by Nicola Pryce
‘For chrissake, get on with the letter,’ snapped Sulio Denville.
Thomas Warren released me and I seized the quill, trying to steady my shaking hand. He coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Write this…Dear Sir James…You will think it strange for me to change my mind, especially as I’ve been so adamant…. No, don’t write adamant, write…especially as I thought I wanted the creek so badly. However—’
‘Wait!’ I cried, my hands still shaking, ‘you’re going too fast…’
‘However, I have found a timber merchant in Plymouth and have decided to buy our logs directly from him as I trust him to supply us with the quality we seek…’
‘The tip’s smudging – the end’s too blunt,’ I cried, throwing down the pen.
‘For chrissake sake, woman – it’s your heavy hand,’ Sulio Denville shouted, crossing the cabin to open a drawer, his gait swaying with the movement of the ship. The storm must have intensied. It must be well into the night. Through the aft windows, I could see lanterns burning on the stern. I dipped the new pen into the ink and waited for Thomas Warren to continue.
‘…and though I said I wanted the lease, please feel free to offer it to someone else. However, I do have a friend who would benet from a log pool. His name is Zach Trewellyn…Yours, in gratitude, Rosehannon Pengelly…’
I nished writing the letter. Nothing I had written would alert James Polcarrow. He would assume I had tried to reason with Father but had been unsuccessful in persuading him to change his mind. He would merely think I was bringing the whole business to an end and would never know how much danger I was in. James Polcarrow was my only hope. I needed him more than I had ever needed anyone, yet the formality of my letter meant he would never guess my danger. I took a deep breath, signing the letter with shaking hands.
Sulio Denville grabbed it from my hand, holding it to the light, his face furious. ‘What’s this nonsense?’ he said, slamming it down on the table. ‘Have you lost your senses?’
Both men were staring at the drawing of a rose I had hastily sketched under my name. I, too, looked at it, my voice breaking. ‘I’m sorry – it’s a childish habit I haven’t yet broken. My name’s Rose and I often do it without thinking…it was foolish of me…I can rewrite the letter if you like.’ My heart was pounding. Please, let them believe me. Please.
Sulio Denville frowned. He glanced at the brass clock on the panel above the desk. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman – we haven’t time,’ he said, folding the paper and sealing it with wax. He handed it to Thomas Warren. ‘It’s already past one, so you’ll have to hurry. Leave the letter so James Polcarrow gets it after we’ve sailed. And get a message to Roskelly. Make sure he knows about the creek…and, for chrissake, be back by four.’ His eyes turned to me.
‘Zack, before you leave, get this woman below and hide her well. I don’t want any of the men seein’ her – it’s a long journey and we’ll want her for ourselves.’
All my childhood, I had imagined evil in the shape of goblins, pixies and phantoms that lurked in shadows, hiding in crevices to catch me unawares. But the look that passed between those three men was worse than any evil I could ever have imagined.
Man’s inhumanity to man.
Chapter Fifty-one
Bound in a sack and tossed over Zack Denville’s shoulders, I was powerless to struggle. With every new turn I could feel we were going deeper into the hold. When the lack of height meant he could no longer stand, Zack dragged me along like a bag of provisions. He spoke to no-one and I heard no voices.
The sack was suffocating, the smell unbearable. The ship was lurching and I could feel Zack stumbling to keep his balance. My back banged painfully against something hard and furious squawking lled the air. My head was spinning, my nausea rising, the gag around my mouth so tight I knew I would choke if I vomited. I wanted to scream, ght back, but I was trussed so tightly I could barely move.
The dragging stopped and I felt myself being wedged into a tiny space. A space so small, my knees were jammed so I could not move. For a moment I lay suffocating in the darkness, rolling with the motion of the ship, the damp sack pressing against my face. I thought he had gone and I had been left alone but, suddenly, the sack was ripped open, the damp cloth removed from my face. As if drowning, I gulped the rancid air, feeling Zack drag a wet chain across my body, securing it rmly to a shackle beside me. For a moment, I was relieved: I was gagged, I was bound, but at least I could breathe.
