The Black Rocks of Morwenstow E-Book

John Wilcox

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 504

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

1842. Joshua Weyland is languishing in America and desperate to return to England and his fiancé. He ships home on a small brig but when it founders on rocks off the coast of Cornwall and he narrowly escapes with his life, it's clear to him that the ship had been deliberately wrecked. Who could be responsible? From the eccentric doctor and his daughter who nurse him back to health, to the local fishermen, tin miners and 'Preventers' tasked with subduing smuggling activity, Joshua has plenty of questions which could land him in serious trouble. When an epic storm erupts and another ship is in peril, Joshua is forced to fight for his life to avert disaster and get to the bottom of the mystery.

Leseprobe

THE BLACK ROCKSOF MORWENSTOW

JOHN WILCOX

Many years ago I was encouraged to write and taught how to do so by Judy Lamb.

This novel, then, is dedicated to her – wherever she may be now – with love and thanks

CONTENTS

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENAuthor’s Note Acknowledgements About the Author By John WilcoxCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Key West, USA. Midsummer 1842

Joshua Weyland felt vaguely uncomfortable as he walked along the shoreline of this most southerly port in the United States of America. It was a sensation that was unfamiliar to him, for in the latter part of his twenty-five years he had trodden with confidence the docksides of most of the major ports of the world, from Shanghai to Singapore, Marseilles to Montevideo.

It was not that he looked out of place. He was a sailor in a sailor’s environment and he looked the part: wide-bottomed canvas trousers held up by a broad leather belt from which a sheathed knife hung at its back; a faded canvas shirt, worn open at the neck; his weather-beaten countenance topped by a battered straw hat, tipped well back, so that sun-bleached curls peeped from under its brim, brown eyes set in open, regular features. Ordinary enough in this seafaring town. Only the folded copy of the The Times of London thrust under his arm struck a discordant note.

Why, then, this sense of unease? Certainly, the humidity that seemed to cling to the merchants’ warehouses fringing the sidewalk was unfamiliar. So, too, was the vista offered by the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Out to sea the ocean presented, on this side of the island, a broad panorama of tropical blue or green. Nearer the shore, however, where the water was shallower, it merged into a sullen brown.

Further out, unseen from land, Josh knew that there were many islands of limestone outcrops, of which Key West itself was the largest. They seemed harmless, dotted here and there over the horizon, even looking picturesque in the daytime, like basking whales. Beyond them, however, he knew there lurked the greater danger of the half-submerged coral reefs, one of which had torn the bottom out of his ship as though it had been made of paper.

Perhaps it was this memory that made him feel insecure. He shook his head and walked on. He was thirsty and looking for an inn, a tavern where he could sit quietly and read his four-week-old copy of The Times, a luxury he had picked up in the shipping agent’s office in the town. News from home was hard to get and the last letter he had had from Mary had been received in Cape Town, some six weeks ago.

Ah. Mary! He smiled as he conjured up her round, apple-cheeked face, her brown eyes sparkling as they walked on the cliffs near her home above Dover. The smile disappeared quickly as the thought of Dover, the nearest point in England to the Continent of Europe, reminded him that it was also the gateway to the cholera epidemic that had swept through the country. She had survived it, but it had taken her father, the vicar, and her two brothers. Did it still linger in the country? Perhaps The Times would tell him. His stride lengthened. He must find a bar – and he needed a drink, anyway.

A sign carrying an anchor and hanging low over a window that had been salt-spray washed by scores of hurricanes beckoned and he pushed the door open and entered. The bar was crowded and noisy and a fug of tobacco smoke enfolded him. The bottom of the counter was lined by a row of spittoons and he leant into a small space between the drinkers.

The barman raised an eyebrow interrogatively.

‘Whisky and a beer,’ said Josh.

‘Rye, bourbon or Scotch?’

‘Er … Scotch, thank you.’

Josh cursed himself for adding the pleasantry. Americans, he knew, never said please or thank you. He took the drinks, threw coins onto the counter and looked for somewhere to sit.

A small bench behind a table was vacant and he sat at it and took a sip of the whisky followed by a draught of the beer – ‘starting a fire and putting it out’ his father had called it. Then he opened his newspaper.

England seemed to be in a state of turmoil, with the nailers of the Black Country rioting, the army putting down demonstrations against turnpike tolls in Carmarthen and riots against the Corn Laws in Lancashire. And good Lord! The government has introduced income tax for the first time in peacetime – seven pence on the pound for incomes over £150! Ah well, at least that wouldn’t affect him. That was far beyond what he could earn as second mate on a merchant ship.

He turned the page, squinting in the poor light to scan the small print. No sign, as far as he could see, of further cholera outbreaks. Thank God! He hoped that Mary had continued to escape the dreaded scourge, escaped it so that he could hurry home now and they could be wed …

‘You’re a Limey, ain’t yer?’

He looked up. The man standing, swaying slightly on the other side of the table, was huge, looking almost as wide as he was tall. Dressed in rough, well-worn sailing clothes, his face, carrying a six-day beard, was scowling.

Josh sighed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m English, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Same thing. Bastards, all of you. Burnt down the White House, you did.’

‘Oh come on. That was thirty years ago.’

‘Well, we Yanks don’t forget them things.’ He put huge hands down on the table and leant forward. Josh could have put a match to the whisky fumes. ‘An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else.’

Josh knew better than to argue. He didn’t want to stoke the fire. He looked around. The bar, previously a hubbub of raised voices, had gone strangely quiet. Every face was now turned to him, most of them grinning. The barman, himself the size of a stevedore in the new steamships, was leaning across his counter, a half smile on his face. Josh gulped, he was about to receive a public beating. He decided to make one more conciliatory effort.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t see why you’ve picked on me. I’m English, yes, but I’m a sailor, just like you.’

‘Are yer.’ The big man straightened up. ‘What’s yer ship, then, sonny?’

‘The barquentine, Jenny Lee. She foundered on the Washerwoman Reef three days ago. We were lucky to be rescued.’

