In the doorway behind him, half leaning on the wall, stood my father. The iron spike dropped from his hand.
I pulled myself up the length of the skiff, up to the bow, where it nudged against the steps. Mary came to help. She pulled at my elbow, and I got my knee onto the stem. The skiff went under, and Stumps floated over the gunwale; when it bobbed up again, he was nestled inside. I lifted Parson Tweed by the shoulders, Mary took his feet, and together we heaved him down the steps. He turned a slow somersault and splashed into the skiff beside Stumps. Arm in arm they floated, with the cassock spread across them like a blanket.
I gave the skiff a shove, sending it out into the current. It snubbed against the tow rope, pulled again, and the old rope broke with a twang of spray. Borne by the tide, the boat floated down toward the sea. And in a moment it was lost from sight.
Father was weak, but he could stand. He put an arm round my shoulders, most of his weight on my back, and we hobbled up the steps, through a stream of rain.
“Tell me,” he said. “What gold did he mean?”
“From the barrels,” I snapped through gritted teeth. I was angry that he would still hide from me the truth of his smuggling, bitterly hurt that he had seemed to choose the gold over me.
“The barrels?” His feet dragged on the stone. I had to stop, and we stood on the second-to-last step, under the shelter of the building.
“I know all about it,” I said. “The barrels we loaded at night were half full of sawdust. You were smuggling gold, Father; gold or diamonds. The sawdust gave you away. But it’s the only reason that Stumps kept you alive.”
My father didn’t answer. I could feel him shaking, his breaths going in and out. I thought he was crying; but he was laughing. “Sawdust,” he said, and laughed even harder. “He saved me for sawdust. John, put me down. Put me down a moment.”
I lowered him to the steps. He sat there, leaning forward, wiping his eyes as he laughed. “There was no gold,” he said. “Where on earth did he get that idea?” He laughed again, tears streaming. “All we were doing was buying second-rate wine from a third-rate vintner. And they cheated us, John. Those Spaniards made us load at night, and gave us false-bottomed barrels. I knew it as soon as the sawdust showed up in the pumps.”
Mary laughed, too. “They sold you sawdust?”
“For a bargain!” said Father. “And the wreckers thought it was packed full of gold?”
“Yes.”
“It shows you, doesn’t it.” Father pushed himself up. I gave him my shoulder to lean on. “Evil men will always see evil in others,” he said.
His words didn’t say much for me. I felt rather ashamed as we went up to the waterfront street. Mary had the pony tied to a post, a saddlebag draped over its back. “It’s got food in it,” she said. “Well fetch the other pony and—” She saw my face and stopped. “He’s gone, edn’t he?”
“A mine shaft,” I said. “We broke through the top.” Mawgan had warned me of that; I’d thought he meant only to scare me.
Mary bit her lip. “Then you’ll have to take this one,” she said. “The bag’s full of food. You’ll have plenty to get to Polruan. Leave him at the stable by the wharfs. Uncle Simon will fetch him back.”
“Your uncle will be busy tonight,” I said. “He’s got a ship to wreck.”
“John, please!” cried Mary.
“But the parson.” A gust of wind moaned through the village. “You said yourself that your uncle was with him the night they wrecked the Skye.”
Mary stared at me. She didn’t speak.
“He’s a wrecker,” I said. “This proves it.”
“No.” Slowly she shook her head. “You’re wrong. You must be wrong.”
“When you go home …”
She lowered her head. “I don’t think I’ll be going home tonight. Now leave, John. Please hurry.”
With an effort, Father straightened. “Young lady,” he said, “I’m in your debt. If there’s something I can do, anything at all—”
“No,” said Mary. “There’s nothing I need.”
Father smiled. Somehow, though he was wet and shivering, though his clothes were tattered and stank of the cistern, he looked proud and elegant. A gentleman. He clapped a huge hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go home,” he said.