I watched the lantern sway across the vast hold, Zack’s huge outline bending double under the close connes of the deck above. The darkness enveloped me and I was left crammed into a space hardly big enough for a dog. I knew which ship it was – the huge three-masted barque lying off Porthruan. I recognised the large windows in the stern which Father had studied so carefully. I remember thinking it was destined for a long voyage, but had never imagined it to be a slave ship.
Shackles and chains lay in coils around me. I could feel the slaves’ fear. Suffering had seeped deep into the timbers, and lay thick in the air around me. I could smell death, pain, agony, absorbed by the black hull, once so lovingly carved and meticulously crafted. I was one of them now. I was at the mercy of men who knew no mercy.
Like a child, I closed my eyes, shutting them tightly to block out the terror. As a little girl I would think myself in a safe place. I would imagine Father holding me, laughing at my foolishness, telling me there were no such things as demons. But it was not Father who was holding me now. It was James Polcarrow whose strong arms folded round me in the darkness, his lips brushing my forehead. James Polcarrow, keeping me safe, never letting me go.
Above the moaning of timbers and clucking of hens, I could hear pigs squealing and cows stamping in their stalls. I could see nothing, but strained my ears to hear, every new noise making me turn in its direction. Rats were everywhere. One ran over my legs and for once I was grateful for the sack. It was unbearably hot and wet. Dampness rose from my dress and I found myself blushing in helpless shame.
He would not come. There were only three more hours before the tide turned. He would get the letter too late and would never nd me. No-one would ever know where I had gone. But perhaps Jenna would think to alert him? Jenna and Mother would be so worried – they must be doing everything in their power to nd me. The thought of them made my tears ow.
I had no concept of time. Perhaps an hour passed, perhaps several. I had no way of telling. My ngers were numb, all feeling in my legs gone. The ropes were biting into my wrists, the chain pressing heavily against my body. Jenna would not alert James Polcarrow – she would think I was with him. I had spent too many moonlit nights in his company and she had been aware of every single one of them. Her loyalty was too strong. I knew she would shield me from my parents. She would be waiting in my room, furious with me, ready to scold me, ready to hold me.
My body was shaking, my face burning. I was thirsty. My lips were crushed, my tongue swollen. I was shaking with cold yet felt unbearably hot. I could feel my mind begin to wander and shut my eyes, going deeper into my safe world again – deeper into the arms of James Polcarrow. I was past pretending. I ached for him. He was as much part of me as I was myself. I could see him leading me to a low couch covered in soft blue velvet. We were on the cutter, the waves rocking, the cabin gently rolling. He was smiling…his eyes burning...
I must have passed out. I woke to hear voices and see a lantern swaying above the steps to the upper deck. I started writhing in the sack, grunting and moaning, but any sound I made was drowned by the chickens and pigs. I tried twisting, jangling the chain, but I could not move. The light dimmed and I was left in darkness, tears rolling down my cheeks.
Once again the lantern swung across the hatch. The voices had returned. I could hear heavy objects being scraped across the deck. This time the men were climbing down the steps. A int was struck and the lantern, hanging from the deck, began to glow, its light ickering steadily across the vast hold.
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‘She’s here somewhere – look again. Look down here…and behind the pigs. Here, give me the lamp. We’re not leaving this ship until we nd her…even if we have to start all over again.’ It was the voice of James Polcarrow.
‘Don’t tell me they put slaves down here as well…’
‘They cram them anywhere and everywhere – even on those platforms where they can’t even sit. Look under all the sacking and pull out those crates. She’s here. I know she’s here.’
‘They’re pistols, Sir James – the ship’s loaded with rearms.’
I could see the lamp coming nearer. My body was shaking, tears streaming down my face. James Polcarrow was coming. Bent double, he was thrusting his lantern into every corner, looking behind each timber, searching every possible place. Soon, he would nd me. Soon, I would feel his strong arms around me. I should never have doubted he would come. I watched him pause, wiping the sweat from his brow, his handkerchief catching the light. The lamp shone on his jacket and I could see he was formally dressed. He lifted the lantern and, through the darkness, our eyes met.
