Pengelly's Daughter

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘I tell ye, I heard something.’ His knife ashed in the moonlight.

  ‘Probably just a fox.’

  ‘It was voices, I tell ye.’

  ‘Leave be. Ye’re so edgy these days – ye’d jump at your own shadow.’

  ‘Quiet…listen.’

  He was halfway across the clearing, clearly visible in the moonlight. He was tall, thin, turning from side to side, his arms poised to ght. In one hand, he held a knife, in the other a pistol. I shrunk further under my cloak – petried my petticoat would be showing beneath my skirt. I need not have worried – Jenna’s carefully starched white cotton was indistinguishable in the mud.

  The man swung round, raising the pistol, ‘Who’s there? Come out or I’ll shoot.’

  ‘It’s an owl, ye idiot,’ came the voice from the re. ‘Have some ale. Ye’ve been that jumpy all night.’

  ‘Ye know our orders – no-one gets through. And I tell ye, I heard voices.’ He cocked the pistol, once more turning in my direction.

  He could not have been more than ten yards away when a sudden crack lled the air. A rope ew out of the woods, whirring across the clearing, wrapping itself round the man. His arms were pinned to his sides with such ferocity the knife and pistol fell from his hands. The rope tightened, jerked viciously, dragging him sideways until he stumbled and fell. James leapt from the darkness and secured a gag. The watchman could do nothing but stare, petried, as his faceless assailant began winding the rope round him with lightning speed. Before the other watchman had even turned, James grabbed the fallen pistol and vanished in the darkness.

  ‘Samuel?’ The man by the re rose, ‘Samuel? For chrissake stop messin’ about. Where’ve ye gone?’

  He began edging towards the sound of grunting, pistol poised. Immediately, he was gripped from behind, cold iron pressing against his temple. He dropped his pistol, standing frozen to the spot. The pressure on his arm would leave him in no doubt who was the stronger and the watchman was clearly no fool. He put up no resistance, stumbling only with fear as he was forced against a nearby tree.

  I heard, rather than saw, the ropes being bound. So that was how he did it. That was how the gaoler had been pulled from the cart, how Ben had been forced against the tree. James Polcarrow’s chest was still heaving. He pulled his scarf down to breathe and I stared at him, once again, shrinking from the hand he offered.

  ‘Rose, what did you expect? Your life was in danger – don’t you realise they’d have killed you? These are ruthless men and whoever hired them will be every bit as ruthless – probably more. I didn’t hurt them. They’ll just have a few bruises and a lot of explaining to do.’ He saw I was shaking and took a step forward, his jacket brushing against my cloak. ‘I should never have put you in such danger. If anything happened to you…’ his voice caught.

  We stood in silence, touching but not touching. ‘Where did you learn that rope trick?’

  ‘It’s what the native men of the Americas use. I was taught it by a man who saved my life. He taught me everything – how to merge with the darkness, how to follow without being seen, how to anticipate people’s movements. He taught me to survive, Rose, and that’s all I do. I never instigate violence – you should know that. Come, I’ll get you back to safety.’

  I knew we had to go back. I should never have come, but his words tore at my heart, reminding me of when he had said them to me last. His jacket hung open, the top buttons of his shirt undone. I could see a ne layer of sweat glistening on his chest. He removed his hat and wiped his brow. Dark stubble covered his chin and I felt the pain of intense longing. A terrible, desperate, yearning for Jim – for how things might have been.

  This night would soon be over. This moonlit, stolen night, would soon be over. Somehow, I could not bear for it to end. ‘Are those watchmen very securely tied?’ I asked, forcing myself away from the warmth of his jacket.

  ‘They aren’t going anywhere until someone undoes them.’

  ‘Then we’d be fools not to look in the building – I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t know what was in there. They must be smuggling.’

  ‘The distribution’s all wrong,’ he replied, quickly. ‘There are no roads to take the goods away – only elds. Let’s take a look.’

