Page 5 of A Castaway in Cornwall
The big man with a prominent jaw and forehead shyly looked her way. “Evening, our Laura.”
Some said Jago must be related to the Cornish giants of old. Some people, like Newlyn, were afraid of him due to his size, while others ridiculed him, assuming he must be slow of mind because he rarely spoke except to friends. But Laura knew him to be a gentle, thoughtful soul.
She smiled at him. “Good evening, Jago.”
“Yer supper is on the stove,” Mary added.
He nodded and turned to go, ducking his head to avoid hitting the lintel.
“I am sorry,” Laura said. “Did I interrupt your supper?”
“Not at all. I ate while Jago was out foraging. Took him longer than usual to find enough wood to last through the night.” She drew her shawl closer around her. “Sure to be a long winter this year. Thank God for Jago.”
Jago, Laura knew, was not Miss Chegwin’s natural son. Mary had worked for many years as a midwife and had never married or had children of her own. She had found the boy as an infant, abandoned in the churchyard.
She’d once explained, “I don’t know why his mother abandoned him. Perhaps she was simply unwed and frightened. Dr. Dawe told me I was wasting my time, that the boy was too small and weak to survive, let alone thrive. Now, how I dearly enjoy parading my very tall, hale boy past him at church on Sundays.”
From the kitchen, the sound of fork scraping against plate was followed by a festive tune—Jago playing his hurdy-gurdy. The music brought Laura back to the present. The wind now rattled the windowpanes, and water speckled the glass.
She stood. “May we finish the story another time? Newlyn and I had better go before the rain worsens.”
Mary nodded. “Meur rasfor the visit and the cake.Nos dha.”
“Nos dha,” Laura said, echoing the phrase forgood night.She understood more Cornish than she spoke, but very little of either.
As she and Newlyn left, Laura drew the edges of her cape closed against the stinging wind, and Newlyn grumbled and held on to her bonnet. The wind moaned its ghostly wail, and Laura shivered from more than the cold.
“It’s Tregeagle, miss, I know it!” Newlyn cried. “We’re doomed.”
“We are not doomed,” Laura assured her, though any ship on open water might be. From the sound of it, a dreaded northwesterly gale had risen.
In the dark distance, a gun boomed and a voice shouted, “Ship, ho!”
Newlyn grabbed Laura’s hand. “That’s my pa.”
Desperate ships frequently tried to navigate into Padstow’s harbour to find shelter during storms. Many were carried onto the sands of the Doom Bar, where relentless waves either caused the ship to founder or sent it onto Greenaway Rocks to be pounded to kindling.
Laura hurried out to Trebetherick Point, Newlyn following reluctantly behind. From the overlook, Laura scanned the churning water below. A dark shape loomed off the rocks. It was difficult to see through the mist, but it appeared to be a ship thrashing in the waves.
Laura’s stomach tightened, and her heart began to pound with a combination of fear and determination. “Come. Let’s go down to the beach.”
“Are’ee certain, miss? I don’t think yer uncle—”
“I’m certain. Come on.”
Laura turned and started down the narrow path, slipping on the wet sand and stumbling over a rabbit warren but managing not to fall.
Others were on the beach before them, gathering to wait. To watch. To hope.
From there, she could see more clearly. Weak moonlight now penetrated the rainy gloom, and streaks of lightning cracked the sky and illuminated the vessel. A ship a few hundred yards offshore was struggling. She rocked back and forth, listing toofar to one side. She’d run aground on the rocks, and if she didn’t lift off soon, the waves would tear her to pieces. Laura had witnessed it before.
Seeing a stocky fisherman nearby, Newlyn ran to his side and clutched his arm. “Oh, Pa!”
“Steady on, my girl.”
Most local men were either fishermen like Mr. Dyer or boat builders, or employed as crews of sloops, loading and unloading vessels that traded in Padstow. Others worked in local slate and lead mines.
As Laura watched, small male figures on the ship’s deck heaved crates and barrels overboard. One wiry youth climbed to the rigging to evade the encroaching water, but a huge wave struck the ship, washing him off the topsail yard and into the sea. He did not rise again. Had the crew already lowered their boats or had the sea torn them loose? Had they no way of escape? Few people Laura knew swam, but even if the sailors knew how, the waves and rocks were likely to crush them before they reached shore.