It seemed impossible: we were finally leaving Pendennis. We stood on the dark street, in the torrent of rain, and grinned at each other like fools. Then I helped Father onto the pony. I started to climb up behind him, but he stopped me. “In front,” he said. “You’ll do better than I can.”
Mary untied the bridle and passed it up. She put her hands on the pony’s nose and let it nudge her cheek. “Don’t ride him too hard,” she said. “He’s not as strong as the other one.”
I reached down and took her hand. “Mary, I—”
“Hush now.” The pony pranced sideways, pulling my hand from Mary’s. “I’ll miss you,” she said. “I’ll think of you often.”
And then she was gone.
She went at a run, and I watched her. I watched until she was lost in the darkness. Then I felt my father’s hands close on my waist. They squeezed me hard. I shook the reins, and we started off for Polruan. The pony seemed to sigh when it passed through the old wall and started up the hill.
I looked back only once, to see the church behind us. The building was dark, foreboding, and the row of saints—unlit—looked like men hiding in the shadows. It was there, I realized, behind the figures, that Parson Tweed had kept his lookout for ships imperiled in the night.
But it seemed lonely now. Empty. As though the saints who’d watched over me were watching no more.
Chapter 17
FALSE BEACONS
I wish that my story ended here. In a small way, it does. For what happened next changed things forever after.
Before we gained the hilltop, the signal came. Three shots in quick succession, they floated across the moors and cliffs, through the valley and the sky. And before the sound had died away, I reined the pony in.
“Why have you stopped?” asked Father.
“That was a signal,” I said. “There’s a ship out there, and now she’s coming ashore.”
I turned the pony to face the wind. Its mane lashed against my legs; it tossed up its head. I couldn’t see the Channel, but I could hear it—waves dashing in endless rows against the cliffs.
For a while my father sat quietly behind me. Then he touched my arm. “Son,” he said, “we have to go.”
I twisted around on the pony’s back. Father’s face was grimly set. “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t leave here knowing the wreckers are at work.”
He held out his hands. “But what can we do? It’s best if we bring others,” he said. “We can find a magistrate, a—”
“They’d come too late,” I said.
“But John, really. What could we possibly do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe nothing. But I can’t leave here knowing I didn’t try.”
Father sighed. “Yes, you’re right. You show me for a better man, John.”
“No, Father!” I jumped down from the pony and stood with my hands on his knee. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s true.”
“You’re hurt,” I said. “You can hardly walk.” I held the reins up toward him. “I want you to go on to Polruan. Will you do that?”
He held down his hand. I laid the reins across it. But instead he took my wrist. “No,” he said. “We’ll go together. When this business is done, we’ll both go to Polruan.”
He stiffened his arm, and I swung up in front of him. I cried out to the pony and turned it back toward the village. Mud flew from its heels as we raced down the hill, left at the crossroad, into the valley. We hurtled on, hooves drumming on the bridge, rain stinging my face. And when we’d crossed the river, I gave the reins a tug and steered the pony off the road. Father kicked against its ribs, and we headed off at a canter, across the moor to the sea.
And there before us was the ship.
Like a shimmer of mist, faint and indistinct, she looked no bigger than the Isle of Skye. Then again the lightning flashed, and it lit her ghostly gray. The enormous hull of a full-rigged ship, towering masts with a stack of yards: She was a giant with a score of men, driven along by the smallest sails, topsails double-reefed.
“Couldn’t be more cautious than that,” said Father. “They’re not at all sure where they are.”
“But they’re coming in,” I said. The masts were nearly in line, the sails overlapping.
Father put a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the rain. “On the Skye, we saw lights. But—”
“The wreckers,” I said. “When the ship’s closer in, they’ll light their false beacons.”
“So that was it. A light in the shadow of death,” said Father, and I shuddered.
We rode slowly toward the Tombstones, on ground that shook with the surf. The wind rushed up the face of the cliffs, and the pony’s mane stood in the air like the fur of a frightened cat. The rain fell in sheets, and the sky to the south flared with lightning.
