The Admiral's Daughter (25 page)

Stirk knew there would be hard, skilled work before the fish could be landed. They made a wide sweep, carefully approached the shoal from seaward and slowed to a stop. The man on the oar opposite nudged him: the huer on the high rocks had stopped his cries and was now holding a coloured cloth in each outstretched hand which he wig-wagged in a series of signals, watched attentively by the master seiner.

“Give way, y' bastards,” he bawled, throwing the tiller over. Their own boat followed obediently, and Stirk saw they were essentially being directed by the watcher high on the rocks to where the fish were, and the master seiner was deploying accordingly.

At just the right moment and place, the quarter-mile-long stop seine began shooting into the sea along its length in a curve right in the path of the shoal and when it was out the toil of joining the ends together in a vast circle started.

It was back-breaking work, bringing the inert mass of seine net and the weight of uncountable thousands of fish into a vast circle, but that was nothing compared to the unending travail that followed of towing the entire mass to the nearest sandy bottom, Lantivet Bay, where the fish would finally come ashore.

The secluded beach, no more than a couple of miles from Polperro, was crowded with excited people; the boats came closer and just when the mottled black and pale of the seabed glimmered up through the clear water, the master seiner called a halt.

Resting on their oars, the men of the stop seine boat watched as Stirk's companions readied their own tuck net, whose purpose soon became plain. Smaller than the stop seine, it was shot within the larger, then brought tightly together, gathering the catch to the surface in an appalling agitation of threshing fish, screaming gulls and the frantic plunging of stones on ropes to deter escape at the rapidly diminishing opening.

“Lade 'im!” yelled the master seiner, pounding the gunwale of his boat with excitement.

Everyone aboard the volyer threw themselves at the fish. With tuck baskets, broad flaskets and bare hands they scooped them as fast as they could into the boat.

Ashore, children screamed and frolicked, women clustered with baskets and called to their men in exhilaration, and when the boat was finally heaved into the shallows they, too, joined in the glorious mayhem.

The sheer quantity of fish caught was colossal: tons in weight, hundreds of thousands of silver shapes swirling in the stop net, but the master seiner, eyeing the haul, stopped the tuck and declared, “That'll do fer now, boys.” The rest could safely be left to mill about in the net for later.

“Well, Jem, how d' ye like our fishin'? Sport enough, heh?” The Three Pilchards was in a roaring good mood, fishermen with their immediate futures now secure drinking to their good fortune.

Stirk lifted his pot. “Decent taut, this'n,” he growled. “Ye'll have another, Davey, mate?”

“A glass o' bright cider is jus' what I needs,” Bunt answered expansively. “Fishin' gives thee such a thirst an' all.”

Signalling to the harried pot-boy, Stirk said, “S' now ye has a right good haul then.”

Bunt leant forward and said earnestly, “Pilchards mean a brave lot t' us, Jem. As we do say in these parts:

Here's a health t' the Pope, an' may he repent
And lengthen six months th' term of his Lent;
F'r it's always declared, betwixt th' two poles
There's nothin' like pilchards f'r the saving of souls . . .

Puckey came across and sat with them. “This is Long Tom Shar, Jem. Thee should know, as fer hake an' conger there ain't a finer hand.”

Solemnly Stirk allowed himself to be acquainted as well with Zeb Minards and Sam Coad, the bushy-browed blacksmith. It was happening—his work in the boats was paying off.

He saw Calloway in one corner in close conversation with a shy fisher-girl still in her pinafore. Stirk winked when he caught his eye and turned back to hear about the hazards and rewards of drift-netting.

Suddenly the happy noise subsided. Two men had entered: these were no fisher-folk and they looked about guardedly. One by one the fishermen turned their backs, the tavern taking on a pointed silence.

“Who're them, mates?” Stirk asked.

