My father freely admitted the offence of escaping jail, but that he had been wrongly imprisoned and concerned for the safety of me, his daughter. But, that aside, he argued, he had done nothing against the law, him being nothing more than a God-fearing Cornishman, and widower, who made his livelihood by fishing! All that had been hurt had been Rod Tundy’s pride.
He was accused of being a smuggler, but where was the evidence? He had never been arrested at the scene of any smuggling. No stolen goods had been found in his house, his fishing boat or any other place with which he was associated; all of which had been thoroughly searched. So, on what basis was Mr Duggan and Sergeant Byron making all these claims?
“I am, of course, more than happy to face a jury of my peers,” he said, “but there is no case to answer, Sir William, and it would be wasting yours and the court’s time.”
News must have reached Mr Duggan’s office at the harbour that my father was with Sir William and, with a knock, he entered the magistrate’s office. He nodded at the Reverend Glass but chose to ignore me and my father.
“Sir William –” he began.
Seated at his desk, the signed statement from Robert Tregowan before him, the magistrate gave the exciseman a long, hard stare, and explained what my father had told him. “And what,” he said at last, “is your response to that, Mr Duggan?”
“We have no contraband as evidence because Cask destroyed it all, sir,” he protested, “and –”
“You have evidence that this explosion was by the hand of this man?” asked the magistrate, pointing to my father.
“Well, no, sir, but it was obviously carried out on his instruction.”
“And why should anyone carry out his instructions?” demanded Sir William.
“Because… Because he is the notorious Captain, responsible for all the smuggling in Minnock, sir,” said Mr Duggan, his face reddening.
“I look forward to the proof, Duggan,” said the magistrate. “And I mean now. Not at trial. Well, where is it, man?”
“The proof is the word of Mr Jack Treviss,” said Mr Duggan, finding it impossible to keep the triumph from his voice. “I have asked that Sergeant Byron bring him here this instant to give testimony.”
“And why should we take the word of Jack Treviss over that of Mr Cask?” asked the Reverend Glass. “I wish to speak ill of no man, but old Jack is a retired one-legged sailor whose love of tall tales116 is only surpassed by his love of ale.”
“A one-legged man, yes,” said Duggan, “but no drunkard. He is in my employ and his so-called love of drink is nothing more than an act; a pretence. He is in the official employ of –”
At that moment, the door swung open and the go-dot-and-carry – that treacherous wooden-legged traitor – came lurching into the room, closely followed by a very flustered-looking Sergeant Byron. The smell of brandy reached us before they did.
“Sir William,” began the redcoat. “I really must apologise, but –”
“Hello, whisker-face!” said Jack Treviss, slapping his hands on the table in front of the magistrate then tugging his whiskers. “Who’s a handsome fellow? You are.
He gave a terrible belch of such force that he seemed to lose his balance and, spinning for a moment on his wooden leg, landed flat on his back. He pointed skyward. “Nice ceiling, your whiskership!” he yelled.
“Enough!” said Sir William, getting to his feet. “I have had quite enough of this, Duggan. This is your spy, is it? This is the professional in your employ who only pretends to be drunk and is the only thing between Jon Cask and the gallows, is it? Well. I’ve had enough, I say. You and you, Sergeant Byron, are to leave Mr Cask, his daughter… his entire family alone, and let him go about his lawful business without so much as ‘good morning’. If I hear that either of you has so much as raised a hat in greeting to him or let his name pass your lips I’ll have YOU in court.”
The magistrate’s face was beginning to glow dangerously red. “As for Mr Jack Whatever-His-Name-May-Be here,” he pointed at the drunk sailor on his floor. “No honest man can afford to drink that much brandy with all the taxes we pay on top, so I suggest you search HIS lodgings for any contraband, taking my constable with you, and report straight back to me.”
And that was that.
No charges brought against my father.
His name cleared.
The authorities warned off.
I don’t know whether to laugh or to burst into song!
We are now all free, and with no small thanks to me, for it was me who blew up the cave and it was me who exposed one-legged Jack Treviss as the spy, though I can’t take credit for making him drink all that drink or for hiding all those boxes of tea – taken from the secret cellar – in his rooms, for the constable to find, of course.
I no longer think of myself as Kitty Cask, Smuggler’s Daughter, though, for we – Father, Jago, Esme and old Eliza, who claims that my sister “will need her” – have decided to start a new life, free of smuggling and trying to outwit the law, in the Americas, and our boat leaves in three weeks time.
And, of course, Sovereign will be coming also. Fully recovered, he too played his part against those dastardly redcoats and is much a member of the family as I!
Who knows – perhaps I will start a new diary about life not in the West Country, but in the wild Wild West! But, wherever I might end up, I will always be a Cornishwoman, through and through. It is in my bones and blood.
____________
116 Made-up or exaggerated stories.
There is little doubt that the Reverend Glass was somehow involved in Jon Cask’s smuggling ring but, because Kitty did not know or, at least, didn’t record it in her diary, we have no way of knowing. We do know that smuggling continued in Minnock, long after the Casks left for America, with a new landing spot a little further down the coast and that, when the Reverend Glass retired, he was far richer than one might expect a clergyman to be. He was much loved by the people of Minnock, though, because, even in old age – when James Treppen was squire after his father was killed in a riding accident – he gave much to help the poor and needy of the parish. Mr Duggan remained an exciseman, feared throughout Cornwall, and was very successful at catching freetraders everywhere but Minnock. He stayed well away from there and the memories of those who’d out-witted him. Kitty’s Uncle Jonah remained in the village, living to the extraordinary age of 102, where he regaled with tales about the antics of his infamous family, always giving Kitty credit where credit was due. And as for the Casks? In America, the Land of Opportunity, they became fine, upstanding citizens. Apparently.
SMUGGLING IN THE WEST COUNTRY IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
We do know that a number of eighteenth century West Country clergymen were involved in smuggling: sometimes actively, sometimes helping to hide the contraband on Church property, or sometimes simply agreeing to turn a blind eye in return for a few goods. In some instances, whole villages seem to be involved in smuggling. Poverty in the West Country was very serious and the taxes on goods were very unpopular, so smuggling was a way of earning money to put food on the table and a roof over your head, and enjoying a better quality of life. Not that it was limited to the poor. Squires, doctors, and magistrates in many towns and villages were all involved in smuggling, or knew full well who was responsible and benefitted from cheaper goods. Some towns and villages ran small-time operations, others ran it like big business, moving thousands of pounds worth of goods a year, playing cat-and-mouse with the authorities and the redcoats.
Although none of the characters in this book are real and there is no Hangman’s Cove, Cannon’s Point, village of Minnock or town of Fowle, smuggling really was a way of life for many in the eighteenth century in the West Country of England, as the story shows.
Another great way to bring smuggling history to life is, of course, to visit a National Trust coastline, explore the coves and caves and winding lanes, and to look out to sea and imagine…
First published in the UK in 2019 by Nosy Cr
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Text copyright © Philip Ardagh, 2019
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The Secret Diary of Kitty Cask, Smuggler's Daughter Page 6