Pengelly's Daughter (34 page)

‘There is no Jim.'

‘At least call me James,' he said with irritation, ‘surely you can do that?' For a moment, we stood in angry silence, listening to an owl hooting in the distance.

‘D'you think we're in danger?' I asked at last.

Those black eyes were staring at me. ‘I'd never bring you knowingly to danger but I can't be sure. I've no idea why they want this land.' His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Do you want to stay here, or come? I need to take a better look.'

From out of nowhere, dark wings swooped noisily above us and I jumped in fright. ‘I didn't come all this way to be left behind,' I said. ‘And don't laugh at me, James – it's not my fault my mind's full of Mrs Munroe's fanciful stories.'

His voice became serious. ‘Tread only where I tread – there may be traps for trespassers.' He reached for a thick branch, gripping it with both hands, stabbing the ground in front of him. ‘I mean it Rose, these traps kill. Walk only in my footsteps.'

The wood was overgrown, the ground soggy as I lifted my sodden skirts, plunging my shoes into the muddy indentations left by his boots. Brambles whipped my cloak, snagging my dress and, as I struggled to climb over a fallen tree trunk, James held out his hand to steady me. I nearly reached for it. I so nearly reached for it, but I shook my head, knowing I would never let him touch me again. Our eyes met and I saw his mouth tighten in annoyance.

The trees had started to thin, the wood opening into a recently constructed clearing. Moonlight ooded the open space, making it as bright as day. At the end of the clearing, a wooden building was visible against the surrounding trees, a bonre ickering on the ground in front of it. Wood-smoke drifted towards us; two men sitting by the re, their backs silhouetted against the ames. We pulled quickly back, darting behind a tree. A sizeable track led from the clearing down to the river but we had seen no sign of this path from the creek and James crept forward to get a better look. Kneeling on the ground, he felt the stones with his ngers.

‘
Cart ruts
,' he mouthed, making no sound.

‘
Are they charcoal burners?
' I mouthed back.

‘I don't think so,' he whispered, beginning to undo his jacket.

A large rope was slung across his chest and I watched in alarm as he whisked the rope over his head and began refastening his jacket. Pulling his hat low, he took off his scarf, tying it over his mouth to conceal his face. Scooping up some earth, he began rubbing it over his hands, disappearing into the darkness in front of me. ‘Stay here! Conceal yourself under your cloak and promise me – on your father's life – don't follow. I'll come back, but don't move. Do you promise?'

The rope shone in the moonlight, like a snake in his hands. Twisting it quickly, he tied a knot, once again coiling it and hoisting it over his shoulder. He felt for his dagger and with no sound at all, he was swallowed by the blackness of the wood. I was alone and no amount of owls, or bats, or evil spirits, could have added to my fear. I drew my cloak around me, desperately hoping the vegetation would be enough to give me cover. My hands were shaking, my ngertips sore with gripping my cloak. I was not well hidden – I would have to nd denser undergrowth, but it was too late. One of the men rose from the re and began looking in my direction. He began walking towards me.

‘I tell ye, I heard something.' His knife ashed in the moonlight.

‘Probably just a fox.'

‘It was voices, I tell ye.'

‘Leave be. Ye're so edgy these days – ye'd jump at your own shadow.'

‘Quiet…listen.'

He was halfway across the clearing, clearly visible in the moonlight. He was tall, thin, turning from side to side, his arms poised to ght. In one hand, he held a knife, in the other a pistol. I shrunk further under my cloak – petried my petticoat would be showing beneath my skirt. I need not have worried – Jenna's carefully starched white cotton was indistinguishable in the mud.

The man swung round, raising the pistol, ‘Who's there? Come out or I'll shoot.'

‘It's an owl, ye idiot,' came the voice from the re. ‘Have some ale. Ye've been that jumpy all night.'

‘Ye know our orders – no-one gets through. And I tell ye, I heard voices.' He cocked the pistol, once more turning in my direction.

