The Black Rocks of Morwenstow

by John Wilcox

  Joshua shook his head and made to hand the bag back, but the doctor refused to take it. ‘Joshua,’ he said, ‘you fight like a tiger and no doubt you are a splendid sailor, but you must learn to accept kindness with grace when you meet it – and God knows that we meet little enough of it in this life. Now, please leave me, for all this talking and giving away of badly earned money has exhausted me.’

  He smiled and waved Josh away.

  Rowena met him at the foot of the stairs. ‘What did Papa want?’ she asked.

  Embarrassed, Josh held the bag behind his back. ‘He advised me about the reverend,’ he said, ‘and feels that I can tell him everything safely. I am tired now, but I will ride to see him tomorrow.’

  ‘And then will you set off for Dover?’

  ‘Er … perhaps the next day. I can walk to the stagecoach. I shan’t impose on you.’

  ‘Very well.’ She showed no emotion and made no attempt to dissuade him, merely turning and retiring to the kitchen.

  The next day, Josh rose early and harnessed the donkey cart, putting a pail of water, with soap and a scrubbing brush into the back. This time the journey to Morwenstow was far easier than when poor Edward had been forced to head into the storm. On arrival at the vicarage the maid informed him that the reverend was ‘composing a sermon in his study on the cliff’.

  The familiar smell of the East met Josh’s nostrils as he navigated the narrow path on the clifftop, down to the little hut. Hawker was, indeed, wreathed in sweet smoke, but also scratching away with his pen on a notebook. He looked up with a smile as Josh coughed to alert him.

  ‘My dear Joshua,’ he said. ‘Come and sit down. I have two of your blankets here. Would you care to share a pipe with me?’

  ‘No thank you, Reverend. I have come to tell you something.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope it is an uplifting tale that I can weave into my sermon. Pray tell me, do.’

  ‘I rather doubt it, sir. But let me begin.’

  The vicar listened quietly, puffing at his pipe and rarely revealing emotion until Joshua recounted the violent scene just below where they now sat. He put his hand to his mouth and shook his head in dismay as he heard of the doctor’s wound and the death of Pengelly. Cunningham’s death evoked only a sigh.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Joshua,’ he said, ‘I never liked the fellow. Too overbearing and I rarely saw him in church. But there …’

  After due reflection, and much puffing of the pipe, Hawker finally agreed to keep the details of the smuggling, the light in the storm and the activities of the Preventers a secret, although he protested that he disliked secrets, for when revealed they usually did the Devil’s work. He promised to visit the doctor soon and it was only then that Joshua produced ten guineas from his newly acquired bag and asked the reverend to spend it how he thought best on the poor of the parish. Then he left the clergyman to his labours, took the bucket from the cart to the scene of the deaths on the ledge and scrubbed away the bloodstains that had defied the rains of that terrible storm.

  Before he left, Hawker had asked him if there was any news about the result of the enquiry. Joshua had to confess that he had completely forgotten about that great event in Hartland Quay, but that no, nothing had been heard.

  In fact, on his return, he was summoned to the doctor’s room by Rowena, leaning over the balustrade eagerly.

  The doctor was reading a letter that had come by the midday post and was specially sealed.

  ‘Listen to this, Josh,’ he said, adjusting his spectacles.

  The members of the Enquiry have come to the conclusion that there was ample evidence to indict the management of the Blue Cross Line for negligent maintenance of its vessels, the undermanning of the same and poor seamanship displayed by its masters. These findings have been passed on to Her Majesty’s Board of Trade for it to respond appropriately.

  ‘Now listen to this bit,’ cried Acland, waving his spectacles. ‘It will make you smile’:

  However, the Enquiry found no evidence of the existence of smuggling and the like and certainly none of the practice of ‘false lights’ luring ships onto inhospitable shores in this part of the north Cornish–Devon coast and proposes no further action to be taken in this regard.

  Joshua did smile but only faintly. ‘Bloody fools,’ he said. ‘Stupid, bloody fools. But it’s what you would expect of Londoners still wearing wigs.’

  The result of the enquiry lifted Acland’s spirits. ‘I began to worry that I had stirred things up too much,’ he said at dinner for which he had left his bed. ‘But it is just the result I wished for. After eating, let us take a little of that Armagnac, Emma, although I am sorry but you must celebrate with lemonade, I fear. But celebrate we must.’

  In fact, the high spirits of the little trio were now confined to the doctor, for both Rowena and Josh were thinking miserably of the long journey Josh would have to begin the next day.

  It dawned with low, pewter-coloured skies and a thin drizzle. Josh threw his few belongings into a bag and went downstairs to have his last breakfast in the doctor’s house. Rowena served him bacon and eggs without speaking and, all in all, it was a melancholy meal. Josh, with his mind agonising about whether he was doing the right thing, did not hear the knock on the door.

  He was finishing his tea when Rowena, tears now streaming down her cheeks, flung open the dining room door and announced, ‘Miss Jackson for you, Mr Weyland.’

