Summer’s Last Retreat

by Summer's Last Retreat (retail) (epub)

  They took an oar each and gently touched the water, trying not to make a sound. To Barrass, who was not used to boats, the tide running so gently was surprisingly strong, and soon the boat was once again touching the pebbled beach, the grating deceptively loud in their anxiety to be unheard.

  They pulled on the oars, but the water was too shallow for them to make any headway and the only result was the slap of water against the boat’s side ending in the warning sound of the pebbles under it.

  ‘I’ll have to push it further out,’ Barrass whispered. ‘Fine start this is.’

  ‘It looks so easy,’ Arthur said. ‘If that skinny little Olwen can manage this boat, we ought to be able to make it fly.’

  A second attempt brought them no nearer to floating the heavy craft and it was not until Olwen appeared out of the darkness, stifling giggles, that they eventually made away from the shore.

  ‘I thought I told you to stay in the house!’ Barrass whispered, his voice hissing like the sea in his anger. He was more upset at her seeing him failing to move the boat, than for disobeying him.

  ‘Mam will be believed when she says I was home and in bed,’ Olwen said, ‘and if I don’t help you shift this boat you’ll be sitting here for everyone to see when dawn breaks!’

  This time, with Barrass giving a push, Olwen managed to float the boat and get her under way. She refrained from teasing Barrass, guessing that with his nerves taut with the prospect of the night’s work, he would be in no mood for raillery. Instead, she worked the rudder and with confident ease, directed the boat towards the place where she had seen the captive tubs floating amid the foam further along the coast.

  They put up the smallest sail and tacked across the curving sweep of the bay and out, past the headland where the gibbet stood – a frightening sentinel and a warning to those intent on breaking the law. They had to go out some distance from the shore to avoid the Mixen sandbanks and the hidden arms of rocks which were known to Olwen from her regular, lifelong trips with her father and Dan.

  They rarely spoke, only when Olwen pointed out some landmark, like the large white cross that was visible even in the blackest night, which fishermen had painted on the cliffs as a guide to navigation. Or the odd shapes of some of the the rocks and her private names for them, which, as a child, had helped her to remember their sequence and know where she was.

  No lights showed. If there was anyone else abroad they gave no sign. Olwen shivered slightly, realizing as if for the first time just what risks she had persuaded Barrass and Arthur to take.

  She knew that Barrass was still angry, both at being persuaded into undertaking this adventure and for being unable to launch the boat. He had been made to feel humiliation, and in front of a girl who could do better. Although his face was hidden by the darkness, she guessed that it would show foolish resentment. There seemed nothing she could say to ease his embarrassment. Best she forgot it for the moment, once they were busy with the tubs he would likely forget it too.

  As they drew near to the place she had memorized she glanced up at the rocks surrounding the small bay, trying to find the shapes she needed to enable her to find the exact spot. She screwed up her eyes, searching for the formations she called rabbit’s ears, two narrow peaks close together. Then a sloping series of folds like the feathers on a duck’s back. Lining them up as she had done before, with a projection at the western end which showed between the ‘ears’ and a small rock jutting out of the sea towards the east, she found the tub with little delay. With Arthur’s help she heaved the anchor overboard.

  Silently, their plans discussed thoroughly before they had set out, Arthur and Barrass went over the side, each with a knife in his belt. Barrass swam down strongly, his hand touching the cord which held the floating tub. Down in the frightening blackness until his hand touched a second tub.

  Down again, his lungs beginning to pain him, then he abandoned the dive and returned to the surface, where Arthur was treading water beside the boat. He nodded to Olwen, filled his lungs and disappeared once again under the silky black water.

  This time he went down to the bottom, not more than nine feet, where the anchoring tub lay half buried in sand. He cut the rope and five tubs were brought to the surface, where they were held by Arthur and Olwen until Barrass was back in the boat.

  He lay panting for a moment, then he and Olwen hauled the tubs aboard. Arthur clambered over the side to join them and lifted the anchor.