He could not have been more than ten yards away when a sudden crack lled the air. A rope ew out of the woods, whirring across the clearing, wrapping itself round the man. His arms were pinned to his sides with such ferocity the knife and pistol fell from his hands. The rope tightened, jerked viciously, dragging him sideways until he stumbled and fell. James leapt from the darkness and secured a gag. The watchman could do nothing but stare, petried, as his faceless assailant began winding the rope round him with lightning speed. Before the other watchman had even turned, James grabbed the fallen pistol and vanished in the darkness.

‘Samuel?' The man by the re rose, ‘Samuel? For chrissake stop messin' about. Where've ye gone?'

He began edging towards the sound of grunting, pistol poised. Immediately, he was gripped from behind, cold iron pressing against his temple. He dropped his pistol, standing frozen to the spot. The pressure on his arm would leave him in no doubt who was the stronger and the watchman was clearly no fool. He put up no resistance, stumbling only with fear as he was forced against a nearby tree.

I heard, rather than saw, the ropes being bound. So that was how he did it. That was how the gaoler had been pulled from the cart, how Ben had been forced against the tree. James Polcarrow's chest was still heaving. He pulled his scarf down to breathe and I stared at him, once again, shrinking from the hand he offered.

‘Rose, what did you expect? Your life was in danger – don't you realise they'd have killed you? These are ruthless men and whoever hired them will be every bit as ruthless – probably more. I didn't hurt them. They'll just have a few bruises and a lot of explaining to do.' He saw I was shaking and took a step forward, his jacket brushing against my cloak. ‘I should never have put you in such danger. If anything happened to you…' his voice caught.

We stood in silence, touching but not touching. ‘Where did you learn that rope trick?'

‘It's what the native men of the Americas use. I was taught it by a man who saved my life. He taught me everything – how to merge with the darkness, how to follow without being seen, how to anticipate people's movements. He taught me to survive, Rose, and that's all I do. I never instigate violence – you should know that. Come, I'll get you back to safety.'

I knew we had to go back. I should never have come, but his words tore at my heart, reminding me of when he had said them to me last. His jacket hung open, the top buttons of his shirt undone. I could see a ne layer of sweat glistening on his chest. He removed his hat and wiped his brow. Dark stubble covered his chin and I felt the pain of intense longing. A terrible, desperate, yearning for Jim – for how things might have been.

This night would soon be over. This moonlit, stolen night, would soon be over. Somehow, I could not bear for it to end. ‘Are those watchmen very securely tied?' I asked, forcing myself away from the warmth of his jacket.

‘They aren't going anywhere until someone undoes them.'

‘Then we'd be fools not to look in the building – I wouldn't be able to sleep if I didn't know what was in there. They must be smuggling.'

‘The distribution's all wrong,' he replied, quickly. ‘There are no roads to take the goods away – only elds. Let's take a look.'

The building was much larger than it looked and as we rounded the back, we stared in amazement. Covering every­thing was a ne layer of white powder. It shimmered in the moonlight, like snow in mid-summer. ‘What is it?' I asked.

‘Dust from kaolin. They call it china clay. They'll have dug pits up on higher ground, and be using the stream to wash the clay. They're drying it up there and bringing it down in its powder state.'

A heavily indented track led through the wood and two large wagons stood piled high with hogsheads. Spare cartwheels leant against the building and bridles and harnesses hung from iron hooks. James looked furious. ‘Those hogsheads are waiting to be shipped, Rose. Do you see what's happening? They need an outlet to the sea and you've just thwarted their attempt to access the river. It's the obvious route – the river's deep here, they'll be planning on building a jetty.'

‘But surely those are your elds, your stretch of moorland?'

‘Is it
still
my land, Rose? Robert Roskelly and Thomas Warren are both self-made men. They've had years to sell off leases and make lucrative deals. Who knows what they've done in my absence. Like this creek.'

A terrible thought crossed my mind. ‘How did the last owner of the creek die, James?'

‘That's what I was thinking. Robert Roskelly may be in Bodmin, but his inuence is far from stemmed.' His eyes softened, ‘Come, you've had more than enough for one night, I'm getting you home.' He gripped my hand and did not let go.

Nor did I want him to.

