The storm blew itself out before first light the next day. But not all folk stayed warm and snug in their beds for the duration. Cheated of his smuggling run, Gyver Pengelly had stayed up all night in the hope that the violent weather would give him other bounty from the ocean. He’d spent the time on the waterfront of Trevaunance Cove, lumbering back often to shelter in the lee of the rocks there. Now that things were calmer and there was a little tentative daylight, he scrambled up the cliff a short distance to Newdowns Head to scan the high seas, hoping for sight of a stricken vessel losing its fight for life. There was nothing to be seen but surging waves and hissing spray slamming the hazy outline of the rocks of St Agnes Head and thundering into Trevaunance Cove and Trevellas Porth a little way yonder.
Pengelly was bitterly cold and as hungry as a hunter. His unfortunate wife had failed to satisfy another of his appetites the day before and the beating he had given her for failing in her duty had not snapped him out of his ill temper. He had threatened to sell her to the highest bidder at the next market and the folk who had heard him bawling at her hoped he would do just that for the poor woman’s sake.
Pengelly was furious there was no ship offering good pickings out there. He pounded the cliff and made up his mind to steal a huge length of warm cloth from his next smuggling run and get his wife to make him up a coat for the colder nights he was abroad. When he got home he’d have the biggest breakfast ever and if she couldn’t make a better job of being a good and faithful wife, he’d beat her again and go over to Gwithian to see sweet little Nellie. If only a wreck would happen to come along this minute. He might even get a nice piece of cloth for a coat – but God help anyone who made a jest that he was giving into old age because of it.
He was suddenly out of patience. If there was a crippled ship, he would hear of it soon enough and his brutal nature would ensure he got the best pickings. He stamped a gigantic foot in temper and started for home. But he was peeved because if there was a wreck he liked to be the first to see it.
It was at that moment that Gyver Pengelly thought the kind of prayers he was wont to say were being answered. Lumbering into sight from Trevellas Porth, dipping and lurching in the trough of the waves, came a large two-masted ship, her sails tattered and in considerable peril. Pengelly laughed in pure happiness. The tide was running high and there was a reef of treacherous rocks under the waters before the beach was reached at Trevellas Porth. The ship would surely strike them and the plunder would be his! Pengelly watched in elation. He was too far away to hear the desperate shouts and screams of the crew on the ship, the tearing apart of the vessel itself. It had been fighting to stay afloat for some time and was moving inexorably onto the reef.
Before the rest of Trevaunance Cove woke up, Pengelly ran off to pull his brutalised wife out of her bed and make her fetch a barrow, and to wake up his smuggling cronies to help him in the work ahead.
Isabel lashed out with her elbow and the cry Nick let out woke them both. She turned round sharply to find him lying on his back, rubbing at his stomach.
‘What is it, Nick? What’s the matter? Are you in pain?’
‘You elbowed me in the guts,’ he moaned.
‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, pulling his hands away and rubbing her own in their place.
‘Stop,’ he groaned, with a different sort of pleading in his voice.
‘This will help.’
‘Isabel, will you please stop!’ Her hands were soft as they moved in light massaging movements on the outside of his shirt just above his breeches waistband. Nick caught hold of her wrists tightly and held her hands away from his body.
‘I’m sorry, was I hurting you?’ She wriggled to sit up and looked down on him, making out his twisted features in the crack of pale light that filtered through a window shutter. He kept hold of her wrists. ‘Nick?’
‘No,’ he replied huskily. ‘You weren’t hurting me, Isabel. I liked what you were doing too much.’
‘Oh!’ She prayed he could not see the flush of embarrassed colour washing over her face or sense the thrill shooting through her that she could affect him in such a way.
Nick wasn’t sure if she was aware how much she had aroused him. He lay still, breathing in slowly to gain control of himself, yet at the same time wanting her to make a move and fulfil his need. He had to speak to disguise his double agony. ‘What was wrong with you anyway to make you lash out like that? Did you think you saw the ghost of Annie Visick?’
‘No,’ and she shuddered at the memory, ‘it was not that. I had a nightmare about that Pengelly man.’ He let go of her wrists and lifted her hair back where it had fallen forward, hiding her face from him. ‘Don’t worry about Gyver Pengelly. I won’t let him or anyone else hurt you. Do you trust me now, Isabel?’
