by John Wilcox
Mindful of Rowena being left exposed, Josh scrambled on all fours towards her to find her standing, alone, and with a grin that seemed to split her face, pointing with her knife out onto the heath. He turned and then he saw them: about forty of the tinners running as fast as they could towards the Preventers, cudgels and sticks of their own raised and led by a panting Tom Clemence. Immediately, the Preventers turned and ran, back down the hill, along the path that led to the hanging tree.
Ignoring the three bleeding Preventers, lying moaning on the turf, Josh ran towards Clemence and, taking his hand, shook it vigorously.
‘My God, Mr Clemence,’ he said, ‘I am so glad to see you.’
‘Sorry, can’t talk. Out of breath.’ And the old man put his hands on his knees and took in deep draughts of air. Immediately, they were surrounded by the other tinners and joined by an almost equally breathless Rowena.
‘We zaw what was ’appenin’ from up there, on that ’ill,’ said Clemence. ‘We couldn’t believe our eyes. These bastards were carryin’ on where we left ’em a couple of weeks ago. Only this time, it looked as though they was tryin’ to kill you an’ all.’
Rowena nodded. ‘Josh thinks they were goin’ to toss us over the edge there so that, when we were found, people would think we’d jumped of our own accord. Suicide, you see.’
One of tinners turned and nodded to the three men on the ground. ‘What d’yer want to do with these bastards, then, Tom?’ he asked.
Josh intervened. ‘Oh, throw them over the edge,’ he said loudly. ‘They deserve it. It was what they were going to do to us, after all.’
Immediately, the three Preventers set up a howl.
‘Oh, put them in the donkey cart over there,’ said Josh. ‘We can dump them outside the barracks. They are not hurt so badly that they’re going to die on the way.’ He turned back to Clemence. ‘I’m afraid things have gone from bad to worse here. But tell me, it’s a miracle you turned up here as you did. What has happened to you? Did you find work in Barnstaple?’
‘A few of us did,’ said Clemence, pushing back a lock of grey hair, ‘and we’ve left ’em in Barnstaple, with the women and kids. We had a message from Bude to say that the mine had reopened. Price of tin has gone up, y’see, an’ there was work for us. So we are ’urryin’ back ’ome, thank God. But we decided it was only right an’ proper for us to deviate a bit an’ call on you – I’ve got your address ’ere, somewhere – to say thank you properly for what you did for us against this lot. Looks as though we did the right thing.’
‘You certainly did and we are most grateful.’
‘What’s been ’appenin’ ’ere, then?’
While the wounded men were loaded into the donkey cart and Rowena was grudgingly doing her best to prevent them losing any more blood, Joshua briefly related to Clemence the events of the days since they had parted out on the moor.
The old man nodded. ‘That Cunningham sounds a bad lot. Can’t you report him to the militia?’
‘Wouldn’t do any good. The man has friends in the militia in high places, high enough to throw me into jail. I only have circumstantial evidence against him. I want to collect hard facts and find out exactly what he is doing here. That will be the time to accuse him, when I have proof.’
‘Would you like us to wait around ’ere, to make sure he doesn’t make another attempt on you an’ the maid?’
‘That’s kind of you, Tom, but we mustn’t detain you. You mustn’t do anything to threaten your jobs.’ He nodded to where the three men were groaning in the donkey cart. ‘I think we’ve shown Cunningham that we can defend ourselves. But we must be extra careful in the future. Now, be on your way, with our blessing.’
There was much shaking of hands and clumsy bows to Rowena and then the tinners set off to the south, while Rowena turned the donkey’s head out onto the moor to avoid having to return in the footsteps of the Preventers and so risk being ambushed in the patches of woodland that fringed the top coastal path.
When they reached the barracks the large gate was unguarded for once. Josh helped the wounded men to descend. ‘Tell Cunningham,’ he said, ‘that next time he should not send boys to do men’s work.’
