Eye of the Wind (22 page)

‘What was?’ Gabriel said.

‘Smuggler’s boat. Revenue cutter from Falmouth have caught one off the Lizard.’

‘They have?’ One of the first things he had learnt working in the yard was, whenever possible, to answer one question with another, preferably a repetition of what had just been said. Doing this convinced the men of his interest while giving nothing away. It also allowed him a few precious moments to think.

Tansey nodded. ‘Walter? Where did you hear about that boat?’

‘From my cousin Moses. His wife’s sister’s husband is a crewman on the cutter.’ He went back to his story. ‘Seems when the Customs men searched the boat, as well as the Cousin Jacky they found a package of secret papers. The captain said they was for Lord Grenville.’

Gabriel froze, then lifted his glass and took a large mouthful of cognac, shuddering as it went down. It burned fiercely but sharpened his senses and helped steady his nerves.

‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ Tansey demanded.

‘How the hell should I know?’ Walter shrugged. ‘But he must be someone important.’

‘I should think he is,’ Zeb put in. ‘He’s only the bleddy Foreign Secretary, that’s all. Live up Boconnoc near Liskeard, he do. When he’s not up London.’

‘Know ’un, do you?’ Ned enquired drily.

‘No, not personal. But I got a nephew in service with the family.’

‘Well, what do he want with papers from France?’ Tansey demanded. ‘Sounds like a bleddy spy to me.’

‘For once in your life you could be right.’ Walter pointed his pipe at Tansey. ‘But the spies is on our side. See, Moses said the captain told the Customs officer that without people like him willing to risk their lives bringing back information from agents in France, our government wouldn’t know what was going on over the Channel. It could make the difference between winning the war or losing ’un. So instead of treating him like a criminal, they should be giving him a reward, ’cos he was a public benefactor.’

His heart thumping, Gabriel forced himself to join in the laughter.

‘That Customs man have got some job,’ Zeb grinned. ‘Smuggling’s against the law and the punishments is hard. But if they papers is real, then the captain is as like to be given a purse of gold sovereigns as a fine. And if the Customs officer don’t deliver them, then it could be he that gets locked up.’

‘Yes, but that isn’t the end of it,’ Walter announced, and all heads turned toward him. ‘The captain and crew is all being kept in the gaol. They aren’t allowed no visitors neither.’

‘What? Why not?’ Chirp frowned. ‘That’s never right.’

‘All I know is that there’s two men come down from London to ask them questions.’

‘Here, Walter.’ Isaac Bowden, another of the yard workers, broke in. ‘Where did you say that boat was from?’

‘Mullion.’

‘Know the captain’s name, do you? Only my wife got cousins down Mullion way what do a bit of free-trading.’

‘I believe ’tis Janner Stevens.’

Isaac shook his head. ‘No. Don’t mean nothing to me.’

Gabriel stared at the remaining brandy in his glass. It shivered as his hands shook uncontrollably. Janner Stevens was captain of the boat that had brought him back to Cornwall. His head spun. The sweat of physical weakness and fear trickled down his temples and from under his arms. Though desperate to get out into the fresh air, where there was space and freedom
,
he dared not move. He tried to think.

There might be any number of reasons for government officials to question the smugglers. He was certainly not the only escapee helped by the free traders. His name while in France had been Pierre Durtelle. No one could connect that man with Gabriel Ennis.

But the harder he tried to dismiss his anxiety, the more it increased. It wasn’t about the package of papers or the contraband government officials were questioning Janner Stevens: it was his live cargo they were interested in.

It was obvious from the way Walter and the others were talking that such a visit had never occurred before. So it had to him they were after. But whom were they trying to find, Pierre Durtelle or Lord Roland Stratton? How many people knew both were the same man? Was his escape known to whoever had betrayed him? Gabriel’s sweat turned to ice as he realised that because he didn’t know who had turned him in to the French, he had no idea who was hunting him, or why.

