Page 36 of The Cornish Widow

Chapter Seventeen

Afull week later, Jack stood on the cliffs with Will Richards, outside Porth en Alls, the house Will shared with his wife, Eliza, and elderly mother-in-law. Raising a leisurely hand, he shaded his eyes from the brightness of the evening sun as they watched The Fly slip neatly into harbor in Bessie’s Cove. A narrow channel that was never empty even at low tide, ideal for a shallow drafted lugger, existed under the western cliffs, and it was to this berth that Daniel Bussow was expertly maneuvering the neat little ship.

As they watched, young Harry, holding a rope, stepped nimbly off the deck and onto the iron rungs of the ladder fixed to the rocks to swarm nimbly up to the makeshift quayside. The sailors furled the lowered sails, and The Fly settled into her temporary dock like a gull returning to its roost. Jack couldn’t deny that he was glad to see her back after so long away. His feet itched to feel her heaving deck beneath them.

He wrinkled his nose. “I hope they’ve got rid of the stink of fish down below.”

This remark made Will chuckle. “Don’t fret yourself. They’ll’ve been in barrels, as usual, so they won’t have left no stink on your precious ship. And anyway, Dan’l will’ve picked up a cargo of baccie from the Channel Isles, ready to take across to France. That’s strong enough smelling to overpower fish any day.”

Jack’s turn to laugh. “You’ve said that before, and it’s not been true. We’ve a long voyage to make tonight, over to Roscoff, and I don’t want the smell of fish oil disturbing it.”

Ignoring his friend’s fussiness, Will turned towards the cliff path. “Shall we go down?”

The two men strode down the narrow path, their booted feet scuffing up the dust and pebbles, and their view of The Fly vanished, hidden by the vegetation that edged the cliffs. They wouldn’t be able to see her again until they were on the path to her mooring.

Over to Jack’s right, a column of smoke wound up into the darkening sky from Keynvor Cottage’s chimney. Hopefully, Harriet and her brood would be safely indoors at dinner, and not intending to make any evening sorties. He’d seen the boy out and about with young Cado Bussell from the kiddley, but so far he’d been no problem.

Old Tummels came out as they passed his tumbledown cottage and fell in behind them without a word, as though, without having to be told, he knew the ship was back.

The three of them took the path opposite Tummels’ hut, where it performed a sharp switchback to run below the cliff path down into the rocky inlet, a steep drop to the rocks on its right. The Fly came back into view, her crew busy making her shipshape. No smell of fish as yet.

Over on the other side of the cove, more smoke and the top of the kiddley roof showed above the trees, but not a soul was in sight. Coming in to moor in the cove brought with it the risk of being spotted by someone unfriendly to their cause, but, as he’d said to Daniel a few days ago, it would be best to come in by night. Unfortunately, the tide had meant coming in by evening’s fading light, but at least it was the tail end of September, and full darkness would soon be upon them.

He and Will swung themselves down the ladder onto the ship’s deck. Daniel appeared from the stern and Jack shook his hand. “Good trip? Any trouble?”

Daniel grinned. “Sold all the fish. Got a good price for our friends in Penzance. Then we picked up the tobacco as planned over to St Helier. Paid a good low price for that, an’all. Didn’t see sight nor sound of a revenue cutter. It’s all down in the hold ready to set sail. Picked up a few trinkets, as well, to sell as a sideline.”

Jack didn’t ask what they were. If Daniel wanted to make a few extra francs selling things to the French that were still hard to get over on the continent, then that was up to him. No doubt all the crew had a few bits and pieces they planned to sell to supplement their wages.

“Lovey’s got a stew going for you men,” Will called. “Soon as you’re ready. Then we’ll be off about ten, as the tide goes out. Mind you don’t get tap-hackled. I don’t want no slubberdegullions on my ship tonight.”

A chorus of agreement echoed round the men, some of it a little unwilling as they all liked a drink when in port. “Can we go now, Cap’n Will?” Silas Finn asked. “My belly thinks as it’s bin cut off from my mouth.”

Will laughed. “Off you all go then. You, too, young Clemo. Cap’n Jack’s going to keep watch for an hour or so, as he’s been playin’ landlubber while you all were all off a-fetchin’ and carryin’ for him. You all go get your bellies filled.”

The men, Tummels and young Clemo included, wasted no further time and were up the ladder and gone in a matter of minutes. The sound of their voices faded away, drowned out by the rumble of the waves rolling up the beach and onto the rocks.

Jack checked The Fly’s ropes. A good captain always made sure for himself that his ship was secure, and the men knew it. None of the ropes needed adjusting. “You can get off too, Will,” he said. “I’ll be fine here on my own, and I’ve already eaten up at Rosudgeon.”

Will swung himself up the ladder. “I will that, and thankee for saying so. That stew did smell right fine when I was in the kiddley. Lovey’s a good cook.”

Jack laughed. “Better than your Eliza?”

Will leaned down from the height of the rocky wharf. “A lot better than Eliza, but don’t you dare go tellin’ her that. She’d have my guts for garters.”

Jack shook his head. “Sailor’s promise. Get off with you.”

When Will had gone, Jack walked forward to the bows and checked nothing was chafing, running his hand over the gunnels as he went, reveling in the sweeping lines of his little ship. A boat was never silent, and the little noises she made served to give the impression of a living creature. The mooring ropes creaked, the waves slapped along her sides, and overhead the halyards groaned. Strong in his nostrils, the smell of tar from the rigging was enough to cover any remaining aroma of her previous cargo.

Jack loved his times alone on board The Fly. A sense of calm washed over him, and his worries about Fitz Carlyon’s nosiness drifted away. Very shortly, he’d be out at sea again, with his ship curvetting beneath him, as responsive and spirited as his horse and even if the revenue cutter hove into view, it would never catch them.

“Cap’n Jack!”

A piping voice disturbed his reverie.

He turned his head.

A small figure stood at the top of the ladder, gazing down at him out of earnest hazel eyes. Theo Penhallow.