The few days leading up to the opening of the Lloyd’s enquiry dragged, not least because Josh felt it would be too dangerous to go walking on the heathland. He and Rowena had both decided not to tell the doctor about the attack on them, for it would be bound, said Rowena, to prompt the old man to face the captain and so incur possible danger to himself.
This decision caused Josh to wonder anew about the relationship that bound the two former shipmates. There seemed to be no love lost between them and yet, somehow, they seemed to remain close. He shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps the enquiry would throw some light onto it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The little hamlet of Hartland seemed to assume a new lease of life when, on the day before the enquiry was due to open, a coach arrived from London carrying a complement of elegant gentlemen wearing frock coats and top hats, plus two who looked out of place: a diffident, bespectacled man wearing plain worsted – obviously a clerk – and a weather-beaten, middle-aged man in rustic tweed, whom the doctor felt was probably the Blue Cross Line representative. They all moved into the inn, watched by wondering eyes peering from windows in the high street.
Joshua was half expecting that some, at least, of the visitors would pay a courtesy call on Doctor Acland but none did so. Perhaps, as the doctor was a witness, it was felt that no contact should be made with him outside ‘the court’.
The large dining room of the inn had been converted into a temporary courtroom, with a high table providing a kind of magisterial bench and some degree of authority for the High Court judge, the three underwriters and the director of the Blue Cross Line. A side table had been set for the examining QC, another for the succession of witnesses, and a third for the clerk. Three chairs had been set for the press and a small roped-off standing area for members of the public. The dining room had never been so well patronised.
The witnesses were all asked to group in uncomfortable close proximity to each other – Cunningham and the doctor staring stolidly ahead in a corner of the room, none of the others talking to each other except the Reverend Hawker, who was jocularity personified – while the judge who was to chair the enquiry made his introductory remarks.
This was, he said, not a court of law, although he expected everyone concerned to behave, in terms of adherence to the truth and respect for the distinguished people involved, as though it was. It was an enquiry, set up by Lloyd’s of London, to investigate the reasons why so many ships had foundered on the coastline stretching from Bude in the south to Hartland Point in the north during the last decade or so. The results of the enquiry would be submitted to the ‘names’ of Lloyd’s who, if it was felt that criminality of any kind was involved, would submit the findings to the appropriate legal authorities. The judge, of suitably solemn bearing and appearance, was grateful for the witnesses who had given up their time to assist as well as, of course, the distinguished commercial figures who were sitting to hear the evidence. The examining of the witnesses would be conducted by barrister-at-law Mr Kenneth Knight, QC. It was not expected that the enquiry would last longer than two days. Members of the public were welcome to attend in the public enclosure but would be expected to remain silent throughout.
‘Well,’ whispered Josh into Rowena’s ear, ‘that seems fair enough. I wonder if everyone will abide by the rules.’
The judge then formally opened the proceedings by explaining that the enquiry had been prompted by the local coroner, Dr Acland. He then called on the doctor to explain his reasons for doing so.
The room was hushed as Acland – a rather pitiful-looking sight now, thought Josh: bespectacled, stooped and limping – made his way to stand behind the witness’s table and was faced by the much younger figure of Mr Knight.
The doctor explained that the most recent shipwreck in the area, that of Th
e Lucy, on the rocks of Morwenstow, had resulted in the death of all but one of its crew, and had been, by his calculations, the fifth vessel of the Blue Cross Line to founder on this coastline in the last few years.
‘How many years, Doctor?’ asked the barrister.
‘I can’t be quite sure but less than a decade.’
‘And would you say that was unusually high – I believe you are a former merchant sailor yourself?’
‘Yes, I would and yes I am. I know from my own days as an officer sailing in that line, that its ships often dock at Bristol or Gloucester, at the end of the Bristol Channel. The captains and crews of those ships will all have known of the dangers presented by the weather and sea conditions of the Channel.’
‘Please tell us about those dangers.’