‘Here,’ Tansey nudged him. ‘You all right? Look sick as a shag you do.’

Gabriel touched the thick scab above his eye. ‘Don’t feel so good,’ he muttered. ‘I think I need some air.’

‘Be all right on your own, will you?’

‘I’ll be fine. My head’s giving me hell, that’s all.’ Gabriel pushed himself up.

‘’Tis more than enough by the look of you,’ said Tansey. ‘You mind how you go.’

As Gabriel eased his way out through the crush of bodies he heard Tansey explaining his sudden departure.

‘… Kicked in the head by a bleddy cart horse.’

Then he passed from the thick fug of the tavern into cool, fresh air. He stood for a few moments breathing deeply, waiting for his thundering heart to slow, and for his head to clear.

Daylight was fading to dusk, earlier tonight due to a thick blanket of cloud. The breeze blowing up from the south felt damp. Gabriel set off along the street. Already shivery from this new shock on top of the weakness resulting from his accident, he wanted to reach the protection of the shack before the rain began.

He’d gone only a few yards when behind him someone shouted, a man’s voice, spoiling for a fight. Assuming a quarrel had spilled into the street from one of the many inns Gabriel ignored it. Another shout was followed by the sound of pounding boots coming closer, then his waistcoat was seized, jerking him round.

In the split second before a flailing fist caught him a glancing blow on the jaw, he recognised his assailant as one of two men roughly his own age who’d been drinking just inside the doorway of the tavern. He’d been aware of their glances, but their checked shirts, neckerchiefs, and trousers had identified them as fishermen and he’d thought no more about them, too concerned with Walter’s news.

Instinctively he raised his hands to defend himself. ‘What –?’ he began, but got no further as the second man punched him.

‘Think I wouldn’t find out?’ the first man growled, his sun and wind-burned features vicious, narrowed eyes glittering with anger. ‘You marked her, you bastard.’

Gabriel had been taught to box, but there was no science to this mauling. It was dirty and brutal, a deliberate attempt to inflict as much damage as possible.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he shouted, trying desperately to parry the blows as they circled him, attacking with feet and fists. ‘Listen to me –’

‘Bleddy liar! She told me it was you!’

‘Go on, Jed,’ the second man urged. ‘Kick the bugger where it hurt. If you don’t, I will.’

‘Stop this!’ Gabriel roared so loudly his voice cracked, lashing out and feeling pain shoot up his arm as his knuckles connected with the side of a skull.

As the man addressed as Jed reeled back, the other one charged in, head low, fists lower. ‘Mess with my sister, would you?’

‘I don’t know your sister,’ Gabriel gasped.

‘That’s not what she said,’ his assailant hissed. ‘Attacked her in her own home.’

‘Oi! What’s going on?’ Walter bellowed. ‘Jed Treen, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing of?’

As Billy, Zeb, Joseph, Chirp, and Ned grabbed the two panting men and hauled them off, still kicking and flailing, Gabriel staggered back and leant against a wall, his arms clasped across his stomach and ribs.

He sucked in rasping breaths as he fought waves of sickening dizziness. Blackness lapped at the edges of his mind, threatening to engulf him. He hung on grimly, forcing it back by sheer effort of will.

‘That bastard attacked my Sal!’ Jed spat.

‘Is that so?’ Walter said. ‘She told you that, did she?’

‘Too right she did, ’specially when I landed her one after I seen the bruises.’

Sal.
Gabriel remembered: the bold, teasing girl in the group who had accosted him in the street, then tried to pull him into the circle dancing around the bonfire.

‘What bruises was they then?’ Tansey asked, pushing through the gathering crowd.

‘All over her – never you bleddy mind where they was!’

‘When was this attack supposed to have happened?’ Walter demanded.

‘What do you mean,
supposed
?’ Sal’s brother snarled. ‘In some terrible state she was. Crying and all.’