‘Yes, Nick,’ she replied softly.
They stayed silent, looking keenly at each other. He put his hands on either side of her face. Isabel wanted him to pull her close to him. He rubbed a thumb gently under her eye and she closed her lids. He took it to mean she had shut herself off from him and the moment he was hoping for was gone.
‘Might as well rest a little longer,’ he murmured, ‘then we’ll set out for Crantock.’
Isabel didn’t know he was as disappointed as she was and made to resume her previous position but he pulled her down and gently laid her head in the hollow of his shoulder and held her lightly. His body was firm, warm and alive. His chin rested on her head and he wound her hair round his fingers. How could she sleep now? She listened to the strong, sturdy sound of his heartbeat. After what seemed a timeless period but was only a moment she realized that a sound she had grown used to was missing. ‘Listen,’ she whispered.
‘What to?’ he whispered back, moving so his cheek rested against hers and she could feel the light stubble there.
‘The storm has gone, it’s all quiet. How quickly the weather changes.’ She had her hands clasped but moved one and laid the palm on his chest.
‘Aye, the storm eased off a while ago but the sea will still be riding high. I pity any vessel out there if it’s got into difficulties.’
‘Deadman’s Cove, the place where the coach went off the road, is very dangerous. Uncle Laurence called it the graveyard of ships.’
‘Him and many others. You surprise me with what you know,’ he teased, bringing his hand over hers. ‘The same’s true of the Stones, a reef of rocks off Godrevy Island, and Hell’s Mouth, and all round that area. The names speak for themselves. Many a ship’s foundered in my lifetime. ’Tis nearly as dangerous round this part of the coast too.’
‘I’ve heard some terrible stories about the deliberate wrecking of ships. Are they true, Nick?’
‘No, malicious slander most of ’em, but I can think of one man who’d have no conscience about carrying a lantern or lighting a bonfire to give false directions and lure a ship onto the rocks or strand it on a beach.’
‘You’re talking about Pengelly.’ Isabel gave a small shudder and Nick wrapped his arm tighter round her shoulders. He felt her hand move under his and he interlaced their fingers.
‘You can be certain he’s among the first in the rush to plunder a wreck clean, but the savage truth is that wrecks are so frequent in the winter there’s no need to do it purposely. Folk race to a wreck like a swarm of ants. A few to save and help any survivors, the rest to salvage. I’ve seen Revenue men, gentry, even clergymen picking over a wreck.’
After the harshness of the period since Nick had arrived at the scene of the coach crash, and now she had won his respect and friendship, it was idyllic being held in his arms, to be this close, enjoying a conversation. She wanted to live just for these moments, warm and safe. And she wanted to know all about Nick. Only hours before, she would have been glad to see the back of him for good. She would have remembered him as an uncouth, liberty-taking common oaf who had dealt with her grievously. Now she could stay this way for hours, for ever.
‘Have you ever picked over a wreck, Nick?’
‘Of course!’ Nick sounded astonished. ‘’Tis part of a Cornishman’s living, like free trading, to make use of what the sea is merciful enough to leave behind. Folk like Mundy need whatever they can get. I’ve brought in many a survivor. Sometimes you have to be quick and it’s risky, but not many will stand by and let another drown.’
‘You are brave,’ she said.
‘Am I now?’ he laughed. ‘I suppose I’ve been used as the answer to someone’s prayers. I suppose also I’m something of a bloody-minded cuss.’
‘Yes, you are rather,’ and she laughed too.
He moved and his unshaven cheek grazed hers. She made to dip her face away but he brought his hand up and held her chin. Their lips were so very close and Isabel closed her eyes. This time Nick did not misread her.
A sudden noise came, so loud, so unearthly, it froze their hearts. It lasted several seconds and left a threatening silence.
‘Wh-what was that?’ Isabel breathed.
Nick put a finger to her lips so he could listen. Another ear-splitting, gut-tightening sound sent him hurtling for the door.
