A Castaway in Cornwall

by Julie Klassen

  “Good point.”

  For a moment he hesitated, then he turned and climbed out of the hold without another word.

  A few minutes later, Alexander descended, pulling off his hat and wig. “Mr. Kent said you wished me to join you?”

  The words were uttered innocently, yet Laura’s face heated at the implication.

  She hurried to clarify. “He says you should stay out of sight as much as possible.”

  He studied her closely. “You don’t mind the sea? Feel sick?”

  “Not at all. I find it exhilarating.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  He crossed the cabin, lifting both hands toward her. “May I?”

  May I what? she wondered but could form no words because his hands touched her face. She made do with a vague nod.

  She held her breath as he gently unhooked the spectacles from her ears and lifted them from her nose. He set them aside and returned his gaze to her. She sank into his sea-storm eyes.

  Then his fingertips slowly tugged the mobcap off her head. He looked at her by the light of the flickering candle. “Much better. Your hair is far too pretty to cover.”

  He set the cap aside, his eyes lingering on hers. “Thank you, Miss Callaway. Because of you, I have hope for the first time in a long time.”

  Her heart thumped at his warm words. He reached up, stroking a tendril of hair that had come free when he’d pulled the cap away.

  Then Alexander cupped her jawline. He dipped his head, lowering his face toward hers, and his sweet peppermint breath and shaving soap were a pleasant haven amid the dank cabin.

  She breathed in the smell of him, feeling flushed. He leaned nearer yet, and his lips touched hers, softly, tentatively. She stood on tiptoes and pressed her mouth more tightly to his. In a second, his arms were around her, holding her in an embrace that stole her breath.

  He abruptly pulled away, grasped her shoulders, and took a half step back. “Forgive me, I got carried away.”

  “Me too.”

  He cleared his throat and retreated a few more steps. “Get some sleep, Laura. I’ll watch over you.”

  Laura drew a steadying breath, then said, “Perhaps you should sleep too. Before one of the crewmen wants his bunk.”

  He lay atop one of the low bunks, fully dressed, boots on the floor.

  Laura unlaced her half boots, removed them, and crawled into Treeve’s bunk, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.

  She would just rest for a few minutes, she told herself. But the berth was like a cradle, rocking her gently side to side. From above came the sounds of occasional footsteps on deck, men on the watch, which assured her they were in good hands. The rigging softly strumming against the wooden masts soon lulled her to sleep.

  The ship that will not obey the helm must obey the rocks.

  —CORNISH PROVERB

  Chapter 18

  When Laura awoke, sunlight shone through the cracks of the cabin door.

  Alexander sat near the stove, watching her. He smiled. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, though I did not intend to sleep all night. Poor Treeve.”

  “Oh, he and the others slept in shifts, as did I.”

  She sat up. “I have been a poor example of the fortitude of my sex, I’m afraid.”

  “Not at all. I am already convinced of your strength, Laura Callaway. Who could not be who knows you?”

  Pleasure washed over her at his words.

  He rose. “I will leave you. Come up when you’re ready.”

  Laura nodded. She tidied her hair as best she could and put on her shoes. Then she went up on deck, feeling embarrassed for sleeping so long while the others worked, but the men respectfully tipped their caps or wished her a mumbled “Morning, miss.”

  For a time, she watched Jackson at work with a needle, mending tears in the nets. And soon Laura was taking a turn, learning to mend “bars” and “three-ers.”

  Now and again, the captain called out a port or landmark as they passed. Parranporth, Portreath, and others. As the hours lapsed, Laura began to relax and enjoy the journey, to believe they would make it. She tried not to think about the fact that war still waged, and they might encounter a warship or blockade. Treeve, however, seemed more concerned about the preventive men.

  Alexander made himself useful by fishing as they went, hand-lining for hake and employing the nets to bring in herring or mackerel.

  Laura had helped in the kitchen during those years when it had just been her and Uncle Matthew. So she happily peeled and sliced potatoes, fried the fish Alex caught, made tea, and poured ale. They ate in shifts, and food had rarely tasted so good.

