Bys Vyken Read online

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Syd McGinley

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2008

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Spring 1808

  Wheal Zennor

  Miners shot from the tunnel and ran pell-mell for the cliff path, still clutching their tools.

  Jack Tregarthen dawdled after them. There was no point working with them all gone. Even if he made his tribute, there was no one to move the ore. But he was reluctant to join the rush to the shore.

  Pasco, the overseer, bellowed at him.

  "Tregarthen, you tell'em, the buggers will be out of a job if they're not back tomorrow. I don't care how hung-over they are."

  Jack shrugged. He and Pasco had both bowed to the inevitable: when a foundering ship was spotted, there was no keeping a Cornish tinner in a mine. Jack picked up a good hatchet and followed the wild cries of “Wreck!” No doubt Pasco would be down on the beach himself soon.

  The tinners had been on edge ever since they'd heard the rumor that a ship in distress had been sighted off the Lizard. Lookouts had been pacing the ship along the coast path all day, and now it was heading for Porthleven. Daylight held for it, and the mood had soured among the tinners as it looked as if it would reach safe harbor.

  "It shan't pass us by!” swore Polwhele, and his plea must have outweighed the prayers of the sailors because the Atlantic chop increased, and the current bore the ship toward the deceptive stretch of Looe Bar. Her captain wouldn't be the first to think he could beach into the shingle. As soon as that news reached the mine, the men had abandoned the workings.

  The sandy beach and freshwater lake behind it looked tranquil, but only this past December the HMS Anson had hit the underwater cliff that ran before Looe Bar. The Anson had been out of reach of those on the shore regardless of whether they were there to help or loot.

  Polwhele's foul prayers had changed to “Let her founder close!” as they pounded to the cliff and then down to beach.

  Jack's steady pace had got him there not far behind the mob of panting tinners. Womenfolk were arriving from the village around the cove. Jack knew they were there for the same reason as the men, and he shuddered.

  He wasn't faint of heart—he had seen men die both slow and fast before—but he had a horror of seeing men drown. Like most Cornish, he held strong superstitions about the sea, and had been glad to have found a place as a tributer for tin instead of being a fisher. Now, standing on the sunlit shore under a deceptive blue sky streaked with pink and gold, he enjoyed both the unfamiliar sun and fresh air. Usually he trudged to and from home in the pre-dawn and post-dusk gloom year round. He coughed hard. He may not have winded himself in the walk to the shore, but his lungs always ached from the underground ore dust. He wouldn't drown if he could help it, but few miners saw forty.

  Cornwall's coast was a treacherous beauty. The ship was being torn apart by the current against the submerged cliff as they watched. As the sun set, Jack listened to the distant cries for help blending with the seagulls shrieks. The crowd on the beach was silent as they waited for goods and men to wash ashore. If the ship came close enough as the tide went out, they'd swarm the wreck and strip it of everything it held before dawn. And if it broke apart out of reach, they'd scavenge the shoreline and shallows. Jack hefted his hatchet. He'd take apart wood but not a man, he promised himself. No matter how the villagers might riot, he'd not have blood on his hands. He dare not stay away; his position in the village was precarious enough.

  Back in the winter, there had been enough outsiders and militia around that the Anson had survivors. Some observer of that wreck was said to be designing a ship-to-shore rescue device after seeing so many drown. Well enough, thought Jack abstractedly, well enough. But it's not here now.

  An inhuman cry came from all but Jack. The ship had rolled on one side and not righted itself. Timber and cargo heaved around in the surf.

  "Dear God, forgive us,” muttered Jack as the sea of men met the sea itself and battled for victims and bounty.

  A curious law prevailed among the mob. Any one touching and claiming an item could be sure their rights were honored. They could drag it above high water mark and return for more. So far, Jack noticed, only things had made it ashore. The crew and passengers were either trapped or were not even making it close to shore.

  He turned to puke. He'd seen Clem Bolitho drown before his eyes and though more than a year had passed, he was still turned into a mewling boy at the memory.

