Mermaid of Penperro

by Cach, Lisa

  “How did Foweather know they were there?”

  “With no moon and plenty of fog, tonight’s a perfect night for smuggling. Even one as dim-witted as he can see that… or one of his men pointed it out to him. It was by pure chance that he caught a glimpse of the lugger, before the fog hid it again. One of the lugger’s men swam to shore to give the alert.”

  “But why is Foweather towing the cutter? Surely it would be faster to row something small like a pinnace.”

  “A pinnace wouldn’t have the guns of the cutter.”

  “Oh.” She’d conveniently forgotten about the guns, and didn’t much like the idea of one of those cannons being fired at her. “Are you certain that my singing will frighten him away?”

  “It will either frighten or draw him; I’m not sure which at this point.”

  “That’s not terribly reassuring.”

  “Either way, he’ll be distracted and the boat will have a chance to come to shore—perhaps even to sneak back to the harbor, if Foweather is sufficiently bemused. Do you know what you’ll sing? Something lovesick would do. It needn’t be in English.”

  “I’ll be ready,” she said, and then they both lapsed into silence, the only sounds the muffled oars and the soft sounds of water moved by Tom’s rowing. Her excitement was waning as they moved forward, the reality of the situation coming home to her. Those men on the Preventive cutter would be very angry indeed were they to discover the trick that was about to be played on them.

  And then as well there was the less deadly but equally troubling anxiety of giving a public performance, something that was fairly new to her. Recitals in front of her boarding school chums and for Bugg’s friends were not in quite the same league as duping the king’s men. Her eyes went to Tom, a shadowy form bent to the oars. She wanted to impress him with her voice, never mind saving the smugglers. She wanted him to have a reason to look at her with admiration.

  She was still a bit ashamed over the way she had reacted the other night when they had argued over the costume and she had shielded herself, acting as if he were going to hit her. She had sworn to herself that she would never again cringe away from another’s anger, or shut her mouth because of it. No more cages!

  “We should speak as little as possible. When I tap your foot with mine, sing,” he whispered. “When I tap it again, stop.”

  “All right.”

  He let the boat drift a short distance, and she knew he was listening for sounds of the cutter. He dipped the oars back in the water and changed their course. She thought he must be one of those men who seemed to carry a compass around in their heads, always knowing which way was north and exactly where they were.

  She imagined him as the captain of a ship, maybe in Elizabethan times, as a contemporary of Sir Walter Raleigh. She could see him standing on the high poop deck at the stern, his hand raised to shield his eyes as he gazed into the distance, nothing but ocean waves as far as the eye could see. He’d be wearing black hose, formfitting, and those funny, short, blousey breeches with an embroidered codpiece. He’d have a pointed black beard, and a single pearl-drop earring. She liked the image very much, especially the part about the tight-fitting hose.

  She felt a tap upon her foot, the signal startling her out of her reverie.

  Unprepared, she opened her mouth and out came a crackling, rough note. She shuddered at the sound and tried again, and within a few notes was in her usual form, singing Purcell’s “If Love’s a Sweet Passion.”

  She was only a few bars into the piece when the sound of startled male voices came to them over the water. The voices suddenly stopped as if shushed, and then a few notes of singing later Tom tapped her foot.

  She shut her mouth abruptly, and Tom gave the water a loud slap with his oar. A shout rose up from the unseen men. Tom bent to the oars, rowing hard and silently. Konstanze could hear the voices on the other boat, becoming louder as the Preventive men drew closer, then going silent as they listened.

  Tom maneuvered the rowboat around so that they were on the opposite side of the cutter from where they had begun, judging by the murmur of voices that carried through the fog. The Preventive boat was now between them and the shore.

  The tap came again.

  She picked up where she had left off, projecting toward where she now knew the cutter and the small boat hauling it to be.

  Again a cry went up, and this time an argument ensued, angered male voices coming through the fog. She kept singing, reaching the end of the song and starting over, aware all the while of Tom sitting tense before her, the oars held poised and ready above the water.

  As the arguing died down Tom put his back to the oars yet again, almost silently moving them out to sea. She guessed that any sound of the oars that did carry to the cutter would be misinterpreted as her swimming. He tapped her foot with his, and she stopped, hearing as he must have the sounds of the Preventive men laying into their oars, coming toward them.

  They settled into a game of cat and mouse with the Preventive boat, starting and stopping, singing and silence, listening and rowing. Foweather and his crew chased after them, never getting too near—although whether that was due to caution on their part or to Tom’s careful positioning of their rowboat, she was not sure. At one point they dipped close to shore, passing close by an outcropping of rocks, the type that would have been deadly in foul weather. The crew cursed and Foweather gave frantic orders when they came suddenly upon the rocks in the fog.

  The game went on for well over an hour. Konstanze fell prey to the thrill of it, wanting to laugh aloud each time Tom had her stop and she heard the Preventive crew’s frustration, and their heated arguments. “Where’d she go?” “I think I heard something over there.” “Quiet, I can’t hear!” When Tom rowed she found herself gripping her thighs, as if doing so might make their little boat go faster.