  As evening fell, they passed St. Ives, and the mood became jovial, perhaps helped along by the ale served with supper.

  Behind them, a ship slipped out of the harbour and seemed to follow their course from a distance. John Dyer snapped to attention, eyes narrowed and jaw tight.

  “What is it?” Treeve asked.

  “A revenue cutter is stationed at the Port of St. Ives. I thought we were far enough out not to attract attention, but now I wonder.”

  Treeve turned to study the distant vessel. He took up a glass. “I can’t tell for certain, but she’s bigger than we are. Probably just out cruising on patrol.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  They continued on, but as the breeze freshened, the cutter gradually drew nearer.

  “Let’s alter our course and see what she does.”

  They did so, but the other ship altered its course as well and soon began to gain on them.

  “The wind is blowing a solid twenty knots straight out of the north,” the captain said, then ordered all to go about on another tack.

  The cutter, running with the wind on her quarter, came up fast.

  “She’s carrying a smart press of canvas—that’s for sure,” Dyer said. “She must be doing eight knots to our five.”

  Treeve grimaced. “We can’t let them get close enough to order us to heave to. Or be in range of their guns.”

  Dyer nodded. “Set the topsail, men,” he commanded. “And sharp-like.”

  The crew hurried to oblige.

  Laura gripped Alexander’s arm but asked Treeve, “Can we outrun a revenue cutter?”

  “Definitely. Dyer has done so in the past, times without number.” He turned to the man. “Haven’t you?”

  John Dyer nodded, but his mouth remained a tight, thin line. “A long time ago.”

  “And you can do it again,” Treeve assured him. “Evade that cruiser, skipper!”

  Laura lowered her voice. “And if he can’t?”

  “If we can’t outsail them, we shall have to outwit them, overpower them, or . . . bribe them to avoid arrest. Sadly, I haven’t the funds required for the latter.”

  The skipper called more commands. As the cutter pursued, the lugger crew strove to outpace it.

  “Better go below, Miss Callaway,” Treeve said. “Don’t want the boom knocking you into the water.” He said it lightly, but she saw the tension in his face.

  She acquiesced. “Very well.”

  Laura climbed below but kept the hatch door open, watching the activity with anxious fascination.

  Alexander stayed above, helping the crew. His years as a naval man served him well, giving him skills and experience with sails and rigging. The wind continued to build, the eight-foot waves breaking into gleaming streaks, like the manes of galloping white horses.

  Treeve again studied the distant ship’s progress through his glass. “She’s still gaining on us.”

  The skipper cursed. He gave the helm to the first mate and grabbed the glass. “Lemme see.” Another curse. “That’s the Dolphin all right.”

  “Keep calm. We don’t have any contraband on board. Yet.”

  “No? What about ’im?” The first mate lifted his chin toward Alexander.

  “Would a revenue cutter have any interest in him?” Dyer asked.

  “Mebbe. If the militia asked
the preventive men to aid their search.”

  “Or they may think we look suspicious for some other reason,” Treeve said.

  Dyer scowled. “I don’t want to be fined or arrested when the only illegal cargo we’re hauling is a Frenchman and his sweetheart.”

  “If they stop us,” Treeve said, “there’s probably enough equipment on board to fine us, what with the drift lines, sinking stones, bladders, and the like.”

  “I’ll go stash ’em all in the hidden compartment,” Jackson offered. “Unless you want me to throw ’em overboard?”

  “Not yet. See if they get near enough to hoist the warning flag.”

  “You really think they may just be patrolling and have no interest in us?”

  Treeve shrugged. “Possibly.”

  Dyer frowned. “Want to risk it?”

  “Not really. What else do you suggest?”

  “We’re near Land’s End. We’ll soon approach the Longships.”

  “Right. We’ll need to sail around them.”

  “Or we could stay between them and shore.”

  Treeve ran a hand over his face. “I thought there was no safe passage between Longships and Land’s End, only shallow shoals and tidal eddies.”

  “There is a passage between,” Dyer said. “It’s narrow and complicated and therefore seldom used. We risk hitting Kettle’s Bottom, but easier for us than a cutter with its deeper draught.”