  ‘What!’ Josh looked up in astonishment as Mary Jackson walked through the door, which, with a last despairing look, Rowena shut firmly behind her.

  ‘Joshua.’ Mary advanced, her hand extended.

  ‘Mary! What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I have come to see you, Josh. I had to.’

  ‘What? Er, yes.’

  He took her hand and, decorously, she offered him a cheek to kiss. He did so, awkwardly, and looked around. ‘Mary, do sit down. Would you like, er, tea or something? I am sorry, I was not expecting … Do sit down, please.’

  He cleared an armchair of clutter and Mary lowered herself into it. Josh looked at her intently. There was no doubt about it, Mary was fat, now quite broad in the beam and her once beguiling breasts had spread to produce an imposing front. Her face, however, although set above two rippling chins, remained smoothly pretty.

  ‘You look well, dear,’ said Josh, hopelessly.

  ‘Oh, Josh. I should have asked – how is your leg? Any better?’

  ‘Thank you. Virtually healed now, in fact, my bag is packed upstairs and this very day I was due to set off for Dover. You see, I never had any response to my letters and I wondered …’ He tailed off.

  Mary produced a delicate, rose-embroidered handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Yes, I know, Josh. That is why I am here. I felt that I simply could not put in a letter what I had to say to you. It would have been, well, cowardly. So I decided to come here to meet you face-to-face again and … it has been such a long time, Josh.’

  ‘Yes, it has. Of course.’ His mind raced. Cowardly … what did she mean?

  ‘Yes, such a long time. I’m afraid that what I have to tell you will hurt you. That is why I could not put it into a letter.’ She gave a small smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘I was never a very good letter writer, anyway, was I, dear?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes. No, I always looked forward to your letters and I have them now.’

  ‘Do you? That is sweet of you. But, Josh …’

  ‘Yes?’ A small glimmer of hope, no, of delight, was beginning to creep into Josh’s brain as he groped to see where this strange, halting conversation was heading.

  ‘I have changed. People do change, you know, in, what has it been – two and a half years.’

  ‘What? Yes, I suppose they do.’ Inconsequentially, his brain asked the question: how on earth did Rowena know that she had become fat?

  ‘Yes. I suppose it was inevitable.’ Mary opened a small purse and produced a small ring. It glowed dully, because the gold was obviously of t
he cheapest variety and the jewel it contained also laced pretension. She handed it to him. ‘I must give you back your ring and ask you to release me from my promise to you.’

  He took it slowly and put it on the table, beside his plate containing bacon remnants. He cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

  ‘You may remember that I wrote to you about the young clergyman who came to lodge with us?’

  Josh nodded dumbly.

  ‘We are due to be married shortly. In fact, he has come with me from Dover and we have stayed at the inn at, I think it’s called Stoke, on the top there. Although, of course,’ she looked demurely at the floor, ‘we stayed in separate rooms.’ She lifted her eyes and looked beseechingly into his. ‘Oh I promise I have not betrayed you, er, physically, Josh. But Mother – who sends her regards to you, by the way,’ he nodded again – ‘Mother felt that he was a better match for me than a sailor who was away so much.’ She leant forward now to give emphasis to her words. ‘You see, Charles is truly a man of the Church, a real Christian. In fact, it was he who persuaded me to come here in person to beg your forgiveness.’ She held out her hand. ‘Oh, Josh. Do tell me that you forgive me and give me your blessing for our match. Please do.’

  Josh felt as though his heart would burst with happiness but he forced his countenance to remain set in earnest misery. ‘Oh I do, Mary. I wish you both much happiness. Er, are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea?’

  Mary rose. ‘No, thank you. Charles is waiting for me. Oh, Josh.’ She took his hand. ‘You have made me feel so happy and lifted the guilt from me.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘What will you do? We still have some of your clothing and possessions. Shall we send them here?’

  ‘Yes, please do. Now, I know you must get on. Give my regards to your mother. Goodbye, Mary.’

  ‘Goodbye, Josh. God bless you.’

  She swept through the door and imperiously summoned the brougham that was waiting for her. Then she was gone.

  Josh closed the door and leant against it, his heart dancing. He suddenly became aware that Rowena, her cheeks wet, was sitting on the stairs.

  ‘Are you going … going with her, Josh?’

  ‘Now, Rowena, have you been listening at the door?’

  ‘I tried to but you were both speaking so quietly I couldn’t hear.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry about that. Will you do me a favour, dear?’

  ‘What? Oh, I suppose so.’ She blew her nose noisily and slowly came down the stairs.

  ‘Is your father up?’

  ‘No, he is sleeping peacefully, so I didn’t disturb him.’

  ‘Good. I will wish to speak with him a little later. But first, would you go to his drinks cupboard and bring out the vintage cognac and two glasses.’

  ‘Two glasses!’ The tears came back into her eyes. ‘Ah, she is coming back, of course, to fetch you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that for the moment. Please take them into the sitting room.’

