The Wreckers (16 page)

I fished out the spike and worked it into the hasp. Mary took the handle; I put my hands between hers. “Pull,” I said. Mary leaned back, her whole weight on the spike. It bent, twisted, and then the lock sprang open with a crack, sending Mary and me tumbling to the floor.

“Splendid!” said the parson. “Now the next one. Come, come.”

The second, the third, went as easily as the first. My father sat up, sprawled like a rag doll against the brick. For nearly three days he’d lain cramped and sore, and he sat now almost laughing, his hands trembling as he pressed them to the wall and filled his palms with trickling rain.

“Still one to go,” said Parson Tweed. “Come along. A time for every purpose.”

I carried the spike down toward him. The last collar held Father’s ankle, the same foot the rats had gnawed. Parson Tweed bent down and slipped the spike through the lock. “Now pull,” he said. He slipped his hands in the pockets of his cassock. “The two of you pull.”

We put our weight on it. Mary lifted her foot, dragging down on the spike. Father was watching, urging us on with little nods of his head. The lock snapped, and again Mary and I fell to the floor. The spike splashed down between us, hitting my leg with a thump.

“You’ve done it,” said Father. “You’ve—” Suddenly he stopped.

“Yes,” said Parson Tweed. “You’ve done it now.” He stared straight at me.

In each hand he held a pistol.

Mary cried out. “What are you doing?”

“God helps those who help themselves. He sent you here to break these chains because I could not do it alone.” The parson aimed the guns right at me. “I went looking for you, boy, up at Galilee. But it was Eli I found in the darkness of the stable, and it’s a pity what happened. Still, there’s a sense in God’s mysterious ways. You were spared so that you might come and help me here.”

“You’re the one,” said Mary. “You’re the puppet master.”

Parson Tweed frowned, then slowly smiled. “I see,” he said. “Yes, they are rather puppetlike, Caleb Stratton and his lot. Heads of wood. Feet of clay.”

“But I trusted you.”

“Oh, child, this is not for me. It’s for the church. For all of Pendennis.”

“And Uncle Simon? Is he one of your—”

“Hush now, Mary.” His eyes narrowed. “I mean to have that gold. I want to know where it is.” He kept his pistols steady, but turned his eyes to Father. “I suspect you’ve
hidden it, hmmm? I suspect even the boy doesn’t know where. But you brought it ashore and buried it, most likely somewhere near the Tombstones.”

Father didn’t speak. He just stared dumbly at Parson Tweed.

“I’ll kill the boy!” With his thumbs, the parson cocked both pistols. “As the Lord is my witness, I’ll put a ball right through his heart.”

“No!” said Father. He held out his hands.

“I don’t want to do it,” said Parson Tweed. “I have no taste for this sort of thing. If you’ll only tell me where the gold is, the three of us shall go down and dig it up together, hmmm? And then you can go. I give you my word on that.”

“No!” cried Father again.

“The boy for the gold,” said Parson Tweed. He looked right at Father, and said it again: “Come now. The boy for the gold.”

“Tell him!” I shouted. For a moment the pistols wavered. They turned away from me, and I snatched up the handspike. I leapt to my feet—and the room exploded. I saw a flash of light blossom from the parson’s right hand, saw the flames and the smoke spew from the pistol’s barrel. I even saw the ball—or thought I did—hurtling toward me. And Mary was screaming and Father was shouting and the sound of the gun was deafening. I staggered back, sure I’d been shot, not knowing where, reeling and tumbling through the mouth of the drain, falling forever, it seemed, until I broke headfirst through the cold, dark waters of the harbor.

I sank deep. I rose to the surface, kicking and writhing. The blackness of night and the blackness of water were one and the same. Mary’s screams stopped in a sudden, rumbling silence, then started again, started and stopped as I breathed first air and then water as I clawed at the stones of the wall. And finally my feet hit something soft, and I kicked against it, rising up with my hands flailing, until at last they found something to cling to.

The skiff. It wallowed at the foot of the steps, almost filled to the gunwales. I got my hands inside, and then my arms, and I rested, with the rain falling coldly on my shoulders.

And up from the gloomy sea, dislodged by my feet, rose the body of Stumps.

