Late Harvest

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  If only …

  Towards dawn, I slept. In the morning, I got up and got on with things. I did talk to Charlotte and she, sensible child that she was, did seem to understand, though she was clearly unhappy. ‘I wish we could have gone to Minehead,’ she said sadly. ‘It’s so disappointing.’

  Yes, in a way, I had let her down. I tried to explain what it would be like when there were contraband landings, waiting and worrying, always with the shadow of the transport ships, of being parted for years, perhaps for ever, from a husband, a father. She seemed to understand, yet the disappointment was still there.

  The summer passed. I tried not to think about Ralph. I did not hear from him; nor did I hear of any changes at Standing Stone. The days shortened as September advanced. And then …

  Looking back, I think of it as a summons. I had always believed that the day that I rode on into Culbone Wood, looking for cows that I was sure were not there, I was in fact responding to a mind-to-mind call from Ralph. And I think that my sudden decision, one September day, to go to Minehead to look for Shakespeare’s plays was no coincidence, either. The corn harvest had gone well and was in. I had piled as much of the kitchen work as I could on the other women, and felt the better for it. I was taking my ease in the afternoon, sitting in the parlour and getting on with the woollen jersey I was knitting for William. It struck me presently that I would like to put the knitting down and read something, except that I had no new books in the house. I remembered how, earlier in the year, I had planned to buy a set of Shakespeare.

  And with that, I rose to my feet at once and went to change into the clothes I used for riding, along with leggings and boots, a coat and a waterproof leather hat. One never knew with Exmoor weather. Then I collected a pair of saddlebags, put in nightwear, a change of clothes and shoes, a warm shawl, washing things and my knitting and, of course, the knife that James had taught me to carry, so long ago. I made sure there was money in my purse and then I was ready.

  I went downstairs. Annie was surprised to hear that I suddenly had an errand to Minehead but I cut her short when she tried to ask questions

  ‘I shall stay the night in the Wellington Hotel,’ I said. ‘I might even be there for two nights. I don’t know how long my shopping will take. I’ll take Glossy, since no one else is using him just now.’ Goldfinch and Copper were dead, but we had bred from Goldfinch and the gelding Glossy was her son. ‘Let William know when he comes in from the fields,’ I said. Then I set off.

  It was a warm day but not hot and without the flies which bedevil the summer. It took me the rest of the afternoon to reach Minehead and it was too late to go looking for a bookshop. I did wonder vaguely why I hadn’t at least tried Dunster first but from the start, the word Minehead had been imprinted in my mind. I would settle into the Wellington, I said to myself, and go to the shops in the morning.

  I dined early, and then, because the evening had turned cool, I sat in a small lounge, where there was a fire. There were others there, three women and two men. They were all quiet-spoken and well dressed but did not look wealthy. They were obviously a family group and seemed to consist of two married couples and someone’s sister. They were talking animatedly together and took little notice of me beyond a few polite nods to admit me to the gathering, as it were. There was a free armchair not too far from the fire. I sat down and brought out my knitting.

  Listening to their talk, I gathered that the party had come from Lynmouth, the port along the coast thirteen or so miles beyond Porlock. They seemed to be here on business of some kind in Minehead, but proposed to travel on to Taunton to deal with further business the next day, making an outing of it.

  The business, in which the two men were evidently partners, apparently concerned household goods such as glassware and saucepans and cutlery which they sold at their shop in Lynmouth. They wanted to expand and were looking at possible shop premises in Minehead and Taunton. I listened with half an ear, while I clicked my needles. A waiter came in to ask if anything was wanted and one of the men asked for a brandy. The other one laughed and said no, he would have a cider, and perhaps the womenfolk would like wine? I shook my head when the waiter glanced at me. The order was taken and the waiter went away.

  The man who had chosen cider said that brandy these days came too expensive. ‘Pity the free traders are almost a thing of the past,’ he observed.

  And then, making me suddenly alert, ears no longer casual but on the prick, the other one said: ‘They aren’t quite. That fellow Ralph Duggan’s still bringin’ in a drop or two, so I’ve heard. Based in Minehead, b’ain’t he? Still runnin’ his old Moonlight. Might be an idea to call on him while we’re here.’

  One of the women said: ‘Bert, I don’t like that kind of talk, you know I don’t. Don’t matter to me what the free traders get up to but I don’t want us gettin’ mixed up in things like that there.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Bet; half the countryside still buys the odd bit of contraband. It b’ain’t the customers as run the risks.’

  Bet frowned, which didn’t at all suit her broad, good-humoured face and with air of detaching herself from the conversation, she rose to her feet as the waiter came in, to help distribute the drinks. Bert, however, was continuing to talk. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind a chance of some good brandy at easy prices. Who would? And if Ralph Duggan’s the man to talk to, well, why not?’

  Unexpectedly, the waiter broke in. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, I wouldn’t talk like that, not just now, or here.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Bert’s business partner was annoyed. ‘This here’s just private chat in a private room.’ He clearly didn’t count me as mattering.

  ‘Chances are, the cargo the Duggans are bringing in tonight’ll be their last. There’s talk in the taproom that the Revenue are on to ’em. Seemingly, there’s someone in the crew that the Duggans shouldn’t have trusted. There’s to be a landing somewhere and the Customs men know of it. I’d keep well clear of the Duggans if I were you.’

  He went away again. I realized that I had stopped clicking my needles, and I hastily resumed. My companions were now talking about family matters. I remained quietly knitting until I felt that I had waited long enough to allay any suspicion. Then I put my knitting into its bag, said goodnight, received civil if absent-minded goodnights in reply – I think they had forgotten that I was there at all – and went upstairs.

  I changed back into the stout dress and boots and leggings I had worn for the ride, and put on my countrywoman’s hat, the sturdy leather-lined affair I used when riding or working out of doors. I put on my warm shawl and pushed my purse into a pocket on my dress with a few other oddments, including my knife. Then I slipped down a back staircase, fortunately managing not to meet anyone on the way, went quietly out of a back door and out into the night.

  I made haste, on foot, along the cobbled main street to the shore. The street was empty, which was a relief, because a woman on her own, after dark, was always something to stare at. A dog cart passed me, going away from the sea, the horse’s hooves ringing on the cobbles. When I reached the shore I turned quickly left and hurried on towards the harbour. The night was clear and the moon, nearing the full, was rising; I could see my way well enough. To my right, the sea murmured with a low voice. I hastened on, cursing inwardly because it seemed a long way along the track above the beach, until I reached the harbour wall.

  The harbour was, and is, fair-sized, and the wall curves out into the sea like a crooked forefinger. It breaks the force of the sea and keeps the harbour sheltered. I paused to examine the scene and then, feeling my heart and stomach, both together, plunge down into my boots, I saw what I had dreaded.

  Ralph was on his way. There was the Moonlight, under sail, making use of the light wind to manoeuvre herself away from the quay. I was just too late. Tears rose up in me. It had all been no use; my swift response to that strange imperative; my sharp ears and careful reactions in the hotel lounge, my hurried dressing, my rapid walk.


  Or was I too late? With a surge of hope, I saw that I was standing above one of the steep stone stairways down inside the wall, giving access to the water and the boats. Just below me, quiet on the peaceful water of the harbour, some small boats were moored. Because the wind was so slight, the Moonlight was moving very slowly. I might just do it.

  I started down the steps.

  It was dangerous. The moonlight might be bright but it was also misleading. The steps were rough, narrow and slippery and although there was a rail of sorts along the wall side, it was a shaky affair and as slippery as the steps and on the other side there was nothing but a sheer drop. I clutched at the rail, groped carefully for a sound foothold at every step, and muttered things under my breath that no lady should ever mutter. I must get there, I must reach the Moonlight. I must, must, get to Ralph!

  I was down and scrambling into a boat. I found her mooring rope and discovered that it was attached to her by a seaman’s knot. I couldn’t get it undone. I was crying with frustration when I remembered my knife. Once more, James’ precaution against the unexpected proved itself. Thank you, James. Seamen hate cutting ropes. I had once heard Josiah Duggan say to Ralph: ‘You never know when you might need a good length of rope, to repair damaged rigging with, or to haul a man to safety if he falls overboard. Never cut a rope unless you have to.’

  I did have to. I attacked the rope without a second thought, sawing frantically at it, for it was stout. I pulled in some buffers of thicker rope that were hanging over the sides, in case the boat should bump against one of its neighbours. They were heavy and I was gasping as I struggled with them. Then I sat down and seized the oars, thankful that I had learned to row during my long-ago stay with the Duggans, praying that I could still do it and determined to do it even if I had forgotten how. I would just have to make myself remember.

  I did remember. I rowed, splashing deliberately, to attract attention, and calling out between splashes. ‘Moonlight ahoy! Moonlight ahoy! Ralph! Ralph! Moonlight ahoy!’

  I was catching up. The Moonlight was tacking and it was taking time. I hailed her again and again and then at last came an answering hail and a glimpse of pale, moonlit faces looking towards me. ‘Ralph Duggan! Ralph Duggan!’ I bawled.

  I was alongside. The Moonlight was hardly moving now. The sails had been adjusted. Something – a rope ladder – was flung over her side. I stood up, wobbled, nearly fell in but managed to grab the ladder instead and begin to clamber up, and then someone with strong hands was helping me aboard, and there were orders being shouted about lowering gear to bring up the boat I’d used, and then I was on the deck, damp from spray, shivering with cold and with my arms aching from the unaccustomed rowing but otherwise none the worse.

  Things were being done to the sails again and the ship was under way once more. And there was Ralph, a lantern held high in his hand, looking to see who had come aboard and open-mouthed with astonishment when he recognized me.

  ‘Peggy!’

  ‘I came to warn you! Once again! Don’t land any contraband tonight! The Customs men are on to you! I overheard talk in the Wellington Hotel; you’ll sail right into their hands if you try to pick that cargo up … you’ve got someone untrustworthy in your crew and he’s reported your plans and …!’

  ‘Peggy!’ His voice was that of the old Ralph, the one before that dreadful quarrel. It was as though it had never happened. He was laughing. Laughing? I had come to save him, but after the things we had said to each other at our last meeting, I was chilly inside, fearing that he would reject me. But no. It wasn’t like that. His laughter had relief in it; he was glad that whatever we had said in the past, I was still concerned for him. So was I.

  ‘My dear, dear Peggy, good soul that you are! Well, how were you to know? I’m in no danger from the Revenue. I was the one who had that rumour put about – at least, Daniel Hopton did it for me. I told him to find a public house where he might be overheard by the wrong people, get drunk and let things out.’

  ‘Aye, and so I did.’ A face, vaguely familiar though older than when I last saw it, but adorned with well-remembered large ears, appeared behind Ralph’s shoulder. ‘Best task I ever was given. Enjoyed that, I did.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Hopton,’ I said faintly.

  ‘He was to hint about a landing at the cave,’ said Ralph. ‘The old cave that had the path opened up by the landslide. Where you once came to find me. The Revenue’ll be hovering round there tonight. While the Moonlight is somewhere else and I’m attending to something quite different. I don’t want the law interfering so I’ve made sure it won’t, only this time, I’m doing the law’s own work for it.’

  ‘But – what do you mean? What I heard …’

  ‘Was the echo of Mr Hopton’s efforts. Oh, hell!’ The ship had cleared the harbour now and her sails were filling. ‘I ought to put you back ashore but I don’t want to waste time. Getting in or out of the harbour takes so long. You’ll have to stay aboard. You can go below when … well, when things come to a head.’

  ‘Come to a …? Ralph, what do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ He studied me in the lantern light. His face was grave now, the laughter gone. He said: ‘In a way it’s right that you’re here. You and I were both victims.’ He put out a hand and touched one of mine. ‘When we last met, we argued,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. As I said, we have both been victims. We ought to feel for each other.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But, Ralph what do you mean about …?’

  ‘Whose boat did you steal?’ said Ralph interrupting. Then he called to someone behind me: ‘What name’s on that boat?’

  ‘Cockleshell!’ someone replied.

  Ralph grinned. ‘Poor Mr Hayward’s going to be annoyed tomorrow. Never mind. He’ll get her back and I’ll make it up to him somehow.’ He turned back to me. ‘Come below, Peggy. I’ve some good wine in the cabin; reckon you’ll be glad of it. It’s a chilly night and always colder on the sea. You’ll soon see what all this is about. Come.’

  The Overdue Reckoning

  A second lantern appeared behind Ralph. ‘Let me lead the way,’ said a familiar voice.

  ‘John?’ I said, startled.

  ‘Yes, he’s here,’ Ralph said. ‘Lead on, my lad.’ As we moved towards a companionway, he added: ‘It was John who began all this. He has to be here. Mind your footing.’

  Down below, things were dark and cramped and smelt fetid. However, in the small cabin to which John led us there was a kind of comfort, as there were lanterns, a table and chairs and a bench along one wall. From a cupboard, John and Ralph produced glasses and a bottle of wine. I sat on the bench and sipped and felt much warmer than when I was on deck. But still bewildered.

  ‘Just what is going on?’ I asked.

  ‘It will all become clear, once we’re well out to sea,’ John said. ‘We don’t want to talk about it till then in case the wrong person happens to overhear something.’

  Ralph said, in a low voice: ‘Take it that we’re planning a very nasty surprise for someone.’

  John said: ‘Ma, you look tired. Mr Duggan, can she lie down in your cabin for a while? It’ll be an hour or more before we’re far enough out.’

  Ralph agreed, and showed me the way. I sank down thankfully on his bed. ‘I had no idea that John’s ship was in port,’ I said.

  ‘She’s been across the Atlantic and back, this time,’ Ralph said. ‘There are always repairs after a voyage like that. That’s how all this came about. John had an errand into Minehead and … you’ll hear, later. Try to sleep. I’ll leave a lantern.’

  I was indeed tired but I didn’t expect to sleep. I did, though. Only seconds seemed to pass between seeing Ralph leave the cabin and the moment when I heard John urging me to wake up. I got up, still bemused with sleep, but shook myself awake and followed my son up on deck, to learn the meaning of the mystery.

  The ship had heaved to, and was rocking gently on an easy sea. On deck, extra lanterns had been hung up to make a pool of light. I
n the middle of this was a table on which stood a large wooden box with a lid. All the men seemed to be gathered round. There were seven altogether. As well as Ralph and John, Daniel Hopton was there, and a youngish man whom I realized, because of their resemblance, was probably Ralph’s son Charlie, and two that I didn’t know at all and one more whose face did seem dimly familiar, though I couldn’t place it.

  There was an atmosphere: tense, grim. I found that I was nervous, though I did not know why. John guided me to a place between him and Ralph and then Ralph said: ‘This is a solemn business and as we have no padre aboard, I’ll have to take his place, the way captains do when, as sometimes happens, they marry people. So I think we’ll start with a prayer. Almighty God, we beseech thee, please to look with favour upon this humble attempt to set right a wrong and bring justice about, however late in time it comes. Amen.’

  Everyone dutifully said amen.

  It was then that I noticed that of the seven faces I could see in the lantern-light, six seemed quite calm, if unsmiling, but one looked puzzled. That was the man I thought I had seen before. I found that I was now not just nervous, but afraid.

  Ralph said: ‘No more delay, now. Mr John Bright has something to tell us and to show us. Mr Bright?’

  John said: ‘My ship, the Eleanor Browne, is in Minehead for the usual repairs after a long voyage. Nothing big – her crew are seeing to them. We’re all working hard and I had to get permission to be here tonight. But Captain Summers granted it because he has a stake in this. He did not think it proper to be present himself but he said I might do so, and he also swore never to speak of it to anyone, not one soul. My fellow crewmen think I have been sent ashore on ship’s business.

  ‘We’ve been in port over a week now. On the first day, I was sent to the ship’s chandlers in the main street to buy new ropes and some paint and I did so. We have the proprietor of that shop here with us, since he also sails with the free traders at times. There he is. Mr Laurence Wheelwright.’ He pointed, briefly, at the man I had half-recognized, and then recognition flooded back, all the way from the inquest, long ago, on Maisie Cutler. Of course! Laurence Wheelwright! Her other beau.