‘Oh no, you weren’t, you lyin’ bastard. We all know what ’appened there. Your ship was ’companied all the way from the Bahamas by a wreckin’ ship from there an’ was standin’ by when your skipper deliberately ran his ship onto the reef, to get ’is share o’ the insurance money. You was all rescued nice and neat, together with yer cargo. It was well planned.’

A chorus of approval rose from the crowd.

‘What’s more,’ the big man leant across the table and prodded a huge finger into Josh’s chest. ‘That little arrangement, matey, stopped us wreckers ’ere in Key West from doin’ an honest piece o’ salvaging. If there’s one thing we can’t stand, it’s English bastards from the Bahamas takin’ our work from us.’

The howl of agreement was even louder now.

‘Look,’ said Josh, ‘my skipper and his first mate are being investigated by a tribunal as we speak. If there’s been wrongdoing it will come out in a court of law and they will be punished.’

‘An’ my aunt is the President of the USA. You’re goin’ to be punished ’ere an’ now.’ He seized Josh’s shirt and pulled him towards him, raising his fist as he did so.

Josh Weyland, however, had not sailed the Seven Seas without fighting his way out of more than one barroom brawl and he acted instinctively now. Instead of pulling away from the big man’s embrace he leant towards him, drew back his head and crashed his forehead into his assailant’s nose. Then he pushed the table hard towards the sailor and crashed the edge down onto his toes.

Blood gushed from the nose and the man howled as the table crashed down. Josh skipped aside, ducked under a wild swing and then delivered two punches, from left and right fists, into the man’s ample paunch.

Josh knew enough about fighting not to let an advantage slip away. As the crowd now, it seemed, roared him on, he rained punches, hard blows, into the big man’s face, splitting open an eyebrow. Inevitably, however, it could not be all one-way traffic and the sailor swung a backhanded blow that sent Josh flying. For a moment, he stood gasping, his back to the wall.

This encouraged his assailant, who, spitting blood, lurched forward and swung his right fist in a great arc. Too great, in fact, for Josh was able easily to duck underneath it and sink two more heavy blows into the sailor’s stomach. The shouts from the crowd now were undoubtedly those of applause, in appreciation of a man who knew how to handle himself in a fight.

This was true, however, of the sailor, too. For him, there were no rules in this sort of conflict. Blood streaming down his face and gasping for breath, he fumbled behind him and produced the knife that every sailor carried hanging in the small of his back, ready to cut away rigging that threatened the safety of his craft or himself.

‘I’ll carve yer eyes out, you Limey bastard,’ he cried, advancing warily, the knife held back as he extended his other hand to judge his thrust.

‘Oh no you won’t.’ The barman’s voice rang out firmly as he swung a large belaying pin onto the big man’s wrist, sending the knife spinning away. Then he hit the man firmly at the back of the head, so that he stumbled, dazed, onto the floor.

‘You know the rules of the ’ouse,’ the barman bent over and spoke loudly. ‘Fists is fine. Knives is crime. Now get out of ’ere, Louis, before I call the militia. Get out, and don’t come back until you’ve learnt some sense. Oh, and don’t lurk around the corner waiting fer this lad to come out, cos he’s got a knife too and the way he was goin’ he could probably cut you up before you got near him.’

The barman looked around. ‘All right, lads, the fun is over. Get on with yer drinkin’ now.’ As Louis slowly got to his feet, the barman gave him a half-friendly kick up the bottom to send him on his way.

‘Now, son,’ he said. ‘Yer drink’s bin spilt. You’re due another on the ’ouse. Go on. Put the table up again an’ I’ll bring yer a beer and a Scotch.’

‘Well, thank you. But I can pay.’

‘Do as you’re told. Sit down. I don’t want any more fights ’ere. Things get broken an’ they never get paid for.’

Josh realised that he was shaking, breathless and his knuckles hurt like hell. He licked his lips and regained his precious copy of The Times. The crowd, it seemed, had lost interest and the hum of conversation rose again as the barman deposited the Scotch and the beer on the table, drew up a stool and sat down.

Looking at him now, Josh realised that the man had a kindly, if gnarled, face that had probably seen many a watch at sea, with twinkling eyes and grizzled grey hair. His accent, though, was puzzling: difficult to pin down – certainly not southern states American – and yet vaguely familiar.

‘What’s yer name, son?’

‘Joshua Weyland.’

‘Ah yes. Second mate of the Jenny, eh?’ He extended a hand. ‘Albert Wilson from Liverpool, although they call me Al around here. Yes, a Limey, like you.’

Of course, that accent retained strong traces of the English north-west. Josh raised his eyebrows. ‘Good Lord, what are you doing here?’

‘Making more money from this place than I ever did from Yankee whalin’ ships off Nantucket, I can tell you. Now,’ he leant forward, ‘not much goes on in little old Key West that I don’t hear about in my bar. All that stuff that Louis was talkin’ was the truth, from what I hear. Is that right?’

Josh frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know. It’s true that our skipper seemed to pick up the wrecking ship in Nassau and she sailed with us until we hit that reef in the darkness. But, if there was some sort of wrecking deal, I know nothing about it. All I want to do now is to get home. Look,’ he leant forward, ‘I don’t really understand this wrecking business. From where I come from, wrecking is really about luring a ship onto rocks and then plundering the cargo. But it seems it’s different here.’

‘It certainly is.’ Wilson turned around and gestured to the woman – his wife? – who had taken command of the bar. ‘The usual, Bessie,’ he cried. ‘I’ll take it here. No, wrecking is a respectable, accepted trade here. It’s even licensed by the State of Florida. You can’t go to the aid of a ship in trouble to get her off the reef and take off crew and cargo unless you’ve got a licence from the State Government.’

‘Louis and people like him,’ he gestured to the crowd, ‘and that’s most of them in here, they earn their living, waiting for a ship to hit the reef, then they race out to be the first to offer help to the grounded skipper to save crew and cargo and claim salvage.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s a rough game, sailing usually in filthy weather in fast schooners and then working like pigs on the reefs to unload the ships and then get ’em off the coral. Oh yes, we lose quite a few lads here in Key West in this game. You could say that this town is the centre of the wrecking business.’