‘When, Jed?’ Walter pressed.

‘Night afore last.’

A murmur ran through the crowd. ‘Where was you while all this was going on?’ Walter enquired.

‘Where do you think? Out fishing of course.’

‘It wasn’t Gabriel,’ Walter said.

Jed glared around wildly. ‘What do you mean it wasn’t him? Sal said –’

‘I don’t give a bugger what Sal said,’ Walter broke in.

‘Here, you watch your mouth, that’s my sister –’

‘Shut up, Eddy,’ Walter snapped. ‘You’re bleddy idiots, the pair of you. You got the wrong man.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Jed sneered. ‘How would you know that?’

‘Because,’ Billy strode forward and glowered down at the fisherman, his fists clenched, ‘two days ago Gabriel was took up to the big house on a stretcher. Kept there all night he was, unconscious. He only come away yesterday afternoon.’

Jed glared at the nodding men. ‘You’re having me on. I don’t believe a word of it.’

Gabriel pushed himself away from the wall, pressing his bandaged wrist against his forehead to staunch the blood trickling down his face from the torn scab.

‘Miss Tregonning’s butler looked after me. He knows what time I left. Ask him.’ There was more murmuring and heads nodded.

Tansey tapped Jed on the shoulder. ‘If you was to spend a bit more time home, your missus wouldn’t be running round the village like a bitch on heat.’

Ignoring the sniggers, Jed squared up to Tansey, as belligerent as a terrier. ‘How’s a man supposed to put food on the table if he don’t work?’

‘Get on, Jed,’ Zeb jeered. ‘You get off that boat and straight go in the Anchor. I reckon you do drink more than you eat.’

‘So what’s wrong with a man having a pint of ale when he come back after a hard day’s fishing?’ Jed snarled, but with less certainty. ’Tisn’t none of your bleddy business anyhow.’

‘It is when you beat up an innocent man,’ Walter snapped.

‘Come on, Jed,’ Eddy muttered, putting his arm around his brother- in-law.

‘Yeah, you get on home,’ Tansey called amiably. ‘And don’t forget to ask your missus who really gived her they bruises.’

As Gabriel turned away, Billy touched his shoulder. ‘You all right?’

Gabriel nodded. ‘I will be when I’ve had some sleep.’

‘See you home, shall I?’

‘No. No, I’d rather be on my own.’

‘I don’t mind, honest.’

‘No, Billy. Thanks all the same. You go on back with the others.’

‘Night, then.’

‘Good night.’ Turning away, Gabriel pressed a hand to his bruised side, praying no ribs were broken, and concentrated on reaching the shack before he collapsed. 

Chapter Seventeen

The first large, slow drops burst on the leaves like overripe berries then slid off to hit the path beneath with a soft thud. Intermittent at first, they began falling faster, driven by a gusty wind that made the leaves whisper and sigh and the branches creak. By the time Gabriel reached the shack, staggering like a drunk and shivering as his temperature began to climb, his shirt was soaked, his hair hung in ropes, and rain dribbled in cold rivulets down his burning face.

Racked with pain from the beating, every movement agony as his bruised muscles stiffened, he shut the door and slid the wooden bar across. No fire would burn outside. It was too wet. If he tried to light one in here he would suffocate. In any case he hadn’t the strength. Desperate to lie down, feeling too ill even to remove his wet clothes, he crawled beneath the blankets. Shaken by violent tremors, he slipped helplessly into a state between sleep and delirium.

His body had given up. But, deranged by rising fever, his mind whirled with vivid images, razor sharp and terrifying. Suddenly he was reliving his capture in the shipyard: the soldiers grabbing his arms, shouting at him while his erstwhile workmates drew back and turned away, dissociating themselves from him and whatever he was guilty of. He could feel his heart racing, his mouth sour with a metallic taste of fear as he protested in angry bewilderment, trying frantically to work out what had gone wrong, and how he had been found out. The images dissolved and reformed, taking him further back. Back to the incident that had driven him into exile and deadly danger.

