On Starlit Seas Page 16

  Maria could not believe he had gone. It seemed too quick and now too quiet. She stared horrified at the remains of the meal, as if the abandoned plates and unserved fish were carnage after a battle. For an instant she almost ran after James Henderson, but if she did so, what could she say? She had never believed in the blousy love of poets. She had mocked Lady Caroline Lamb when the girl made a fool of herself over Byron. Now she thought she might read a hundred novels and perhaps even cry at the stories. She tried to imagine what Murray would advise (if, indeed, she could ever voice her shameful concerns to such an august friend). She pictured the old publisher’s grey-haired head cocked to one side as he considered the implications. Worse, she pictured the reaction of her father – his memory desecrated. He had wanted her to be a lady.

  Even if she returned with Henderson to Brazil, the captain would not be welcomed at court. The Brazilians were every bit as exacting as the British when it came to hierarchy. She knew what da Couto would make of such a match – it would delight him – and da Couto would not be alone. Her position would be terminated immediately and Her Majesty would be right to do so. She was above this.

  And yet Maria felt what could only be described as a longing amidst the shame. She wished she didn’t care what others thought. She worried that the gnawing sensation in her belly might never cease. Would she die in her dotage still wanting him? Wondering? The thought sent her into a terrified frenzy, as if she was out of her depth in treacherous water, kicking for her life. Instead of stretching, which she feared might make the feeling larger, longer and harder to bear, she curled up into a tiny ball on the wide wooden boards and sobbed quietly. It had all been leading to this. Of course it had.

  Outside, Henderson hovered. He leaned against the wooden planks opposite the door, the taste of sour wine growing in his gullet. He had misjudged the situation and, worse, he had misjudged Mrs Graham. No sound emanated from the room. He stood back.

  ‘I am nothing,’ he whispered.

  The captain froze for some time in silence and confusion. It took determination to turn away, but as he swung towards his cabin he found he was limping, as if the wound was physical. His feet ached. Nothing made sense tonight. He slapped his leg in annoyance, drew himself up and disappeared in the direction of his charts. Why would she want him? It was a foolish idea. He had nothing worthwhile to offer a woman of quality. He must turn his attention to business. What had he been thinking?

  16

  Cornwall, three days later

  Close to the coastline it was blustery tonight, the waves whipping up a summer storm. The Bittersweet pitched and rolled in the dark, the fierce weather sweeping across the deck in a vengeful spray. These waters were dangerous, home to diseases that would send a shiver down any sailor’s spine – the Dogger Bank itch, it was said, made you peel off the skin between your own fingers. Henderson tried to focus. There were sinister reefs hidden, deathly shards of rock just beneath the surface, and, in conditions such as these, without detailed knowledge of the safest passage, it was risky. That was why the stretch was popular with smugglers – you had to know your way.

  Will had pointed out this part of the coast on the chart. All those weeks ago under the burning Brazilian sun, he had scattered the names of safe villages carelessly into the conversation as if he were strewing raisins through a bannock bun.

  ‘The gobblers try,’ he had said, ‘but mostly we win the toss. Still, it’s a different game from my father’s day.’

  ‘Do you mean the customs men?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘Aye. Time was they only came on land, but now they’ve formed a sea patrol. I have a cousin with a three-masted lugger at Ringstead Beach. He’s found it hard. They’re like sharks following a trail of fresh blood. Of late he’s been going the other direction – running cider to Dieppe. It’s enough to turn a man to real crime.’ Will grinned. ‘They need to think of that. Cornwall is a smuggler’s paradise. They’ll never subdue her. The Cornish would die before they set their livings aside. England’ll hang you, see, for a rabbit or a loaf of bread, never mind a shipment of rum.’

  Lubricated by a good half-bottle of caninha, Will had spoken of hidden alleyways to fool the excisemen and of false cellars in tiny cottages that could store as much as a Whitechapel bond. Most of the contraband disappeared close to where it was brought in, he said. Barrels of genever at two shillings and sixpence a keg and Roscoff brandy, worth more, for it was a gentleman’s tipple. Only the cream went to London – rare items like the chocolate beans in the Bittersweet’s hold, red wine from fancy French chateaux and the occasional shipment of Indian embroidered cloth. This was not Henderson’s concern, Will insisted, the beans already had a buyer – he need not worry on that account.

