Page 78 of The Cornish Mermaid

A second shot rang out, the flash of its firing high on the cliffs to Kit’s right.

“Revenue men,” Jago shouted. “Scatter.”

More shots went off, followed by angry shouts. From the telltale flare of each report there must be men both up on the cliff path and down on the beach, hiding amidst the rocky outcrops. Who had tipped them off?

No one needed telling twice. Without waiting to see what the men in the yawls would do, every man turned on the spot and headed back up the beach toward the deep, dry sand of the dunes.

Kit ran too, keeping to the rear of his men to make sure no one fell behind. Bullets thudded into the sand around his feet as he dodged sideways, his legs struggling as he reached the dry sand. To his right, a man fell in a spray of blood, his arms out-thrown as though pleading for help. Kit dropped to his knees and rolled him onto his front. Sightless eyes stared up at him as blood pooled under his head.

“Leave him,” Jago shouted. “Save yourself.”

Kit struggled upright and ran on. Nothing he could do for Clemo now. More bullets thudded into the dunes ahead as his men reached the path where they’d left the ponies waiting. Not waiting now. The sound of a hundred panicked hooves galloping up the path towards the farm echoed down the valley like distant thunder.

He was nearly there. Jago had already gained the solid ground of the track, the dunes left behind him. Kit’s lungs were bursting with the effort of running on the deep sand.

A report went off, the echo of it almost in his right ear. Kit staggered and fell before he realized he’d been hit. He rolled across the sand, for a moment confused, his left hand reaching for his upper arm. It felt numb but his fingers found the warm wetness of blood.

A strong arm yanked him to his feet. “Are you hit, boy?” Jago must have seen him fall and come back. “Can you walk?”

More shouts. A few more bullets bit into the sand, far too close for comfort.

Kit nodded, not sure if that were true, the world receding into a blurry fuzz. “It’s nothing. A flesh wound. It doesn’t even hurt.” His voice echoed in his head.

He let Jago drag him up the last bit of the dunes, the effort suddenly so enormous that his feet felt as though they were made of lead. He struggled for breath, and for a moment his head swam and he saw stars.

“Come on,” Jago growled, urgency in his voice. “They mustn’t catch you.”

Another man materialized on Kit’s right, his arm going around Kit’s waist. “Come on, Mr. Kitto.” Jowan.

The shots had died away. They must be reloading. Kit’s feet scuffed on the solid gravel. He was on the path now, the abandoned ponies long vanished, and the going was easier. A second wind came to Kit and with it, clarity of thought. He shook off Jago’s hold. “I’m all right now. It was the shock. I can walk by myself.”

“Yer’ll need ter run,” Jowan grunted.

Kit ran, one hand fast over the wound. He needed to stop the bleeding or he was going to faint and be caught, and what a scandal that would make if the revenue men caught themselves a free-trading viscount. The path was steep, but it was a path he was used to taking several times a day when he was in Cornwall, and he was a fit young man. His arm throbbed with every jarring step he took, but he ignored it and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as fast as he could, willing himself not to stumble over the uneven surface.

How short a time ago he’d helped Morvoren up this very path. Not even a fortnight. Who’d have thought he’d so soon be running up it for his very life? His thoughts, befuddled by the wound, jangled in his head as he ran. All he was conscious of was Jago and Jowan by his side and a blurry shape in skirts that had to be Jenifry running up ahead.

It seemed forever until the pale bulk of the farmhouse loomed out of the night. The last of the men must be scattering across country up the valley, heading for their homes as fast as they could go. Not a pony in sight. Jowan unhooked the gate, closing it behind them, and Kit staggered across the farmyard to the front door of the house where a welcoming light was already burning. Who could have lit it when they were all down on the beach?

Jago shoved open the front door and Jenifry tumbled inside. A man was standing by the table, one hand on the lantern, a slip of a boy in a tricorn hat just behind him.

“Good God, Kit!” Sam’s horrified voice rang out.

Kit slumped into the chair beside the range and closed his eyes, his arm on fire, all feeling returned.

Dimly, he heard footsteps as Jenifry ran to the door into the back kitchen and came running back with a pan of water which she set down with a thump on top of the range, the water slopping onto the fire with a hiss.

“They’ll be coming up the hill behind us.” Jago’s voice echoed in Kit’s head. “Get his dirty clothes off. Wash the soot off his face and hands. We have to hide that he’s been shot, or they’ll ha’ proof we was down there.”

Someone pulled Kit forward and took Jago’s old coat off, left arm first. Fingers, gentle and soft, went to the buttons on his shirt. Was that Jenifry? A ripping sound as the shirt was torn. Then pain as water ran over his wound.

“Burn that shirt,” someone said.

“It’s gone right through. He was lucky.” Whose anxious voice was that? He should recognize it, but try as he might, he couldn’t.

He wanted to open his eyes and look, but the lids were leaden and, try as he might, they wouldn’t obey him. Those gentle hands were dabbing at his arm again. Who was that? He’d had Jenifry’s ministrations as a boy often enough and this didn’t feel like her rough make do and mend.

“Bandages,” someone said, lifting his throbbing arm a little. Those same gentle hands began to bind it, the tightness of the bandages fierce. He winced at the pain but kept silent.