Chapter Twenty-four

Once Phillip drove away, Carne had no reason to linger in his house. He quickly picked up the rest of the wreckage and then had to get clear of the place where every room had a memory of Phillip imprinted on it. There was the business with Gwalather to tend to. He’d start with that.

But as he hiked over the brow of the hill from where he could see most of Par Gwynear and the harbor below, Carne spotted a ship that had dropped anchor at the mouth of the cove. This was the ship the Concern had been expecting and which he’d once worried Phillip might raise questions about when it arrived.

How long ago it seemed he’d been afraid of the town’s secret leaking to an outsider, when actually it had been only a matter of days. They’d become so close so quickly that, by the end, Carne would have been willing to confide almost anything in the man from London. The speed with which he’d fallen should have told him his feelings were not to be trusted. He’d had an intense and surprising fling with a stranger, no more than that. And now he must put it firmly behind him and focus on business again.

He strode through the drizzle, past the road that led north to Truro. Phillip would be on that road now and getting wet in his open motorcar. What a foolish, impulsive man to drive such a vehicle all over the countryside. That road also led to the old mine where someone might still be watching for Gwalather to return. But likely most of the folks from the village would be down at the shore by now, not only the charter members of the Concern, but everyone. Carne was surprised no one had sounded the horn announcing the ship’s arrival, but perhaps he’d simply missed hearing it with his head stuck down a hole of misery and pathetic self-pity.

He trudged down the steep path to the beach—the last time he’d walked such a path was with Phillip by his side, the pair of them hauling that ridiculous camera equipment to the shallow inlet where no ship ever came. Carne shut the memory from his mind. Below, many of the villagers had gathered on the beach. Those with skiffs rowed out to the ship to transport however much cargo they could load. The rest waited, ready to carry crates to their storage spot.

The opening to this cave, the one Carne had never shown Phillip, was well hidden behind a rocky outcropping in the opposite direction from the scenic places he had guided him to. It was also some distance from the Mitchell family’s private territory. It galled Carne that Gwalather and Mitchell had carried on gunrunning and who knew what other filthy trade right under his nose. He cared much more about that than the other items Gwalather had hidden for himself. He would make the man pay for it, not by turning him in—smugglers didn’t peach on each other—but by forcing him to give the village its due. But at the moment, he had his own illegal business to tend to.

Carne waved hello to Dolly Bright, the Hennessy sisters, and some of the other women who waited on shore for the men to haul in the cargo. These were strong Cornishwomen with the muscle to carry hundred-pound crates or barrels between them. Their skirts were hiked high and their sleeves rolled to the elbows as they stood with folded arms, chatting together, waiting for the men to row back to shore.

Children and barking dogs ran around several driftwood fires lit to keep the chill at bay and guide the boats to shore as the sky grew ever darker in the midst of day. Some dug clams at the water’s edge and buried them again in the hot sand by the fires to bake for lunch. Everyone had a job to do, even the elderly, who sat and talked and offered drinks of water or beer from a keg brought down to the beach. These were all Carne’s friends and neighbors. His village—or what remained of it now that most young people like Robin went to seek their future in the city. To think, just for a brief moment, he’d imagined leaving such familiar company to travel to faraway places. Ridiculous. This was his home and where he belonged, like it or not.

“Glad you’ve come.” Old Bob Mumford greeted him from his chair near the fire. “Most are out already, and a good thing too, as this storm is rolling in fast.”

Carne cast another glance at the glowering sky that made the water dark gray and the waves turbulent. A rough day to ferry goods from ship to shore, but they had little control over when a ship came in. After receiving written notice from their contact in France, the village could only keep watch for the day or night the ship was sighted offshore. Carne had spotted this one far out as he and Phillip sailed to Kynance Cove the other day, so he’d guessed it would reach them in a day or so.

Kynance Cove… He dragged his mind away from what had happened there. But it was hard to avoid the memories when they were still so fresh. Only yesterday morning, Carne had been with Phillip. Sensations pelted him, stronger than the rain now peppering his skin. Insane that he had done such things with such abandon. He hardly recognized himself in that memory.

No time for daydreams. He saw Billy Crowder pulling his large rowboat into the water and went to join him. It would take both of them to steer the craft to the waiting ship and load it.

The long-jawed fisherman heaved hard on one oar and Carne on the other as they guided the boat around Cormoran’s Shite, the name given to the underwater boulder that sat like a giant’s turd near the mouth of the cove. It was a good sentinel, since anyone not familiar with the cove might rip open a hull on it or at least scrape bottom.

“Bad day for a shipment,” Billy remarked. “It’ll be henting soon.”

“Aye, quite a squall,” Carne agreed as rain whipped his face and waves buffeted the boat.

