She walked briskly to St. Enodoc. Reaching the chapel, she set down the bags, retrieved the hidden rope, and secured it as before. Again making sure no one was near, she climbed onto the roof and opened the hatch, feeding the rope down through its mouth.
She glimpsed Alexander reclining on a pew, head pillowed on a kneeling cushion. He rose immediately and crossed the chancel.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
He grasped the rope and pulled himself up with hands and knees as she had seen sailors climb on rigging. It was an impressive display of strength.
With awkward effort, he gained the roof and stood hands on knees to catch his breath.
“I don’t know how your uncle does that every year.”
Laura retrieved and coiled the rope. “Three men stand here to pull him out. I’m afraid you have only me.”
“For which I am deeply grateful.”
With a final glance into the murky depths of the tomb-like church, Laura closed the hatch. “Let’s go.”
She returned the rope to the sexton’s shed. There she handed him the knapsack. Seeing his friend’s creation inside, Alex thanked her with enthusiasm—enthusiasm that quickly faded when she handed him the rest of his disguise.
He had already put on the old watch coat she’d tossed down earlier but now looked askance at the powdered wig. “You’re joking.”
She didn’t blame him. Mostly old men, judges, and barristers wore wigs. “I am not. The militia are looking for you. Not to mention François, if he managed to escape custody.”
“It’s not very dignified.”
Laura put on an old pair of spectacles, a mobcap, and a shawl around her shoulders. She turned to look at him over the top of the small frames. “We can trade disguises if you prefer.”
“Ha-ha.” He put on the wig, followed by a hat. “Where did you get all this?”
“From my collection and the poor box, and this black dress from Miss Chegwin.”
“Quelle folie! I can understand why I should disguise myself, but why you?”
“More people here know me than know you. And while they may be accustomed to seeing me wander the beaches alone most every day, seeing me with a man after midnight would certainly raise questions.”
“You should stay here, Laura. I’ll go alone.”
She hesitated to tell him just how far she planned to go. Swallowing, she said, “How will you know which door to knock at to fetch the ferryman’s son who’s agreed to take us across at such an hour? And how would you find the rendezvous point?”
“You could draw me a map.”
“It’s more than that. The militia are looking for a man of your description. They are not looking for an elderly couple making their way home after having a few too many at the Fourways Inn.”
One dark brow rose. “That’s to be the way of it, is it?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
“None as . . . creative as yours, no.”
“Then let’s go.”
They avoided the road, and walked along the blustery seaside path, wind blowing sand in their faces. Laura tasted the salty tang of the sea on her lips. Glad for the protective shawl, she raised it over her face.
In the long, salt-stained coat and powdered wig, Alexander looked a bit strange, but still handsome and virile, like some aristocratic ancestor in the framed portraits at grand Prideaux Place, on the outskirts of Padstow.
“If we pass anyone,” she admonished, “you’ll have to affect an older person’s gait.”
He nodded his understanding.
Reaching Black Rock, Laura led the way to the ferryman’s cottage, where Martyn’s father was likely sleeping off one too many. For once, Laura almost hoped so. At her tentative knock, a sleepy Martyn came to the door. “Who are . . . ? Oh . . . it be you, miss. Strange to see you like that. ’Bout gave up on you.”
“Sorry, everything took a bit longer than I expected.” She turned to Alexander. “And this is . . . my friend.”
The boy nodded but didn’t look too close. For one so young, he’d already learned the sometimes cagey ways of the Cornish. A wise seafarer could look an excise man in the eye and say he couldn’t describe whomever it was they were looking for, be it for wrecking, smuggling, or anything else.
“And here’s the other you wanted.” He handed her a wad of something, and Laura stuffed it into her bag, then handed the youth another coin.
They made their way to the village quay, where the ferry was moored, and a few fishing boats besides. As Treeve had predicted, the tide was rising.
“All right if we take my uncle’s fishing boat instead?” Martyn asked. “Easier to row and will draw less notice this time o’ night.”
“Sounds like a wise plan.”
While the youth untied the mooring lines, Alexander gave Laura a hand in, then helped the lad push the boat over the sand and out into the water.
“I’ll row,” Alex offered.
“No,” Laura said. “Someone might see you. Martyn is strong enough. Aren’t you, Martyn?”
“Aye. I row regular-like for Pa.”
Alex frowned. “Very well, but I don’t like it.”
When they reached the Padstow harbour a short while later, Martyn hopped out, very fleet of foot, and secured the rope.
Laura was not happy to see a few men loitering about. Did they never sleep? She said under her breath, “Time for your acting debut, Captain.”
He rose to step from the boat to the quay, swayed, and nearly fell backward. She braced his back and gave him a shove forward, and in her best impression of Wenna said, “Out with’ee, old man. Ye be that blind.”
Alex mumbled something incoherent, or perhaps stifled a laugh.
She kept her face down, back stooped, and stepped out after him, Martyn reaching down to offer her a hand. “Thank’ee, lad.”
Martyn quickly climbed back into the boat, apparently eager to return to his warm bed.