  Tonight, however, even making shore was not certain. Henderson couldn’t remember the name of the place Will said he lived, though he was sure this was the right stretch. He checked for a funt – a warning light – in case the gobblers were close, but the choppy sea was only briefly illuminated by the moon breaking through the clouds.

  Over the days since he had declared himself, he had tried to speak further with Maria, but she would brook no conversation and he had no wish to force her. As a result, Mrs Graham had eaten alone in her cabin, and enquiring of the cabin boy as to her health or, indeed, the state of her mind had yielded little information. If nothing else, the boy had proved himself loyal. This storm at least gave the captain more time in the lady’s proximity if not her company. After the beans were landed, they would both face London. The big city loomed in Henderson’s imagination, a slushy grey apparition far more terrifying than the jagged rocks and raw weather. His palms felt sticky at the thought of what he might find – the ghosts of his childhood and those of the life he might have had haunted the fringes like Judgement Day. To explore it with Maria would be comforting, though he knew that was an illusion. She would be off immediately the Bittersweet moored. He did not want to think about it.

  Fortified by hot port and swaddled in all his woollen clothing at once, Henderson directed the dark scramble of men to weigh anchor. Then he sent Clarkson ashore in a rowing boat with three men to see the lie of the land. Henderson lit his pipe and watched as the little boat made the beach, Clarkson’s lantern disappearing in a jerky motion across the crest at the top of the sand. The second in command was an able negotiator who always appeared friendly, even when a knife was drawn. He was accustomed to being prepared for anything, ever since his wife’s skulduggery with the press gang. He’d been told to use Will’s name to secure assistance – to knock up the first cottage and see if anyone knew to expect a friend of Will Simmons. That was the way of a fraternity held together by its secrets. The right name was a password.

  Henderson ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and made a mental note that he must be clean-shaven for the capital and must change into the suit he’d had fitted in Natal. He had no reputation here, but that meant he might make a new one, and London would welcome him the better for a proper cravat.

  As the first pale light of a grey dawn stole across the horizon like a watermark, Clarkson’s lamp appeared once more on the shore and slowly the black smudge of the rowing boat made its way towards the Bittersweet with, Henderson noticed, an extra man on board. Clarkson was the first back on deck. His breath smelled of small beer – no surprise, for while Englishmen abroad never claimed to miss their families, Henderson had heard every member of his crew bemoan the lack of good ale. Nowhere brewed the same from the Brazils up to the Hudson, from New York to Calicut. It was something in the English water, something in the Kentish hops – a taste of home that was impossible to reproduce.

  The mate hauled the others onto the deck.

  ‘Captain,’ he announced, ‘this is Sam Pearson. He knew Will Simmons.’

  Sam was a thin, red-haired lad who unfurled over the side as if he were a tent going up. His skin glowed almost translucent in the dawning light, peppered with wide pale freckles.

  ‘Will’s dead
?’ he asked immediately.

  Henderson nodded. ‘He was stabbed.’

  Sam’s eyes swung to port, as if he might jump overboard if the captain’s answers did not meet with his approval. After all, he only had the crew’s word for what had happened to his friend, and pirates were not unknown along the coast.

  ‘The man must’ve been fast with a blade,’ Sam commented warily. ‘Will could fight.’

  ‘It was a woman,’ Henderson explained. ‘She put him off his guard. There was an argument over a bet. I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘You buried him?’

  Henderson nodded in confirmation. ‘In Brazil. Hallowed ground. I have Will’s things below. You can deliver his possessions to his family.’

  ‘I’ll tell his sisters. They’re the only family he has,’ Sam said solemnly.

  From the galley, a steam of hot bread hit the air as Big Al started work for the day, but the seamen ignored the tantal-

  ising smell. They were paid when the cargo was landed.