Josh nodded his head and then frowned. ‘But how do the schooner captains know when a ship has hit a reef? Visibility will be terrible in a storm, won’t it?’

Al’s eyes lit up. ‘Well, if you walk around Key West you’ll see quite a few high wooden towers. Probably the highest of them is right in the centre of town at Mallory Square. The wreckers with telescopes man them during daylight hours and as soon as a ship in trouble is seen the call will go out “wreck ashore” and then the fun begins. There is a scramble to put to sea and the first boat to reach the wreck is called “the wrecking master”. That skipper then has control of the wreck and him an’ his crew usually gets the biggest cut.’

‘What about the crew of the wrecked ship and passengers, if they have any?’

‘Well, by federal law the wreckers are obliged to try to save crews and passengers as well as the ship itself. In fact, the law says that they are only allowed to remove enough cargo to float the wrecked ship free at the next high tide, unless of course it is totally wrecked.’

Al’s brown face broke into a sea of wrinkles. ‘Obviously, when the matter goes to court there are a lot of questions to be answered. But the judge usually sorts it out amicably enough, though there can be lots of fuss.’

Josh nodded. ‘Is there any question of ships being lured onto the reefs by disreputable wreckers?’

‘No. Maybe that used to happen years ago, but not now. The wreckers play fair and will warn a skipper if he is likely to be heading for a reef.’

Josh rubbed his sore knuckles and took a pull from his beer. ‘But are there enough shipwrecks to keep these men in business?’

‘Oh bless you, yes. These are some of the most dangerous waters in the world. First time here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even so, you will probably know that the Florida Keys lie in a one-hundred-and-fifty-mile semicircle along the northern and western edges of the Straits of Florida, guarding the entrance, so to speak, of the Gulf of Mexico. Key West is to the Gulf of Mexico what Gibraltar is to the Mediterranean. It commands the outlet of all trade from Jamaica, the Caribbean, the Bay of Honduras and the Gulf.’

Wilson sat back proprietarily. ‘We’ve got a wonderful harbour here in Key West. Incidentally, d’you know how this place got its name?’

‘I’ve always presumed because it was the most western of the islands.’

‘That’s true, but it’s not the reason. No.’ Al was warming to his tale now. ‘The Spaniards were the first here, of course, and it was then an Indian burial ground, so the dons found scores of bones. Accordingly, they called it “Cayo Hueso”, Bone Island. When the British took over in the seventeen hundreds the name sounded to them like “Key West”. And so it has remained, thanks to us Limeys.’

Josh grinned. ‘Old what’s-his-name, Louis, didn’t seem to give us credit for it.’

‘Oh, he’s a bit of a drunkard but all right when you get to know him. Now – I was telling you about this harbour.’

‘So you were.’

‘It’s deep enough to take the largest ships and it’s protected on all sides from the weather, except from the south-west and bad stuff doesn’t often come from there, so sailing ships can enter the harbour in any wind. But, by gum, the weather can be foul. We’ve got the Gulf Stream current, goin’ at a rate of knots, unpredictable countercurrents, calms in summer, hurricanes in the autumn – what they call the fall here – and gales in the winter. And all of this swirling around God knows how many reefs just above and below the surface, with teeth sharper ’n sharks.

‘Why,’ he leant forward, ‘this year we’ve been having shipwrecks at the rate of one a week.’ He seemed almost to be boasting of the dangers of his adopted home.

‘Blimey! So wrecking is quite a profitable business here?’

‘Profitable and almost the only trade, except for merchanting, of course. And most of the merchants around here own the wrecking schooners.’

A silence fell between them, broken eventually by Wilson. ‘You’ll see now why old Louis cut up rough a minute or two ago. First of all, these chaps are all sailors and bloody good ones. They would never deliberately wreck a ship, which the word is what your skipper did. And they are very protective of their trade here. The Bahamians used to come and try and pinch it. But our lads roughed ’em up and they don’t try it much now.’

Wilson screwed up his eyes. ‘Have you got involved in this tribunal?’

‘No, and I don’t want to be. I know nothing about any plan to deliberately drive the ship on to the reef. I wasn’t on watch when it happened. The first I knew was the crash when we hit the rocks. It threw me out of my bunk.’

‘Did your skipper try and get her off?’

‘Not that I remember. There wasn’t much he could do, I guess. He just signalled for help from the Bahamian ship nearby.’

‘Hmm.’ Wilson let his gaze wander around the room. ‘Sounds fishy to me, son. What are your plans now, then?’

Josh gave a sad smile. ‘Try and find a ship that can take me home and then get the hell out of here. I’ve been away for nearly two years, sailing round the China Seas and other parts of the East. I’ve got a fiancée that’s been waiting for me for all that time and I don’t want to be drawn into hanging on here and giving evidence at this damned tribunal.’

‘Got any money to pay for your passage?’

‘Well, I managed to get my wages out of the Jenny Lee’s agent here so I have some money, but I want to hang onto it to pay for the wedding and to find a place for Mary when I’m away after we’re married. Would you know of a ship in port that needs a second mate?’

‘Got your ticket?’

‘Oh yes, I’m qualified.’

‘Well …’ Wilson drew out the word and rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘There is a brig in the harbour that’s due to sail for Bristol, Gloucester or somewhere like that the day after tomorrow and I hear she’s short-handed. But I doubt if you’ll get a second mate’s berth. She only runs to about ten hands in all.’

‘That doesn’t matter. I’ll ship as a deckhand if I can get a berth.’

‘Right. She’s called The Lucy and she’s alongside the main jetty here. Just walk down the dockside until you come to her.’ He frowned. ‘Don’t know much about the skipper – a Yankee called Lucas – but I hear he’s a bit of a queer bird. Know anything about the Bristol Channel? I remember it can be a real bitch when a nor’westerly blows.’

‘I’m from Somerset, so I know it quite well.’

‘Good. That should help you. Now I’ve got to get back to the bar, or Bessie will start giving pints away to good-lookin’ sailors.’ He extended a hand. ‘Good luck to you, lad. Remember me to good old England.’