  Jack wiped his mouth and waited to see if his guts would convulse again. He could hear Polwhele whooping as he hauled a cask from the surf. Shit, but he hated Polwhele. A smug brute who'd made Clem's life misery and was trying to do the same to Jack.

  The crowd was wheeling around a rush of tangled rope, barrels, and crates for all the world like seagulls mobbing a landed fish, and Jack turned away along the beach. Perhaps if he just took enough to show he'd been here and to avoid Polwhele's bullying, he could go. He prowled the surf line away from the mob.

  Dear God! He looked over his shoulder quickly. The villagers had already cracked a cask of brandy and were hollering and capering. He'd better act fast. He hefted the hatchet in his hand, and despite the pale look of horror on the man in the waves, brought it down hard.

  He fell to his knees beside the trembling torso. “Stay down, for the love of God. I've bought you time. Play dead."

  He jerked his hatchet out of the sand, grabbed the obedient corpse by the collar, and dragged it up the beach.

  Out of the waves’ reach, he dropped down by the man.

  "Stay still. I must seem to strip and loot your body."

  "Bastard! You expect me to assist in my own assault?"

  "Quiet, man. They will kill you if they think you live. The fools still murder those who make it to shore. Rest easy. I'll not harm you and if you live ‘til morning you can walk inland and head east. Mayhap you'll find aid then."

  "But not from you!"

  "You're a dead man. Be silent. I'm doing the best kindness I can. Now, do not assist me as I take your coat."

  The half-drowned sailor obligingly lolled heavily as Jack wrestled off his coat and draped it on himself and then stole the poor lad's boots.

  "I must celebrate."

  Jack performed a clumsy jig in his new coat and hollered, waving the boots, to fool any watchers. He need not have worried. They'd lit a fine blaze and were drinking around it as they watched the waves for more bounty.

  "Not long before the fighting and fucking starts,” muttered Jack. “Be dark soon, and you can crawl up the beach."

  "Half-naked and shoeless!"

  "Tregarthen! You buggering that body, you uthek hogh?"

  "Fuck! Polwhele seen us. Don't resist. I need to look as if I'm stealing your ring."

  Jack saw the hesitation in the sailor's eyes as Jack started tugging on the gold ring. As it turned, a green gem appeared. The sailor had tucked the stone into his palm to protect and hide it.

  "Don't struggle. It's your life at stake."

  Jack playacted wrenching off the ring and cast a look over his shoulder. Having got his cheap laugh, Polwhele turned back to the brandy.

  "Lie still. I'll be back in a few minutes. It's nearly dark enough for their eyes to be spoiled by the fire. I'll guide you away and return your ring."

&nb
sp; Jack cursed himself as soon as he said that, but the look of despair and loss in the sailor's eyes as he took his ring had prompted his promised. And Jack was a man of his word. Even Polwhele knew that.

  Jack swaggered back into the firelight and made sure to be seen taking gulps of brandy and even tolerating a kiss and grope from Tess who was cozying up to all the men who had no woman on the spot. He bore the crowd until he could see only shadows when he looked outward along the beach. The villagers and Tess’ mocking attentions were hard to bear at the best of times, but with the aural backdrop of the creaking, rending timbers and the occasional wail from the masts, he wanted to run. The flaring light and flying sparks made even the most peaceful of visages look distorted, and Polwhele looked demonic as he cavorted around with his hands on Tess’ naked bosom.

  He waited until Tess and Polwhele tumbled to the ground together and then stepped back out of the circle of light. His human flotsam was still there, sprawled on his back, staring at the starry sky. No one else had washed up. Jack was grimly thankful that the doomed crew and passengers had at least been spared the cruelty of being massacred in the surf.

  "Walk with me. Stay right behind me so we seem one shadow if they look. We're going to walk the edge of the water so no one even sees two pairs of prints leaving and the waterline will guide us around the curve of the bay. Drunk as they'll be, I still dare not risk any of them thinking I left with a man. There's a path up the cliff there that I know well enough. It's not steep—more like hill there—so we can walk, not climb."