  The building was much larger than it looked and as we rounded the back, we stared in amazement. Covering every­thing was a ne layer of white powder. It shimmered in the moonlight, like snow in mid-summer. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Dust from kaolin. They call it china clay. They’ll have dug pits up on higher ground, and be using the stream to wash the clay. They’re drying it up there and bringing it down in its powder state.’

  A heavily indented track led through the wood and two large wagons stood piled high with hogsheads. Spare cartwheels leant against the building and bridles and harnesses hung from iron hooks. James looked furious. ‘Those hogsheads are waiting to be shipped, Rose. Do you see what’s happening? They need an outlet to the sea and you’ve just thwarted their attempt to access the river. It’s the obvious route – the river’s deep here, they’ll be planning on building a jetty.’

  ‘But surely those are your elds, your stretch of moorland?’

  ‘Is it still my land, Rose? Robert Roskelly and Thomas Warren are both self-made men. They’ve had years to sell off leases and make lucrative deals. Who knows what they’ve done in my absence. Like this creek.’

  A terrible thought crossed my mind. ‘How did the last owner of the creek die, James?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. Robert Roskelly may be in Bodmin, but his inuence is far from stemmed.’ His eyes softened, ‘Come, you’ve had more than enough for one night, I’m getting you home.’ He gripped my hand and did not let go.

  Nor did I want him to.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I sat in the stern as he rowed me back. I should have sat in the bow where our eyes could not meet. I should not have watched the grip of his wrists, the pull of his muscles. I should never have imagined the touch of his hands or watched the toss of his head or the tightening of his mouth.

  If I had sat in the bow and watched the river, my heart could have hardened. I could have parted with indifference, but as we climbed the cliff path and the cottages came into view, my heart was aching. To the east, the grey light of a new day revealed the night was nearly over. At the back gate, we stood facing each other. Behind us, clothes were apping on Mrs Tregony’s line, the hinge creaking as the gate blew gently in the breeze. I had to say goodbye but no words would come. James, too, seemed reluctant to go. It was as if an invisible web was binding us together.

  ‘Rose, let’s sit and watch dawn break.’

  Without waiting for my reply, he took off his jacket and laid it on the step. He drew me down and we sat, side by side, like the friends we were, and the lovers we could never be. Just this night, I promised myself – just this one stolen night. When day breaks and the cover of darkness lifts, she can have him back. It will be over.

  We sat in silence, the breeze against our cheeks. ‘Who was the man who saved your life?’

  James Polcarrow stared ahead. At rst I thought he would say nothing but he cleared his throat, his voice at. ‘A slave called Chevego, in a place called Virginia.’

  ‘Were you transported to Virginia?’

  ‘It’s where I ended up. I was transported to Baltimore in Maryland, only I wasn’t transported – I was sold as an indentured servant. The convict trade to Baltimore and Virginia was meant to be over – or at least those who fought against the disgorging of English thieves and cut-throats believed it to be. But there were still those who saw prot in the trade of convicts. I don’t suppose it mattered where I was sent, or who sold me – it would’ve been the same. I ended up in the hands of Captain Pamp, the master of the Swift, a particularly cruel man. He saw prot in selling us as indentured servants and claimed to be bound for Halifax, but his destination was always to be Baltimore
.’

  A look of loathing settled on his face.

  ‘Rumours began circulating we were bound for Africa and the mood was erce. Many of the convicts were hardened thieves, some even murderers. There was mutiny and though some escaped, most were recaptured. Captain Pamp quelled further unrest with his own unique brand of cruelty. We were ogged and starved, kept crammed in the hold and fettered in irons. The lth of Newgate still clung to us and the stench was unbearable. We rolled on the heaving ocean, awash in each other’s lth. Disease spread quickly, the dying racked in pain, their bowels like water, their vomit thick with blood. I couldn’t count all those that died.’

  He ran his hands through his hair. They were trembling.

  ‘Those of us who complained were treated worse. I shouted at them to unshackle a dying woman. A rat was gnawing her feet and I could hear her screaming. I was whipped to within an inch of my life and thrown in the cell they called the black hole. It was no bigger than an iron basket, I couldn’t stand, or lay. I spent seventy days trussed and handcuffed, hardly able to move, my skin chaffed and bleeding. I nearly starved but I was determined to survive. I was determined to return one day and expose the brutality and injustice of our system. I wanted to hold Captain Pamp to account.’