Laura put her arm through Alex’s, oddly glad for the chance to do so. The two leaned on each other, walking up the quay in a stuttering gait that hopefully passed for the aged or intoxicated or both.
One of the seafarers stared at them through bleary eyes.
“What’ee doing out so late, old maids?”
She felt Alex stiffen beside her, but he surprised her, singing a few bars of an old sailor’s ditty in a warbling tone. “‘Of all the wives as e’er you know, Yeo ho! Lads, ho! There’s none like Nancy Lee, I trow—’”
“Hush, man,” she chastised. “Ye’ll wake the dead.”
Back of her neck prickling, Laura resisted the urge to look over her shoulder as she led Alex around the harbour, past the custom house and the shipwright’s, then along the coast out of town. She was relieved to hear no footsteps following them.
Continuing along the bank of the Camel Estuary, they made their way to secluded St. Saviour’s Point, half a mile away.
“How much farther?” he whispered.
“Just down there.” She pointed to a moonlit cove visible between the scrubby trees and rocks. “See?”
“All right. I can go the rest of the way on my own.”
Her heart pounded. “No. They don’t know you. That is, I made the arrangements, so I—”
“I will explain,” Alex assured her. “I met Perry’s brother on several occasions, remember.”
“No. I—”
“Laura, I don’t want to put you in more danger than I already have. Crossing the river was one thing, but meeting known smugglers when the militia are nearby?” He shook his head. “It’s too risky. I don’t like that you’ll have to walk back alone, but—”
“I can’t go back. Martyn has already gone.”
His brows lowered. “Thunder and turf. Why didn’t we tell the boy to wait?”
“Because I didn’t want him to wait. I am going with you.”
He frowned. “Laura, you can’t go off on a ship with rough men. It isn’t seemly.”
“He can’t promise that. No one can. You know better than most how merciless the sea can be. How it breaks hulls and bodies and lays them to waste.”
“I want to go.”
“What are you saying? You want to go as far as the smugglers take me and then you’ll return with this Treeve of yours?”
“He is not mine. A friend at most. But yes, I want to go to Jersey. And I want to know you’ve been restored to your family.”
“Laura, I am not some . . . message in a bottle or a lost locket.”
“I know. But you are important to me. And I have long wished to go to Jersey for myself. To see my parents’ grave, if there is one.”
He looked away, clearly torn, then ran an agitated hand over his face. “What about your poor uncle? He’ll be sick with worry.”
“I left him a note in his Bible. I know his habits well. He reads two chapters every morning. He’ll find it after we are safely gone.”
Alex shook his head. “What on earth did you tell him?”
“That I had something I had to do and not to worry about me. That I was safe in the company of two people he trusts and respects.”
“He’ll still worry.”
“Yes, and I am sorry for it. But what else could I do?”
“Stay home.”
She shook her head. “Fern Haven is not my home.”
He sighed deeply. “Oh, very well. Let’s go and see what your smuggler-friend has to say about a woman coming along. Many seafarers are superstitious about females on board.”
Treeve, she knew, liked females. Liked her. But the ship’s captain and crew? That could be a far different story.
They continued through the scrubby trees down a steep path to a moonlit point. A crescent of lighter sand shone between the darker water and shadows.
At first she saw nothing. Had Treeve deceived her? Then at the far side of the landing, she made out a small boat beside the rocks. She’d been beached stern first, bow out, ready to make a hasty departure.
“Is there a signal?” Alex whispered.
“Not that he mentioned.”
Laura raised her voice slightly. “Treeve? It’s us.”
“Us?” Treeve appeared from the shadows as if by magic. Dressed in tall boots, caped carrick coat, and wool cap, he looked less like the polished gentleman she knew.
He frowned and walked closer. “What are you wearing? I took you for strangers. Miss Callaway, I am surprised to see you. I know I encouraged you to find a way across the river, but I didn’t think you’d come so far.”
Laura licked dry lips. “I want to see him carried to safety, and I—”
“And here I thought you missed me. Ah well.” He tipped his head back. “Wait . . . are you saying you plan to sail with us? I don’t know that my crew will accept a female passenger. . . .”
“Treeve, please. I want to go to Jersey. I want to visit my parents’ grave in St. Helier.”
“Oh.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Are you truly determined to come?”
“I am.”
Treeve huffed. “Very well.” He peered into the darkness behind them. “Are you certain no one followed you out here?”
“As certain as I can be. I checked behind us several times.”
“Good.” He turned to a man lingering near the boat. “Let’s go.”
Together the men pushed the tender into shallow water. Then Alexander turned to her and held out his hands. “May I?”
She nodded, mouth dry.
He lifted her into his arms, carried her to the boat, and set her down. Then the men scrambled in after her.
Propelled by both the current and oars, they rowed to the mouth of the estuary to meet the waiting lugger. By moonlight, the anchored vessel appeared a greyish black, its dark sails stowed. The ship was larger than most of the Cornish luggers she saw along their coast, with three masts rather than two. The bowsprit, a long wooden spar projecting upward from its prow, put her in mind of a bottlenose dolphin.