‘Let me buy you a drink before I go.’

‘Better not. It doesn’t do to get a woozy head in this bar. No. Off you go now. Go find The Lucy. Oh, and keep a weather eye peeled for that mad bugger Louis. He likes to carry a grudge.’

‘I will. Thanks, Al – particularly for what you did back there.’

Carefully folding The Times and slipping it into his trouser pocket, Josh made for the door and, once outside, drew in the sea air thankfully. Humid or not, it was better than the fug of the bar.

The Lucy was not difficult to find. She was secured alongside the quay and she sat virtually motionless, for there was no swell inside the harbour. Josh walked away a little and, from a doorway, carefully studied the brig.

She carried four square sails on each of her two masts, although now, of course, they were furled and lashed rather slackly, Josh noted, to the yards. An immensely long bowsprit pointed upward from the prow above a figurehead fixed beneath it. The ship was rigged to carry a fore and aft triangular sail between the masts and a furled jib and staysail on stays from the foremast to the bowsprit and a gaff-rigged spanker on the main boom down aft. Viewed in profile, The Lucy’s lines were elegant, with a sharply raked bow and an overhanging stern from which a jolly boat hung from davits. She had been painted with a fashionable white strip along her length just under the gunwale, giving her the touch of an old frigate from Nelson’s time. But Josh noted that the strip needed repainting and there was a slight air of neglect about the ship overall. The anchor and what could be seen of the chain cable was well rusted and the ropes by which she was held against the dockside were frayed. What was it that Al had said about the skipper – ‘he was a bit of a queer bird …?’ A lax one, too, by the look of it.

Josh left the protection of the doorway and approached the gangway. He noted a man on deck, wearing the peaked, if battered, cap of an officer. ‘Permission to come on board, sir,’ he called.

The reply was not welcoming. ‘What’s yer business?’

‘I understand you’re short-handed. I’d like to sail with you.’

The mate walked across to the head of the gangway and stared across at Josh. ‘Last ship?’ he asked laconically.

‘The Jenny Lee, out of London. Last port Cape Town. She struck a reef here three days ago.’

‘You’ve signed off from her?’

‘Aye, sir. I have my papers. I’ve got a second mate’s ticket, too.’

The mate looked skywards. ‘Ah, we’re not looking for officers, sailor. There’s not room for another mate. It’s just me and the skipper.’

‘But don’t you need another watchkeeper?’

That seemed to have struck home, for sailing ships usually had three watches with an officer of sorts in charge of each. The master stayed aloof from such duties. ‘Wait there,’ said the mate. ‘I’ll find the captain.’

He returned within three minutes. ‘Come on board and follow me,’ he said.

The two made their way aft. ‘Where are you bound?’ asked Josh.

‘Gloucester.’

‘What are you carrying?’

The mate gave him a sharp look as if to say ‘Mind your own business’ but thought better of it. ‘Cotton,’ he said. ‘Millions o’ bales of the bloody stuff.’

The master’s cabin was small but well lit with a stern window looking out over the hanging jolly boat. Josh detected a smell of whisky pervading the interior. Captain Lucas had obviously been lying on his bunk because his breeches were undone and his shirt open and hanging over his belt. He had not shaved between the luxurious sideburns that hung over his jowls and his eyes, which eyed Josh incuriously, were sunken. Unsteadily, he walked towards a chair stationed behind a crowded desk and sat in it heavily. He made no gesture for Josh to take the chair facing him.

‘All right, Mr Mitchell,’ he said to the mate. ‘Get back to your work.’

The mate knuckled his forehead and left the cabin.

‘So, you were on the Jenny Lee?’ Captain Lucas spoke in the flat, nasal tones of the north-eastern states of America.

‘That’s right, Captain. I sailed as second mate on the passage from Canton.’

‘Aren’t you goin’ to be called as witness in this damned enquiry that’s being held?’

He unstoppered a wide-based ship’s decanter that stood on his desk and poured himself a tumblerful. Josh smelt whisky again, but he was not asked to join the captain.

‘I have received no summons,’ he said. ‘I am just anxious to get out of here to get back to England. I have been away from home for nearly two years now. I am due to be married when we reach land.’

Lucas looked up, a half-smile on his lips. ‘I wouldn’t hurry if I was you, sonny. Marriage ain’t exactly what it’s made out to be.’

‘That may be well so, sir, but I am anxious to see my girl again.’

‘Huh. Right. How long have you been at sea and what ships have you sailed in?’

‘Went to sea when I was twelve as cabin boy on a big East Indiaman. I’m twenty-five now. Served as a deckhand in a variety of ships: barquantines, topsail schooners, brigs – brigs mainly. Just like The Lucy. Studied for my tickets and have made second mate so far. I mean to be a master.’

Lucas took a long draught of the whisky and wiped his mouth with a grimy hand. ‘Do you, now. Don’t be in too much of a hurry. You might regret what you wished for. Well, I’ll take you on. Have you sailed the Bristol Channel?’

‘Many times, sir. I was born in Somerset.’

‘Ah, that might just come in handy. You’ll ship as a deckhand with a deckhand’s pay.’ He leant forward. ‘But in view of your experience, I’ll make you watchkeeper and, if you prove yourself worth it, I’ll give you another two pounds on top at the end of the voyage. Agreed?’

‘Agreed, sir.’

‘Right.’ From among the mess of papers on his desk he drew forward a large daybook. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Weyland. Joshua.’

‘Very well, Sign here.’

Josh did so.

‘Welcome aboard, Joshua Weyland. Now, go and get your gear and stow it in the fo’castle. Then report to the mate. If we get a decent offshore wind, we’ll sail at dawn. There’s not much tide to worry about here.’

‘Thank you, Captain.’

There was a spring in Josh’s step as he made his way back to the office of the Jenny’s agent where he had been allowed to stow his canvas bag safely for two nights, while he slept in a dosshouse near the dockside. Saving money until he got home was ever-present in his mind. Picking up his belongings and returning the copy of The Times, he walked on to his miserable so-called lodgings and collected the small washbag that he had left there and turned back to The Lucy. He was on his way home at last!