  ‘And when you got to Baltimore?’

  ‘It was Christmas Eve, thick ice had slowed our progress, but when we docked in Baltimore those of us who survived were sold as indentured slaves – business was slow, the people of Baltimore suspicious. I was painfully thin, wracked by a cough and had no trade. The privileged life of a landowner – as you’d be the rst to point out – equipped me for neither physical labour nor artisan work. They wanted printers or blacksmiths, coopers or wheelwrights. I was passed by.

  ‘After months of being paraded in chains and clamped in leg irons, Captain Pamp cut his losses and sold us to a dealer bound for Virginia. We were taken to a tobacco plantation along the St James River, ostensibly as servants, but slaves in any other language.

  ‘Man’s inhumanity to man knows no bounds. How can we be considered civilised when people condone slavery? It’s hell, Rose – a living hell. Endless days of living hell with slave owners inicting the severest torture. Unpardonable cruelty and unrelenting pain, just grinding on, remorselessly, day after day, year after year. You can’t imagine the lth, the hunger, the constant whipping and lashings, the raping of women, the abuse of men. But it’s the smile on their faces as they inict this living hell which haunts me, Rose.

  ‘It’s back-breaking work under a burning sun. The relentless heat, the ies. No shoes. No hat. No water. Just the faraway look in the men’s eyes and their singing. Their heart-wrenching, agonising singing about a land where they were free and a home they’ll never see again. Runaways are brought back and ogged, yet every day you plan your escape.’

  I wanted to put my arms around him, to soothe away the pain, but I sat motionless, my heart breaking.

  ‘I was chained to Chevego when we saw our chance – a eeting oversight of a careless overseer. We dived into a ditch and waited all day, expecting any time to be found and ogged. But dusk fell and we crawled to freedom. Through thousands of acres of tobacco plants.

  ‘Can you imagine how hard it is to break free of chains? It took us weeks, travelling by night, hiding by day. We were weak, our progress slow, and only when we chanced on a hut with an axe, did we manage to smash the iron bands that held us together. ‘He looked up, pain deep in his eyes. ‘I’d have starved if Chevego hadn’t known what plants to eat. His people were Native Americans who live by the land. We’d no language in common but words were unnecessary. He taught me how to walk unheard, how to use the rope, how to hide from danger.

  ‘We stayed constantly on the lookout. Everyone has to carry discharge papers, or have signed permission to travel. Bounty money’s good – people are always on the watch for runaway slaves. Chevego taught me to trap animals and catch sh, how to use animal skins and sharpen ints but I knew he was getting restless. One morning I found him putting dried meat into his pouch. His homeland was calling, he needed to return to his people. He was my only friend and I can’t tell you how hard it was for me to watch him walk away.’

  He had lowered his voice to no more than a whisper. ‘I made my way to Charlestown, Virginia. It’s a new town with money being invested in buildings. I found work for a pittance, no questions asked, no papers needed. I even found lodgings and kept my head down. My plan was simple. I’d earn enough money to return to England. Somehow, I’d prove my innocence. I was determined to expose Robert Roskelly for the murderer he was. Do you really want to know all this, Rose?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ The pain was almost unbearable.

  ‘There’s a criminal network who arrange for convicts to return to England. Their fee’s substantial, of course, but when I thought I had enough, I met a man on the docks and my hard-earned money was exchanged for a ticket back to the ‘old homeland’ – that’s how he put it. The ship was to sail on the tide. Two days out at sea, we were attacked by a French privateer seeking English blood.

  ‘I survived by speaking the French taught to me by my tutor. I spoke just enough to convince them I wasn’t English and I survived – but swapped one hell for another. The life of a privateer is brutal and murderous and, once again, it was living hell. The crew were captive men and the captain knew we’d jump ship at any opportunity. He kept us out at sea and when we docked, kept us locked below decks. I didn’t step foot ashore for more than two years. Two years, Rose, of endless looting and plundering, of drunken violence, lashings and disease.