Puckey leant over and, in a hoarse whisper, said, “Bad cess— they's Revenooers, Jem, wished on us t' watch th' harbour. Nobody'll take 'em in, so theys forced t' sleep in a boat.”

One looked at Stirk. Their eyes met and Stirk froze. He knew the man! It was Joe Corrie, in his watch on deck in the old
Duke William
and a miserable shipmate into the bargain. If he was recognised it would be disastrous.

Stirk moved quickly. Dropping his head he croaked, “Feelin' qualmish, mates—have t' be outside sharp, like,” and slipped away through the back door.

As he hurried away from the tavern he noticed that he was being followed. He plunged down one of the opeways, dark, narrow passages between the old buildings along the rivulet. Unfortunately one of the dwellings had swelled with age and he found himself wedged, unable to continue. Shamefaced, he had to back out and his pursuer was waiting. It was the blacksmith Coad. “Don't y' worry o' th' Revenooers, frien', they's up an' gone. But there's someone wants t' see ye. Do y' mind?”

They returned to the Three Pilchards but this time to a back room where a well-dressed man with dark, sensitive features waited. “This'n is Simon Johns. His ol' man died last year 'n' now he's lookin' after the business.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Johns said, and gestured to Stirk to take a chair. “To be brief, I was there in the Pilchards when the Preventives came. Your subsequent actions tell me that you are no friend to the Revenue, no rough-knot sent here to spy among us. And did not our mutual friend Jan Puckey tell me that you're no stranger to free trade yourself?”

Stirk's face was impassive but inside he exulted. “I may've been,” he said cautiously, looking intently from one to the other.

“May we know in what capacity?”

“Frenchy run wi' tobaccy an' brandy, smacksman on the Marsh, creepin' fer tubs, that kind o' thing.”

“I don't think it wise at this point for you to risk the sea, but we have need still of stout men on shore. Would you be interested?”

“T' nobble a patter-roller?” he said doubtfully. Waylaying an inquisitive Revenue riding officer was not what he had come here for. “Not as who should say . . .”

“I didn't mean that. We have more than a sufficiency of men to take care of such unpleasantries. No, what would make best use of your seamanlike capabilities would be more the spout lantern . . .”

Stirk grunted. This was more like it—at the landing lights for the cargoes to be run ashore in the right place. “Aye, I can do it. Pay?”

“Half a guinea on the lantern for the night, another half if there's trouble.”

“Done. Does m' matey Harry find a berth?”

“Mmm. We can find him something. A skinker, perhaps?”

It was just as it had ever been: the familiar tensions and short tempers, suspicion and fingering of concealed weapons. Far out to sea there would be telescopes trained, waiting for the signal that it was this night they were running in the cargo. In the kiddleywink a dozen hard-featured men sat with pots before them also waiting for the word to move.

Stirk had been passed his instructions by Coad only an hour or two before: to make his way with an innocent-looking pair of farmhands driving pigs over the steep hill eastwards to Talland Bay and there wait in the tavern for sunset.

It needed brains and organisation to bring the run to a successful conclusion; even with the consignment of goods assured in Guernsey or elsewhere there was the hazardous journey across the Channel before the landing and then the need to co-ordinate scores of men for the unloading and rapid carrying-off of the contraband.

The little tap-house was remote and near the small beach; a stranger might wonder why so many along the coast were situated so suspiciously but Stirk knew that in the hard life of a fisherman the ready availability of a cheering pot in close proximity to a place to draw up a boat would be appreciated.

Outside, a seaweed-cutter poked lazily about the foreshore, but in his barrow under the pile of kelp two spout lanterns were ready for use, and the several men mowing at the edge of the field were doing so to prepare a signal bonfire.

The sun lowered and Stirk went outside. In the waning daylight he had quickly identified the best approach from seaward in the winds prevailing at the time, past the inshore rocks to the small sandy strip of beach, and made contact with the other lights-man. Together they would set up leading lights, each some hundred yards above the other that the skipper of the smuggling vessel would keep in exact line to ensure a safe approach. The lanterns they would use were enclosed, a long spout fitted to each, however, that would hide the gleam from all but those on whom it was trained.

