their commanding officer.
The ponies, already scared by the shot, needed little further encouragement from the prodding thorn twigs wielded by Tod. They milled around snorting and stamping, and, when the horde of men brandishing swords and muskets leapt amongst them, they went wild. Tod and Luke amused themselves for a short while, adding to the confusion by popping up amongst the ponies to offer encouragement to the coastguard, who were no longer sure where the enemy was or if, indeed, they had one. Every time they saw a dark figure, seemingly faceless except for the occasional white flash of teeth or the glint of an eye, their confidence in the enterprise was renewed.
Tod and Luke had left the melée and were safe on the narrow trail when another pistol shot rang out and Merrie’s voice rose above the cacophony, adding fuel to the revenue’s enthusiasm. “Run for it lads. It’s every man for himself!”
Lieutenant Oliver saw a figure on the beach, brandishing a small sword, a smoking firearm in his other hand. Another figure ran for the cliff path. The soldier had no idea what had happened on the beach, but he did know that he wanted something to show for this night’s work. If he had been made to look a fool, he wanted the prankster. A few hours in his hands, and the man would be more than happy to give Lieutenant Oliver all the information he needed.
He bellowed a command, and his scattered force disentangled themselves from the ponies and each other. Two figures streaked up the path to the cliff top with their pursuers close behind. At the head of the path, they separated, and the lieutenant paused for a second. He only needed one of them. Should he split his forces or throw all his eggs into one basket? The smaller of the two runaways suddenly turned. A laugh, rich in enjoyment, imbued with a mocking challenge, filled the night air, shivering the soldier to the soles of his feet. He was being laughed at and so, therefore, was His Majesty’s army and the forces of law and order. He sprang at the figure, sword in hand.
Merrie was ready for him. She caught his blade with her own, lunged, felt the resistance of flesh against the sword point, heard the rip of material, knew that if she tarried the rest would be upon her, pivoted on the balls of her feet, and ran. The pain in her thigh caught her by surprise. It stung like the smarting of a severe cut. When she put her hand to the spot, her fingers came away warm with a wet stickiness. In the instant of her turn, the wounded lieutenant had struck out wildly in his desperation to make his own mark. Merrie had not felt the sword cut at the moment of impact but a minute later realized what had happened. The stinging became real pain, and the warm, wet stickiness ran down her leg, soaking through her britches. The faster she ran, the faster the wound would bleed. She veered off the road into the fields, clamping her hand to her thigh in a makeshift but ineffectual tourniquet. They were still behind her. How many she did not know; nor did she know if any had gone in pursuit of Joss or if they were all hounds to her single hare. Unwounded, she would have had no difficulty. She knew the terrain like the back of her hand and had planned her route. She could have lost them any time she pleased, but now her path was marked by the bright splodges of her life blood welling up between her fingers. The bullrushes of Withy Brook waved ahead. Only in water could she disguise her trail. Dropping to her belly, she wriggled through the rushes and into the cold, muddy waters where Rob tickled his trout. She could hear her pursuers crackling through the rushes, muttered curses and shouted expletives ringing in the air, but only her head was visible above the water and that just for the seconds necessary for her to draw breath before sinking below again.
When the voices receded somewhat, Merrie surfaced and took stock. The muddy waters around her leg were tinged with red, her thigh felt strangely numb, and there was a faint buzzing in her ears. Half a mile away across the brook, lay Mallory House.
If she crossed the brook, the trail of blood would be broken, and it would perhaps take her pursuers a while to pick it up again. They had not given up, that much was sure. Damian was her only chance unless she chose to bleed to death in Withy Brook. Not an appealing alternative! A certain grim humor came to her aid as she dragged herself across the brook and into the rushes on the far side. There she abandoned the pistol and small sword. They were little good to her now. The sounds of pursuit came from further away. The lieutenant had obviously set his men to beating the fields running beside the brook. If they found no trace, it would not be long before the soldier, if he was as intelligent as Damian maintained, would put two and two together and cross the brook. They would pick up her trail again easily enough there. She had gained perhaps five or ten minutes, minutes to be used to reach Mallory House. How she was to wake Damian was a problem to be faced when she arrived.
Rutherford, however, was far from sleep. For an hour he had lain in Cousin Matthew’s poster bed, gazing fixedly at the faded pattern of dragons and other serpentine shapes on the brocade tester overhead. Nothing would induce the blissful, anxiety-free state of unconsciousness. With a muttered oath, he flung himself from bed, struck a flint, and lit the tapers on the carved mantelpiece. For all he knew, that infuriating little wretch was safely abed by now while he paced the chamber a prey to every terror both real and imagined.
A stone flew through the open casement, struck the bedpost with a harmless crack, and fell to the threadbare carpet. Picking it up, he went to the window and peered down at the dark garden below.
“Who goes there?”
“Hush,” came Merrie’s unmistakable voice. “Please ...”
Her voice seemed to fade, and his heart began to pound, sweat to form on his palms. “Wait there!” Dragging a robe over his nightshirt, he took the stairs three at a time, hauled on the bolts of the great front door, for once thankful that the Perrys were both blind and deaf to what went on around them. The house could burn down about their ears, and they would sleep through it.
He found Merrie crouched in the shrubs beneath his window. For a moment, he thought she was in a dead faint, then she opened her
eyes and whispered, “the coastguard ... they will be here soon ... following the blood ...”
“Dear God!” he muttered fiercely, lifting the soaked, shivering little body into his arms. “Damnation, Meredith! You are half-drowned!”
“I had to swim.” She sounded a little stronger. “To break the trail, you understand.”
“I understand nothing!” He strode with her into the house, feeling the stickiness of blood beneath his hand.
“What’s amiss, Colonel?” Walter appeared at the head of the stairs, tucking his shirt into his britches.
“Check there’s no blood leading to the door, Walter, then lock and bolt it. We’ll be having visitors soon. They must find the house asleep,” Rutherford commanded with clear-cut decision.
The soldier, as always, obeyed his commander’s orders without question. The body in the colonel’s arms was quite unrecognizable to Walter, and the instructions unfathomable, but clearly his lordship had his reasons.
Damian carried Merrie to his own chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. “How long do we have?” he asked, depositing his bundle on the wooden window seat where water, mud, and blood could be easily removed.
“Five, maybe ten, minutes,” she whispered clutching her thigh.
“I can do little for you in that time,” Rutherford gritted, pulling a towel from the polished wooden rail beneath the dresser. “Move your hand.” He bound the towel tightly around her bloody thigh. “That will help to staunch the blood for the moment. We will deal with it properly anon.” He tugged off her boots, dragged three blankets from the bed, and swaddled her shivering frame before putting her on the bed, piling the remaining covers over her. “It’s to be hoped the damp of your clothes will not seep through those blankets and soak the mattress. I’ve no desire to sleep in a wet bed,” he remarked as if such a pragmatic consideration were all important in this matter of life and death. That it was a matter of such grave import, neither of them were in any doubt. If Merrie were discovered, there would be no alibi for her condition, and Lord Rutherford would stand convicted of harboring a fugitive from the law.