  Attempting to stem her snivelling, Rowena brought in the bottle and the glasses. Slowly, Josh poured the amber liquid into each glass. ‘Now,’ he handed one glass to her and took the other himself. ‘If you are going to be my wife, you will have to learn to do two things: stop crying all the time, for goodness’ sake, and to drink cognac – particularly if you are to go to medical school, as you will. I shall see to that. Now, take a sip.’ He toasted her. ‘Cheers, my dear love.’

  Her jaw had dropped, so Josh gently lifted her glass to her lips. She sipped and then grimaced. ‘Lord, it is awful,’ she said. And then flung herself into his arms.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Unlike my other novels, Black Rocks is only remotely based on fact. It is almost completely a work of fiction. The only real life character in the story is the Reverend Hawker, whose elegant vicarage still sits snugly in a cleft in the clifftop at Morwenstow and is now arguably the best value for money B & B in southern England. It is kept by Jill Wellby who has become a sturdy guardian of Hawker’s reputation, instantly refuting any hint that he might have been involved in wrecking in any of its interpretations.

  In fact, I should point out that the ‘luring light’ practice, as described in the book, almost certainly had died out by 1842, and had only existed on a very minor scale in the eighteenth century. The Reverend Hawker was certainly an opium-smoking eccentric, but he was a good man, a fulsome recorder of life in his parish, who would never have been involved in wrecking.

  But smuggling certainly was prevalent along this brutal coastline, although it was not as active as on the more hospitable shores of the south of the Cornish–Devon peninsula. In fact, cases are still being reported today.

  The Preventers, of course, existed but in my research I never encountered any intimation that they might have been involved in smuggling themselves. The nefarious activities of Captain Cunningham’s men are, therefore, figments of my imagination.

  What is not is the beauty of the north coast of the peninsula. Perhaps in the novel, to suit the plot, I have painted it as being rather more sombre than it deserves. If so, then let me hasten to say that the views are breathtakingly spectacular, the air is like champagne and the people of modern-day Morwenstow and Hartland Quay warmly welcoming.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I had an unusually large collection of helpers in researching and writing this novel. Let me thank them in chronological order from my use of their help in the story.

  Firstly, Bostonian lawyers Herb Holtz and his ex-judge wife Nancy, who have one of their homes in Key West, were invaluable in helping me to describe the town of 1842. And it was Nancy who pointed out the origin of the name. Then all my inaccuracies in describing life at sea in a brig and its shipwreck were corrected by old friend and neighbour, Neil Pattenden, ex-naval lieutenant commander, translator of Russian and modern-day sailor.

  The aforementioned Jill Wellby was most helpful, not only in giving us a roof over our heads while my daughter and I went about exploring the coast, but also in feeding us with much information about the Rev. Hawker.

  As usual, I must thank my agent, Jane Conway-Gordon, and Susie Dunlop, my publisher, for their unfailing support, and the staff of London Library for letting me raid their bookshelves for literary guidance.

  My wife, Betty, my long-serving and loving research assistant and proofreader, became ill just before the book was conceived and she died in October 2015. But her role was filled by our daughter, Alison Ledgerwood, who brought to the task new energy, competence and skills of which I was previously unaware. I owe her a great debt.

  Thanks perhaps to Daphne du Maurier (I did toy with the idea of calling my book ‘Jamaica Out’ but wise minds advised against it); there is a considerable bibliography about wrecking and smuggling. The books I found most helpful were:

  Bathurst, Bella, The Wreckers (London, 2006)

  Hawker, Reverend R. S., Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall (Self-published, 1870)

  Myers, Mark R. and Nix, Michael, Hartland Quay, The Story of a Vanished Port (Hartland Quay Museum, 1982)

  Pearce, Cathryn, Cornish Wrecking (Woodbridge, 2010)

  Seal, Jeremy, The Wreck at Sharpnose Point (London, 2002)

  Trounson, J. H., Mining in Cornwall, Vol. 1 (Cornwall, 1980)

  Viele, John, The Florida Keys, Vol. 3, The Wreckers (Florida, 2001)

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  About the Author

&nbs
p; According to author JOHN WILCOX, an inability to do sums and a nascent talent to string words together steered him towards journalism – that and the desire to wear a trench coat, belted with a knot, just like Bogart. After a number of years working as a journalist, he was lured into industry. In the mid-nineties he sold his company in order to devote himself to his first love, writing. He has now published, to high acclaim, twelve Simon Fonthill books, one Fonthill short story, a WWI novel and two works of non-fiction, including an autobiography.

  johnwilcoxauthor.co.uk

  By John Wilcox

  The War of the Dragon Lady

  Fire Across the Veldt

  Bayonets Along the Border

  Treachery in Tibet

  Pirates – Starboard Side!

  (a short story)

  Dust Clouds of War

  Starshine

  The Black Rocks of Morwenstow

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2016.

  This ebook edition first published in 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 by JOHN WILCOX

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication

  other than those clearly in the public domain

  are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons,