Her heartbeat quickened and she sat up and looked across at Rosalie. Her sister muttered something and rolled over, facing her. Adeline held her breath. Please don’t wake. Not now. Not when an adventure beckoned.
Rosalie’s breathing steadied and Adeline waited another few minutes before slowly peeling back her quilt. When her father started coughing again, she silently slipped out of bed. Under cover of her father’s noise she grabbed her skirt, bodice and woolen shawl, and tip-toed out to the main room.
The fire had died and the scent of ash lingered in the air. Dressing quickly, she picked up her knife and boots from the hearth and on chilly feet, padded to the cottage door. She waited for another bout of coughing before she eased back the bolt, stepped out into the night and quietly closed the door behind her.
While her eyes adjusted to the half-moon light, she put on her partially dried boots, tucked the knife into her waistband and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders.
The wind had strengthened since earlier in the evening and it buffeted her face and whipped tendrils of hair across her eyes. Tucking the strands behind her ears, she glanced towards the headland track that passed the cottage on the lee side.
Nothing moved in the gorse and other than a soft hoot from the night owl who lived in the pine tree by the fence, the track from the harbor appeared ghostly gray and deserted.
She listened intently and squinted into the dark. There had better not be anyone watching her leave or there would be trouble — and not just from Mama.
After another couple of minutes, when all seemed safe enough, she took the track in the opposite direction, towards the hazel tree that stood on the point of the cliff top.
From her earliest days she had spent many happy hours sitting amongst its large branches, watching the clouds float by and the fishing boats leave the harbor. Mama hadn’t cared for her to be there, saying countless times that a lady should never climb a tree, but that had never stopped her. Now she sought the hazel tree for its other big advantage — a perfect view of the beaches on either side of the headland.
She hitched up her skirt and climbed her way to the lowest branch. As she did, her knife slipped from her waistband and fell into the shrubs at the base of the tree.
Blast. Just what she didn’t need. She peered down but it was impossible to see anything in the dark. She leaned back against the trunk with a sigh. She’d have to search for it when she got down but for now she needed to pay attention to what was happening out at sea.
On the point of the reef, waves pounded the French cutter. The ship lay at an acute angle and water foamed around her exposed deck. The waves that rolled past her bow were swollen and deep black and only broke into cascades of white around the reef. Thankfully, she’d rowed in worse conditions many times. Tonight would hardly present a challenge.
Down to her right a number of men, mere shadows on the beach, were rolling barrels across to a horse and cart. Further away down the harbor, the galley boat was setting off for the run out to the wreck. Daniel must have coerced Johnson into helping him for there were six men at the oars and they were making good headway against the incoming swell.
To her left the cove sands were deserted. From here she couldn’t see Little Star tied to the shard at the base of the cliff but everything seemed quiet, with nothing out of the ordinary.
She scrambled down the tree and knelt at the spot where her knife had disappeared, gingerly feeling for her cutting blade amongst the prickly gorse. But the moon edged behind a bank of cloud, plunging her into darkness, and after several fruitless minutes in which her hands got badly scratched, she gave up the search.
It would have been useful to have had the knife tonight but it would have to stay buried until morning when she could see to find it.
She stood up and looked back at the cottage which loomed like a squat white cloud on the hill. Faintly on the wind came the sound of coughing and her heart constricted.
Poor Papa. She would not fail him now and without hesitation turned her feet towards the downhill track that led to the little cove.
Chapter Three
She hurried onto the beach just as the crescent moon reappeared from behind the bank of cloud. Its pale silver light bathed the cove and surging sea. Far out on the end of the reef, the French cutter appeared like a ghostly predator, lower in the water than when she’d seen it on the headland.
Tiny grains of sand, whipped up by the strengthening wind, whirled around her legs as she ran over to the rocks at the southern end of the beach. Little Star rode the waves not three yards away and she quickly untied the anchoring rope from the bronze ring and hauled the dinghy to the waterline.
She jumped in, grabbed the oars and used them to push the boat off the wet sand. Once buoyant, she locked the oars into place and took her seat.
‘All right girl, let’s make this fast.’
Gritting her teeth she yanked on the oars and pulled with all her strength. Little Star charged forward, rising and falling with the waves. Adeline watched the shoreline recede and soon the headland became a dark, featureless smudge.
She rowed towards the end of the reef, further out than she’d normally go to cut seaweed. Easing off at last, she spun in her seat and drew in her breath with a gasp. Those poor Frenchies hadn’t stood a chance.
The cutter’s main mast, outlined by swinging lanterns on the wrecked quarterdeck, had been sheared in two, the top half bent almost double to the deck. With each rolling wave, the ship listed further onto the treacherous rocks and a large gash had opened up on the ship’s port side. The planking had been ripped and gouged, and white-flecked water swirled around the opening. Men scrabbled on the tilted deck, frantically trying to lower a rowboat over the bulwark, away from the pounding waves.
It looked a hopeless task but with luck the Fencarrow rowboat, coming up from the south, would gather some contraband and bring the sailors to safety. But if she hoped to avoid detection, she must find a keg and row back to the cove with all haste.
The lanterns on the cutter threw an eerie light over barrels, tins, canvas and bits of lumber floating on the surface of the water. One small keg rode the waves not thirty feet away, and altering direction, she rowed at an angle to the swell and pulled up alongside it.
The keg was no more than a foot high and wide, banded with thick iron straps. The bung that plugged the lid had swollen, which had hopefully kept the contents from spoiling. She let go of the oars and reached over to bring the keg aboard.
‘Hens’ teeth.’ It was more awkward than she’d imagined hauling it over the side and she had no desire to overturn. She let the keg flop back into the water and rode the waves in thought. The only thing of any use was the anchor rope.
She hurriedly dragged it from under her seat and lashed the keg with it, over and over until the knots pulled tight. Praying they would hold, she grabbed the oars and aimed the bow for shore with the keg trailing behind.
The cold wind knifed her body and sent spray flying into the air. It drenched her shawl and seeped down her neck but it was a small discomfort to pay for Papa.
She rose to the top of the next wave and sucked in an icy breath. The Fencarrow galley boat had come around the ocean side of the cutter and was now approaching the stricken ship from her side of the reef. The men would want to row into the wind to stop the galley from smashing onto the rocks — but she was now in their line of sight.
She frantically hauled on the oars but Daniel, sitting in the stern with Johnson in front of him, had seen her. He furiously waved his arms and yelled something at her but his words got lost in a huge gust of salt-laden air that kicked up over the sea.
Johnson’s hat, the one he wore without fail, went sailing high into the air. For a second she couldn’t see where it had gone but then Johnson lurched to his feet to snatch it and the galley tipped, throwing him off balance.
‘Look out,’ she cried.
Daniel leaned over to grab him. But Johnson had gone beyond the tipping point a
nd fell head first into the water. The swell took him quickly and within seconds, he was yards away, flailing in the water.
She lost sight of him as her dinghy slid down the next wave. Rowing to the top of the next crest, she scanned the ocean. Johnson thrashed in the sea to her left, about fifty yards away.
She glanced at the galley and breathed a sigh of relief. Daniel had ordered the boat to turn around. They’d get Johnson and she could be on her way.
But wait — what? — no!
They weren’t turning towards Johnson. They were rowing around the cutter like the devil rode their backs.
Then she saw why. Beyond the wreck, a three-masted customs lugger, with at least ten guns thrusting from its side, had crept around the point. The men from the village had seen it just in time. Shots rang out across the water. Daniel’s men rowed for the harbor, the galley surfing the waves with exceptional speed.
A whiff of gunpowder carried on the breeze, followed by another round of musket fire. The custom’s men were coming closer.
Keeping low, she glanced wildly around for Johnson. He’d drifted another thirty yards further away and thrashed spasmodically in the swell. As she watched, his head sank from sight.
Dread stole over her and goosebumps broke out on her arms. She had to row for shore. If she were caught with the keg she’d be tried for smuggling and could hang. But — she couldn’t live with herself if she let a man drown even when others had left him to die.
Her breath came fast and she glanced back at the keg. She’d lashed it so well with the anchor rope that without her knife there was no way she could release it before the preventative officers found her. She’d have to leave Little Star with its incriminating evidence and hope the officers didn’t find her boat in the waves.
In five seconds she’d pulled off her shawl and thrown it into the water. Fixing Johnson’s position in her mind, she dived over the side. Her clothes dragged her down … down … down into the deep. The cold slapped her like a whip and she surfaced on a huge gasping breath. She struck out, legs kicking hard.
Every time she crested a wave she searched for Johnson. Nearer and nearer she came to him but —
Oh heavens! The revenue officers had launched their rowboat and they were heading her way. Please, please don’t let them see her amongst the waves.
She picked up her pace, frantically slicing through the water towards Johnson. Stroke after stroke until she reached the exhausted man.
‘Mr. Johnson,’ she yelled above the howling wind. ‘It’s Adeline. Hang on to my shoulder.’
Johnson looked at her with panic-filled eyes and threw himself at her head. ‘Save me. I cannot swim.’
They both went under. She fought hard to haul him to the surface again. ‘Don’t push me down,’ she spluttered. ‘Hold onto my shoulder and I’ll swim you to shore.’
Johnson didn’t seem to register what she’d said and not wanting him to push her under again, she slapped his face.
He reared back. ‘You bitch!’
Shocked and fast losing patience, she yelled into his face. ‘Put your hand on my shoulder and kick. I’ll take you into the cove.’
He must have understood at last because he locked his hand onto her shoulder with a death grip. She got an arm around his neck and started towing his dead weight but the waves hampered her.
‘Kick your feet,’ she cried, grimacing in pain.
Her arms ached as they’d never ached before and she’d swallowed enough water to make her sick. She nearly did throw up when the revenue rowboat slid down a wave not five yards away.
A whimper of fear fell from her lips as six men pointed pistols at her head.
‘Hell. It’s a woman,’ one man shouted. Voices rose but they were cut short by the authoritative voice of a silver-haired man sitting in the bow. ‘Hold steady men. Lower your weapons and get those two on board.’
‘Aye, Mr. Booth, sir.’
The rowboat edged closer, and while two men steadied their oars to balance the craft, several rough hands dragged her and Johnson over the lip of the boat and down onto the wooden planks.
Her hip scraped on the edge before she collapsed next to Mr. Booth’s feet, shivering violently and retching seawater.
‘We nearly didn’t see you,’ he said in French. ‘And your friend here,’ he kicked Johnson’s foot, ‘ought to thank his lucky stars you can swim, eh?’
His quizzical eyes bored into her and she retched again — beyond caring. He frowned, removed his jacket and placed it over her, before grabbing his oars. ‘Turn back men and let’s get this sorry lot on the Gallien.’
It didn’t take the men long to row back to the customs lugger and once on board, she and Johnson were locked in a cabin. No bigger than Violet’s stall, it had a paned window and a wooden bed bolted to the wall. A lantern sat on a rickety table but rather than throwing a cozy light on the room it emphasized the rough timbers of the overhead beams that creaked and moaned in the wind.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose but refusing to be daunted, she stumbled to the window. The lock didn’t budge.
On a charged breath that bordered on a sob, she sat down on a hard-backed chair in front of the table. Johnson had collapsed on the floor and rivulets of seawater pooled around his body and trickled under the door. He hadn’t said a word since they’d been arrested.
A key sounded in the door lock and Mr. Booth entered, wearing a dry navy jacket. He’d meticulously folded his neck cloth into a no-nonsense style and had combed his hair neatly, the part dead-center down the middle.
While she appreciated a well-dressed man, his perfection and control hinted at a man who concerned himself with details — and something inside her trembled at that.
