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This is a tale set in the 1800s, after the start of the Napoleonic Wars. At that point, smuggling was one of the biggest industries in Cornwall, spurred on by the high taxes on tea, silk, brandy and salt.
I leaned against the port post, absently scratching at my hair. Someone on the crew must have shared their lice with me. Beyond that niggling inconvenience, however, life was pleasant on this spring day at the contraband markets of Roscoff. I was supposed to watch Captain Brennan’s back, but in reality, I kept stealing glances at the French maids as they skipped up and down the steps to the fish stalls.
A gust of bad breath hit my cheek at the same time a hand slapped my back.
“Some bloody bodyguard you are, Jowen,” a voice rasped. I turned, smiling, to face Henry and tried not to inhale. Despite his vile temper and lack of teeth, he was a good bosun. I dodged his fists when drunk and stole his money at cards when sober.
“Eh, it’s mostly for show, you know that. No one’s going to attack Brennan before he’s spent his piece.”
“Captain Brennan to you, mate. Show respect for the man who pays your wages. What are we shipping back?”
I shrugged. “Fifty half-ankers of tea and the same for brandy. The rest is salt for the pilchard yards. He’s getting a good deal on the tonnage today.”
Henry groaned. “Coop won’t be happy. They never properly nail down the salt barrels.”
“At least he’s got something to do. Remember his whinging over the wool bales last week?”
“Aye. I was ready to boot him overboard.”
Coop was our barrelman. His job was to keep all the barrels in working order, which was important when you were a smuggler with hundreds of pounds of liquid stock to shift.
Henry rubbed the bridge of his nose, showing concern. “Get the others, from the Lundy, Jowen. I’ve heard rumours that the blockade’s headed our way, and I don’t want to run away from the Royal Navy with a bunch of pissed crewmen. We’re leaving as soon as the cargo’s on board. Stop lookin’ at the ladies - Meg’ll have your balls.”
I grinned. “She’d laugh at the thought of competition.” I could see her in my mind’s eyes, directing a scornful glance at the plump petite bonnes, in their plump caps and calico gowns. My black-eyed witch. I touched the chain around my neck where she had placed her engagement ring next to my St Piran’s Cross.
“Go!”
I nodded and sauntered down the street to La Lune, known as Lundy to the English sailors. The tavern had the holy trinity of good beer, cheap grub and a pretty barmaid. Right now, it also had a fight spilling out into the street, with the scent of sweat, blood and spittle rising from the spectators. I spotted Snakey’s bald crown shining in the middle and Lazy Pete screaming.
“Get ‘im, get, im you cock - !”
A groan from the crowd swallowed the rest of the insult.
I pushed through the bodies to view the results. Finn was on the ground, white-faced and clutching his belly. Blood covered both his hands, and he was shaking. His assailant, half-dressed in breeches and an open shirt, staggered back into a fighting stance with a long-knife in one hand.
“Get a surgeon!” I yelled. “And a constable!”
Lazy Pete surged forward, clamping one paw on the man’s shoulder and bringing a leather strap down on the hand holding the knife. The man yelped, then swore as Pete forced his arms up behind his back. Together with half the crowd, he marched the man up the street, leaving the rest of us - mostly my crew - looking at Finn on the ground.
“Easy, mate,” I muttered, squatting down beside him. “How bad is it?”
Finn stared up at me with a rictus smile. “Just a scratch Jowen. Stitch me up like a bugaboo and I’ll be fine.”
“Aye, right?” I gingerly lifted his shirt. The cut was deep and there wasn’t that much of Finn to start with.
Then Snakey was back, dragging along a doctor, hatless and still buttoning his frock coat. I stood up, out of the way.
“God’s teeth!” Snakey muttered to me. “Bastard tried to press-gang Finn. He must’ve thought the lad an easy target. When we fought back, the rest of his group ran off.”
I stared at him, astonished. “They’ve got press gangs here? I thought we were welcome in Roscoff.”
Snakey sniffed. “Too welcome. We’re three years into the war an’ the Frenchies need sailors. Who better than free traders like ourselves? We’re not exactly going to complain to the authorities.”
The doctor interrupted us then, to lift Finn inside onto a clean table. We shuffled him in, wincing all the way, and left him staring at the ceiling as the doctor threaded a needle. Henry found me washing my hands at the water fountain, his mouth drawn down in sulky resignation.
“Did Pete tell you?” I asked.
“Yeah. How bad is it?”
“Bad enough. He was stuck right in the guts and he’s not walking around anytime soon.”
“Fuck!”
“Yeah.”
“He’s our coastal pilot.”
“Not anymore, he’s not.”