  She had no idea where they must be in relation to the shore, or how far down the coast they might have traveled. Tom cued her to stop singing and then gave another of those splashes of the oar against the water, as if the mermaid were diving. He rowed on for a short way and then they sat in silence, listening.

  The Preventive boat drew closer, the voices of the men hushed, growing more uncertain as the minutes ticked by with no mermaid song. She heard them ship their oars, sitting silent as she and Tom did, waiting. They could not have been more than fifty feet off. She glanced at Tom, trying to catch some expression of his in the dark, but he made no move, sitting as still as stone.

  Konstanze shivered, her clothes damp from fog and the accumulated drips off the oars. As the minutes crept by she came to understand without Tom’s having to tell her that they were through with their game for the night, and it was a matter now of waiting until Foweather gave up and went back to shore.

  With each silent minute Konstanze grew more tense, and the muscles around her ears pulled tight as she strained for any sound from the Preventive boat. Her buttocks were sore from sitting for so long on the wooden seat, but she dared not so much as shift her weight. Her imagination began to work on her, convincing her that Foweather was drifting closer and closer as they sat there, easy targets in their tiny boat.

  “Give it up, men,” a voice that must be Foweather’s said, coming from what might have been no more than twenty feet through the fog. “She’s gone.”

  There were murmurs of assent, and the sound of oars being unshipped. Konstanze spent an anxious few moments trying to guess if she and Tom were on the landward or seaward side of the cutter and if the crew would row right into them, but as the men rowed the splashing of the oars grew quieter, the boats moving off without coming any nearer.

  She held her silence, knowing how easily sound carried over calm water, but the tension drained from her muscles and she allowed herself to rearrange her position. They were all but safe now, the worst of the danger past. She trusted that Tom could get her back to shore without stumbling into the path of the cutter.

  “Well done, Konstanze,” Tom whis
pered at last, and began to row them back to shore.

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased with herself and with his appreciation. “Was my singing what you had hoped?” she asked, unable to resist digging for a few more compliments.

  “It was adequate.”

  “It was more than that!” she whispered fiercely.

  “If you already know it, then you don’t need me to tell you so.”

  She wrinkled her nose, glad he could not see her face. How was she supposed to argue with that? Stupid man. He made her sound vain, when all she wanted was a few minutes’ worth of adulation.

  “When do I get paid?” she asked. If she couldn’t have fawning praise, she’d settle for cash in hand.

  He laughed softly. “After the goods are sold. It should be a week or so.”

  “How much are they worth?”

  “Figuring your percentage, are you? You can expect to get about three pounds.”

  She made a little noise of assent. That was certainly decent pay for the night. In her heart of hearts, she knew that she would almost have done this for free, for the sheer thrill of it. Now that it was all but over, her moments of fear were easily discounted, relished instead as part of the fun. She felt energized and alive, and began to fidget.

  “It’s exciting to face danger and escape, isn’t it?” Tom said.

  “It’s better never to be in danger in the first place,” she said, but did not mean it.

  He laughed again, still keeping his voice low. “There are some who find they can’t live without that excitement, once they taste it.”

  “That is not I.”

  “Then why are you bouncing your knees like that? I think you’ve enjoyed yourself. You would be collapsed in the bottom of the boat if this had been as much of a strain on you as you like to pretend.”

  “It’s nervous energy, that’s all,” she said, bringing her bouncing legs to an abrupt halt.

  “Oh, I see.”

  He rowed in silence for some minutes, then asked, “In what language was that song that you sang?”

  She gave a grunt of offense. “English!”

  “Was it? I thought I could make out a word or two, but thought that might have been my imagination.”

  “I’ll have you know that my articulation is excellent.”

  “I’m not complaining. I’d rather have Foweather think you were using some foreign deep-sea tongue, anyway.”

  “I would like to hear the singer who could have done it better!” The man obviously had a tin ear when it came to music.

  He laughed, long and low, and managed to gasp out between breaths, “Konstanze, you are a treat. You have a beautiful voice, and if I had been in Foweather’s shoes I’d have thought you a mermaid myself.”

  The compliment smoothed her ruffled feathers. She was not accustomed to being teased, and once her irritation began to settle she felt a curious warmth toward him for having teased her so, his compliment feeling the more sincere for having come out in such a way. His teasing bespoke a playful friendliness that she had not encountered in her few dealings with men. She liked it.

  She searched her mind for something clever to say, something about which she could tease him in return, but with examination every thought turned childish or awkward, and she feared her words would fall flat. She held her tongue and instead repeated in her mind his praise of her singing.

  The fog was beginning to thin out a bit, the difference visible to her as a few stars appeared faintly above. She wondered how far off dawn was, and with her waning excitement began to think longingly of her bed and dry clothes. Going home would mean that Tom would part company with her as well, though, and she was not certain that the warmth of a cup of tea and a fire in the grate were an adequate exchange.