Chapter Forty-three

I
sat in the stern as he rowed me back. I should have sat in the bow where our eyes could not meet. I should not have watched the grip of his wrists, the pull of his muscles. I should never have imagined the touch of his hands or watched the toss of his head or the tightening of his mouth.

If I had sat in the bow and watched the river, my heart could have hardened. I could have parted with indifference, but as we climbed the cliff path and the cottages came into view, my heart was aching. To the east, the grey light of a new day revealed the night was nearly over. At the back gate, we stood facing each other. Behind us, clothes were apping on Mrs Tregony's line, the hinge creaking as the gate blew gently in the breeze. I had to say goodbye but no words would come. James, too, seemed reluctant to go. It was as if an invisible web was binding us together.

‘Rose, let's sit and watch dawn break.'

Without waiting for my reply, he took off his jacket and laid it on the step. He drew me down and we sat, side by side, like the friends we were, and the lovers we could never be. Just this night, I promised myself – just this one stolen night. When day breaks and the cover of darkness lifts, she can have him back. It will be over.

We sat in silence, the breeze against our cheeks. ‘Who was the man who saved your life?'

James Polcarrow stared ahead. At rst I thought he would say nothing but he cleared his throat, his voice at. ‘A slave called Chevego, in a place called Virginia.'

‘Were you transported to Virginia?'

‘It's where I ended up. I was transported to Baltimore in Maryland, only I wasn't transported – I was sold as an indentured servant. The convict trade to Baltimore and Virginia was meant to be over – or at least those who fought against the disgorging of English thieves and cut-throats believed it to be. But there were still those who saw prot in the trade of convicts. I don't suppose it mattered where I was sent, or who sold me – it would've been the same. I ended up in the hands of Captain Pamp, the master of the Swift, a particularly cruel man. He saw prot in selling us as indentured servants and claimed to be bound for Halifax, but his destination was always to be Baltimore.'

A look of loathing settled on his face.

‘Rumours began circulating we were bound for Africa and the mood was erce. Many of the convicts were hardened thieves, some even murderers. There was mutiny and though some escaped, most were recaptured. Captain Pamp quelled further unrest with his own unique brand of cruelty. We were ogged and starved, kept crammed in the hold and fettered in irons. The lth of Newgate still clung to us and the stench was unbearable. We rolled on the heaving ocean, awash in each other's lth. Disease spread quickly, the dying racked in pain, their bowels like water, their vomit thick with blood. I couldn't count all those that died.'

He ran his hands through his hair. They were trembling.

‘Those of us who complained were treated worse. I shouted at them to unshackle a dying woman. A rat was gnawing her feet and I could hear her screaming. I was whipped to within an inch of my life and thrown in the cell they called the black hole. It was no bigger than an iron basket, I couldn't stand, or lay. I spent seventy days trussed and handcuffed, hardly able to move, my skin chaffed and bleeding. I nearly starved but I was determined to survive. I was determined to return one day and expose the brutality and injustice of our system. I wanted to hold Captain Pamp to account.'

‘And when you got to Baltimore?'

‘It was Christmas Eve, thick ice had slowed our progress, but when we docked in Baltimore those of us who survived were sold as indentured slaves – business was slow, the people of Baltimore suspicious. I was painfully thin, wracked by a cough and had no trade. The privileged life of a landowner – as you'd be the rst to point out – equipped me for neither physical labour nor artisan work. They wanted printers or blacksmiths, coopers or wheelwrights. I was passed by.

‘After months of being paraded in chains and clamped in leg irons, Captain Pamp cut his losses and sold us to a dealer bound for Virginia. We were taken to a tobacco plantation along the St James River, ostensibly as servants, but slaves in any other language.

‘Man's inhumanity to man knows no bounds. How can we be considered civilised when people condone slavery? It's hell, Rose – a living hell. Endless days of living hell with slave owners inicting the severest torture. Unpardonable cruelty and unrelenting pain, just grinding on, remorselessly, day after day, year after year. You can't imagine the lth, the hunger, the constant whipping and lashings, the raping of women, the abuse of men. But it's the smile on their faces as they inict this living hell which haunts me, Rose.