It was his heavy kitbag, in fact, which saved him. Walking down a backstreet on his way to the dockside – a dark street so narrow that he could almost touch the sides with outstretched arms – he stumbled over a cobblestone, just as a knife hurtled over his arched back and buried itself, quivering into a doorway.

Instinctively, Josh picked up his bag to provide some sort of defence as he whirled round. He just had time to see Louis rushing at him, a second knife in his hand. Josh threw the bag at the feet of the big man, causing him to trip and sprawl on the wet cobbles.

Immediately, Josh leapt upon him and thrust his own knife just under Louis’s ear. ‘Now, listen,’ he hissed. ‘If you move, I’m going to slit your throat from ear to ear. Understand?’

The man nodded, still gasping for breath.

‘Good. Now keep listening. If I so much as catch sight of you again in this town I will kill you, as sure as God made little apples. Now, just to say goodbye to you and to stop you following me, I’m going to give you a little parting present. Just remember that Limeys can fight too, you great hulking brute.’

Turning quickly, Josh thrust the knife deeply into the calf of the big sailor. Louis’s howl was loud enough to fetch the US militia from its new guardhouse, so Josh jumped to his feet, swung his bag onto his shoulder and hurried away.

Once he had crossed The Lucy’s gangplank he allowed himself to feel safe and pushed his way, nodding, past the hands working on the deck until he reached the fo’c’sle, the crew’s quarters in the bow. Like all fo’c’sles it was dingy, dark and smelling of perspiration, damp and tobacco, but to Josh it felt like sanctuary. Breathing heavily, he made a pillow of his kitbag at the end of what was an unoccupied bunk, laid down his head upon it and closed his eyes for a moment to regain his breath.

Then he sprang up, pulled out his belongings from the bag, changed into working clothes – old shirt, leggings, overalls and a woollen hat – and threw the rest of the bag’s contents into the wooden locker under his straw mattress. He saw with relief that there was a small hinge and padlock on the locker, with a key in the lock. Carefully he placed an oilskin bag, containing his second mate’s ticket, his letters from Mary and his savings of thirty guineas in gold coins, underneath his clothes at the bottom of the locker and locked it.

Then, with a huge sense of relief, he turned out on deck to report to the mate. He was not sorry to leave Key West behind him. He was at sea again, where, despite the wrecking of the Jenny Lee, at least he felt secure and at home.

CHAPTER TWO

Well before the sun rose, the crew of the The Lucy answered the cry of ‘All hands on deck to make sail’ and both watches (there were only two for this voyage, it seemed) swarmed up into the rigging to set the royals and the topgallants so that, when the early morning offshore wind arrived to please Captain Lucas, the canvas bulged obligingly and the vessel eased away from her berth with hardly a ripple.

Lucas may not have been the most demanding of skippers or Mitchell the most houseproud of mates, but they seemed to know their business, for they took The Lucy unerringly between the coral reefs and half-islands that studded the surface of the sea off Key West.

As the brig began to heel to the wind, Josh watched with interest as she passed several of what he presumed to be wrecking schooners, returning to harbour. They seemed comparatively flimsy craft, with little freeboard, so indicating that they would be wet boats in a seaway, and carrying plenty of fore-’n-aft canvas. All of them were making good headway, creating creaming bow waves and leaving straight wakes astern of them.

He wondered how vessels with such little freeboard would be able to stow the cargoes they salvaged from the stricken ships they serviced. They would surely have to make many trips to the wrecks.

Josh shook his head. What a strange business, with so-called ‘wreckers’ being licensed to do their scavenging work! When he was growing up in Burnham-on-Sea, Somerset, he had heard stories from the past of how the wild men of the North Cornish coast would set up lights on the cliffs to offer false hope of safe anchorages to storm-swept ships coming in from the Atlantic. Their skippers, expecting protected harbours, would instead be lured onto the rocks of that forbidding coastline. But that, he knew, was long ago. It wouldn’t happen now.

Or would it? He seemed to remember, before he set sail for the East, reading a reference from a Constabulary Force Commission report that spoke of men onshore ‘using every endeavour to bring a ship into danger rather than help her’, so that she could be wrecked and plundered.

It was true that he knew of no cases of wrecks being caused by false lights onshore. But then the Cornish coast, both north and south, was thinly populated and poorly policed and it would be no surprise therefore if such cases were never, or rarely, brought to court. There was, of course, a law against the practice, which offered death as the penalty for such transgressions. Yet why should such a law be put onto the Statute Book for a crime that was never committed?

Smuggling was a different matter, which, despite the efforts of the newly established coastguard, flourished throughout Devon and Cornwall and, indeed, on most of the coasts of Britain. Certainly in the south-west it was regarded as a right, a respectable source of income for the people of the peninsula. As, of course, was wrecking – their word for salvaging and making off with the cargoes and sometimes the very structure of the ships that were tossed onto their cruel coasts. He had heard that many houses in Cornish villages near the coast had been constructed of timber broken off the wrecks.

A wry grin crept across Josh’s lips as, high aloft, he shuffled along the mainsail yard, his boots swaying on the ‘horse’ – the safety footrope hung under the yards – to cast off the lashings and let the slack mainsail fall. How many different interpretations there were of the word wrecker! But he had had enough of the whole murky business and he was glad to leave behind him in the Florida Keys his own experience of the practice.

The wind was fair and before long they were completely clear of the Gulf of Mexico and its encircling Keys and the skipper ordered a course to the north-east to take them across the Atlantic to their next landfall at the tip of Cornwall.

Josh was glad to feel the fresh, keen air of the ocean on his cheeks and to see the smudge of land that was the mainland of Florida sink below the horizon. Whenever sailing with a new ship he was glad to get away from land so that, if the weather turned dangerous, they would have plenty of sea room. Autumn was the season for hurricanes in the Caribbean, he knew, and it was best to test The Lucy’s seaworthiness out in the open sea when and if they were caught in these vicious storms.