  Jack set off without looking behind him. A few muffled curses and extra splashes were enough to know he was being obeyed. As they came close to the outcropping of rocks that marked the place to turn, Jack paused and let him catch up. He caught at his tattered shirt sleeve. “Let me hold this to guide you up the hill. I'll point you in the right direction to walk to a town far enough inland to be safe. When we get to the top and can see the village lights, we'll be clear of danger. Everyone's on the beach."

  The sailor snorted. “We're in danger?"

  Jack laughed bitterly. “There's more than one of my neighbors who'd be glad to see me gone. They'd use any excuse to—"

  He stifled both the thought and words of what they'd like to do to him, and began leading his foundling up the hill. At the crest, he realized they were both panting far more than men in their twenties should be. He was used to his miner's lungs complaining, but he listened hard to the sailor's breathing.

  "Damn, you're injured."

  Another snort. “A spar to the ribs, being tossed in the surf, half drowning, being robbed, and force marched up a hill will take any man's breath away."

  "Is your rib broken?

  "Aye, if having glass and stones ground in your side with every breath is a broken rib."

  "Shit. You'd better not walk alone tonight."

  "Just give me my ring and point me away from those murdering savages."

  Jack hesitated. “I can't. I can't let you walk across the moor in the dark. It's dangerous at the best of times. There's old shafts and open adits. I'll guide you tomorrow."

  "Give me my ring."

  "Not tonight."

  "Damn you, why do you care if I live or die? Five minutes ago you were ready to let me go."

  "Before I knew you were hurt. I can't have you on my soul. Come to my cottage. Get dry and warm. Eat. Tomorrow, we can plan. I'll give you your ring when we part."

  Jack thought the quality of silence differed, and he was right. A mumbled acquiescence broke the pause.

  "It's not far. My cottage is on the edge of the village. Here, take my arm."

  Another long pause, then he felt a damp arm link around his, and the man rested against him. They supported each other down the track to the village, both wheezing from the effort and night chill. Some scant warmth came from their joined arms as they bumped and staggered along. It had been a long time since Jack had shared another's heat.

  Jack's cottage was cold and empty, as always. He struck a flint into the tinder in the fire and then lit a lamp. He caught his sailor as he staggered and led him to a wooden chair. It was the best he could offer. Damn, he'd let the man walk barefoot. The ‘stolen’ boots were abandoned somewhere on the beach.

  Jack wiped the blood and dirt away feet and chafed at the man's ankles to get the blood warming.

  "You'll need to get out of those wet breeches and shirt. The fire won't help you none if you just steam."

  "Gimme back my coat then."

  "'Tis wet too. I'll loan you my Sunday shirt and breeches while yours dry."

  "That's Christian of you."

  Jack caught the bitter note and tried to turn it to humor. “Aye, that I am for a murdering savage.” Jack thought he could hear an undertone of mirth in the next snort. Encouraged, he added, “Ah, you Sawsnek. Always sneering at the Cornish."

  "Who are you calling a sauce neck? What the hell is a sauce neck anyway?"

  "Sawsnek means English."

  "Damn! That's worse. I'm no Englishman!"

  "Tramor? I mean: you're foreign? I thought you talked funny, but then all outsiders do.” Jack didn't mean to slip in more Cornish as a jibe. It would happen to him when he was stressed or thinking hard. His mam's milk tongue was Cornish and they'd chattered together in it when he was a wee one. Enough folk in the village would slip into the language that he'd not lost the habit when she died.

  "I'm a free-born citizen of the United States of America."

  Jack smothered a laugh. The man was in pain and half-dead, but his pride was evident. And their countries were uneasily at peace. Despite the colonies’ heinous Embargo Act. Jack frowned. He wasn't an educated man, but he'd pick his way through a month-old newspaper on a Sunday afternoon. Wasn't the Embargo Act the colonies’ inexcusable retaliation over their men being asked to do their duty and serve in the navy? Sailor's Rights and Free Trade or some such lunacy?