He said nothing, but crouched by my side, his eyes black in the half-light. I saw his jaw tighten, his face change from relief to anger. Immediately he rose, turning his back on me, handing Joseph his dagger. ‘Use this to cut the ropes,’ he said, ‘wrap her in your jacket and keep her warm. Take her straight to her mother.’
Joseph cut the gag, cradling my head in his hands, soothing me as if I were a child. ‘Ye’ll be alright now, Miss Pengelly,’ he whispered gently. ‘I’ll get ye back to Jenna – she’ll know what to do.’ Once again his kind hands helped me. He reached across, pulling back the chain, his face angry with compassion. Ripping through the sack he freed my hands. Turning me gently, he cut the straps that bound my legs. If he noticed my soiled dress, he made no sign. I felt too numb to move, too exhausted to help. I wanted to smile, to thank him but, more than anything, I wanted to cry. James Polcarrow was making his way down the hold, away from me.
‘What time is it, Joseph?’ My mouth was almost too sore to speak. ‘Tell Sir James, Thomas Warren will be returning to the ship – he expects to sail with the tide. Tell Sir James, Thomas Warren was responsible…’
‘Don’t ye worry, Miss Pengelly,’ soothed Joseph, ‘Thomas Warren’s goin’ nowhere – he’s tied up with Sulio Denville and now Sir James’s found ye, he’ll send for the authorities.’ I started shaking, tears of relief ooding down my cheeks, clutching Joseph tighter now I knew it was all over.
James Polcarrow paused at the foot of the steps. ‘Make sure no-one sees you row Miss Pengelly ashore,’ he called back across the hold. ‘Tell everyone you found her in the alley. Miss Pengelly’s name must not be linked to mine. Tongues will wag and I must not be implicated.’
It was Joseph who scooped me up and carried me home, Joseph’s strong arms that rowed me across the river. Joseph who carried me through the streets, holding me to him, never putting me down. It was Joseph who calmed my fears, seeing me safely home and as I leant against his broad shoulders, burying my face in his neck, my heart howled.
It should have been James Polcarrow’s strong arms who rowed me ashore, James Polcarrow who carried me so tenderly in his arms. James Polcarrow holding me as if he would never let me go, but James Polcarrow was not to be implicated. He had made that quite clear. So close to his wedding, he could not risk any scandal.
Ebb Tide
Chapter Fifty-two
Coombe House
Saturday 24th August 1793 6:00 p.m.
The sitting room in Coombe House lay directly across the hall from the dining room. After the connes of the tiny cottage, the huge ceilings and elegant proportions seemed so much grander than I remembered and I had forgotten how pretty it was. The stone mantelpiece had carved scrolls at each end, two vases carefully positioned so their reections showed in the large gold mirror behind them. They were Mother’s pride and joy – one was green, covered with brightly painted birds and owers, the other pale blue with white, raised gures of gods and goddesses. Between the vases a carriage clock stood encased in a dome of glass.
It was the rst time I had been allowed downstairs. I had been nursed in my room, the days passing in a restless blur of snatched sleep and haunting nightmares. Jenna and Mother had asked no questions, bathing the rope burns on my feet and wrists in pursed silence. They had sponged my bruised head, put ointment on my lips, but had said nothing.
I had not been entirely honest when I said I was better – a dull ache lodged in my head, the re was blazing, the room the temperature of an oven. I was conned to the chaise longue and uncomfortably hot, but Mother was convinced I still had a fever and was determined to keep me warm.
‘Jenna, no…not another log…please – I’m already sweltering. If I’m perspiring, it’s because I’m too hot, not because I’m feverish…’
Jenna put the log rmly on top of the others. The wood crackled, sparks ew. ‘It’s time for yer next drink,’ she said.
‘I’m not ill, but if you bring me any more of that nettle brew, I’ll be sick.’
‘It’s not nettle, its yarrow,’ she said, smiling as she shut the door behind her.
Before Father’s bankruptcy, I had spent little time in this beautiful room and seeing it with new eyes made me feel sad I had treated it with such contempt. It was peaceful and elegant and I loved the pale blue and gold colours. Mother’s chairs were light and feminine, their elegantly curved backs and dark mahogany wood sitting delicately against the stripes of the wallpaper. I had always found her room dull compared to the excitement found in Father’s study, and I regretted that now.