Reaching the ship, Treeve whistled, and they drew up alongside.
The dim shapes of a few other men appeared on deck.
Treeve called, “Seems we shall have two passengers instead of one.”
One of the men sputtered, incredulous. “A w-woman, sir?”
“Yes. Wonders never cease. Perhaps she will bring us luck.”
“Or doom.”
Despite the protests, the crew helped them into the ship and then stowed the small landing craft.
Only after they had cleared Stepper Point and were out on open water did one of the men bring up a lit lantern from below.
By its light, Laura saw three men dressed in loose trousers, dingy striped shirts, and short jackets with handkerchiefs around their necks. A stout fourth man in boots, caped coat, and cocked hat she identified as the captain.
Then she looked closer and recognized him as Newlyn’s father.
He returned her stare, his spidery eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. “Miss Callaway?”
“Mr. Dyer, you are the captain? I thought you were a fisherman.”
“I was, till my boat was damaged. But I sailed a cutter in my younger days. Gave up free trading for the missus years back. But, well, times is hard. Since my boat is in for repairs, and Mr. Kent here was in need of a skipper . . .”
“I see.”
No formal introductions were made, but over the next several minutes, Laura gleaned the names, or at least nicknames, of all the crewmen.
Archie, a tall, wiry fellow, was first mate; Pucky was sometimes carpenter and all-around sailor; Jackson was chief net mender and reluctant cook; while John Dyer—cap’n or skipper, in turns—oversaw everything as he smoked his pipe.
At his command, the crew began hoisting the main sail, two men pulling hard on the lines like eager bell ringers, the cross bar rising, the dark cloth unfurling. The sails were a deep burgundy, perhaps better than white for hiding from revenue men in shadowy coves.
Laura watched, noting the intricate web of pulleys, lines, chains, and coils of rope like giant embroidery floss.
The wind immediately began filling the sails, while the waves played percussion on the hull planking.
The captain stood at the helm, now and again relinquishing it to the first mate to look through the glass or to converse with Mr. Kent.
Surveying the deck, masts, and sails, Alex asked, “A lugger, yes?”
Treeve nodded. “A south coast lugger, to be precise. Narrow beam, and drawing only four feet.”
Alexander nodded. “I suppose her low draft helps navigate the estuary and avoid the hidden sands of the Doom Bar.”
“Indeed.”
“And the narrow beam?”
“Allows us to get in and out of smaller coves and landing places.”
“I see.”
Treeve cocked his head to the side. “Have some sailing experience, do you?”
Alexander flashed an ironic smile. “A bit.”
As they sailed south, the lugger moved easily through the swell without taking on water or broaching. Thankfully, the breeze was steady and the sea mild.
“Coming about,” the skipper called. “Watch the boom.”
Finally, when they safely passed Gulland Rock and Trevose Head, Laura released her first easy breath.
She felt Treeve studying her profile. “You look exhausted,” he said. “Why don’t you go below and get some sleep? The cabin is small, but there are bunks and a mess.” He pointed to the deck doors in the bulkhead. “I’ll show you. It’s a little tricky.”
Sliding back the cabin hatch, the smells of damp nets, fish, smoke, and sweat assailed her.
“Sorry. Still smells like pilchards, I know. Though nowadays, she carries less odoriferous cargo. Watch your head.”
She knew he referred to s
muggling cargo, likely tobacco, brandy, and the like.
Going below, he lit a candle lamp from the embers in the stove and set it on the shelf. She saw the cabin had five bunks, three across the transom and two on either side. Oilskin hats and coats swung gently from nails beside each. A miniature black lead range was bolted to the floor, while lockers on either side held coal for the fire.
“We use that for cooking fish or heating pasties,” Treeve explained. “We eat simply while on board.”
There was also a small enclosure in the fore of the cabin: a bunk with walls on three sides that offered a bit more privacy than the others.
Treeve gestured to it. “You may have my bunk. Probably the cleanest and most comfortable.”
Laura hesitated. “I don’t know that I should.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Miss Callaway, you are a single female on a ship of men. I fear it is futile to worry about propriety at this point.”
She sighed ruefully. “True.”
He pointed to a crate near the stove. “There are potatoes and bread, along with butter and cheese. You can heat water for tea on the stove.”
“I think I’ll just lie down for a while, if that’s all right.”
“Of course.” He gestured to his bunk. “My castle is your castle.”
“Won’t you need to sleep?”
“I may come back and join you later.”
Her mouth fell open. “Treeve!”
He grinned. “Teasing. Mostly.”
“Just wake me in a few hours, and I’ll get up so you can sleep.”
“Very well. If the night remains quiet, I may. Take care with that candle. Don’t want to start a fire.”
“I shall.”
Treeve paused, then said, “I suppose your Frenchman should stay out of sight as much as possible. Do you mind if I send him down? He can take one of the other bunks, assuming you trust him in such close quarters?”
“I do. And you are kind to think of him.”
“I am not so selfless. If the militia or one of the revenue ships is searching for him, I don’t want to give them any reason to stop us.”
A Castaway in Cornwall Page 22