That afternoon he took his first trick on the wheel. He was less than pleased at the ship’s response to the small adjustments he made to keep her on course. She seemed sluggish and unresponsive, compared to the Jenny Lee, perhaps because the keel of his new ship was coated with barnacles. Another example of the poor maintenance operated by Captain Lucas?

Down below, he met the men of his watch for the first time. They were the usual mixture of nationalities to be found in a ship far from its base: Englishmen, of course, but also an American from Boston, a Lascar and a large, genial Dane from Copenhagen. He took to the Scandinavian right away and afterwards they sat together on deck as The Lucy heeled slightly to the gentle wind and the stars began to twinkle as they peeped down at them from between the sails.

The Dane, Jorgen Grumm, looked at his watchkeeper with interest. He saw a fresh-faced, brown-eyed young man in what appeared to be the peak of physical condition: about five feet ten inches tall, broad shoulders, no beer-drinker’s belly, but a muscular stomach and slim hips.

Equally, Josh considered the Dane. He was built like a Viking, well over six feet tall, with the bluest of eyes, and legs and arms that took him over the rigging with ease and grace.

‘Have you sailed with this skipper and mate before, Jorgen?’ he asked.

The Dane puffed on his pipe and nodded. ‘Oh ja. I joined ship at Oslo, made the passage to London and then to here.’

‘Are they good sailors, would you say?’

The Dane shot him a quick look from under his bushy eyebrows. ‘Why you ask that?’ he said. ‘You got good reason to ask, eh?’

‘No, well, not exactly. It’s just that the ship doesn’t look as though it’s as well maintained or even sailed as well as it should be.’ He pointed upwards. ‘Look at that mains’l. I would say that the trim is not set to get the best out of her. What do you think?’

‘I tink you are right,’ he nodded again. ‘I saw it earlier. These officers are – what do you say in English – a bit sloppy, I tink.’

‘Did you have any weather coming over?’

‘No. Sea very calm.’

‘So the skipper and mate weren’t exactly put under any strain?’

‘No. But they do nothing wrong, as far as I can tell. I tell you one ting, though.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The skipper, he drinks. Whisky, I tink.’

‘Yes, I smelt it. Well, let’s hope that the Atlantic is kind and that the south-westerly that’s normal in the Bristol Channel doesn’t veer to a nor’westerly and blow into a gale. There’s not much room to manoeuvre a sailing ship just south of Lundy Island.’

‘Ah ja. I hope, too. Perhaps we both swim home, eh?’ They both laughed.

The Atlantic was, in fact, kind to them until they entered the Doldrums, that strange patch of water in mid ocean where the wind deserted sailing ships, so that vessels seem to wallow, like flies caught in aspic, with no forward movement and where the same patches of seaweed would keep them company for days at a time. So it was now. The ship was dressed in lightweight, fine-weather sails to catch the faintest of breezes, but they hung, flapping plaintively from the yards as though they too were depressed at losing their sense of purpose.

Not that it was a time of relaxation for the crew. They were kept busy continually, bracing the yards round and trimming the sails to capture the merest hint of a breeze that might mature into a wind, a proper wind. There was still time, however, for Josh to take out his precious cache of Mary’s letters and reread them all. Not that she was, he had to reflect ruefully, the most colourful of correspondents. She wrote, in her schoolgirl, rounded hand, of the daily chores she undertook in the vicarage to help her mother, now so painfully bereaved: of milking the two cows that they possessed, of regularly cleaning the church and of looking after the domestic needs of the young, unmarried clergyman who had replaced Mary’s father in the parish. She and her mother had been allowed to stay on at the vicarage, in fact, in exchange for undertaking these tasks.

At first, when Mary wrote of the young man’s arrival from the east London parish where he had served as curate, Josh had developed strong feelings of jealousy towards him. These gradually died down, however, as the tone of Mary’s news about her life in Kent changed little. It seemed that the young man had slipped into the family’s life without causing even a ripple of change or resentment.

The Reverend Charles Osborne, in fact, sounded as innocuous as he was, well, boring: a man of the cloth, completely dedicated to his calling and the caring of his flock. From Mary’s infrequent references to him in her latest letters it seemed as though the clergyman had no interests or desires outside his vocation. No cause for jealousy any more.

No. Mary had stayed true to him, of that he was sure. She was anxious to be married and to have children. And she always ended her letters declaring her love for him, although she now regularly expressed the hope that, after his return, he would settle down in a seafaring job that did not take him so far away and for such long periods.

They had met, in fact, when he had shipped as a hand on the cross-Channel packets that allowed him to lodge with the vicar and his wife and children near Dover most nights. It was his desire to widen his experience and to gain promotion that had prompted him to serve in ‘blue water’ ships. While he was lodging at the vicarage, however, he worked hard to be useful: drawing water, chopping wood and even milking the cows, efforts which he redoubled after the cholera had taken the men of the family.

Josh had fallen in love with Mary almost immediately. At first she did not reciprocate, shaking away his hand as he tried to twine his fingers around hers as they walked on the clifftop above Dover. Gradually, however, she came around and, although she allowed no fondling – a discipline which frustrated Josh, for Mary had a more-than-ample bosom and a swan-like neck – she was happy to be kissed and hugged when they lay on the edge of a cornfield.

He proposed to her shortly after her father and brothers had died and was accepted shyly by Mary, although, of course, she insisted that any union had to be blessed by her mother. Mrs Jackson, however, was not happy to see her only child betrothed to a penniless deckhand, despite her fondness for Josh.

‘Give it two years, Joshua,’ she said. ‘You are young. Go away if you must but show me that you can prosper in your profession and provide a good home for my Mary. Then you can wed.’

So, for the first time, Josh had taken sailoring seriously. While serving on long-haul ships to Africa and the Far East, he had studied assiduously and won his tickets as third and then second mate. On landing, he intended now to submit his application for the next examination so that he could qualify as a first mate and then find a ship that traded in coastal waters off Europe. Then Mrs Jackson could not possibly withhold her consent and he and Mary could marry and – he tingled at the prospect – make children.

A cry from the masthead ended his reverie and he tucked the letters back into their oilskin packet. A sharp crack like a pistol shot sounded as the mains’l split in two as a sudden gust of wind – real wind – hit it hard.