  ‘So,’ said Henderson, ‘will you guide us in?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s a safe bay half an hour on and there’ll be men ready to ferry the beans. I sent word. I’ll show the way.’

  The boy spoke with a thick accent that made him sound slow, but there was no question he knew what he was doing. Smuggling here was a businesslike affair and Sam, like Will, seemed competent.

  ‘We can’t sink it, can we?’ the boy asked.

  ‘No. The beans can’t be soaked. They’re easily tainted. Is that the usual way?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mostly we run spirits. Best way is to sink ’em and bring up the barrels later. A ship acts like a beacon for the Preventatives, but sink the cargo and you can fetch it at your leisure off a rowing boat.’

  Henderson mused that English excisemen must be more efficient than the Yankees. On his trips north, he simply unloaded. There were hardly any excise fellows on the Hudson or the Charles, and those there were could be paid off easily. The spirit of the Americas was one of the right to trade and the place was simply too vast to patrol effectively.

  ‘You don’t just bribe ’em?’

  Sam’s face lit up. ‘My father talks of those days, sir. Not any more. Sometimes we get into a right scrap. There’s been a couple of deaths of late.’

  ‘All right.’ Henderson put up his hand. ‘No need to go into that.’ It would only spook the men. ‘You show us where to go, Sam,’ he said, and at his signal the Bittersweet raised anchor, the crew ready to bring her home.

  The boy pointed the direction. On the horizon, gulls were flirting with the slate-grey surf. ‘We need to keep west until we’re beyond the point.’

  Henderson nodded to Clarkson to follow these instructions.

  ‘Good. If we have half an hour, there’s private business we can see to, you and I,’ the captain said.

  Downstairs in the cramped cabin, Henderson turned up the tallow lamps. Vague spectres leapt upwards, playing along the dark walls. This early in the morning was a time of indistinct shadows, inside and out. Sam loitered.

  ‘You’ll require paying, Mr Pearson? We must come to terms.’

  At close proximity, Henderson realised Pearson’s body was so thin it looked as if his clothes were holding him up. His trousers were stiff with dirt and his woollen sweater smelled no better. The boy smiled, revealing a set of ivory teeth like pianoforte keys.

  ‘This is Will’s cargo? The one he set out to fetch?’ he asked.

  Henderson nodded.

  ‘They pay me for that. I don’t need nothing from you, Captain. I got my instructions. What arrangement did you make with Will? I’ll see it’s honoured, for surely it’s us should be paying you.’

  Henderson allowed his eyes to betray nothing. ‘We had no time to make proper arrangements, or at least nothing in detail. I have taken my arrangement fee already, but I shall expect a decent cut in addition.’

  Sam nodded. ‘We need to offload the beans here. The lads will see them safely away and I’ll make sure you’re paid. It’s Will’s cargo and there’s them who’s expecting it. What are your plans in England?’

  ‘I had thought to go to London for a few weeks.’

  Sam adopted a sage expression, as if London was his second home. ‘I’ll come with you and see you right, then, sir. The money’s in London. Isn’t that always the way?’

  The boy’s eyes were unclouded by deception, blue as a fresh stream in summer. Still, he was asking a good deal. Few captains would turn over their cargo without seeing money up front. Henderson weighed a brass compass in his hand. The light from the porthole barely illuminated the ruffled blanket on the bed. Despite the lamp, Pearson’s pale face was mostly in shade.

  ‘You want me to hand over the goods?’ the captain asked. ‘Without agreeing a price?’

  Sam stood stock-still. There was nothing shifty about him.

  ‘There’s no other way, sir. We didn’t know you was coming. We didn’t know what had happened to Will – that’s a change of circumstances all right. The gentlemen pay their debts. They’ll give you a price that’s more than fair, I’d stake my life on it.’

  ‘Which gentlemen?’

  ‘Why them’s we work for, Will and I,’ Sam said, slowing as the sentence progressed and it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t tell the captain about his employers.

  Henderson paused. Sam hadn’t mentioned the block of chocolate. He reasoned that, at least, would stand surety alongside the arrangement fee, if his instincts about trusting the lad were mistaken. The gold and precious stones were worth more than the rest of the shipment put together, and a good deal easier to smuggle ashore.