‘My God, ’tis a ship on the rocks! We should never have been talking about it, it’s brought bad luck.’ Nick shot Isabel a harrowing look. ‘I’m going out to see if there’s anything I can do. Isabel, whatever you do, stay in the cottage because there’ll be wreckers. They won’t come up here. Get ready in case I bring back any survivors.’
He was gone and she shouted after him to be careful. It had happened so quickly she felt stunned. Gathering her wits, she opened a shutter a little way to let in some light then folded the blanket that was still warm from the closeness she’d shared with Nick. She placed it on the table in case it was needed.
She looked out of the window and saw a bleak scene outside – the two high bracken-strewn banks that sheltered the lonely little cottage, the path and stream that led to the sea and the vessel foundering upon it. Isabel tried not to think of the fear those on the ship must be facing. She could do nothing but wait for Nick to come back. Returning to the table, she sat with the outward appearance of calm born of years of training to act always as a lady.
Nick ran nimbly over the rocks that ran the course of the stream. The storm had swollen it until it reached the top of its banks, hurtling noisily over its pebbly bed, its stepping stones completely submerged. Visibility over the sea was poor, but Nick saw the tilted shell of the ship, its masts and sails missing, heaved by the tearing waters. His ears were filled with the appalling sound of timbers breaking as the ship was hurled again onto a tall outcrop of jagged cliff several hundred yards away from where he stood.
Instinct made Nick look up behind him and he saw a large group of people running along the path he and Isabel had taken the day before. Gyver Pengelly was unmistakably the front runner and his smuggling gang were hot on his giant heels. Nick knew his unfortunate wife, probably with two black eyes, would be plodding along somewhere behind with a huge barrow to take the plunder home in.
He scowled and scrambled down a high bank of rock onto the stretch of dull beach not yet covered by the tide and ran to the water’s edge where the waves were surging in. He could see bodies tossing about in the water. He looked wildly about but it was too dangerous to swim out to see if there were any survivors among them. Breaker after breaker swept in and snatched at everything in its path, bringing it closer to the shore and taking it back again.
White surging sea almost smothered the ship, its devouring tongues taking with it the mahogany timbers that were its cargo and tossing them about contemptuously like matchsticks. Pieces of ship were bitten off and tossed in all directions. The crew still left on the ship clung desperately to whatever would help them hold on to life for a little longer. But one by one they were being lost overboard.
Sometimes when the sea receded, Nick could see the low rocks that made up part of the beach, leaving momentary pools and exposing the places where he had gathered mussels and winkles as a boy. In some areas the rocks were only a few feet under the water and bodies were bobbing about over them among the wreckage. But then Nick thought he saw one of the men raise his head. Was someone alive out there? If he could make his way over those rocks and get to the bodies, relying on the surf to wash him back in if he got into any trouble, he might just be able to haul a survivor to safety. It would be a desperate thing to attempt, but a man could still be clinging to his life, like the few remaining screaming for help on the ship, and they were more desperate than he was.
The ship shuddered under the next onslaught of incoming tide. It righted itself then keeled over on its side seawards. Nick knew that men were being spilled out of its guts, howling in fear. It was a ghastly sight and Nick’s numb lips muttered words of prayer. He knew they stood no chance of survival on that side of the ship.
He had to take the risk and see if there were any survivors among the floating bodies. And he had to be quick about it; Gyver Pengelly would soon be on his back. He pulled off his boots and tossed them beyond the reach of the sea. He made his way into the surf, clambering and sliding on the ridged rocks under his feet, using all his strength against the water to get out into the sea. His hands were cut, his breeches ripped out at the knees, but soon he was half swimming through the waves. He had forgotten for the moment the responsibility Laurence Trevennor had given him.
He reached a huddle of floating bodies and snatching at their heads saw that all were dead. Another body was entangled in the legs of a dead companion and as Nick reached for the black sopping hair, the sailor lifted his head. Nick wiped the stinging salt water from his eyes and looked again to make sure they were not playing tricks. The exhausted sailor, who had been swimming for his life and had grabbed the other seaman’s legs to rest, stared at Nick in abject fear.
‘It’s all right!’ Nick shouted above the surge. ‘I’m come to help you! Give me your hand!’