We were both silent for a moment as we contemplated the problem. You see, I was a good helmsman and Henry could navigate with a map and compass but we didn’t have Finn’s knowledge of the reefs surrounding St. Mawes where we were supposed to land our cargo. Finn grew up on that coastline, which is why we’d recruited him, despite his youth.
“Can we change the destination?” I proposed. “Land at Fowey instead? I know that stretch and I’ve got friends there who can help us out.”
Henry’s forehead wrinkled. “No. Captain’s got backers who paid up-front for most of the cargo. They’ll be waiting for it at St. Mawes.”
“We can ask him.”
“It’ll be the same answer.”
And so it was.
*
I touched my cross nervously as I spun the wheel. The Sea Sprite was a beautiful ship, custom-built for smuggling, with smooth curved lines and an extra sail at the bowspit. She cut through the waves with grace and there was nothing faster on the water than her. Captain Brennan joined me, tucking away his telescope.
“Are we clear, Sir?” I asked.
“For now,” he replied. “I want to take us further westwards to be sure and then tack back towards England.” Brennan tucked his fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat, straining the silver buttons a little further as he hummed. He looked like a parish priest, with his mutton whiskers and twinkling eyes, which belied his sharp wit. “It’s going to be a good run, Jowan. I can feel it. Did you spend your piece at the port?”
“Aye, Sir. Tea and brandy. It will make a tidy profit.”
“Good man. Enough to pay for your wedding?”
I nodded, moving the wheel a handbreadth more. “If she’ll have me, Sir.”
“Of course she will.” Brennan fumbled in his pocket for tobacco and patted the swell of his stomach. Confident in his prediction, he moved forward to join Henry with his maps and instruments. I touched my cross again, praying Brennan was right and Meg was wrong. Despite the calm sea, I could not forget her parting words, said with an odd twist to her lips.
“If the sea does not take thee, then I will. Watch for the monsters of the deep and the deception of the shallows. “
*
The afternoon slid into night, and I was off duty, with little to do except fret and sleep. Henry woke me up from my place under the tarp, curled up with the other off-duty sailors like so many mice.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Sea mist, “he grumbled, swinging his lantern. It lay thick on the deck and I could barely make out the stern. “We’re turning inland and I can’t see the cliffs. I think we’re close to Penare. I want you to take the helm whilst I take line readings.”
Trance-like, I grabbed the wheel as men disappeared and reappeared from the tendrils of mist. I heard the sails flapping overhead and a sailor calling out the depth readings to Henry from the front, his voice muted under the heavy air.
Now I was thinking about the ship again; that her planks were lightweight fir, not oak, and we had stacked her to the brim with cargo, just ripe for a ragged coastline with its sharp teeth. The wheel bucked under my fingers as though The Sea Sprite agreed with me. Then something hit the port side, and I shuddered with her.
“What the hell was that?” Brennan shouted from nearby. Henry emerged from the fog, pale-faced.
“Not sure, Sir. We’re still in deep water and - “
Something hit us again, this time close to the rudder. The Sea Sprite lurched and groaned.
“LIGHTS!” Brennan roared.
There was a bustle and slapping of feet as sailors ran forward to light torches and lanterns from Henry. I was busy cursing, my voice shrill with fear as I righted the ship. There was another bang beneath my feet, this time from the starboard.
“It’s beneath us,” I yelled. “We’re not moving: it is.”
“A beast?” Brennan said sharply. “There’s nothing that big out there.”
There was another boom from the hull, mocking his assertion.
“We need to get out of here,” Henry agreed, reappearing. “There’s no rock, but no cliffs to be seen, either. God knows where we are. We need to get in closer to the shore.”
A dazed silence dropped upon us, and then a sailor close to the stern called out. “I see it!”
Not wasting a second, Henry ran, with me and Brennan following in a dreamlike daze. Something glittered in the water; teeth and tail, with skin closer to a devil than a fish. It snapped at us, then dived again.
Watch for the monsters of the deep.
And then what, my love? You foresaw this. What am I supposed to do?
…and the deception of the shallows.
I pulled out my chain to fervently kiss Meg’s slender ring. Then, without waiting for orders, I ran back to the helm and pointed us out to sea.
*
I spent the rest of that night in a horrible, half-awake daze, jumping at every wave that slapped the hull. Brenan was angry at me. Henry was a praying mess. By the time the sun had risen in the morning, burning off the fog, it was clear we were far west of our maps, past Penare and even our destination: St Mawes. If it were not for the monster, we would have drifted into the kindly arms of the Customs House at Falmouth Harbour.
I’d been lucky. I’d cheated the devil and the deep blue sea, testing my luck twice over. All I wanted was to run home, marry my witch and swear never to sail again.
At least, until the money ran out.
If you are interested in Cornish smuggling history, you can read about it here and see which towns carried on the trade here.