  She gave herself a silent scolding for thinking that way. She really had to keep a firmer hold on her romantic tendencies. There were a dozen and a half reasons that she should not allow herself to become attached to the man in any way. As she had told herself before, nothing honorable could come from any attraction she felt. She was a married woman, and therefore even if he ever wanted to, Tom would not be able to offer her anything other than a shameful affair. As Mama had warned, such entanglements had landed many a good girl pregnant and in the poorhouse.

  And besides, Tom seemed to think of her as little more than a tool—a talented tool—for his schemes. The man did not seem to spare a thought for women other than to analyze the degree to which their breasts were visible.

  She was busy working herself into a froth of indignation against him when she noticed Tom had stopped rowing, the oars poised inches above the water. Tension had come back into his silhouette.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Shhh!”

  She shut her lips, straining along with him to listen into the darkness. She picked up the soft slosh of the calm sea against the rocks, then heard what had set him on the alert: subdued voices and faint splashings.

  She caught only a few words as they drifted across the short distance between their rowboat and the craft near shore. East, harbor, and patrol were a few of them, and they told her that it was the Preventive boat to which they had caught up. The fog thinned for a moment, and Konstanze felt her eyes widen in horror as the shadowy shape of the cutter became visible against a short stretch of pale sand.

  Tom dipped the oars back in and changed their course. Konstanze needed no warning to remain silent. The thought that all those men need do was take a careful look seaward and they might see the rowboat made her sit stiff with fear, as if she were a rabbit who thought that she might pass unnoticed if she did not move. She was intensely grateful for the layers of fog that built between them and the shore as they moved away.

  “That’s deuced inconvenient,” Tom said when they were well beyond earshot.

  “Was that my cove they were in?”

  “Apparently Foweather thought it a good idea to go back to where he’d first seen you.”

  “Are they going to stay there all night?” She realized that she really had been looking forward to returning to the warmth of home.

  “From the sounds of it, Foweather is letting off a few men to patrol the coast on foot, likely to look for where the lugger lands. He and the rest will remain with the cutter: now that there’s some sign the breeze may pick up, they have a hope of traveling under sail. I suspect they’ll be at it until dawn.”

  “So what does that mean for us?”

  “It means, my dear Konstanze, that we get to spend a bit more time in our lovely little boat.”

  “How much more time?”

  “Until Foweather and his compatriots are gone.”

  “But you said that wouldn’t be until dawn,” she protested, the warmth of the grate getting farther and farther away.

  “Yes.”

  That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “Aren’t there places we can land other than my cove?”

  “There are, but I don’t particularly wish to risk it with the men patrolling on shore. If they should spot us, we would raise considerable suspicion.”

  “We are doing nothing illegal.”

  “No, but there is no reasonable explanation for our presence out here in the middle of the night.”

  She understood that, but still didn’t like the thought of drifting around out here for several more hours. Her buttocks were beyond sore, and her feet were wet from the inch of water in the bottom of the boat. Why was it that boats always had water in their bottoms? “We can’t be out here at dawn,” she pointed out “Can’t we row farther down the coast, beyond the patrol?”

  “You can, perhaps, but I think it’s a bit beyond my power at the moment.”

  “You’re tired?” she asked, somewhat incredulously. For some reason it had not occurred to her that he, a man, could be worn out by rowing.

  “I know you thought I was a man of great physical prowess, a veritable Samson and Hercules rolled into one, but I do have my limitations.”

  She
gave a little snort. “Hardly Hercules. If you’ll trade me seats, I’ll row for a while.”

  “I am not yet that enfeebled.”

  “Don’t pretend to be chivalrous. I’ve rowed a boat before, and won’t faint from the effort.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

  “Don’t be stupid. What else can we do? We can’t be drifting around out here when dawn comes.”

  “There’s a cave down the coast a short ways. We’ll tie up inside and wait.”

  She supposed that was a reasonable enough idea. “Will you let me row to the cave, then? It’s not just to save you the effort,” she admitted. “I’ve been wanting to take a hand at it since we got in the boat. I remember enjoying it as a child.”

  He paused in his rowing. “You think this is fun?”

  “I used to. Please, will you let me?”

  He hesitated. “You’re not doing this just because you feel sorry for me?”

  “Feel sorry for Samson? Never! No, I only offered before because I want to row. I don’t care a farthing for the state of your shoulders and arms.”

  “Nor my back?”

  “I would gladly feed your whole body to the sharks for the chance to put hand to those oars,” she said, happy that she seemed to be getting the hang of this teasing business.

  He shipped the oars. “Then to save myself from the fishes I suppose I could let you give it a try. Tell me as soon as you feel the strain, though. A few minutes’ rest should have me ready to go.”

  Wunderbar! She slid to the side while he stood and, moving low, sat down beside her as she rose, moving with equal care to the center seat, her hands on the gunwales. The transfer accomplished, she rearranged her skirts and the hem of her pelisse, making sure she wasn’t sitting on them in such a way that the movement of her arms would be hampered. She found the smooth wooden handles, still warm from his touch, and maneuvered the oars into the water. The oars were heavier than she expected, and she remembered rather belatedly that when she was a child her grandfather had taken one oar, and she the other.