  ‘But I learnt to survive and rose through the ranks. My French was uent by this time and I learnt to navigate. Then chance stepped in. Sickness was rife, sailors dying and we needed more men. As land took shape, I went to the captain and persuaded him we needed more men. I said I knew what I was about and laughed as I touched my knife. He needed men like me. He gave me a jug of rum and slapped my back.

  ‘Our raiding party set out at nightfall. As we rowed ashore, I felt the rst glimmer of hope. The last eight years of my life had been cruelly stolen – my youth, my education, my prospects ripped from me, but I was alive and heading for dry land.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Havana – a lawless hotbed of vice. Each man in that raiding party slipped silently into the darkness but to survive in a place like that, you needed the sort of skills Chevego had taught me. I hid in the shadows, stepping over the victims of stabbings and, for over a year, I lived without trace.’

  He wiped his hand across the back of his mouth, his hand shaking. ‘Then, one night, a chance encounter brought me face to face with an Englishman – a Cornishman, to be precise. We were eeing from the same Spanish sailors and as we dived behind a mud shack, our knives drawn, he asked me my business and where I was from. He spoke with a Cornish accent and for the sake of our shared heritage, he invited me back to his lodgings. His name was Denzel Creed.’

  I could see uncertainty in his eyes, ‘Do you really want to hear all this, Rose?’

  ‘Of course I do, James,’ I whispered, trying to keep the sadness from my voice. ‘Was Denzel Creed a good man?’

  ‘No he wasn’t, but we talked of Cornwall. He was on his way to be tutor to the Governor of Dominica. The son was destined to follow his father into the navy but until he started his commission, he needed a tutor. As we talked, my resentment grew. I had been expected to go to Oxford. I was a baronet’s son, educated and well read, yet my education was long forgotten.

  ‘His boat was to sail in two weeks and I asked him to let me stay and read the few books he’d brought. I wanted to reacquaint myself with Virgil and Plato, smell the leather bindings, imagine I was back in my father’s library. He said I could do what I liked, so for two weeks I sat reading what I could. My brain was like a parched sponge.

  ‘Denzel Creed was never at the lodging. He was a gambling man, a heavy drinker. The early hours wou
ld see him lying drunk in the roadside. Then, one morning, after he’d not come back for two days, I went in search of him and found him lying in a ditch, the knife wound black with ies.

  ‘You can guess the rest, Rose, but don’t judge me harshly – it’s what happens. Any time you could be robbed or murdered and your identity stolen. If I hadn’t pretended to be him, someone else would have taken his papers.’

  ‘I’m not judging you,’ I whispered, ‘I’d have done the same.’

  A silence fell between us. Above us, pink streaks lit the grey sky. Dew had settled on the step, and across the silence, the rst hesitant crowing of a cockerel. I knew my time was up. I would have to go and quickly, too – before he spoke her name. I wrapped my cloak round me but, as I prepared to stand, he gripped my hand.

  ‘Hear me out, Rose – let me nish.’

  No, not her name. Please do not speak her name.

  His voice was soft, hardly above a whisper. ‘I settled well as a tutor, relishing every book in the library. Frederick Cavendish was slow and indifferent, but it suited my purpose. I studied for myself, tirelessly pursuing knowledge.’ My mouth was dry. I really, really did not want to hear this.‘…and for nearly eighteen months, I was drawn by the magnetic beauty of Arbella Cavendish – Frederick’s twin sister. She could dazzle a man from across the room and I was drawn, like a moth to a lamp, unable to take my eyes off her.

  ‘Finally, I could no longer keep my thoughts to myself and I sought her out. I chanced upon her in the garden, hiding from her maid, and I seized the opportunity to tell her how much she meant to me. She was kind but very rm. She told me her parents expected her to marry “well”, not throw herself away on a penniless tutor. She valued my company but it was out of the question and I was never to mention my feelings again.