  ‘You expect plenty, Mr Pearson,’ the captain said. ‘See that you merit it. And I’ll take you on your oath. You’ve staked your life, boy.’

  Sam nodded gravely. ‘Aye aye, sir. Once we’re done here, we can sail east, cut up the Thames and dock at Greenwich. I’m quite the London lad these days. I’ll keep you right.’

  Henderson waited. Still the boy didn’t allude to anything other than the beans.

  ‘We should get back on deck,’ the captain said, glad this was happening early. Mrs Graham never quit her cabin before mid-morning and did not break her fast until the men were halfway through the first shift of the day. With luck, the unloading would be over before she woke and he could cast off for the wide mouth of the Thames Estuary without setting her ashore. It would give them another day together, perhaps two if the storms continued. He wanted to mend the offence he’d caused, or at least win the chance to apologise.

  On deck, a sheet of drizzle swept down from the dawning sky, punctuated by a bustle of dark clouds. The crew were soaked to the skin, working the ropes as the Bittersweet lurched through the surf. The only whisper of Sam’s cove was a sharp bristle of trees like a ragged beard on the horizon. Nature had hidden the shelter well.

  ‘The Hollow,’ he breathed. ‘You have to take her wide. You can’t see the reef, but it’s there.’

  Henderson nodded and the ship moved. At the farthest point, anchored rowing boats appeared, bobbing to one side of a makeshift stone jetty. It was a clever little cove.

  Henderson passed the brass quickly to Sam. One of the boats was floating upside down, the underside slung with barnacles and a slimy string of ochre seaweed. The jetty was deserted, the shoreline unpunctuated by a single helper. The cottages on the harbour shed dark, thin wisps of smoke skywards. Gulls were interspersed between the chimneys. The boy examined the scene carefully.

  ‘Should there be men?’ Henderson asked.

  Sam nodded. ‘If they’ve gone, there’s a reason,’ he said. ‘And if there’s no one there, or no one showing, something’s wrong.’

  There was no sign of excisemen on the horizon, but only a fool wouldn’t listen to a man familiar with the ground.

  ‘About, Mr Clarkson,’ the captain barked.

  As the ship heaved to, Henderson checked the cabin boy had kept his footing on l
ookout halfway up the mast. The boy saluted, the dark nubs in his mouth clearly on view and his eyes alight. He loved a bit of action. The Bittersweet arched back towards the open water, avoiding the reef.

  ‘Keep an eye out,’ Henderson directed.

  ‘Out to sea, sir,’ Sam suggested. ‘South, I’d say. We can try again later. After dark, we might hazard unloading straight into the village.’

  Henderson said nothing. He shifted his weight. The horizon remained clear, but still, what might happen if they were caught? He found himself considering Mrs Graham’s pos-

  ition and suddenly it was as if a page had turned. He loosened the woollen scarf around his neck. This didn’t feel right any more and he was uneasy, as if wearing another man’s clothes. It was an extraordinary feeling. A moment of revelation.

  He had thought to change his life by marrying and then altering his ways, but it occurred to him now to ask, why not the other way around? There was no need to visit London before he made good on his resolutions. Suddenly he realised that he could do what was needed immediately. It was a tantalising prospect – he might step ashore an honest man. He glanced in the direction of the ever-closed door to Maria’s cabin as the shore receded. To bring Mrs Graham into this was quite wrong, he reasoned, and if they were caught, that would be unavoidable. He watched Clarkson wrangling the men. In Trinidad, Maria had asked if the penalties made him afraid. The truth was, it had never been a consideration before, but now he wondered how many of his men might swing if things went wrong today.

  ‘Once we’re a way out, see the men are fed, including Mr Pearson,’ he instructed the mate, ‘then bear west. They’ll have trouble following us that way. And keep me informed.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Sam hovered as the crew swung into action. Eyes burning, he watched the Bittersweet as it tacked in a different direction to the one he had advised.

  ‘Come on, lad.’ Clarkson pulled the boy’s arm. ‘We’ll get something in your belly, shall we?’