  “If we make such a risky maneuver, we’ll erase any doubt that we’re trying to evade them.”

  “True. But we will evade them.”

  Treeve grimaced. “For how long? They will just sail around the hazards and catch up with us.”

  “It would buy us time.”

  “Time for what?”

  Before Dyer could reply, Archie jerked a thumb in Alex’s direction. “To get rid of ’im.”

  Alexander spoke up. “If you think I am why that ship is pursuing you, then by all means, get close to shore somewhere and let me off.”

  From the hatch, he heard Laura protest, “Alexander, no.”

  “I will not be like Jonah, bringing disaster on the entire ship.”

  “Jonah, ey?” With a glance at the rail, Archie said, “That do give me an idea.”

  “No, now . . . hold on.” Treeve raised both hands. “No one is getting thrown overboard. But perhaps our skipper is right. We’ve no chance of outrunning that ship in open water all the way to Jersey. But we can land and hide anything . . . questionable . . . and then let them board us, if they like. When they find nothing and no one suspicious, they’ll let us go. I hope.” He turned to Dyer. “Can you do it?”

  Dyer screwed up his face in thought. “Low tide is coming on with a racy current ebbing from the gap. To make it through those rocks, I’d need a chart and a compass.”

  Pucky retrieved both.

  Captain Dyer spread out the chart and ran a finger over it, tracing a narrow gutway through the rocks. Alexander leaned close, studying the chart as well.

  “Depth?”

  “Sufficient, according to this. But the chart is old.”

  “It’s the best we’ve got.”

  In the distance, southwest of Land’s End, the granite tower of Longships appeared, a lighthouse set amid a formidable array of rocky outcroppings, including what Dyer called the nasty Shark’s Fin. Alexander watched Dyer examine the gap between them and a pair of rocks marked as Kettle’s Bottom, situated midway between Longships and the coast.

  Dyer tapped the chart with his scarred finger. “We’d just make it over, but that revenue cutter will ground out if she follows us.”

  “Can you get her through?”

  “I think so. With bearings and a lookout.”

  “Very well,” Treeve said. “Through the passage it is.”

  Pucky crossed himself, and Jackson began praying under his breath.

  Alexander prayed as well.

  Decision made, Dyer’s doubts seemed to evaporate as duty called. Chest out, confident tilt to his chin, he called, “We’re going through, lads. Attend to the set of the sails. Get the best you can out of ’er.”

  The other crewmen stood at the ready beside sheets and runners. Archie kept his eye on the captain, ready to throw his weight on the tiller.

  “East, southeast, sir. Upon the instant.”

  “Down helm. Sheets there.”

  The Merry Mary came into the wind, spray bursting over the bow.

  “Pucky, aloft there and watch for rocks, tide rips, and eddies.”

  “Aye, sir.” He climbed the rigging and shouted down, “Run, sir. Fine to starboard!”

  Danger was clearly visible on both sides. The Shark’s Fin and Longships lay on the starboard quarter, the Kettle’s Bottom to larboard. They sailed through the gap, the lugger’s bowsprit surging forward like an aggressive porpoise.

  The rise and fall of the crashing waves revealed rocks everywhere, the water foaming white around them, the passage even narrower than Alex had reckoned from the chart.

  Behind them, the revenue cutter changed tack, moving westward around Longships.

  The rocks drew abeam, the keel gave a creaking whine, and Alex heard the terrifying scrape of wood on rock. He noticed Laura grip the hatch and hold on tight.

  But the creaking stopped. They had almost made it through the narrow tunnel of jagged grey rocks and white foam.

  From the rigging, Pucky shouted, “Rock dead ahead, sir!”

  “Up helm,” Dyer shouted.

  The bowsprit swung away, but the current pushed her stern around.

  “Down helm!”

  Alexander braced himself for the sound of cracking timber, for the ship’s hull to be crushed.

  Seeing the first mate struggle, Alex raced across the deck and added his weight, shoving the tiller to larboard.

