Smugglers' Summer (17 page)

“If ‘e don’t slip ‘is anchor afore we gets ‘im there,” said their boatman gloomily. “’Urry up, now. Think what ‘is lordship ud say was we taken red-’anded.”

“His lordship will most certainly approve your aid to his relative,” Sir Tristram assured him.

“Relative?” Octavia was momentarily distracted, until the injured man moaned as he was lifted. “Oh, be careful! He is bleeding dreadfully!”

The commotion had at last attracted Mr Wynn’s attention. He wandered up, book in hand, and watched with interest as Red Jack’s red-stained bulk was laid gently on the deck.

“Tha’lt take care on ‘im!” the one-eyed Yorkshireman begged Octavia. “We mun go back, see if there’s aught to do to help t’others.”

“I shall take care of him,” intervened James Wynn firmly. “I studied medicine for two years before I found my vocation. I shall need water, and clean linen, plenty of clean linen.”

Sir Tristram offered his spotless neckcloth, and the captain his grubby one. Mr Wynn was examining Red Jack, ruthlessly ripping off his clothing. He took the cloths and demanded more.

“Turn your backs, gentlemen,” ordered Octavia. “Ada, come and help me.” She pulled off her petticoat. Several feet of the French lace Captain Day had given her went to staunch his wounds.

“Good girl,” said Sir Tristram approvingly, then looked at her closely. “Are you going to faint? You are shockingly pale.”

“I ought to help,” whispered Octavia, “but I cannot bear to see it. The men are needed to sail the boat.”

Sir Tristram’s arm was about her waist, supporting her, leading her to a seat well away from the carnage on the aft deck. “I ought not to have let you see!” he said in self-accusation as Ada clucked in alarm and searched for her smelling salts. “Stay here. Ada, look after her. I shall assist Mr Wynn. I must admit, he has surprised me!”

“And me. Oh, how could I be so foolish! Hurry back to him, sir, I shall do very well.”

The crew was crowding on all possible sail. They were swinging northward towards the narrow strait between Cremyll and Devil’s Point when a Customs’ cutter hailed them.

“Lord Edgcumbe’s private ship, with guests for Cotehele!” shouted the captain. “If I lose the tide you’ll answer to his lordship!”

The cutter turned away.

Chapter 14

As they approached Halton Quay, Octavia peered apprehensively through the dusk towards the washing line. No red petticoat. She sighed in relief.

A hazy half moon rose. By its glimmering light, they saw a gig waiting for them on the quay at Cotehele.

“We will have to trust the groom to drive us up to the house,” said Sir Tristram, consulting Octavia in a low voice, “but I think it best not to let him see where we take Jack from there.”

“The room under the Prospect Tower?”

“Yes. Do you think Wynn can be relied upon to keep his mouth closed?”

“Judging by his hauling poor Mr Cardin over the coals for his profession, his sympathies lie with the free-traders, not the law. We will need a lantern. I had best fetch one as soon as we arrive, and warn Mrs Pengarth. I’ll meet you at the tower."

The captain ordered his men to carry Red Jack ashore, swathed in bandages, but showed no further disposition to help. The three of them disappeared into the Edgcumbe Arms as the gig started up the hill.

Their driver, a dour, elderly Cornishman, showed no interest after his first glance at Red Jack’s recumbent form. Without demur he followed instructions to go straight to the end of the lane instead of turning to the front of the house. They stopped at the gate to the tower field. Octavia and Ada slipped into the house through the kitchens.

“Ada, you had best go to your room and do not come out until we are known to have returned. I know I can trust you not to tell anyone what has happened.”

“Can’t I tell Miss Julia, miss?”

Octavia thought for a moment. “No, best not. At least until I have asked Sir Tristram. And do not tell her about Mr Wynn, either, not yet.”

“Very well, miss. Here’s Mrs Pengarth’s parlour. Take care, miss. If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

“Thank you, Ada. Hurry now, and try not to be seen.” She knocked on the door.

Lady Langston’s dresser was with the housekeeper, both enjoying a small glass of port as a nightcap. Mrs Pengarth jumped to her feet as Octavia went in.

“Miss Gray! Goodness, I had no idea you were back. What can I do for you, miss?”

“I must speak with you privately.” She looked at the lady’s maid, who curtseyed and left the room. “Pray sit down, Mrs Pengarth. I fear I have bad news for you.”

