Page 67 of The Cornish Mermaid

Kit smiled. He’d been a boy like that once himself, and it had taken a lot of wheedling to persuade Jago to at last let him come on that first trip to Brittany. How exciting it had been to sail across the channel in the middle of the night in a little fishing boat, load up with a few kegs of brandy and then sail back again in full view of the revenue cutter, the brandy secreted under a catch of silver darlings.

Tregothnan knocked his beaker against Kit’s and Judd’s. “Yeghes da, then.”

“Yeghes da,” they rejoined, using the old Cornish salutation.

As Judd and Aleck took out their baccy pouches and began tamping tobacco down into their pipes for a companionable smoke, Kit looked past his two friends toward the little harbor.

A peaceful setting, and as typically Cornish as they came. Small fishermen’s cottages like Judd’s clustered the slope above the harbor, clinging on like limpets on a rock at low tide, as if they’d grown there rather than been built. Already, the women were setting empty baskets outside their doors in anticipation of their men returning with a good catch, and the smell of frying bacon and potatoes filled the air. At least some of these people were eating meat tonight thanks to him. If only he could help more of them.

Lost in his reverie, Tregothnan made him start when he suddenly slapped his knee. “Come along-a me then, Kitto. If we’re to get somethin’ ter eat tonight we’d best git along back ter the inn.”

And within a minute or two, they were walking uphill toward the abbey ruins and the inn where they’d left their belongings.

*

Morvoren

Shouts and screams disturbed Morvoren’s dreams. Pushing the covers of the narrow bed back, she sat up. The shouts continued… along with bangs. Whatever was going on? Moonlight streaming in through the small, curtainless window showed her Ysella sleepily rubbing her eyes, as confused as she was.

“What on earth’s all that noise?” Ysella asked, sitting up. “Sounds like people fighting.”

Morvoren reached for her shawl and pulled it around her shoulders. “I’ll take a look out of the window.”

Just at that moment a loud report, like a gunshot, went off, and both girls instinctively ducked, reaching out to grab hold of each other. “What the hell?” Morvoren managed.

Ysella snatched up her own shawl. “Are we safe? Is it the French invading?”

Disentangling herself from Ysella’s hold, Morvoren went to the window. Wary of being spotted from outside, she peered out with caution. The moonlit front yard of the inn was full of soldiers, all in red jackets and carrying long guns of some kind.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, glancing back at Ysella, whose face had blanched deathly pale. “I think it must be. There’re armed soldiers outside the inn in the middle of the night. What else can it be?”

Ysella jumped out of bed and hurried to stand beside Morvoren. “They’re not French soldiers. They’re ours.” She craned her neck around, trying to look along the front of the inn. “I don’t see any French uniforms, and these just seem to be standing around looking fierce.” She paused, head tilted to one side. “But there are an awful lot of them.”

A hammering rattled the bedroom door so loudly it nearly sent Morvoren’s heart leaping out of her mouth. “Who’s there?” she called, clutching her shawl even more tightly, terrified they were about to be faced with burly soldiers thinking they were up to no good. Which of course they were, really. Although how could the soldiers know that?

“Sam,” came the reply. “Are you all right? Can I come in?”

Ysella glanced at Morvoren, who nodded, conscious of the fact that they were only wearing their shifts and not their usual voluminous nightgowns and might be putting themselves in a compromising position. “Come in,” Ysella called.

Sam was wearing only his breeches and shirt and carrying a candle, but his feet were bare. James the coachman was right behind him, similarly attired and also with a candle. No sign of John. Hopefully he was standing guard over the hired horses.

“Come away from the window,” Sam ordered. “Shots have been fired and it’s not safe.”

Ysella and Morvoren stepped back, but neither sat down. “What’s going on?” Morvoren asked. “Where have all those soldiers come from?”

The moonlight glinted on the pistol Sam was holding, which undoubtedly must have been loaded. Hopefully he’d be keeping his finger away from the trigger. “A raid,” he said. “A midnight raid.”

Morvoren’s hand tightened on her shawl. “What on earth are they raiding this inn for? And why are we surrounded by soldiers in the middle of the night?”

“They’re raiding in search o’ free traders, Miss Lucas,” James said. “It’ll be a surprise raid to catch ’em unawares. There’s a lot o’ smugglin’ goes on hereabouts.”

Didn’t she know it.

Ysella and Morvoren exchanged horrified glances. If they were carrying out a raid here, at Jamaica Inn, which was a long way inland, then might it be part of the county wide purge on smugglers described in the museum? Was Kit at this moment on the beach at Nanpean being shot by a soldier? Were they destined to be too late to save him?

“No need to be frightened,” Sam said with seeming confidence. “James and I will station ourselves outside your door and prevent anyone from entering.” But Morvoren could see he was as worried as she was that this might be a sign that they were going to be too late to save his employer… his childhood friend.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside the still open door, and the landlord’s daughter came hurrying in, also dressed in only her shift and an enveloping knitted shawl that rendered her far more modest than either Ysella or Morvoren. “Ooh, Miss,” she gasped as soon as she saw the girls. “They’s arrestin’ all the men wot’s still in the taproom an’ searchin’ every room and outhouse.” She looked at Ysella and Morvoren. “Best prepare yerselves fer bein’ searched.”