“Look!” said Father.
On the hills above us the villagers were gathering. I saw them come over the rise, carrying their tools of destruction. They seemed to come from the earth and sink below it again, on foot and on horseback, adults and children. And then came a wagon huge and black, enormous horses in the harness. The Widow.
When the Widow arrives, there’s a wreck in the offing. She feels it like a coming storm. But the last time, she’d been wrong.
Father grabbed my shoulder. “Look,” he said again.
“I see them,” said I.
“No. Look there.”
Thirty yards before us, in a hollow at the cliffs, stood a horse with no rider. Empty stirrups twisted and turned; its tail flew like a streamer. Then it raised its head in a dark tangle of mane, and I saw it was Mawgan’s horse, Mawgan’s fine pacer.
With a happy little snort the pony started toward its stablemate. It swayed under us, carrying us along. Then suddenly it shrieked. It reared and bolted, and I fell with a thud to the ground. Father clung to it somehow, grabbing for the reins, and in a dim flash of lightning I saw what the pony had seen.
Simon Mawgan crouched at the edge of the cliff. All in black, from his boots to his hat, he shone in the lightning glow. Even his face was darkened—a mask of coal dust or boot blacking. His eyes peered from it as though he was only that: a pair of eyes in the darkness. He stood still as death. And on the ground before him was a lantern.
I walked straight to him. The surf thundered and the rain came down. “I knew I’d find you here,” I said. “With a ship for the wrecking.”
He squinted at me as the rain poured from the brim of his hat. Even his horse seemed to stare at me. Father had brought the pony under control, and came toward us along the cliffs.
“Your father?” asked Mawgan.
“Yes,” said I.
“And Stumps?”
“He’s dead.”
Mawgan barely flinched. “No shame in that.”
“So is Parson Tweed.”
“The parson?” said Mawgan. “You killed Parson Tweed?”
“He shot at me,” I said. “He was the leader, wasn’t he? He was your hoop that held the staves together.”
An odd expression came to his eyes. It was a look of surprise, as though the idea had never occurred to him. “And the gold?” he asked.
“There is no gold. Never was.”
He chuckled. “If that’s the truth, it’s the one thing you never lied about. Now, let me get on with this business.”
I hit him full in the chest. I drove against him, head down like a ram. We fell together, crashing onto the ground at the very lip of the cliffs. I leapt away and snatched up the lantern.
“Wait!” he shouted.
I hammered my fist against the glass.
“You fool!” said Mawgan. He rolled on the stones and the grass, struggling to his feet. Then Father brought the pony in, and its hooves trampled round him. It was a scene of madness: Mawgan all black on the ground, only his eyes and his hands to be seen, the pony stomping and snorting above him, and Father on its back like a demon.
I bashed at the glass. I raised the lantern and flung it down. The lens shattered. Then I hurled the thing over the cliff—“No!” screamed Mawgan—down to the rocks and the surf far below.
Mawgan lay still. The pony stood over him, straddling him, and he put his hands around its forefoot. “You’ve doomed them,” he said. “You’ve lost the ship.” He sounded wretched, in utter despair.
Father stared down. “What’s he talking about?” he asked.
“Look at the glass,” cried Mawgan,
There were shards of it at my feet. I knelt down and took one in my hand. It was thick and darkly colored.
“I wasn’t going to wreck the ship, you fool. I was going to save it!”
The lightning flared and shone off the glass, and for an instant it glowed a deep blue in my palm.
“The corpse lights, boy,” said Mawgan. “I am the corpse lights.”
Pale blue lights that wander on the beach and the cliffs, Mary had said. It doesn’t matter what’s happening; if people see the corpse lights, they run away.
Mawgan shoved at the pony’s hoof. To Father he said, “Sir, would you kindly back this animal off before it sends us both over the edge?”