At last there was action. A body of men arrived in a boat; one had a muffled face and gave brisk orders to the others. Stirk had no difficulty in recognising Johns's cultivated voice. A young farm-hand on a white horse was summoned. “Off you go, lad,” he was told and, to subdued cheers from the men, he dismounted and set off for the coast path, leading it self-consciously by the bridle. It was the signal that the coast was clear of the Revenue.

In the gathering gloom the landing party took shape. Stirk and the other man retrieved and lit their spout lanterns, then took up their positions on the hillside. A gruff man claiming to be Stirk's “assistant” stood next to him—he was being watched. Shouts in the twilight directed a stream of new arrivals; a loose chain of men was being formed that stretched down from the woods that lay in a fold in the hills behind the tavern.

Packhorses wound down from the hilltop, and a troop of donkeys gathered on the beach. Then gangs of men with blackened faces set off to either side hefting clubs, and the occasional steel of a weapon could be seen. Heaven help the Revenue or Excise man who stumbled upon them: Stirk calculated there must be more than a hundred and therefore the high stakes of a valuable cargo.

So far he had recognised only Johns. Could he be the leader? Probably locally, but not the evil genius he had been told about who was co-ordinating the whole coast. Doubts crept in. This was a far larger and more detailed operation than he was used to: without asking betraying questions, how would he get to the central figure?

He glanced at the tavern. It was locked and barred; the landlord and tapster would later be able to claim truthfully on oath that they had seen nothing suspicious that night. What was “Harry” doing? If—

“Lights! Get those lights going, damn it!”

Lifting the clumsy lantern he trained the thing out to sea, making sure it lined up with the two sticks he had placed in front of himself now that the approaches were in darkness. The unknown master of the vessel would cast back and forth until he could see the lights, then begin his run into the unknown, being sure to keep the two lights precisely vertical.

Darkness was now nearly complete, the moon not due to rise before midnight, and it was impossible to make out anything to seaward. Stirk kept up his vigil but if they were surprised by tipped off Preventives aided by dragoons he would be taken up with the others and no mercy shown.

His shoulder hurt where the lantern rested but he persevered, keeping the light carefully trained; then a subtle thickening of the darkness ahead became evident. By degrees its form resolved into a large lugger ghosting in. The cargo had arrived.

A rising hubbub was cut short by bellowed orders as the receiving party made ready. Men splashed into the shallows while others drew the packhorses closer. The black shape grew in detail, then slowed and elongated—a kedge had been dropped and the vessel rotated until it lay head to sea.

Stirk lowered his lantern and grinned into the darkness. A successful arrival! It was the feeling he had experienced all those years ago. Now for the landing—a large ship's boat was in the water, loading in minutes, and what looked suspiciously like his volyer had emerged from behind the westward point on its way alongside.

It was matchless organisation; the first boat stroked vigorously ashore and grounded, to be instantly set upon. With not a single light the waiting men were each roped up with a half-anker tub suspended from front and back and sent waddling up the hill in a line. Larger casks were rolled over to the packhorses and heaved into place while the donkeys took two ankers apiece.

The pace quickened. With the tide on the ebb and the moon due to make its appearance there was no time to be lost. Packages— probably tea and silks—were transferred to the saddle panniers of a horse and sent off into the night. Still the casks came ashore. Hundreds were taken steadily into the darkness to some hiding-place in the woods, nearby farms, homes—even church crypts. Holland gin, rum, the finest wines and certainly “Cousin Jack”— the best Cognac.

It was on a breathtaking scale. By now the casks alone would number considerably more than a thousand and the line of human carriers still patiently trudged on. By morning there would be the best part of ten thousand gallons of the finest spirit safely inland for distribution later and not a penny of duty paid.