Some Cornish folk held a belief that a stricken ship could not legally be called a wreck unless every living soul, fowl and beast on board were dead. It was not unknown for survivors to be murdered to accommodate that belief. The sailor looked doubtful but reckoned his best chance of survival was to trust this stranger. He raised a feeble hand and Nick clutched it. At the same moment a piece of flying timber narrowly missed the back of the sailor’s head and struck Nick in the face, cutting his cheek and showering both men with splinters. They both cried out and their hands parted.
Nick acted quickly. He pushed the dead body away from the survivor and grasped his shirt. A breaker hit them and tossed them several feet towards safety but their ordeal was not over yet. The undercurrent took them back almost as far but Nick still had much of his strength left and a good grip on the sailor. A broken piece of timber, about five feet in length, was floating near them and Nick grabbed it with his free hand. Manoeuvring it lengthways, he pulled his body over it. The sailor, who was showing no signs of panic, grappled in the water as they were tossed about until he put himself over Nick’s back. Nick waited for the next big wave and the two men rode the surf over the rocks until they were in shallower water. Nick thrust the timber out of their way, grabbed the sailor and pulled him along, gasping for breath, falling again and again, till at last they were safe.
They lay weak and sodden, staring out at the broken ship. A horrendous noise sounded the ship’s death knell. Nick and the sailor watched in a fascinated stupor as the remains were broken apart. Both men muttered snatches of desperate prayer and then, quite unashamedly, they wept.
Nick’s main concern now was to get the sailor back to the cottage before they found themselves among the wreckers. He coughed and spat out a mouthful of salt water and turned to the other man.
‘I don’t think we can help anyone else,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We have to get away from here. Wreckers are coming and there’s some among them I don’t trust. There’s a cottage not far from here. Do you think you can make it?’
The sailor was a man of Nick’s own age, not as tall and muscular but with a well-developed chest and arms telling of his years of hard labour at sea. There was a gold earring in each of his ears. ‘Aye,’ the sailor answered, panting heavily, ‘just give me a hand to get on me land legs.’
Nick was surprised at the sailor’s accent. ‘You’re a Cornishman! Were there other local men on board?’
‘Only me,’ the sailor answered. ‘’Tis why I didn’t panic. I know these parts well though I haven’t set a foot on ’em for several years. When the captain shouted, Every man for himself, I jumped overboard and let the tide bring me in. Was in the drink for ages and losing my breath when I grabbed a body, and when I looked up I couldn’t believe my eyes in seeing you there.’
Nick hauled the sailor up and shakily they started to climb the high bank of rock and head for the cottage, Nick retrieving his boots on the way. The sailor thrust out a hand. ‘My name’s James Leddra. I’m a St Ives man. I owe you my life. I’ve thanked the Almighty for sending you along to me today.’ Nick shook James Leddra’s hand as they strode along. ‘I thanked Him for sparing us both. Nick Nancarrow. Born and raised at Gwithian.’
They pushed on in silence, their weakened, bruised legs stumbling, each reaching out automatically to save the other from falling on the rocky ground. Nick glanced up and saw Gyver Pengelly had reached the cliff edge and was about to make his way down to them. Pengelly’s eyes were on the wreck and Nick hoped they would stay there.
He took James Leddra’s arm and pointed inland. ‘Run like a hare up that way. The wreckers will be down here any moment and ’tis better they don’t see you. You’ll come across a cottage. No one will go near it because ’tis reckoned to be haunted so you’ll be quite safe. You’ll find a girl in there, tell her Nick sent you and make sure she stays there till I get back. I’ll head off the wreckers so they won’t be looking your way.’
‘But what about you? The wreckers—’
‘I can look after myself. Get going!’ Nick pushed James Leddra roughly onwards and watched as Gyver Pengelly slipped and slid his bulk down towards the shore.
Isabel shrieked as the young seaman crashed through the cottage door minutes later. She grabbed the broom and brandished it defiantly in his face. She trembled as much as he did, her nerves set on edge by the sounds of the ship’s death throes.
‘Who are you?’ she challenged him in Jenna Stevens’ voice.