His nostrils flared in distaste. ‘Here, dry yourselves with these.’ He handed them each a thin blanket. She wrapped hers around her shoulders and grimaced at the pain in her arms. The swim had taken a lot out of her but Johnson looked worse. He huddled under his blanket, his face ashen with exhaustion.
Mr. Booth sidestepped the growing puddle and raked his gaze over him. ‘Qui êtes-vous?’
The question had been roughly asked, with the irregular accent of a non-native speaker. Johnson looked at Mr. Booth with the blank expression of one who’d spent too much energy fighting for his survival to reply.
‘Qui êtes-vous? Répondez-moi.’
Johnson shrugged and spat a glob of phlegm at the man’s feet.
Her breath hitched in her chest. They’d both get punished if Johnson kept up his dangerous behavior.
She made to speak but Mr. Booth swiveled and asked her in French if Johnson were deaf.
‘Non, monsieur. II est très fatigué.’ She shrugged and added in English. ‘And I’m sure he does not know the language.’
Mr. Booth’s eyes widened. ‘You speak our language well, Mademoiselle … ?’
‘Perran. Adeline Perran,’ she said quietly. ‘And I speak it well sir because I’m English.’
An arrested expression crossed his angular face. ‘So I take it you are not from the cutter?’
‘No sir. Mr. Johnson and I live in Fencarrow.’
He studied her intently. ‘You speak French fluently? You can read and write the language?’
She sighed, utterly weary. What did it matter that she could? ‘Yes, sir. My mother’s French and taught me the language from childhood.’
‘Interesting.’ There seemed to be a restrained excitement about him as if he’d just discovered something pleasing. ‘So you were smuggling, eh? Thinking to get some contraband and sell it?’
Her lips twisted in answer which he read without any trouble.
‘There are hefty penalties for smuggling and your chances of escaping the gallows or transportation are slim.’ He bent towards her, his jaw rigid with suppressed menace. ‘Don’t think your gender will save you.’
She clutched her stomach to ward off his venom. Twenty was too young to face the gallows. She had a whole lifetime ahead, adventu
res to live and one day, a man and children to love.
She shivered uncontrollably. If only she’d listened to Papa and not done what he’d expressly forbidden her to do. She should have waited on the beach for the barrels to roll in but she’d been too eager to be part of the action.
An officer poked his head around the door. ‘Sir, we’ve found a dinghy and there’s a keg lashed to it. The men are cutting it off now and we’ll have it aboard in a few minutes.’
Mr. Booth’s face grew serious. ‘Thank you. See that the keg is stored in the lieutenant’s cabin and inform him that we’ll make for Weymouth immediately.’
She sucked in a breath. They were heading out of Cornwall?
The officer must also have found this odd. ‘Pardon me, sir, but isn’t there a closer assize court in Plymouth?’
‘There is,’ Mr. Booth said coolly, ‘but I have a special reason for wanting to go to Weymouth.’
‘Very well, sir.’ The officer inclined his head and withdrew.
What reason could Mr. Booth have for taking them so far away? She thought quickly but nothing came to mind except a sick, hollow feeling that no-one from Fencarrow could help her now.
Mr. Booth shot her a look from under his gray-flecked brows. ‘I take it the dinghy is yours?’
She looked into his cold eyes. She should lie but it would be too easy to prove Little Star belonged to her, and she couldn’t put her family in danger. With a sinking heart, she nodded.
‘Then there can be no doubt now,’ Mr. Booth said gravely, his glance taking in Johnson on the floor. ‘You will both be tried before the magistrate at the next quarter sessions. You must prepare yourselves.’
Tried before a magistrate? Dear Lord. She hadn’t a hope of convincing him of her innocence. Not with the keg in her dinghy. A violent shudder skittered down her spine and this time it wasn’t due to the cold.
Mr. Booth noticed and added curtly, ‘I will ensure you both have dry clothes. Can’t have you dying of a chill now, can we?’
‘Not when you can hang us instead,’ she said bitterly.
An Unwilling Spy Page 3