It was dark before he finished the long list of tasks Crane had set him. He collected Duster and went home. Mrs. Newlyn had left a thick piece of bread and dripping, and a pickle on his small table. He was touched to find that she had been so kind as to wash and mend his torn shirt and breeches. He discovered later, that she had mislaid her needle, but although his sudden leap and following comments alarmed Duster, he was able to remove the needle without major damage to his person.
When he went, yawning, to the cottage at dawn next morning, Sprat was waiting, and rushed inside to jump onto the table and knock down a note that had been left there. Jonathan put the cat down and took the note up. It informed him that Noah wanted to see him—"wenever yu kan manidge." That would have to be this evening, since Noah would still be sleeping when he went to work.
Sprat escorted him back to his shed, then went racing off. Inside, he was faced by a small rebellion. Duster hopped and fluttered and gobbled furiously each time Jonathan tried to catch him, and eventually, and with much whirring of wings, took up residence on his shoulder.
"So that's it," said Jonathan, amused. "You've become used to company, and don't want to be left alone all day."
It had occurred to him that the shed must be lonely and dim during the hours he was away. "I'm sorry for that," he said. "Mrs. Newlyn offered to take you in while I'm at work, but for all her kind heart, she's just a shade absent-minded. She has a friend named Sprat, who is of the tortoise-shell persuasion. He's a nice little fellow, but was his mistress to leave the cage door open for only a minute, I fear that Sprat would be very glad of a Duster a la carte."
Duster heard him out with few comments, but resisted all attempts to dislodge him, emitting piercing squawks and hooking his claws so firmly into the shoulder of the new frieze coat that Jonathan at length surrendered. He took the cage along for later use, and Duster entertained him by chirping happily all the way to the castle. Surprisingly, Oliver Crane made no objections beyond remarking that if the stupid bird fell off and got stepped on by one of the horses, it would serve him right. The men were variously amused or contemptuous, but at least there was no open hostility, and Duster enjoyed an hour of strenuous shoulder balancing before he tired and Jonathan put him back in his cage.
The press of work was even heavier than the previous day. Word of the new dock had spread, and a steady stream of callers descended upon Castle Triad, so that the over-worked grooms were obliged to care for the various vehicles and hacks of the visitors. At noon, Howland Britewell came to the stableyard in a black temper and ordered that one of the new teams be driven towards Redruth to collect a load of goods from a waggon that had lost a wheel and broken its axle along the way.
Crane stared at him, and repeated stupidly, "Load of—goods, sir?"
"Ah! You can hear! You encourage me to think you can also obey! Goods—fool. Supplies Lord Green wants stored in the mine. Now d'you see why the dock will be a boon to us? Get a couple of men out there at once. I want the goods delivered to the Blue Rose before nightfall."
"But—Mr. Howland, sir, I can't spare two men, nor even one! We're so short-handed now we can hardly—"
"Oh, stop your whining. There must be someone who can be spared." Howland's angry eyes flashed around the barn and rested on Jonathan, who was forking hay from the loft. "Send the half-wit. You can't tell me he's irreplaceable." He gave Crane a few brusque instructions, and advised harshly that he wanted to hear no excuses for failure.
"Nor you won't get none, sir. But if Jack's to drive a far piece on them cart tracks, unload the broke waggon, then get back and off-load—why he'll be all night, sir! Can't be—"
"Nonsense! There'll be fellows with the other waggon to help, and Lord Green has a caretaker out at the Blue Rose who'll give him a hand at this end."
The silence in the barn was sudden and complete. Every head turned to the two men.
Crane echoed, "A caretaker? I didn't know there was—"
"Well, you know now. Dammitall! Will you move your lazy arse and do as you're bid!" Glowering, Britewell stamped from the barn.
The silence continued and the men exchanged grim glances.
Crane muttered, "Why in hell couldn't they simply have hired another waggon in Redruth?" Then, as if recollecting himself, he barked, "Is ye all froze? Get back to work!
Isaac—help Crazy Jack drag out one of the new waggons and pole up a pair of his lordship's dray horses. Take that damned bird with you, Jack," he added sourly. "He can help you load!"