The sailor bent over and gripped his legs above the knees, panting painfully. ‘James Leddra’s my name… Your man sent me… said his name was Nick… said to tell you that… says I’m t’stay here till he gets back.’ He was shivering violently, his face flushed and bruised, his feet bare and clothes torn.
Isabel dropped the broom. ‘Is Nick all right?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Aye, he’s heading off the wreckers, to give me the chance to slip away unseen.’
‘How many wreckers are there?’ Isabel asked fearfully.
‘Not many yet as far as I could see but there’ll be hundreds when word gets around. Nick says no one will come near this place because it’s haunted.’
Isabel nodded but her relief was small. ‘I hope they don’t hurt him.’ She picked up the blanket. ‘Come and sit down. Put this around you. I’m afraid the fire’s gone out. How many more survivors are there to come?’
‘Don’t think there’s any,’ James said numbly. ‘Just me… and if it wasn’t for Nick… I hadn’t much strength left when he swam out to reach me.’ He sat hunched over with the blanket round him, water dripping from his loose dark hair onto the floor.
Isabel held out the water flask to him. ‘Have a drink of water. It will make you feel better.’
‘Thanks, a drop of rum would go down better but you don’t feel too choosy when you’ve just nearly lost your life.’
Isabel viewed the dejected figure with sympathy. Two days ago she would have seen him as only an underling, one of the common people. They died regularly in large numbers, from mining accidents, drownings at sea, fires sweeping through their tightly-built hovels, a variety of fevers and illnesses. It was expected of them. They were used to it. It had not really mattered. She shuddered at how she had grown up, prejudiced by such views. She saw things differently now, after knowing Nick, his ugly friend Charlie, Mundy Cottle and her brood of children. She held out a hand. It hovered, hesitated, then with resolve she placed it on the darkly tanned skin of the sailor’s shivering shoulder, exposed by his torn shirt.
‘I’m so very sorry. They call it the bounty of the sea. Some do even believe that God sends them the wrecks – people poor enough to be glad of anything.’
James Leddra nodded grimly. ‘Aye, you’re glad of it if you’re starving.’
He drank down the last of the water then looked at Isabel. Even in his distress he could see she was no ordinary working-class young woman.
‘We was caught out at sea in the storm. Thought we’d make a run for shore but then the wind dropped and we were at the mercy of the strong tide and sea. Cap’n couldn’t keep her off the rocks out there. We’d have stood a better chance if we could have beached at Trevaunance Cove. We was tossed around like a cork and I lost my little dog, saw her float away and there was nothing I could do. I was only saved because I know these parts and jumped off the ship. Took a chance on keeping my head and the tide washing me ashore. There’ll be good pickings of timber for the wreckers. Cap’n was a good’un… went never find one to sail under like he again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Isabel repeated, tears pricking her eyes. ‘What was the name of your ship?’
‘She was The Bountiful. I was the mate. She was my third ship since I ran away to sea about fourteen year ago.’ James wiped away fresh tears and braved a smile over chattering teeth. ‘’Tis awful cold in here. Can’t light a fire with the wreckers crawling about but would you happen to know if some dry clothes are to be found in here? I take it from the thick dust and your man saying ’tis s’posed to be haunted you don’t live here.’
‘I’ll see what I can find.’ Isabel felt disinclined to repeat the tragic story of the cottage’s previous occupant but she was worried about its curse as she rummaged through the room for Billy Noone’s spare clothing. In a cubbyhole beside the bed she found a well-worn darned serge shirt, a pair of rough black breeches and a holey pair of hose. It occurred to her that Nick would also be wet through and wondered whether she shouldn’t keep something back for him to change into. But another quick look at the clothes told her they would not fit him and she handed them over.
‘Bless you,’ James Leddra said when she laid them on the table. ‘You a local maid?’
‘No, I’m from the north of the county.’ She did not want to be questioned and tried to appear busy.
‘I’m a St Ives man myself.’
‘Really?’
‘Haven’t set foot in it these last seven or eight years. I’ve got a sister there, Mary Ellen. I heard she’s got a young’un, a cheeil by the name of Morenwyn. Know ’em, by any chance?’