Josh filled his lungs to shout orders, then thought better of it. That blast of wind, he knew, was the forerunner of a heavy squall and the lookout on the masthead was pointing to the western horizon where blue-black storm clouds were gathering. He must fetch the mate or the captain from their cabins.

But the mate, at least, had heard the sound of the torn mains’l and burst from his cabin, buttoning up his jacket.

‘All hands on deck to shorten sail,’ he bellowed. ‘Watch on deck furl the royals now. Weyland, get your watch to put two reefs in the topgallants. Quickly, before we lose all the bloody sails.’

Josh scrambled up the ratlines and, looking to the west, saw the squall bearing down on them, causing the once placid surface of the ocean to spring up angrily as the heavy raindrops thundered down. Reaching the topgallant yard, he edged his bare feet along the horses and began pulling up the buntlines into a loose reef, which he tucked under his arm, while he hung onto the yard with his other arm – ‘one hand for the ship, the other for yourself’ was the motto to be followed in a storm. He began trying to grab the reef lines, the ties that hung down from the sail, so that he could make a proper reef. He felt the horses tighten under his feet and realised that Jorgen had joined him, so he edged further out along the yard to make room for him. Within a minute, they had subdued the flapping sail and reefed it.

The rigging was now crawling with sailors as most of the square sails were reefed and the ship, which had heeled over dangerously as the full force of the squall had hit her, was now racing ahead at a more acceptable angle, the helmsman on duty happy to bring her to the bearing that would take them home.

Looking down, Josh could see the mate, standing four-square to the wind, with a great smile breaking his normally melancholy features.

But … where was the captain?

Josh could see no sign of him as he heard the mate call to bring the crew back down to the deck. He presumed that the task of changing sails would commence, as soon as this squall abated. Surely the captain would have noticed the heeling of the deck and would make his appearance? Yet his cabin door remained closed.

Josh looked across to catch Jorgen’s eye. The Dane grinned broadly and made a drinking motion with his hand. Josh smiled back but he felt less than happy.

The North Atlantic in September could be a treacherous place. As they funnelled down into the Bristol Channel, the brig would need a cool head in command to take her up past that Cornish coast, with its rocks reaching out like sharp, black fingers into the sea. He recalled that the cliffs that ran from Bude up to Hartland Point were called ‘The Wrecker’s Coast’.

He also recalled a ditty that had stuck in his brain since he had first sailed those waters as a child:

From Padstow Point to Lundy Light

Is a watery grave by day and night.

He shuddered involuntarily.

The skipper never did put in an appearance on that day, as all hands were put to bending on the heavy canvas sails. Josh eventually plucked up courage to talk to the mate about it.

‘Mr Mitchell,’ he asked. ‘Has the captain been ill?’

The mate’s great eyebrows came down like a hedgerow. ‘Not that I know of. What business is it of yours, anyway, Weyland?’

‘Well, sir, I know the waters we are going to be sailing in once we round the Lizard and they are not easy, particularly if we hit bad weather. The distance between Lundy Island and Hartland Point, for instance, is only ten miles and I know from experience that the light on Lundy can’t easily be seen once visibility gets bad. I—’

He was cut short. ‘That will be enough from you. Get back to your work. When the skipper and I want your help we will ask for it. Get up to the fore t’gallants and stay there ’til I call you down.’

‘But—’

‘Up that mast, damn you.’

Captain Lucas, in fact, ventured out on deck when they were nearing landfall. The weather was fine and it was the sort of day that made Josh glad that he was a sailor: the wind strong enough to keep The Lucy bowling along at some eight or nine knots, the sky a clear blue, the sun sparkling on the water and the ocean itself bluish green with a gentle swell that seemed to have been born off Newfoundland.

The skipper looked wizened and hunched and his face, in stark contrast to those of his crew, a sickly yellow. He cast a quizzical eye up the rigging to the sails and, presumably liking what he saw, he coughed, turned and went back to his cabin.

‘Another liddle tipple, I tink,’ said Jorgen.

‘Well, I just hope the weather doesn’t turn on us.’

They were interrupted by a cry of ‘Land ho!’ from the masthead.

‘Is it Cornwall, then?’ asked Jorgen.

‘No. More likely the southern coast of Ireland, because the course we have been set will have taken us in a wide sweep, a sort of curve, across the Atlantic.’

‘Ah, you know navigation. I wish I did. Will we put in somewhere, d’you tink, before we reach this Gloucester place?’

‘Not if we are to sail up the Bristol Channel, which we must. There are no real harbours on that Cornish north coast until we reach Bristol and, if I was the skipper, I would want to make up the time we lost in the Doldrums. So straight up to Gloucester, I would say.’

He sniffed the keen breeze. ‘Weather seems fine, anyway. We should make the most of it.’

And so they did. The Lucy had stood well out to sea approaching the British Isles, giving the coast of Cornwall a wide berth so that Lucas resisted the temptation to put in at Penzance or St Ives, setting a course to take her north-east up the centre of the Bristol Channel.

‘Good,’ said Josh to Jorgen, as they smoked a pipe together before turning in. ‘The wind’s from the south-east, so he should keep her slightly to the north to give us plenty of room south of Lundy. Let’s hope the wind stays.’

But it did not.

Josh awoke well before his watch was due on deck. He realised that the wind had come up and, by the feel of the ship, had now backed from the north-west. Ah, hell! Just what he had feared! He laboured to pull on his oilskins, for he could hear the rain beating down on deck, and was dressed before he heard Mitchell cry: ‘All hands on deck to shorten sail.’

Quickly, he fumbled in his locker for the little waterproof bag that contained all his worldly treasures. He tied it firmly to his belt under his oilskins and groped his way towards the hatchway. His worst fears were realised as he gained the deck. The night was black but not so dark that he could not see that the sea had turned into a maelstrom of short-pitched waves, their tops white and sending spume away in horizontal sheets. The wind was howling between the masts like the voices of a thousand demented souls and he became concerned for the safety of the sails, despite them being heavy storm-proof.