The dray horses were fine strengthy beasts, but the big chestnut gelding was of a quarrelsome temperament and difficult to handle. When Crane stamped over to grumble about "all this danged commotion" the chestnut made a teeth snapping lunge at him. The head groom had to jump back and fell over a bucket, which did not brighten his mood.
Ten minutes later, Jonathan was guiding the team out of the yard, Duster's cage on the seat beside him, and his mind full of speculation. Howland Britewell's mention of a caretaker had been a proper bomb blast. One could almost hear the men wondering who he might be, and why a caretaker was needed. More importantly, thought Jonathan, Howland had given him a perfect excuse for getting inside the mine. With luck, by tonight he might have the answers to many questions.
His thoughts turned to Jennifer. He had caught not so much as a glimpse of her since they came back from Breton Ridge. She must know he was working in the stables. She could have ordered a mount for one of her early rides, and even if he was not allowed to escort her, he could at least have seen her sweet face, and she might have found a way to slip a note to him. She might, of course, be tired, after the hectic days at Breton Ridge. Or perhaps she simply had no news for him. He was a fool to start imagining that something was wrong only because he missed her so. That was a feeling to which he must become accustomed.
Crane had warned him to keep with the rough track that led inland. "And take care ye're home before dark, else ye'll likely never get home at all." To this ominous direction, Isaac had added in a whisper, " 'Ware low, smooth ground, Jack. 'Tis likely swamp or marsh." With these cautions in mind, Jonathan kept the horses to a steady pace. They were good goers. The chestnut, encountering no creature to attack, tended to business, and the miles rolled away.
Very soon Jonathan had lost sight of any human habitation, but even on this cloudy afternoon the scenery was spectacular. He was on the high moor now, and could see for miles: the blue glitter of the Atlantic to the south and west, rocky knolls and outcroppings dotted about, a distant cluster of the ancient standing stones, and far to the north the loom of frowning tors and crags. The only sounds were the calls of birds, the clip clop of hooves, and Duster's occasional remarks. Jonathan relaxed and dreamed dreams of his beloved.
The respite was all too brief. The track became harder to follow, at times almost vanishing in the thick turf. The terrain was ever more hilly and broken, and Jonathan had no difficulty understanding why the other waggon should have broken down. Surmounting a rise, the track plunged into a small valley and wandered through a belt of low trees. Without warning the horses were knee-deep in a rushing stream that bisected the track, unseen in the deep shadows. Emerging on the far side, the track became ever more rutted and pot-holed, making it necessary to proceed with caution. Jonathan was uneasily aware that too much time was passing. If he didn't come upon the wrecked waggon soon, he could never hope to be back in Roselley while the light held, and his chances of finding the way home after dark were slim indeed.
Moments later he gave a sigh of relief when a waggon came into view, squatting ignominiously at the side of the track, the front end high in the air. There was no sign of horses or men, but when he shouted an enquiry an untidy scratch wig hove over the side. A bell-mouthed blunderbuss was levelled at him. Narrow dark eyes in a narrow face scanned him suspiciously, and a high-pitched London voice demanded his identity.
His reply appeared to satisfy because the waggoner clambered down, grumbling, 'Took yer perishing time!"
"And I've precious little left to get back before the sun goes down. Where's your mate?"
"Rid the horses off, but he'll be back soon. If he don't go boozing. Which wouldn't be the first time."
"I can't wait. We'd best get started." He loosened girths and let the team graze. The waggoner began to haul boxes down while airing his grievances about heavy loads, lazy animals, and terrible roads. Listening with half an ear, Jonathan was dismayed by the number of crates, barrels, and boxes to be transferred. "What the devil is all this?" he asked.
"Vittles, they said." The waggoner spat into the road. "By the weight of some of these big 'uns, they must be cast iron 'taters!"
It took an hour's back-breaking labour to load the supplies, and the task wouldn't have been accomplished as rapidly had not the other waggoner returned driving a donkey cart. He was a stout man who sang merrily while he worked, and when they finished and Jonathan was readying his team for the return journey, he chatted with Duster and offered to buy him for sixpence. He looked genuinely disappointed when his offer was refused, but waved and called a good-natured farewell, and for quite some distance Jonathan could hear him singing.