  ‘Best we don’t waste too much time,’ Arthur warned, his voice echoing over the silent water. ‘The alarm will be given at a certain time, and we’ve no idea how long we’ll take.’

  * * *

  Markus Grand lived in a large house five miles along the coast from the place where the small boat was making a landing. He knew the cliffs intimately so that his blindness was no drawback, and he habitually walked at night. On this occasion, hearing Arthur’s voice coming to him across the water, he halted in his tracks, one foot remaining in the air, the other on the grassy path leading, at a long slow angle, to the top of the cliff. His ears were keen and he stood immovable as he detected other sounds that enabled him to understand what was going on. He knew that a small boat had been out near the crop of tubs and was coming into the small beach below him.

  Moving stealthily, he returned down the path he had been climbing and reached a level track between the steepness of the grass-covered cliff and the drop onto the rocks. A bank of earth rose to four feet on the landward side, brought down from the sloping land by countless winters. On the other, a few bushes gave scant protection from the barely perceptible breezes coming across the water.

  The tide was slack, hardly more than thirty-five feet, and there was no violent splashing, only a lapping and an occasional rush as gulleys were filled by the tide. Markus headed swiftly for the beach, his feet making little sound, bent forward to make himself invisible behind the stunted bushes that struggled for sustenance on the rocky ground, his walking stick only occasionally touching the path.

  Where the track widened above the beach, he stood and listened again. He heard the complaining of the rowlocks as oars moved within them, heard the shaking and squeaking of the sail as it was lowered down the mast on metal rings. How little time he had. They were almost onto the beach. In moments they would be off with his tubs.

  The steep climb was the quickest, but would he be in time to catch them? He could do nothing alone, that much was certain, so there was no choice, he had to make the climb, and make it fast! He turned and jumped up the bank of earth and began scrambling up the grassy hill to the top of the cliffs. He ignored the sharp scratches as he pushed his way through brambles, and the bruises when he tripped over low scrub and loose boulders.

  Breathing painfully, he forced himself on to where a group of cottages stood, all built one against the others as if, like a house of cards, they would all fall if one moved by an inch. He knocked on the door and told what he had heard. Within minutes of his arrival, seven men, armed with sticks and knives, were on their way to the bay with others sent for to follow.

  Markus’s keen ears heard them go, although they moved as quietly as possible. He walked to the edge of the grassy cliff, below which was the narrow path, a thin hedge and then the rocky shore. He sat to listen and follow the scene to be enacted below him, cursing his blindness.

  * * *

  In Spider’s cottage, Mary sat watching the time slowly passing on the watch belonging to Pitcher. Emma sat with her, and when the hands eventually reached a quarter after midnight, another guest, Bessie Rees, who worked for Henry Harris, stood to leave.

  ‘Best I go and tell Daniels’ she said, ‘me having no man to plead for, they’ll believe me to be public-spirited and not trying to protect my own.’

  The others agreed and Bessie wrapped her shawl tightly around her head and shoulders, and set off to find the Keeper of the Peace.

  They had waited impatiently for the time to report the activities on the beach, the minutes crawlin
g past as they sat, each imagining the dangers the three young people faced. Now the time had come, Bessie ran as if her life were in danger along with theirs. Through the dark streets, dreading to meet a stranger or be accosted by a madman on the prowl, she lifted her skirts and made her fat legs twinkle, white in the darkness, like wood-shavings blown by a wild wind.

  Her appearance, when she finally woke Daniels, was startling. Her hair had fallen from the shawl and hung in an untidy cage across her face. The skirts of her grey dress were still held high and on her face there was a look of such fear that in the spluttering light of his candle, Daniels thought he had answered the knock of a revived corpse.