“Jack!” The woman did not sit down, but she leaned against a table and held her hand to her heart. “Is he dead?”

“Oh, no! But badly hurt. We have brought him here, to the Prospect Tower. There’s a secret cellar where he can be hidden. Will you come with me? We need a lantern.”

“Bless you, miss! I’ll fetch a lantern and come with you, but that cellar is known to everyone, even the Customs. It’s been searched a hundred times. Whatever shall we do?”

“The secret passage: we will have to risk it! Come quickly.”

As they hurried up the hill, Octavia explained how they had found out about the passage. Mrs Pengarth had heard no more than rumours that such things existed. She thought it should be safe, if the untried entrance worked, the passage had not collapsed, the cave at the other end had not been filled.

“Hush now!” said Octavia sharply. “If that is not possible we will think of something else. Sir Tristram will not let Captain Day be taken easily.”

“I knew this was going to happen one day. You don’t know what it’s like, miss, always looking over your shoulder, wondering if this’ll be the day he gets caught. Are the revenuers close on his trail, miss?”

“I don’t believe so, but they saw us pass and may well be suspicious.” A figure detached itself from the shadow of the tower and moved towards them. “Sir Tristram? How is he?”

“Extraordinarily weighty. Martha? Jack is still unconscious, but Mr Wynn says that at present he is suffering only from loss of blood. Nothing vital was hit.”

“Mr Wynn, sir?”

“I’ll explain later,” said Octavia impatiently. “Come in and light the lantern. Sir Tristram, Mrs Pengarth says the cellar is common knowledge. We must try the passage.”

“It was four years ago, sir, the Customs found it.”

“The passage it is, then.” He closed the tower door behind them and held up the flickering lantern. “Wynn, I fear we have some way to carry your patient yet.”

James Wynn, sitting tiredly on the floor beside Red Jack, raised his arm in warning as Mrs Pengarth flung herself on her knees at his side.

“Don’t touch him, ma’am. You will disarrange my makeshift bandages. It is bad enough that he must be moved. Where to now, Deanbridge?”

Sir Tristram was examining the wall for the loose brick, not easy to find in semidarkness and without the map.

“Where the devil is it?” he muttered as he broke a fingernail on the wrong bit of masonry. “Aha, here we are.” The trapdoor opened. “Now how are we going to manage this? I wish I had thought to ask for two lanterns, Miss Gray!”

“I will go down first and hold the light so that you can see the steps,” offered Octavia.

“Are you not afraid?”

“Just because I am a trifle squeamish at the sight of blood, you must not think me altogether hen-hearted! Where you and Julia have been, I do not fear to follow.” She took the lantern and held it up while the gentlemen struggled to lift Captain Day.

He groaned and opened his eyes.

“The devil has got me fast by the legs!” he cried. “Pray for me, Martha!”

Mr Wynn, his thin face and wiry red hair lit by the wavering lantern, did look somewhat devilish. Mrs Pengarth, overjoyed to hear his voice, hastened to reassure him as the master of Hades lowered his legs and Sir Tristram laid him gently on the floor again.

The situation being explained to him, Red Jack vowed his own two legs, if the doctor/devil would leave them to him, were fitter to carry him than anybody else’s. He staggered to his feet, and with Sir Tristram and Mr Wynn supporting him on either side he managed to descend into the cellar.

“Don’t put me down, gentlemen,” he warned, “or it’ll be more than we all can do to get me up again. Where to next?”

Octavia set the lantern on an empty tea chest and tried to close the trapdoor. Mrs Pengarth had to help her. As it swung up, it revealed a door-latch, much larger than most but otherwise perfectly ordinary. She lifted it and pulled hard. A section of the wall swung out, revealing a black opening from which dank, musty air blew in her face.

“Ugh!” she said stepping back, then quickly, before she could imagine the terrors ahead, she seized the lantern and marched in.

“Slowly, Miss Gray!” There was laughter in Sir Tristram’s voice. “Much as I admire your boldness, we cannot go so fast.”

Mrs Pengarth followed last, closing the door behind them. Octavia heard it slam and wondered whether they would ever be able to open it again.