‘No,’ Isabel said blandly but she was feeling uncomfortable. It was unlikely that this man knew anything about her real identity but her cousins, the Kempthornes, had a notorious reputation in St Ives and she hoped the sailor would not mention them. If he went home and heard they had moved on to better things and got talking about them and his shipwreck and the man who had rescued him and the woman waiting in this haunted cottage…
She went to the window and looked out anxiously for signs of Nick. She kept her back to James Leddra as she heard him tugging off his wet clothes. She could not blame him for wanting to change straightaway, he risked pneumonia if he didn’t, but she couldn’t help feeling it was improper of him not to wait for Nick to come back.
‘You Mrs Nancarrow then?’ he said to her stubborn back.
‘No.’
He kicked his wet clothes away and sat down again, still shivering but much more comfortable. He discarded the blanket too which his clothes had soaked. You can turn round now.’ He was watching Isabel curiously. You aren’t Nick’s sister, are you.’ It was more of a statement than a question.
‘No,’ she replied without turning round, ashamed of what her answer would imply. ‘My name is Jenna Stevens.’
Nick’s intention was for the wreckers to see him and not James Leddra running away inland. He was not afraid he would be mistaken for a survivor; by his clothes he was not a seafarer and he knew many of the wreckers. As they scrambled into the coombe, the majority of them ignored him and raced off to be first at the scene of the wreck, whooping and cheering each other on. Some hailed him by name as they rushed past him. Their leader had stopped in his tracks. Gyver Pengelly stood with coils of thick rope over massive shoulders, a hatchet and crowbars in his hands.
‘Got here first, I see,’ he shouted at Nick. ‘By the look of’ee you’ve ’ad a dip in the sea. Been fur a nice little swim, ’ave ’ee, Nancarrow? Didn’t ’ee realise ’tes a mite too dangerous fur that today?’
Nick clenched his fists. ‘I thought I’d see if anyone could be saved.’
Pengelly gave a sly sideways grin. ‘All dead, are they?’
‘Aye, Pengelly,’ Nick said savagely. ‘But she won’t be easy to salvage.’
Pengelly was sweating, his bleary eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from looking all night into the wind, his large lips were purple-blue. ‘Not after the pickin’s yerself?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘No, got better things to do.’
Pengelly would have stayed to badger Nick but was eager to be in charge of the wrecking. ‘That maid of yourn must be good in the sack!’ he bellowed, leering, then ran on.
Nick turned his back on the big man and walked quickly to the cottage. He found Isabel and James Leddra talking quietly.
Isabel ran to him, taking in his wet and torn clothes and the trickle of blood from his cut cheek. ‘Are you all right, Nick?’
‘I’m fine, Jenna,’ he said, glad she had remembered to use her new character. ‘Get packed up,’ he added in a serious voice. ‘I want to be on our way before that crowd spreads out over the cliffs.’
‘But you’re soaked through and hurt.’
He pressed his fingers to his stinging cheek and glanced at the blood on their tips. ‘I’ll see to it later and I’ll soon dry out.’ He turned to James Leddra. ‘You’ll be all right as long as you stay in here till dark and head inland.’
‘I thank you again, Nick Nancarrow,’ James said humbly. ‘I won’t forget what you’ve done for me this day.’
‘I’d be grateful if you don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me or her,’ Nick said, picking up his canvas bag.
James glanced at Isabel who gave him a brief smile. He nodded. ‘My lips are sealed, you have my word on it.’
Nick hurried Isabel to the door. She looked back uncertainly at James Leddra sitting in Billy Noone’s clothes. ‘Don’t take anything else from the cottage. It’s supposed to be unlucky.’
Nick led Isabel at a fast rate further inland, following the stream along a rocky path to avoid the cliff area. A few lazy twists and turns and the silhouette of a mine workings came into view. The sound of the sea was gone, the thump, thump of the engine house taking its place. Isabel saw distant figures of bal-maidens, mine boys and the older men dressing the ore on the surface for the stamping machines. The sound of their shovels and hammers knocking out the tin from the rock carried clearly on the chilly morning air.
‘The folk of this mining community live way back behind the works. They haven’t got word of the wreck yet or they’d be swarming this way,’ Nick said grimly, taking Isabel’s arm and heading back to the cliffs.