He floated on his back like a hideous jellyfish, bloated and pale. The tide bumped him against me, and his hand went round my waist. I pushed him away, but he only came back. The water rippled over his face, sloshing in his mouth. His eyes were round and white as eggs.

Above me, the door to the brewery crashed open. Mary flew out, screaming my name. Only moments had passed, though I felt older by a year.

“John!” she cried. “John!”

I tried to answer, but I couldn’t. I saw Parson Tweed stoop through the doorway, still holding one of his pistols, and for an instant our eyes met. Then, with one step, he grabbed hold of Mary’s clothes.

She fought him. She struggled and kicked. She tore free, but he only caught her again, wrapping her hair in his fist
until he forced her to her knees. Then he raised his pistol and fired.

It was a wild shot. The ball struck the water beside me, raising a geyser that vanished in the wind. He raised the pistol like a club. Up went his arm.

And he crumpled like a hammered nail. He bent forward, sagged, then fell to the stone.

In the doorway behind him, half leaning on the wall, stood my father. The iron spike dropped from his hand.

I pulled myself up the length of the skiff, up to the bow, where it nudged against the steps. Mary came to help. She pulled at my elbow, and I got my knee onto the stem. The skiff went under, and Stumps floated over the gunwale; when it bobbed up again, he was nestled inside. I lifted Parson Tweed by the shoulders, Mary took his feet, and together we heaved him down the steps. He turned a slow somersault and splashed into the skiff beside Stumps. Arm in arm they floated, with the cassock spread across them like a blanket.

I gave the skiff a shove, sending it out into the current. It snubbed against the tow rope, pulled again, and the old rope broke with a twang of spray. Borne by the tide, the boat floated down toward the sea. And in a moment it was lost from sight.

Father was weak, but he could stand. He put an arm round my shoulders, most of his weight on my back, and we hobbled up the steps, through a stream of rain.

“Tell me,” he said. “What gold did he mean?”

“From the barrels,” I snapped through gritted teeth. I was angry that he would still hide from me the truth of his
smuggling, bitterly hurt that he had seemed to choose the gold over me.

“The barrels?” His feet dragged on the stone. I had to stop, and we stood on the second-to-last step, under the shelter of the building.

“I know all about it,” I said. “The barrels we loaded at night were half full of sawdust. You were smuggling gold, Father; gold or diamonds. The sawdust gave you away. But it’s the only reason that Stumps kept you alive.”

My father didn’t answer. I could feel him shaking, his breaths going in and out. I thought he was crying; but he was laughing. “Sawdust,” he said, and laughed even harder. “He saved me for sawdust. John, put me down. Put me down a moment.”

I lowered him to the steps. He sat there, leaning forward, wiping his eyes as he laughed. “There was no gold,” he said. “Where on earth did he get that idea?” He laughed again, tears streaming. “All we were doing was buying second-rate wine from a third-rate vintner. And they cheated us, John. Those Spaniards made us load at night, and gave us false-bottomed barrels. I knew it as soon as the sawdust showed up in the pumps.”

Mary laughed, too. “They sold you sawdust?”

“For a bargain!” said Father. “And the wreckers thought it was packed full of gold?”

“Yes.”

“It shows you, doesn’t it.” Father pushed himself up. I gave him my shoulder to lean on. “Evil men will always see evil in others,” he said.

His words didn’t say much for me. I felt rather ashamed
as we went up to the waterfront street. Mary had the pony tied to a post, a saddlebag draped over its back. “It’s got food in it,” she said. “Well fetch the other pony and—” She saw my face and stopped. “He’s gone, edn’t he?”

“A mine shaft,” I said. “We broke through the top.” Mawgan had warned me of that; I’d thought he meant only to scare me.

Mary bit her lip. “Then you’ll have to take this one,” she said. “The bag’s full of food. You’ll have plenty to get to Polruan. Leave him at the stable by the wharfs. Uncle Simon will fetch him back.”

“Your uncle will be busy tonight,” I said. “He’s got a ship to wreck.”

“John, please!” cried Mary.

“But the parson.” A gust of wind moaned through the village. “You said yourself that your uncle was with him the night they wrecked the
Skye.”

Mary stared at me. She didn’t speak.

“He’s a wrecker,” I said. “This proves it.”

“No.” Slowly she shook her head. “You’re wrong. You must be wrong.”