‘Don’t stand and gape,’ howled Mitchell. ‘Get up aloft and put a reef in the topsails.’

Josh caught a glimpse of the skipper, a small figure standing by the helmsman, huddled under oilskins, before he hauled himself up the ratlines, gripping tightly against the force of the wind. He realised that the order to shorten sail had been belated; a good seaman would have reacted as soon as the wind had shifted. Now, there was precious little time as the wind bulged the sails out and the ship heeled over strongly to starboard. He stole a glimpse to the south-east. No sign of land yet, thank God, although he could see little, anyway.

Josh had experienced typhoons in the China Sea and caught the edge of a hurricane when leaving the Bahamas, but they were nothing like as frightening as this. It was no mere squall but a real nor’westerly, coming out of the northern Atlantic and screaming on its way towards the Bay of Biscay. What made it worse was that Josh had no idea how far they had been able to sail up from the Atlantic into the Channel towards Bristol – and, of course, how near they now were to the fearful north-Cornish coast.

With the strong figure of Jorgen at his side, he was able to reef the topsail. As best he could sense from near the masthead, the helmsman down below was trying to bring the brig round towards the north. As he watched, the diminutive figure of the captain joined the man at the wheel and together they wrestled against the forces of wind and sea.

It seemed to make no difference but Josh could not stay to watch for he and Jorgen must now slip down to the topsail yard to double-reef that straining sail, which fought them like a mad thing, water guttering from the ends to be whisked away by the rampaging wind.

Would the skipper order all sails to be reefed, so that they would ride out the storm under bare poles? Of course not! That might be a rational thing to do, given the strength of the wind, if they were miles from land in mid Atlantic. But it would be madness with the Cornish coast so near, for they would need sails to harness some of the wind’s force and take them past the dangerous headland ahead. Josh remembered, too, that the sea hereabouts narrowed down to the Lundy Tidal Stream, a strong current that rushed up the Channel from the Atlantic. If it took The Lucy in its grip, then it might carry them through that so-narrow gap between the island and Hartland Point. Or, of course, it could push them to the south-east and negate all efforts by the helmsmen to bring the head around and gain some precious sea room away from the coast …

The ship was now heeling over so that the tip of her main yards dipped into the sea and the mate had detailed a man to nail down the hold hatches and put extra lashings on the boats and water butts: a sure sign that the conditions were demanding the most extreme measures.

Josh’s seaman’s brain pondered what else could be done. A sea anchor, perhaps – a makeshift raft-like structure that could be streamed astern of the ship to bring her head round? No. The rush of wind and water taking the vessel towards the south-east was too strong to be influenced by such a device; indeed, it would be more likely to accentuate The Lucy’s leeward drift.

Shielding his eyes from the wind, Josh peered to the northeast, hoping to catch a glimpse, at least, of Lundy’s Light. Nothing. Except … what was that flash? Something had lit up the underside of the black clouds. Yes, there it was again, the Lundy Light. But it was coming from much further west than he expected. That meant that they were almost level with the most dangerous part of the Channel, where the sea room was limited and the cliffs of the Cornish coast were towering and broken only by a small beach or two – no anchorages!

His musing was broken by a cry from the captain, who was pointing to the south-east. Josh followed the captain’s outstretched arm and, yes, there, briefly, flashed a light; perhaps a lantern, perhaps the riding light of a ship at anchor. As he tried to focus his gaze, he realised that the intermittent light must be coming from the north-Cornish coast, but too high to be a ship’s light. This glow must be coming from halfway up a cliff face. Perhaps the light from a cottage or … wreckers?

Then he heard the captain scream orders and he and the helmsman pulled at the wheel so that The Lucy’s bow swung joyfully round, giving up the thankless fight against current and wind to run before the wind and head straight for that light and the dark cliffs that were now beginning to loom out of the darkness.

‘No!’ Josh screamed. He slid down the rigging, making his wet fingers burn, and ran towards the two men at the helm. ‘No, Captain. That’s no ship. There’s no anchorage there.’

‘Damn your eyes, don’t you tell me what to do. Get back aloft.’

‘You can’t head that way, Captain. I know this coast. You are about level with a place called Morwenstow. There’s no haven there. Only cliffs and a shingle beach at the foot, which you will never reach past the rocks. They’ll tear the bottom out of your ship. Turn the wheel, man.’

‘Mr Mitchell.’ The captain’s face seemed weirdly yellow in the darkness. ‘Put this man in irons. Or lash him to the mast. Get him out of my sight.’

The mate spun Josh round and pulled him away. ‘You can’t interfere with the captain,’ he shouted. ‘You could end up in jail.’

‘And we will surely all end up drowned if that fool takes the ship straight into the cliffs. Stop him, Mr Mitchell. That light is not showing an anchorage because there isn’t any. I know this coast.’

A scream from aloft interrupted them. ‘Breakers ahead. Straight ahead.’

The two men peered past the bowsprit and glimpsed a sight that made them catch their breath. The ship was sailing – almost surfing with the wind behind her – straight towards a dark mass that stretched up much, much higher than the masthead. There was no flickering light now, only the towering cliff face and the roar of the sea breaking onto the rocks at its foot.

Josh caught a glimpse of the captain and the helmsman frantically working the wheel to swing the ship’s head around, when the brig crashed onto the rocks with a force that tossed them onto the deck. The Lucy struck and stayed fast, the waves immediately breaking across the deck so that it was impossible to stand.

‘Up to the masthead,’ shouted Captain Lucas, crawling as best he could across the deck. They were the last words he uttered, for a wave picked him up and tossed him over the side, as though he was matchwood.

Josh made it to the ratlines and hauled himself aloft, the mate close behind him. The two men joined Jorgen at the crosstrees, hanging on for dear life as the foremast swung with each wave that crashed onto the stricken hull. They watched as first the water casks and then the longboat were swept overboard.

‘We go in a minute,’ shouted Jorgen. ‘And we don’t live in this sea, I tink. Bloody fool captain.’

Instinctively, Josh groped under his oilskins to feel his waterproof bag still firmly tied to his belt. Thank God for that, he thought.