Acland did so, telling of the prevailing north-westerly winds, which could turn into virtual hurricanes within minutes, the narrowness of the shipping channel and of the necklace of deadly, half-sunken rocks that fringed the northern coasts of Cornwall and Devon, capable of tearing a ship’s keel to pieces once she was lodged onto them.
‘And, why, then, do you think that ships of the Blue Cross Line would be particularly vulnerable to those conditions?’
Acland took a deep breath, looking up at the little man in Scottish tweeds who was busily making notes. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘it was my experience in the days when I was sailing under the Blue Cross pennant that the ships were comparatively undermanned, poorly maintained and not well mastered.’
Under questioning, he went on to say that the ships were not responsive to the rudder in rough weather, their bottoms were often fouled and not scraped, and the rigging was old and liable to tear and break in storms.
At this point, the Blue Cross Line director on the bench raised a finger and asked, in a strong Scottish brogue, ‘When did you last sail in one of our ships, Doctor?’
‘It was in 1822, some twenty years ago, when, incidentally, I narrowly escaped drowning when my ship was wrecked on the rocks at Bude. My leg was broken that day and has never satisfactorily been healed. That is why I walk with a limp.’
The little Scotsman sucked his pencil. ‘You say it was twenty years ago. Have you had a chance of sailing in or inspecting any other Blue Cross ships since that time?’
‘No. But I have spoken to seamen who have and they tell me that there has been no improvement. Your vessels, sir, I understand, are known in the Merchant Service today as “coffin ships”. I think that speaks for itself.’
‘Hmmm. Well, Doctor, I think if you had an opportunity to sail in one nowadays, you would see a vast improvement.’
‘I rather doubt it, sir, as you will hear from other witnesses.’
Joshua whispered again into Rowena’s ear: ‘Your father hasn’t mentioned the brazier. I thought he was going to do that.’ Rowena shrugged her shoulders.
The QC then asked of the bench, ‘Any other questions or comments for the doctor, gentlemen? None? Thank you, Doctor. You may step down.’
He looked at his notes. ‘I now call Captain John Cunningham of Her Majesty’s Customs and Revenue Service.’
There was an undoubted stir in the room as Cunningham made his way to the witness’s table. He cut, of course, an imposing figure, with his shapely, waisted uniform, polished riding boots and black hair, brushed back like a gleaming helmet.
Mr Knight went straight to the point. ‘You have heard Doctor Acland’s description of the dangers of sailing up the Bristol Channel. I understand you sailed with him before you joined the Revenue Service. Do you concur with his views?’
‘Most certainly. But I would go further than him concerning the vessels of the Blue Cross Line. Like him, I was on board one of the Line’s ships when it was wrecked off the rocks at Bude. In my view, it was bad seamanship and poor conditions on board that were the main reasons she went aground.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. It would have been quite possible for her to have weathered the headland there had the ship been conned properly, with enough crew on board to have trimmed the sails promptly and had the general condition of the ship’s hull and sails been kept up to the mark. I had sailed with the Line for some years in a variety of their ships and they all seemed to exhibit these failings.’
Cunningham’s opinions were expressed with a conviction that seemed to border on venom and the barrister frowned. ‘But, of course, Captain,’ he said, ‘I presume that you are not saying that the numerous other ships that foundered on this coast were similarly badly handled and maintained?’
‘No, of course not. The waters off this coast are notoriously dangerous because of the weather and narrow shipping lanes, but the way in which this shipping line was managed – penny-pinching and so on – made its ships particularly vulnerable.’
‘Hmm. Were there any other factors, in your view, which could lead to such a high level of shipwreck here?’
Cunningham frowned. ‘I am not sure I get your meaning, sir.’
‘Could any land-born factors have added to the dangers faced by ships making passage up the Channel?’
‘If you are raising, sir, that age-old myth that lights were deliberately stationed on the cliffs to lure ships onto the rocks in the hope of finding safe anchorages during a storm, I would deny that completely. There were rare instances of that happening in the last century and before but certainly not now. My men and I patrol these cliffs regularly and we would know if that foul practice is being followed still. It is not, I assure you.’