“When you go home …”

She lowered her head. “I don’t think I’ll be going home tonight. Now leave, John. Please hurry.”

With an effort, Father straightened. “Young lady,” he said, “I’m in your debt. If there’s something I can do, anything at all—”

“No,” said Mary. “There’s nothing I need.”

Father smiled. Somehow, though he was wet and shivering, though his clothes were tattered and stank of the cistern,
he looked proud and elegant. A gentleman. He clapped a huge hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go home,” he said.

It seemed impossible: we were finally leaving Pendennis. We stood on the dark street, in the torrent of rain, and grinned at each other like fools. Then I helped Father onto the pony. I started to climb up behind him, but he stopped me. “In front,” he said. “You’ll do better than I can.”

Mary untied the bridle and passed it up. She put her hands on the pony’s nose and let it nudge her cheek. “Don’t ride him too hard,” she said. “He’s not as strong as the other one.”

I reached down and took her hand. “Mary, I—”

“Hush now.” The pony pranced sideways, pulling my hand from Mary’s. “I’ll miss you,” she said. “I’ll think of you often.”

And then she was gone.

She went at a run, and I watched her. I watched until she was lost in the darkness. Then I felt my father’s hands close on my waist. They squeezed me hard. I shook the reins, and we started off for Polruan. The pony seemed to sigh when it passed through the old wall and started up the hill.

I looked back only once, to see the church behind us. The building was dark, foreboding, and the row of saints—unlit—looked like men hiding in the shadows. It was there, I realized, behind the figures, that Parson Tweed had kept his lookout for ships imperiled in the night.

But it seemed lonely now. Empty. As though the saints who’d watched over me were watching no more.

I
wish that my story ended here. In a small way, it does. For what happened next changed things forever after.

Before we gained the hilltop, the signal came. Three shots in quick succession, they floated across the moors and cliffs, through the valley and the sky. And before the sound had died away, I reined the pony in.

“Why have you stopped?” asked Father.

“That was a signal,” I said. “There’s a ship out there, and now she’s coming ashore.”

I turned the pony to face the wind. Its mane lashed against my legs; it tossed up its head. I couldn’t see the Channel, but I could hear it—waves dashing in endless rows against the cliffs.

For a while my father sat quietly behind me. Then he touched my arm. “Son,” he said, “we have to go.”

I twisted around on the pony’s back. Father’s face was
grimly set. “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t leave here knowing the wreckers are at work.”

He held out his hands. “But what can we do? It’s best if we bring others,” he said. “We can find a magistrate, a—”

“They’d come too late,” I said.

“But John, really. What could we possibly do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe nothing. But I can’t leave here knowing I didn’t try.”

Father sighed. “Yes, you’re right. You show me for a better man, John.”

“No, Father!” I jumped down from the pony and stood with my hands on his knee. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s true.”

“You’re hurt,” I said. “You can hardly walk.” I held the reins up toward him. “I want you to go on to Polruan. Will you do that?”

He held down his hand. I laid the reins across it. But instead he took my wrist. “No,” he said. “We’ll go together. When this business is done, we’ll
both
go to Polruan.”

He stiffened his arm, and I swung up in front of him. I cried out to the pony and turned it back toward the village. Mud flew from its heels as we raced down the hill, left at the crossroad, into the valley. We hurtled on, hooves drumming on the bridge, rain stinging my face. And when we’d crossed the river, I gave the reins a tug and steered the pony off the road. Father kicked against its ribs, and we headed off at a canter, across the moor to the sea.

We came to the shore east of the Tombstones, at the cliffs that Mawgan had told me were haunted. The surf
crashed at the foot of them with a ferocious roar, with a grinding of rocks and a rolling, surging spray. We sat on the poor scared pony and stared at the sea. Far to the south lightning flickered, pale as sparks from a tinder.

And there before us was the ship.

Like a shimmer of mist, faint and indistinct, she looked no bigger than the
Isle of Skye
. Then again the lightning flashed, and it lit her ghostly gray. The enormous hull of a full-rigged ship, towering masts with a stack of yards: She was a giant with a score of men, driven along by the smallest sails, topsails double-reefed.

“Couldn’t be more cautious than that,” said Father. “They’re not at all sure where they are.”