They avoided another cluster of rocks the push of water and wind tried to run the boat onto and reached the large ship anchored in deep water. The crew on deck lowered crates over the side to the small boats bobbing near the hull. Usually the cove waters were calm enough to make offloading fairly easy. In today’s rough water, it was difficult for the skiffs to remain close enough to the ship. A crate lowered in a cradle of ropes from above plummeted as wet rope slipped through the crewman’s hands. The men waiting with hands outstretched yelled as the heavy crate fell. One dove out of the way while the other attempted to steady it and missed. The crate landed in the boat with a crash.

Billy grunted. “He’ll be takin’ on water now.”

Delivering a string of blistering curses, the men pushed off and rowed away from the ship. Trennick and Bart Smith. Carne identified them as they passed. He wondered if anyone still watched over the mine for Gwalather to return and realized he didn’t really care. Maybe it would be best, as Phillip had said, if Gwalather and Jacobs simply left town quietly with their loot.

A couple more boats were loaded without difficulty before another accident occurred. Miscalculation and an unexpected swell driving the skiff away from the ship caused a crate to land in the water. Cursing French sailors tried to haul it up while the men in the boat leaned as far over the edge as they dared to grab for it, but the crate slipped out of its rope cradle and plunged into the water. More shouted curses in French and English sounded over rumbling thunder and the crash of waves against the rocks. The crate might be retrieved later, but if it had split open on underwater rocks, the goods would likely be ruined.

Their boat was next in the queue. Carne and Billy maneuvered as close as they could to the ship, which rose high above them. Barnacles encrusted the wood near the waterline. Carne inhaled the odor of wet wood and seawater as his boat bumped alongside. He threw grappling lines to someone above to keep the craft tethered and stared up at the bottom of a large crate lowering slowly to him.

He and Billy guided the cargo to the deck. The boat settled more deeply in the water at the added weight. He beckoned the crew to send down another. This fairly large skiff could bear more weight than the smaller ones and the sooner they had this ship offloaded, the better, as the storm grew fierce.

A smaller crate came down. Wine or brandy, Carne guessed, with bottles swaddled in cloth and nesting in straw in watertight crates. Their seams were sealed with wax for added protection. He recalled the brandy he and Phillip had drunk. How rich and bittersweet it had tasted with death only a few breaths away but the possibility of love in a handclasp in the dark.

He and Billy received the cargo without incident and placed it away from the larger crate to keep the boat in balance. The grappling hooks were thrown down. Billy expertly caught and tied them, while Carne secured the crates to the deck. Wet rope scraped his palms as he tied knots his tas had taught him even before Carne was large enough to work on the Magpie. He took his place at one oar, and Billy at the other, and they headed back toward shore.

The rain whipped Carne’s face, nearly blinding him, and the sky was as dark as night. The fires on shore that the women and children kept lit despite the rain were beacons to aim for. Carne steered toward them, shouting at Billy to pull hard on his side to keep the boat away from Cormoran’s Shite.

The squeal of rock rending wood rose above the sound of the storm as the boat lurched and dragged. Christ, he’d crossed this cove a thousand times in his life and never so much as bumped the boulder. Now the waves drove him into it faster than he and Billy could row away.

Carne half rose from his seat and pushed hard with the oar against the rock. His shoulder wrenched and the boat turned at the same moment a wave knocked it against solid stone. The frame shuddered, and wood screeched as it tore asunder. Seawater gushed up from the rent in the boat, wetting his boots from below.

The vessel tilted drunkenly this way and that before listing heavily. A wave washed over the leeward side of the boat, sweeping Billy along with it. The grizzled sailor grabbed hold of the edge as he fell overboard. Carne lunged toward him, and his feet slipped out from under him. He pitched toward the water, grasping at rope, wood, anything to keep him from falling.

He had time to draw one deep breath before plunging into the icy sea. It closed over his head, filling his ears, eyes, and nose. He pushed his arms and kicked his legs, struggling to reach the surface, his heavy clothes pulling him down. His left foot caught on something sharp, a jagged board of the boat or perhaps an outcropping of stone. When he kicked free, a sharp pain shot up his leg. His lungs ached, and his limbs were so heavy with cold he had to force them to churn through the water. If he could only reach the surface, he’d find Billy, and together they’d swim for shore or be hauled up on one of the skiffs.

But the relentless ocean kept sucking him away from the surface and toward the sea while pieces of wood from the shattered boat tumbled around him. His chest burned with the need for air, and he could hardly tell whether he was swimming up or down. Something hard bashed into his head and in his muddled mind, Carne had one clear thought.

I’m going to die like my father. This is what the end feels like. I didn’t know.

And on the heels of that: I wish I’d said a proper good-bye to Phillip.