Clouds were building to the east, but luckily the dry weather held. Because of the heavy load, Jonathan had expected the return journey to take more time, but the team proved their worth and moved along steadily. The only difficulty arose when the track led through a patch of low ground that was soggy from the rains. It had presented no difficulty on the eastward journey, but the added weight caused the waggon wheels to sink into the mud and the team was unable to haul it clear. For a time Jonathan thought he was beaten, but fortunately there was a thicket nearby, and by levering deadwood under the wheels he was able at last to get them turning once more.
The battlements of Castle Triad came into view as the sun was setting. Jonathan was tired and hungry, but he turned off the track, drew the team to a halt, and climbed into the back of the cart. He used a sharp rock and his pocket knife to pry up the lid on a long crate. Expecting to find muskets or swords, he stared, baffled, at coats, breeches, shirts, and shoes of all shapes and sizes. Two barrels were chained and padlocked. A third emitted sloshing sounds when he moved it. 'Rum,' he thought, and turned his attention to another long box. This one he was able to open without causing too much damage, and his expectations were fulfilled. Far from mining machinery, the crate held at least a score fine pistols and as many knives and clubs. He pounded the lid down again, and advised Duster that he'd be willing to wager the two padlocked barrels held shot and powder, and that there'd be very little mine restoring done with these goods.
It was dusk when he reached the Blue Rose. Just as Isaac had said, wide iron gates were closed across the entrance. In response to his hail, a tall man carrying a musket came out.
Jonathan thought that "guard" would have been a better word than "caretaker." The musket was not set aside, even while the padlock was removed, and the tall man glanced about suspiciously as he waved Jonathan through the gates, then ordered him to stop and get down.
Obeying, Jonathan asked, "Do we off-load out here?"
The caretaker ignored him and climbed into the waggon to inspect the cargo.
Jonathan made a quick survey of the ramshackle wooden building at one side, with beyond it the tunnel-like opening in the hillside that he knew sloped down into the mine.
"Some of these is busted," accused the caretaker.
"I'm surprised they all weren't. The other waggon lost both back wheels and its axle broke. Came down hard. The waggoners looked like honest men. I doubt anything's been taken."
"Better not've been!" The caretaker climbed out again, keeping his eyes fixed on Jonathan. "A'right. Get on yer way," he said with a wave of the musket.
"I was told to help—"
"Don't matter what you was told to. Get on yer way."
"But—the team. I'm supposed to take them back to Triad."
Grinning unpleasantly, the man slouched nearer and said through his brown teeth, "The team'll be brung back. G'night, Sam."
"My name is not Sam. And I'll get my property first." With a lithe swing Jonathan was on the box seat of the waggon and lifting Duster's cage.
"Hey!" The caretaker aimed his musket. "You stop! Whatcha got there?"
Jonathan jumped down. "This is Duster, and why you should wish to shoot him I cannot guess. He ate none of your supplies, I promise you."
The hard eyes darted to the cage. "Let's have a look. Cor! What kinda—" The words ended in a shriek. He had trod within reach of the big chestnut.
The mine seemed to explode people. The light was almost gone now, but among those who came at the run was someone holding a lantern. Jonathan caught glimpses of savage eager faces; the flash of steel; long-barrelled pistols gripped in practiced hands. There was little outcry.
A harsh voice demanded "Quien es?"
The caretaker swore furiously. "Accursed nag bit me! If it didn't belong to his lord—"
Another man snapped, "You—with the birdcage. Get out!"
Jonathan needed no urging. Amid a sudden hush, he strode up the path and over the rise, half expecting to hear a shot, and with an uneasy feeling between his shoulder blades.
He slowed as soon as he was out of range. It had begun to rain and the wind was blowing up, but weariness, hunger, and the weather were scarcely noted. In his mind's eye was the armed and hostile crowd lit by the beams of that high-held lantern; the fierce glares that had come his way; and one face that stood out from all the others. The square ruddy face of a man for whose death he had held himself directly responsible: Joe Taylor, who had won the coveted post of ship's carpenter on the proud East Indiaman called the Silken Princess.
Chapter 13
"Wait! Jack—will ye cease your gallop, man?"