Mother was happy. Now I was better, she was relaxing. She sat at the foot of my chaise longue, busily embroidering a handkerchief but I could tell her mind was not on her stitching.
‘Go on, Mother, tell me more. What exactly did Father say?’
‘He said for a long time he’d thought my talents were being wasted. He said if I could teach girls to sew they’d have a trade for life and it would keep them from poverty. He cares so much about the poor that he wants me to start a school of needlework.’
‘I can’t think of anything better. I’ll help you…if you want me to.’
‘Well, of course, I do, Rose – I couldn’t do it without you. I’ll be depending on you and Jenna.’
I shifted Mr Pitt to one side. I was wearing my lemon sprig gown and was worried that the butter might stain the material. It was the only dress I could wear, my other dress still soaking in the laundry, but somehow it felt right to be wearing my beautiful dress in Mother’s sitting room. Besides, everything was going to change. From now on, I would never go anywhere unattended. I would never roam the countryside, chasing butteries, or go scrambling over rocks. I would never ruin my clothes by lying on my back, watching skylarks hover above me and I would never again venture down stinking alleyways.
Instead, I would spend my time addressing my woeful lack of domestic skills. Mother and I would pass our evenings sitting cosily by the re. There was still plenty of time to learn to sew and plenty of time to discuss what we should ask Mrs Munroe to cook. Besides, we had the school to plan. ‘Mrs Munroe’s going to wonder where all her butter’s gone,’ I said, scratching Mr Pitt behind the ear.
‘Rose,’ said Mother, her voice at once serious, ‘I don’t like to scold ye in front of Jenna, but now we’re alone, I have to tell ye – ye were wrong and very foolish to go down that alley. What were ye thinking? If Joseph hadn’t chanced upon ye, anything could’ve happened. Ye could’ve been killed.’
I had been expecting this. ‘Mother, please don’t scold. I’ll never go anywhere alone again. Honestly, I’ve learnt my lesson. I promise.’
‘I scold only because ye’re so precious to me,’ she replied softly, putting down her sewing and folding her hands in her lap. She was wearing a dark-blue velvet gown, a delicate buttery brooch pinned to the lace at her throat. Her shoulders wer
e back, her spine straight, a beautiful soft curve to her neck. Only her hands looked at odds in her elegant surroundings. ‘Rose, I know there’s something ye’re not telling me. I won’t ask and I’ll never pry – ye can tell me when you’re ready, or not at all. It’s just a mother knows things without being told. I can’t explain it very well, but I just wanted to tell ye – a mother just knows…in her heart…that’s all.’
I lowered my eyes. Was she talking about Father’s idea for the school or had she guessed James Polcarrow had been involved in my rescue? I could not tell. She had told me Sulio Denville was behind bars; held for assault, false witness and the theft of the cutter and Thomas Warren had been seized for embezzlement, false accounting and misappropriation of land, but had she guessed more?
Jenna came through the door balancing a tray with yet another evil-smelling, steaming potion. Mother stood up, smiling down at me, straightening her gown. ‘Mrs Munroe wants to discuss menus. She’s promised us whortleberry pie – can you believe that? It’s your father’s favourite and she’s determined to spoil us. Here, Jenna, let me hold the door…’
The two of them were clearly in league. Ever since I had been brought home, they had not left me alone. Either one was with me, or the other – or both. Jenna had even moved her bed into my room but I did not mind. I wanted her there.
I had stopped Mother from scolding but Jenna was always a different matter. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Jenna – honestly, I think you’re worse than Mother. Anyway, I know Joseph must have told you what really happened, so there’s no need to talk about it.’
‘It ain’t my business where ye go – or who ye choose to spend yer time with. It would just be nice to know whether to expect ye home or not!’
‘I wasn’t spending my time with anyone – I was minding my own business…’ I said, taking the cup. It smelt worse than any of her other brews but I held my tongue, sipping the bitter contents without complaint.