  Jack took a closer look at his guest. His clothes were the remains of a uniform.

  "Aye,” he snarled. “Look close! I'm a pressed man. Your government has kidnapped me from my own ship and forced me into service."

  Jack stepped back. His loyalties had a distinct hierarchy: Cornwall first, then, if he were forced to choose, England, but he was taken aback by this man's ferocious objection to duty. The London government extracted its due from everyone. So why should the colonies feel different? ‘Twasn't as if Jack were represented anywhere, and his bread was surely taxed. He held his peace on the subject.

  "Well, whatever your clothes be, get them off and set to dry."

  "I'd gladly never wear them again, but they and my father's ring are all I have."

  Jack rolled the ring in his pocket. There was some weight to it. It was no gimcrack thing, and the stone was cool under his fingers. He should return it now he supposed, but he was reluctant to release it until the man left.

  "Jack Tregarthen,” he said. “I'll see what clothes I can find for the morrow."

  "Nehemiah Gillis of Norristown."

  "Get undressed, Nehemiah Gillis of Norristown. Unless you have modesty left after being a sailor."

  A real chuckle this time as Nehemiah unlaced his breeches and pulled them off. His damp shirt hung to mid thigh but clung to his hips. Jack turned away, suddenly unable to watch. He busied himself finding his Sunday clothes and setting a pot of water to heat.

  He turned back to find Nehemiah modestly holding his shirt before his crotch, but looking all the more enticing for it.

  Damn, not enticing. Just naked. Jack couldn't expect to find another. He shoved his clothes at Nehemiah and turned away. He could swear Nehemiah smirked at his confusion.

  That chest, that belly, that bruise spreading over, bugger. Jack turned back. Thank the Lord the man had his dry breeches on at least. He was looking pained at the idea of lifting his arms into Jack's only linen shirt.

  "Wait. Let me."

  Jack bit the inside of his cheek to control himself as he inspected the bruis
e. He'd seen plenty of crushed ribs in his time as a tinner.

  "Take a breath and let me test your ribs."

  Nehemiah looked quizzical, but obeyed. He groaned as Jack pressed a finger around the bruise, along the ribs under it, and around his back.

  "Good, ‘tis just bruised. It'll hurt like the devil's buggering ye, but you'll heal."

  "You speak from experience?"

  "About the ribs, yes, but I've never met the Devil,” said Jack and was taken aback by a real laugh from Nehemiah.

  The water was blessedly hot enough and Jack put in a careful measure of his precious tea. He'd hoarded a small canister of it from the last wreck and allowed himself a small pot on Sundays. Nehemiah eased himself into his shirt.

  He and Nehemiah sat before the fire and sipped. Slowly, their residual trembling stopped.

  "I owe you my life,” said Nehemiah. “I was ungracious before. I understand what you did for me now. Thank you."

  Jack blanched. “Don't say that. My life will be worthless."

  "Superstitious?"

  "Save a man from drowning and you'll die. So the seiners say, but I figured I'm owed a life. No, we'd both be dead if you were found here. Some parts up the coast might rescue sailors, but ‘round here, they still believe that the law says if man or beast escape, it's not a wreck, and if it's not a wreck, then there's no salvage.” Jack rubbed his wrist thoughtfully. “I was daft enough to remind Polwhele that the Wreckers’ Charter was repealed almost forty years ago. He cracked my arm for me.” He gave Nehemiah a quick look. “Accidentally, of course; his pick swung wide as we worked a seam. I'd near starved while I couldn't work except Clem...” He rummaged out some bread and cheese and cut his supper pasty in half to share.

  Nehemiah looked at it dubiously.

  "Tis just tattie with a bit of scrag end for flavor."

  Nehemiah looked no more reassured, but took a bite. “Oh, meat and potato pie."

  Warm, fed, and dry. Safety suddenly hit Nehemiah hard, and his shakes and shivers returned. Jack poured a tot of brandy into his tea and threw a rough blanket over his shoulders. He ignored the moan from Nehemiah and let his distress pass.