A strong hand caught at his arm. A large shape loomed through the darkness, and Holsworth panted, "Lucky I was… on the look-out for ye, else you'd have run yourself into a fine bog! Let's get out of this wind."
Jonathan followed resistlessly, marvelling that he hadn't noticed the wind was rising, or that he'd walked all this way. Inside Holsworth's snug but cluttered kitchen, the big man peered at him anxiously and pushed him into a chair. "Been off on one of your forgetting times?"
It had been more a "remembering time" and there was no end to the possible ramifications. He said, "Not exactly. The widow said you wanted to talk to me, but I thought I'd go home and get something to eat first."
Holsworth opened a cupboard and set out a tankard of ale, some dark bread, and a generous slice of cold meat "Aye, ye look fair famished," he said. "Eat up."
Not until that instant had Jonathan realised just how hungry he was, and he ate gratefully. Holsworth used two books to brace his long clay pipe and filled it while recounting the progress he'd made on the ark. "She's ready hull and keel," he concluded with enthusiasm. "Ah, Johnny, I begin to wish I'd built her down on the beach so we could launch her and then work on fitting her out."
Jonathan said with a faint smile, "We might haul her to Devil's Ladder. It could serve you as a slipway."
"Perish the thought! She'd reach the sea as splinters! But I didn't bring you here to talk of my ark." The big man removed the pipe from between his teeth and sat staring down at it, then said, "I've no wish to see ye leave, but—'tis time you was least in sight." He met Jonathan's eyes, adding reluctantly, 'There's rumours abroad. A parcel of 'em. And none to your good.'
"That's nothing new." Finishing his small meal, Jonathan said, "Actually, people have been kinder of late. Even young Blary doesn't mock me as he used to do."
"Young Blary, maybe not. Ben Blary and Wally Pughill and their like, is another matter. And worse'n Ben Blary"—Holsworth leaned forward, waving his pipe for emphasis—"that ferret-faced man of Lord Green's has been hanging , about the tavern and Gundred's place, stirring up trouble. Folks was talking against ye afore, ye knows that. All the business about a dark stranger what you was seen whispering
with on the cliffs at dawn—the one Ben Blary says had eyes like live coals in his head. Ah, you may laugh, man. But take it along o' the fact that—well, no offence meant, but ye don't always know what you been a'doing of five minutes ago—own it, now."
"Yes, but—"
"There y'are, then. And you is said to have climbed up the cliff past Bridget Bay, which everyone knows cannot be done. And—much as I hates to say it, Jack, ye're not like the rest of us. Them eyes o'yourn can be meek as a saint one minute, and strike through a man like a spear the next." He paused, then muttered, "What really troubles me is that you're staying at the widder's. If folks should think that you and her…"
"Have been doing—what? Conjuring up evil spells to plague the children? If ever I heard such stuff! Why not add the fact that I saw the lady with the blue cloak? Then they'll—"
Holsworth dropped his pipe. Paling, his eyes wide with alarm, he gasped, "Ye never said 'twas a blue cloak! Oh—Gawd! You see the Lady!"
"So I'm told. But I promise you I had nought to do with her appearance, and she seemed to notice me not at all. Besides, from what Je—Miss Jennifer said—"
"Ah! And that's the worst of the lot!" Recovering himself, but still looking unnerved, Holsworth took up his broken pipe. "There's a tale that you—er, been putting spells on Miss Jennifer." He darted a look at Jonathan from under his bushy eyebrows. "And if all the rest wasn't enough to turn folk agin ye, that would do it—proper!"
His face bleak, Jonathan stood and started to the door.
Holsworth ran to intercept him. "Hold up! I didn't say as I believed it of ye, Jack. But—oh, man! If ye could but see your eyes when you look at her! Or the—the glow that comes on her sweet face at the sight o' you! 'Tis plain as the nose on your fact that—"
"That I have dared—presumed—to love her?" The anger in Jonathan faded. Sitting down again, he said slowly, "Well, 'tis quite true. But can you think I don't know how far beneath her I am? I told her I'm going away, and I mean to. Only—she has it in her mind that because I saw the lady in the blue cloak something awful is going to happen. I know 'tis foolish superstition, but—if she really should be threatened by danger, I don't want to leave her.",
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