The tunnel’s rock and earthen walls were reinforced here and there with timber. It was far too narrow for three men abreast, especially when one of them was Jack Day. They had to walk in a sort of crabwise shuffle. At least the roof was high enough, the footing was firm and smooth, and the downward slope helped them to keep moving. It also took much of Red Jack’s weight off Mr Wynn’s shoulders, laying it instead on Sir Tristram’s, which were much fitter to bear it.

A cobweb brushed Octavia’s face and she lost all desire to hurry. Spiders, she thought, and bats and rats. She held the lantern higher and peered ahead into the darkness. Suddenly a drip splashed her forehead and she could not repress a squeal.

“What is the matter?” asked Sir Tristram sharply. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. There is water coming through the ceiling here but judging from the stains on the wood it has been dripping forever. I do not see why it should choose to collapse just as we pass.” Cautiously she went on.

There was a long flight of stone steps. By the time they reached the bottom, Captain Day was barely conscious, eyes glazed, his legs moving automatically. James Wynn was not in much better case.

“Now I see . . . the benefits . . . of exercise!” he gasped, his face pale and sweating. “How much . . . farther?”

“It is levelling off,” reported Octavia. “We must be nearly there."

A few paces farther on the passage widened, then opened into a small chamber, no more than ten feet on a side. It was half room, half cave, three walls being unevenly carved from the hillside, shored here and there with wood, and the fourth built with neatly laid blocks of stone. The ceiling was strongly constructed of rough-hewn timber. Octavia remembered that the map showed the lane passing directly overhead. She hoped it was not much used by heavy farm carts.

Sir Tristram and Mr Wynn carried the captain in and laid him on the damp ground as gently as their aching muscles allowed. Mr Wynn sank down, exhausted, and sat leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. Sir Tristram stretched as widely as he could in the limited space.

“You’ve a large suitor, Martha,” he said wryly.

“Aye, and it’s a pity he hasn’t the sense to match his size. But ye may call him my betrothed, sir, for if he comes out of this alive I’ll drag him to the altar afore I let him go back to free trading. Now I’d best fetch bedding, for it won’t do to let him lie in the damp.” She turned towards the passage.

“Wait!” said Octavia. “There is supposed to be a way directly to the outside. Let me look.”

Sir Tristram took the lantern and they both scrutinised the stone wall, which seemed the logical place for an exit. It was featureless.

“I hoped not to have to return through that horrid tunnel,” sighed Octavia in disappointment, turning away. “Oh dear, and who is to have the lantern?”

“Look!” James Wynn was pointing at one of the corners on the other side of the room from the stone wall. “Surely that is a door, though it looks like part of the reinforcement. Hold the lantern closer, Deanbridge.”

Sir Tristram stepped over Red Jack’s recumbent form.

“You are right. Martha, hold this, if you please.” The housekeeper took the lantern and he pulled on a rusty iron bar set in the wood. With a creaking groan the door opened, revealing a curtain of ivy. He held it aside and stepped forward carefully. “Ouch! It opens into a tree. Bring the light closer. Yes, it must have grown since this place was used—it has probably had two centuries of peace!—but I think we can squeeze past it. The entrance is well hidden, at all events."

He turned back, and Octavia saw that a twig had scratched his cheek.

“Keep still,” she ordered, going to him and holding his chin with one hand while she cleaned it with her handkerchief. “Now how do you propose to explain that away?”

“It will not be half so difficult as explaining why we are so late, if we do not go up to the house very soon.” He took the blood-smeared handkerchief. “I doubt I shall die of it, but thank you, nurse. I will buy you a new one. Now, you and I must go with Martha. Wynn, you will stay with Jack for the present. All in all, it is quite the best place for you. Martha and I will return as soon as we can. We shall bring blankets and food. Is there anything else you require?”

“Linen for bandages. He is bleeding again, unsurprisingly. What I crave most is rest and sleep!”

“You have done a good day’s work. I confess it is more than I would have expected of a political essayist! We will leave you the lantern and bring more fuel for it. Come, Miss Gray, let me hold back the branches for you.”

Octavia slipped out into the night, followed by Mrs Pengarth. The moon had set, and the sky was bright with more stars than she had dreamed existed. Their faint light showed black silhouettes of trees and bushes but left the ground in obscurity.

As she hesitated, she felt Sir Tristram’s arm about her shoulders. He guided her after the housekeeper, who went round by the gate not, Octavia was glad to see, through the stone passage under the lane.

They walked in companionable silence until they came to the corner of the house, where Mrs Pengarth awaited them.