  ‘I was just coming from Mary’s, comforting her I’ve been, on the wicked miscarriage of justice that has robbed her of her men, when I heard some strange sounds coming from the bay below the house. Men, it was, and dragging something. Certain to be them smugglers that got our men accused, imprisoned and facing trial I thought, and as fast as my old legs could run, I came to get you. Come on,’ she added as he did not move. ‘Catch them for sure we will if only you’ll hurry yourself!’

  Daniels dressed himself quickly, wondering who he could ask to accompany him. There wasn’t much chance of catching anyone with only old Bessie Rees for support. Collecting a gun, a lantern and a heavy stick, he left the house with his wild-looking visitor. He paused only to knock on the doors of three men from the village, sending messages for the rest, and urged Bessie to go and rouse Edwin and tell him to bring men. Then, with some trepidation, began to run towards the beach below Spider’s cottage. He had not gone far before there were eight men running with him, each having armed himself as well as he could, with a stick, axe or knife.

  * * *

  The boat reached the small beach and Barrass and Arthur jumped out to haul it up. Olwen jumped out beside them and ran to the rocks leading up to the plateau of flat ground above. It was a steep and difficult climb, the handholds painfully sharp on the barnacle-encrusted rocks, the pools unseen in the darkness, a slippery hazard.

  She could see nothing and climbed blindly, her shins scraping excruciatingly on the uneven surface. Apart from the small sounds of the two below her on the pebbles, the night was still and apparently innocent of watchers, though the stillness was menacing, closing in around her like an enveloping black cloak. Fear tightened her muscles, clenching her small jaw until her teeth ached.

  When she reached the top she waved an arm as a signal for them to unload the tubs, hoping that against the almost indistinguishable skyline they might see the movement and know she was safely off the beach.

  The first tub was taken out and Barrass and Arthur carried it between them to where they planned to hide it. As they bent to place it in the hollow in the rocks, a voice said softly,

  ‘Thank you, these are ours I do believe.’

  ‘Run!’ Barrass shouted, and Olwen bent and scuttled away, up and inland, not daring to look back, dreading to see Barrass knocked and beaten senseless by the men who had been waiting for them.

  At a deep bush-filled corrie she fell to the ground and, trying to control her rasping breath, waited to see if she had been chased. No one came, there was no sound. She crawled across the dew-wet grass back towards the beach.

  The sound of footsteps stopped her and, heart thumping against the hard earth, she curled herself up, hoping to avoid being seen. Then she realized that the footsteps were approaching from inland, and saw about eight men marching, with little attempt at concealment, towards the beach. She sprang up and hailed Daniels, the Keeper of the Peace, who was leading them.

  ‘Oh, Mr Daniels, I was trying to get to you. Quick, the men are beating Barrass and Arthur to a mash.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Don’t stop to ask questions now, please, Mr Daniels, come and save Barrass and Arthur.’

  Breathless and frightened as she was, Olwen ran with the men, who, although well known to her, looked fearsome, larger than life and alien in the darkness. Their outlines with the sticks held threateningly made them look like a race of wild invaders, and Olwen had to fight a fear of them as well as what awaited her on the beach.

  She sobbed as she ran behind them, determined to keep up. There had never been a night so dark or one that so surrounded her with the threat of unimagined horrors.

  She could see in her mind the battered body of Barrass draped over that of Arthur whom he had fought to save. Why had she persuaded him to do this? She was the cause of his death, and how would she live without him?

  * * *

  Barrass backed away from the group of men come to claim the tubs, trying to reach the rocks and a chance of escape. He hoped he would not catch his foot against a rock and fall. Once he was down, there was no chance of escaping the weapons they held, barely seen but clearly imagined. The thought of an axe splitting his skull made the pain of it as real as the actual blow. He heard whispered voices, and shadows moved to get behind him. He knew that his time had come, and wished briefly that he could have found his father before the end. A momentary fear for the safety of Olwen, a mild curiosity about the rocks and stones that fell around them, then he stiffened himself for the vicious blow.