‘Damned liar,’ whispered Josh.
‘Very well. Your main occupation presumably is the stamping out of smuggling along this coast?’
‘It is.’
‘And is smuggling rife here?’
Cunningham flashed his teeth in a rueful smile. ‘I am afraid that is true, sir. We do our best, but the nature of the terrain here – distance from the capital city, the absence of any real law enforcement, apart from my own few men, plus the nature of this long and, er twisted coastline with its little hidden bays – all make it difficult to stamp out this practice.’
Mr Knight let his head fall back and studied the ceiling for a moment before asking: ‘Could it be, Captain, that some of these shipwrecks were caused by ships attempting to land contraband, sailing too close to the rocks?’
Cunningham considered the question, frowning, for a moment before answering. ‘I doubt it, sir. There are very few safe anchorages on this coast for ships of the size that foundered. In my experience, the ships carrying illicit cargo stand off the shore, while small craft ferry the contraband to isolated beaches and such like.’
The Blue Cross director then repeated his questions, aimed at depicting Cunningham as a man out of touch with modern, much improved conditions on his ships, which the captain denied, saying, as had Acland, that he was still very much in touch with men of the sea, who all confirmed that conditions had not improved since he, Cunningham, and the doctor had sailed in them. Then he was allowed to stand down.
Next to be called was the Reverend Hawker, who described how he had made it his business wherever possible to help in saving men who were shipwrecked at Morwenstow and in giving the dead seamen Christian burials in his churchyard. He painted a grim and tragic picture of The Lucy trying to round Sharpnose Point, just to the south of his village, but failing and crashing onto the rocks. Only one man, he said, had survived the shipwreck. His churchyard, he declared, was filling with the battered bodies of sailors torn to pieces by the black rocks of Morwenstow, just below his vicarage. He was not questioned about the possibility of The Lucy, or any other vessel for that matter, being lured onto the rocks by a false light.
‘Damn,’ mouthed Joshua into Rowena’s ear. ‘The vicar’s honesty would undoubtedly have led him to mention the brazier, if he had been asked.’
‘Shush!’ she whispered back.
Thomas Pengelly was the next to be called to give evidence. He gave a detailed account of his work in Hartland Harbour, so
giving credence to his abilities as a seaman and his knowledge of the sea and the coast of north Cornwall and Devon. He claimed to be unaware of conditions on Blue Cross ships but described vividly watching as The Lucy had got into trouble in the ‘worst storm on this coast for years’. Such was the force of the wind and the height of the waves, he said, that he could not see how the ship could possibly have avoided being thrown onto the rocks. He, of course, had seen no sign of any deliberate intention by people on the shoreline to lure the ship so dangerously inshore. There certainly were many men of the Revenue Service there, but they, like himself and his friend Jem Drake, were there hoping to give help to whoever survived the vessel being driven onto the rocks. He and Drake had been fortunate enough to rescue just one seaman, whom they had pulled off a rock and carried up the cliff to safety. The rest of the crew had all perished. He blamed the terrible storm of that night and the consequent state of the sea for their loss, nothing else.
At this point, the judge, who had been making careful notes throughout the day, called the proceedings to a halt and adjourned the enquiry until nine o’clock the next morning. Immediately, Josh intercepted the Reverend Hawker as he made for the door.
‘Can you spare a moment, Vicar?’ he asked.
‘Of course, my boy. Goodness, you are walking well now. Speaks wonders for the skill of the good doctor, does it not?’
‘Er, yes sir. Indeed it does. But can I ask you, Reverend, why, in giving evidence today, you did not mention your opinion that there might well have been a burning brazier low down on the cliff that night and that it would have been a signal to smugglers?’
‘Well, firstly, my boy, I was not asked about it. Secondly, what I told you, if you remember, when you visited my cabin, was that that would be my explanation for the brazier that you, er, said that you saw. But that it was only supposition on my part. I doubt if this enquiry would have any truck with supposition. It wants facts.’