In Plymouth, on business for his father, he had joined a party of friends at a gentlemen’s club near the dockyard. Stepping out into the street after a pleasant evening, they almost bumped into two young naval officers who were passing. One suddenly stopped.

‘Good God, it’s Stratton.’ The young man’s speech was slurred, his tone deriding. ‘Lord Roland Stratton. Well met indeed.’

Gabriel turned. Not recognising either man, he addressed the one who had spoken. ‘And you are?’

‘Lieutenant Frederick Poldyce of His Majesty’s ship
Audacious
.’ He made an exaggerated bow. ‘I believe you’re acquainted with my elder brother, Richard. He mentioned meeting you at one of Lady St Cleer’s routs. He’s a second lieutenant aboard the
Queen Charlotte.
Was,’ he corrected himself, face twisting with grief. ‘Not any more. Dead, you see. Killed in battle. The Glorious First of June.’ Biting cynicism edged the man’s tone.

Gabriel dipped his head. ‘You have my deepest sympathy.’ Aware that no words of his could ease such loss, he turned away.

‘Keep it!’ Frederick Poldyce snarled. ‘I don’t want your damned sympathy!’

Startled, Gabriel and his friends glanced back. Poldyce’s companion tried to take his arm, but was roughly shaken off. ‘Why would I want sympathy from a man who stays safe at home and leaves others to fight for Britain’s safety? Aye, and die for it.’

Gabriel stiffened, his sharply drawn breath hissing between his teeth at this stinging slight.

‘Ignore him, Stratton,’ one of his friends urged. ‘The young fool’s foxed. Brother’s death so recent, bound to have hit him hard.’

‘Especially as
Audacious
got separated from the rest of the fleet and didn’t even take part in the battle,’ another added. ‘Come, let’s go.’

Gabriel struggled to control his temper, for the abuse was unjust. He had been desperate to join the navy, but his father, citing a more urgent duty, had insisted he remain at home. It was vital that he remain alive and unharmed, for should his brother succumb to the weakness that had plagued him since childhood, the responsibility of the title, the estates, and the future of the family would fall to him.

Not trusting himself to speak, Gabriel turned with them to walk away, but Poldyce cried out again. ‘You’re a coward, Stratton, A craven coward. Even now you hide behind your friends.’

As his companions gasped at this blatant insult, Gabriel spun round, his voice taut with anger and disgust. ‘Go home, Poldyce. You’re drunk.’

Breaking free of his friend’s restraining grasp, Frederick Poldyce hurled himself forward. ‘Perhaps I am. But in the morning I’ll be sober, whereas you will still be a coward.’

As Gabriel’s fists clenched, his friends grabbed his arms. ‘No, Stratton,’ they pleaded. ‘Don’t give him the satis –’

Poldyce struck Gabriel an open-handed slap across the face. ‘What price your honour, my Lord?’ he taunted, his pallid sweating face distorted by a sneer. ‘What does it take to –?’

‘Enough,’ Gabriel said with deadly calm. ‘My friends will wait upon yours.’

When the seconds failed to reach agreement – Gabriel’s friends acknowledged the insult to be beyond bearing, and Poldyce’s refusal to apologise made a duel inescapable – a day and time were fixed. Gabriel found himself in a quiet park in the cool of a summer dawn, Trusting that, having had time to come to his senses, the young naval officer would wish the matter resolved in a manner that satisfied honour while causing no injury, Gabriel planned to fire into the air.

But Poldyce’s second, offering him the pistol box and inviting him to choose his weapon, muttered a warning. Poldyce would shoot to kill. ‘It’s the shame, my Lord,’ he whispered. ‘He can’t bear the shame.’