  The man stood in front of him, both hands holding an axe raised back behind his head, a soft sound of pent-up breath as he prepared to strike. A smell of sweat and tobacco and stale seawater filled his nostrils, and he realized that the sound of air filling lungs came from himself.

  Then other voices coming from the top of the rocks began to shout in warning, and the man who held the axe high, relishing the chance of a clear blow to his head, suddenly fell backwards, hands around his throat. Men were swarming over each other, some trying to escape, others determined they would not. Barrass felt his knees give way and he sank to the ground, praying that he would not be hit by either side in the madness going on around him. Stones still flew through the air, voices growled, groaned and panted as he slithered on hands, feet and bottom to where a rock would give some shelter.

  The battle on the beach was almost over when Olwen and the tail end of Daniels’ group reached the steep rocky approach. She slithered down, uncaring of scratches and cuts. Arthur climbed down from the top of a steep pinnacle of rock where he had been sitting throwing stones down on the men trying to reach him.

  The rest of the party were carrying the tubs up the difficult route to the top of the rocks and the attackers were held with much enthusiasm by the last of Daniels’ men.

  * * *

  Barrass was hurt, but not as badly as Olwen had feared. Arthur’s stone-throwing had deterred much of the treatment the men had tried to hand out. She washed his face, which had received a few minor cuts, and then, hands on hips, threatened that he must see Doctor Percy as soon as possible to have the bruises and swelling lumps dealt with. Daniels agreed and thought that the expenses might be met by the revenue men when they heard about his bravery.

  Up on the cliffs, Markus listened, tried to make sense of it, and again cursed his blindness.

  When all the men had been captured and tied and the tubs safely confiscated by Daniels, Olwen began her explanations, willing Barrass to let her finish before adding anything that might jeopardize their story being believed.

  ‘Barrass and Arthur overheard something at the alehouse that made us believe the tubs were being collected tonight, so we set out in Dadda’s boat to catch them.’

  ‘That’s right,’ piped up Arthur, ‘in the alehouse it was, wasn’t it Barrass?’

  With as little embroidery as possible, Olwen described their intention to discover who the men were and show the revenue men that it was not Spider and Pitcher and the rest who were guilty of smuggling.

  They never did find out how the men knew they were coming, although, as the cliffs were rarely empty of people watching, it seemed likely that someone had heard the boat and sent a warning.

  Each of the five tubs contained four gallons of brandy and would have been bought in France for
sixteen shillings. With the duty at eight shillings per gallon, it had been worth a fight to try to recapture them.

  * * *

  When Olwen was told that it would be at least a few days before the men were released, she decided to take the boat out and catch some fish. The sea was calm, and she had proved on the night of the tub-gathering that she could both handle the heavy boat and navigate sufficiently well to reach the fishing grounds out in the channel.

  Waking in the early dark, even before the thin wail of Dic warned her that morning was near and he was hungry for food, she dressed warmly and set off for the beach. She met no one as she made her way to the line of boats along the shore. The night fishermen were not yet back and the men intent on finding a few codling and perhaps a late-season bass not yet prepared to depart.

  Pushing the boat out was harder than she expected. With Dadda and Dan it seemed like a toy to push; on her own, it strained her shoulders and pulled at her back muscles so she almost gave up the idea completely. When it did move, it was with a sudden surge of a larger wave so that it went onto the water in a rush and she landed with her face on the wet shingle.

  Jumping into the now lightly floating craft, she began to ease it away from the shore until another large wave lifted it and sent it soaring over the surface of the sea in joyful movement. She stepped up the mast and the sail was soon filling with a rising wind. Taking the rudder, Olwen sat back to enjoy the excitement of the morning’s wakening, throwing back her head in pleasure as an occasional gusty wind blew her hair streaming out behind her in a silken banner.

  Setting her lines with paternosters baited with brightly dyed feathers which were clearly visible in the calm, quiet waters of the bay, she sailed in a circle continuously casting and hauling in, bringing a harvest of writhing, silver fish on board to gasp and struggle as she began to pull for the shore.