  A second passed. Two. Alexander held his breath but the sounds of calamity did not come.

  “We’re through, sir,” Pucky called from above.

  Alex met Laura’s gaze across the deck and released a prayer of thanksgiving. The others threw fists in the air.

  Captain Dyer closed his eyes in silent relief, while Treeve wore his as a foolish grin.

  Having reached the other side, they saw no sign of the Dolphin, out of view somewhere behind the rocks and spray.

  “Well done, men,” Treeve called.

  Newlyn’s father made do with a nod, the tension in his jaw revealing the passage had been no mean feat.

  The rigging strumming above their heads, the Merry Mary cruised on. At Dyer’s command, the men brought down one of the sails to reduce their speed. The heeling eased.

  A short while later, Dryer directed the lugger into a small cove partially hidden by large rocks on either side of its entrance. Alex hoped the secluded harbour meant less chance of being spotted by a passing ship.

  Laura sagged against the bulkhead with a sigh of relief. How welcome it was to go from the wild open sea, pounding waves, and flying spray into the calm safety of harbour. The skipper uttered more commands. Soon the other sails were lowered, and they were moored snugly in the tranquil cove.

  She gathered up her few possessions and climbed up on deck, uncertainty and fear rippling through her. This had not been part of the plan.

  “What now?” she asked. “Where are we?”

  Captain Dyer squinted over his charts. “Porthgwarra. Nothing here really. A few cottages and one inn, if memory serves. Porthcurno is a mile and a quarter eastward. And Penzance another ten.”

  Treeve hesitated. “Perhaps we can plan to meet you in Penzance tomorrow.”

  Dyer shook his head. “It’s your ship, Mr. Kent, but I didn’t like taking a Frenchman and a female aboard the first time. I’m sure not ready to do it again.”

  Archie nodded his agreement. “Let ’em find another way to Jersey.”

  Treeve looked sheepishly from the crew to Laura and back again. “But I gave them my word. Miss Callaway is a family friend.”

  “And my daugh
ter works for her,” Dyer said. “But I don’t care if she is a crown princess—it’s too dangerous with the Dolphin on our trail.”

  “It’s all right,” Alexander resolved. “I will find another way. Thank you for bringing me this far, Mr. Kent, men. I know you all took a risk to do so.”

  They lowered the small boat, and Alexander climbed in. Laura followed him.

  Treeve protested, “Miss Callaway, what are you doing? I can deliver you safely back home. We may need to hide here for a time, but then—”

  “Let her go if she wants,” Archie said. “Like the skipper said, no good comes of having a woman on board. Nor a Frenchie either.”

  Alexander frowned. “Laura, no. This has gone too far. We can’t go wandering aimlessly across the country together.”

  “I agree. We are not going to wander aimlessly. We are going to Penzance. I know someone there who might help.”

  A few minutes later, Treeve and Pucky rowed them ashore in the tender, then Treeve took her aside. “What do I tell your family?”

  Her family was all gone, but she knew he meant the Brays.

  “Tell them I am well and grieved to worry them—that I have gone to visit my parents’ grave and will return when I can.”

  Eagerness widened his eyes. “You need only write and I’ll sail back for you. I regret I cannot take you there and back now.” He pressed her hand. “I am sorry we failed you, little turnstone.”

  Hearing his sweet, silly pet name for her, nostalgia squeezed her heart. “Don’t be. I will forever be grateful for your help.”

  He gave her a rueful grin. “Better wait and see how grateful you feel when all this is over. I hope you don’t live to regret it.”

  Laura managed a wobbly smile in return. “Me too.”

  From June 1810 to June 1812, a total of 464 officers broke their parole, of which 307 made it across the Channel aided by smugglers.

  —PAUL CHAMBERLAIN, THE NAPOLEONIC PRISON OF NORMAN CROSS

  Chapter 19

  Laura followed Alexander up the steep rocky path from the cove, his knapsack bobbing gently on his back. In the distance, she saw a few humble cottages and the public house Mr. Dyer had mentioned.

  She eyed it hopefully. “Might it have a room to let?”