What shame? That his brother had died when his own ship, running off to avoid capture, had put into Plymouth and missed the battle? But what, Gabriel wondered, had that to do with him? The shock of realisation hit him like a fist. It had nothing whatever to do with him. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he was simply the means to an end. Frederick Poldyce had deliberately provoked the quarrel, issuing a challenge impossible to refuse, either to test his own courage, or because, for reasons Gabriel could not even guess at, he wanted to end his life but could not dishonour his family by committing suicide.

So I am to do it for him? Gabriel gazed at the pistol, coldly furious at being used, and for not having realised. Yet how could he have known? It was too late now. There was no going back.

They took their places, walked the requisite number of paces, turned, and fired. The loud reports, almost simultaneous, sent startled birds fluttering skyward. His own aim steady and true, Gabriel felt the searing heat of Poldyce’s shot graze his arm, saw his opponent jerk and a crimson flower bloom high on the shoulder of his white shirt. Knees buckling, his face the colour of ashes, the young lieutenant crumpled to the grass and was quickly carried to the waiting carriage by two friends with the doctor in attendance.

‘You aimed wide,’ Gabriel’s second accused.

Gabriel glanced up, surprised. ‘Of course.’

‘After what his man said? Poldyce meant to kill you.’

Gabriel’s smile was bitter. ‘No, he didn’t. What he wanted was for me to kill him.’

He had not intended to tell his father anything about the incident. But the letter that arrived a few days later, shaking him to the core with its news of Frederick Poldyce’s death, left him no choice.

The marquis aged 20 years in as many seconds. Alternately anguished and raging, he first entreated then commanded his son to flee the country. Although there had been no intent to kill, Stratton had fired the shot as a result of which the young man had died. The distinction was too fine to be risked, for murder meant the gallows. To protect the inheritance, he had to live. Therefore he must go. Accepting that he had no choice, Gabriel agreed, but insisted on calling upon Frederick’s father first.

An intimate of Lord Grenville, Sir John Poldyce held an influential position in the Foreign Office, and though he and the rnarquess had met on several occasions, acquaintance had not deepened into friendship. A cold man was how the marquis had described him, not easy to know and hard to like, though he enjoyed the trust of both Lord Grenville and the Prime Minister, William Pitt.

Waiting in the library while the butler went to announce his presence to the grieving father, Gabriel felt more nervous than he had when facing Frederick’s pistol. At last, Sir John had appeared. A gaunt man dressed all in black with thinning, grizzled hair and eyes set deep beneath untidy brows, he carried himself ramrod straight. Though his face was grey and ravaged by grief, his voice as he greeted Gabriel betrayed no trace of emotion.

‘Lord Stratton.’ He inclined his head briefly.

‘Thank you for seeing me, Sir John. Under the circumstances …’

‘Quite so. Why have you come?’

‘I am to go abroad. But I could not leave without – Sir, I beg you will accept my sincere condolences. I am most dreadfully sorry.’

Sir John gave a brief nod, and the lines of suffering deepened. ‘As I understand it, the quarrel was not of your making.’

‘Even so –’

‘Even so my son is dead. Both my sons …’ He shuddered, then turned and walked behind a large table that served as a desk.

‘Sir, I would have deloped. But I was informed –’ He could not say it. He could not tell this grieving man that his younger son had planned both murder and suicide. ‘I was informed that such action would not be honourable. Believe me, I intended only a flesh wound.’

‘Indeed.’ In that one word Gabriel heard surprise, disbelief, and censure. He knew guilt was unwarranted – he had not sought the confrontation – yet it still weighed heavy. In the silence that followed, he felt growing helplessness and discomfort. He did not regret coming. Honour had demanded he face the consequences of his actions, even if they were entirely unforeseen. But perhaps it had not been wise.

‘I think you must desire my absence, Sir John, so –’

‘No. Not yet.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Please sit down.’ Seating himself, Sir John lightly tapped his chin with steepled fingers, his brow deeply furrowed, seeming lost in thought.

Gabriel waited, not sure what was expected of him. The silence dragged on.