I nodded to Father. He moved the pony back, and Mawgan sat up. His poor horse still watched us, bewildered.
Mawgan glared at me. “Why do you think I hide the lanterns in that stone heap? Why do you think I ride down here at the sound of the shots?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know anymore.
“I walk with the lantern,” said Mawgan, “and they see me and think it’s the corpse lights. I couldn’t help the Isle of Skye. Parson Tweed kept me half the night, and now I know why. But tonight … tonight I waited in Mary’s garden—”
“She told you about her garden?”
“Of course not.” He rolled to his knees and stood up. “But who do you think tears out the weeds? Who do you think waters the flowers?”
I said, “She thought it was magic.”
So I was wrong, and Eli was wrong. And Mary—poor Mary—had been right all along when she’d told me to trust Simon Mawgan. But now I had thrown away the one hope of saving the ship. “Why?” I said. “Why couldn’t you tell me?”
“No one could know,” he said. “Not Eli, nor anyone else. Even Mary had to believe in the corpse lights.”
The lightning flashed. And for the first time we heard the thunder that followed, the storm coming closer. It was a rolling, sinister sound that shook at the air like fists.
And at that instant, on the hills beyond us, a light flared up from the darkness. The wreckers were lighting the beacons.
A moment later there were two of them burning. We could see in their golden glow the shapes of the men, the ragged clothes of the Widow, two pyramids of oil kegs to fuel the lanterns. And out in the Channel, the ship turned toward the lights.
“She’ll touch in less than an hour,” said Mawgan. “Shell come aground on the Tombstones, and that will be the end of her.” He stood with his back to us, facing the wind and the rain, shouting against the surf. “They might put an anchor out, but it won’t save them. They might chop down the masts, but in the end they’ll come ashore. They always do.”
“You know a lot about it,” said Father.
“I’ve done it!” Mawgan whirled round just as the lightning flared. The blacking on his face was mottled by the rain, and his skin showed through like a skull.
“I wrecked the Rose of Sharon!”
“The ship your brother was on,” I said.
“Yes. My brother and his wife, my own wife, and my son, Peter. Nearly all that I loved were on that ship. And I lit the beacons that brought them ashore.”
“You’re a monster,” said Father.
“I am, sir. Yes, that’s just what I am.” The lightning flashed over him. “But God knows I’ve paid for it. I lost my son and my wife and my brother. I turned my other brother, Eh, against me, and he loathes me to this very day. I drove my mother mad. But you’ve seen that, John, what it did to her.”
“No,” I said. “I—”
“You have,” he said gently.
I couldn’t believe it. “Not the Widow,” I said.
Mawgan nodded. “Mary doesn’t know who she is. The poor woman doesn’t know herself who she is. But I live in dread that someone will tell Mary. That Caleb Stratton or Parson Tweed—well, there’s one worry gone. It’s not for any love of me that Eli hasn’t shown her the truth. He and all the others, they hold it over my head like an axe.”
Father looked down from the pony. “I’ve met that young woman,” he said. “And I believe she would forgive you if you gave her that chance.”
The beacons flared and smoked. The rain swirled through the light in sheets of yellow and red. The great ship kept coming.
Mawgan said, “There’s only one chance. I’ll ride back for another lantern.”
“No time,” I said.
He whistled, and the horse came over. Mawgan collected the reins. “John,” he said, “there are fifty men up there on the moor. We’ve no hope of stopping them any other way.”
“And Mary’s waiting down at the Tombstones.”
“What?” He wedged his boot in the stirrup.
“She’s going to try to swim to the wreck,” I told him.
“Then there mustn’t be a wreck.” Mawgan climbed up into the saddle. “Somehow we’ll stop them.” Then he shook the reins, but I reached up and grabbed them.
I said, “There’s a lantern on the porch. We left one there.”
He didn’t answer. He wrenched the reins from me and beat at the horse with his hat. And he flew off at a gallop toward Galilee.
The Wreckers Page 13