At last Sir John looked up. ‘Tell me, was it you who brought back an important package from Switzerland after one of our agents was shot during a skirmish with French soldiers?’

Startled, for he had understood the matter to be one Lord Grenville had kept secret from his colleagues in the Foreign Office, Gabriel hesitated. But it had been some time ago and doubtless what was necessarily top secret then had since become common knowledge within the department. He nodded.

‘It was.’

‘How have you occupied yourself since your return?’

‘On my father’s estates. My purpose for being in Switzerland was to learn forest management. Since I came back I have been managing the woodland and coppices. You may be aware that my brother is not in good health –’

‘Indeed.’ Sir John cut him short. ‘Is your role purely supervisory?’

‘On the contrary, with so many men being pressed into the navy or joining the militia regiments forming to defend England against invasion, I’ve had little choice but to do much of the physical work myself. Though I’m fortunate in having an excellent aide in my father’s estate manager. I’ve also learnt a great deal from the carpenters and shipwrights who buy wood from Trerose.’

Sir John’s thin smile signalled satisfaction. ‘You are fluent in French, presumably, but do you understand the Breton dialect?’

‘Yes. I believe most Cornishmen do.’

‘How very fortuitous. Such skills will provide the perfect disguise.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Why would he need a disguise?

‘For you to obtain work as a shipwright, first at Lorient, France’s major merchant and naval shipbuilding centre, then at Brest, the chief naval base and dockyard for the French fleet operating in the Atlantic. As you’re probably aware, Brest is currently under open blockade by the British Channel fleet. We, that is the government, need information on French coastal defences, and the number and current state of ships under construction or repair.’

Gabriel was startled. ‘You want
me 
– ?’

‘You have to go abroad anyway. You could, at the same time, perform a valuable service.’ The piercing gaze was intent. ‘Can you do it? Will you do it?’

Gabriel stood up. ‘Yes, Sir John, I will. And I thank you for the opportunity.’

A spasm crossed the older man’s face. ‘My own sons’ service was so short.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Do you have any questions?’

Gabriel thought quickly. ‘Presumably you will want information on as regular a basis as possible. How am I to send it back to England?’

‘You will find the Breton smugglers helpful. They liaise with their Cornish counterparts in mid-Channel. Any letters given to them will reach me.’ He held out a fine-boned hand and Gabriel gripped it. ‘God speed, Lord Stratton,’ he said formally. ‘And good luck.’

News of the fight between Jed Treen and Gabriel reached Bosvane early the next morning. Taking one of the carriage horses down the village early to have a loose shoe replaced, John overheard the blacksmith describing the incident to Edgar Rawling, who had arrived to pick up a mended ploughshare. Back in the stables, John related it to Hocking, who told Mrs Betts when he went across to the kitchen for his breakfast.

‘He was in the middle of telling her when I went down for another pitcher of hot water to top up your bath, miss,’ Sarah said, picking up the silver-backed brush. ‘So I made him start again. I thought you’d want to know, seeing as how ’tis only a day or two since that great horse nearly done for Gabriel in the woods.’

Steeling herself not to show any reaction, and compressing her lips to hold back the flood of questions that would betray her and compromise him, Melissa sat down in front of the dressing-table mirror. Her silence was all the encouragement Sarah needed.

‘That Sal Treen,’ she snorted in disgust. ‘Mother always said she’d come to a bad end. Even when we was small I wasn’t allowed to play with her.’ Taking the pins from her mistress’s hair, she loosened the black tresses and began to sweep the brush through them.

Melissa gathered her silk and lace robe closer, as if she were cold. ‘Mrs Treen said Gabriel attacked her? In her own home?’ She should not be having this conversation. It was totally wrong to gossip with the servants. But this was different, she told herself. It involved someone employed on the estate. That alone justified her concern. But the fact that the incident involved Gabriel made it impossible not to ask. She had to know.