Page 6 of A Castaway in Cornwall
“Dear Jesus, help them,” Laura cried. She wished there were something she could do. Something anyone could do.
Their parish had no rescue apparatus or official lifeboat. However, Cornish gigs manned by experienced pilots often acted as lifeboats, their size allowing them to maneuver into dangerous coves to reach victims. Why had no pilots responded tonight? Yes, the risks of rowing out in heavy seas were great. Many had paid with their lives for such bravery in the past. Had they not heard the shouts? The ship’s gun signaling its distress?
As if reading Laura’s thoughts, John Dyer looked around. “Where are the dashed pilots?” He called to a group of men loitering nearby, “Come on, lads—let’s try to get to ’em.”
“Pa, no,” Newlyn pleaded. “It’s too dangerous.”
The brawny man loosed himself from his frightened daughter’s grip. “Someone has to try.”
Most men hung back, but three brave souls climbed into Dyer’s boat and took up oars.
Laura thought of her own father—gone to sea in a ship and never returning—and grasped Newlyn’s hand.
The men rowed hard, but the pounding surf drove them back. Twenty yards out a wave flipped the boat over as if it were a toy.
“Pa!” Newlyn cried, squeezing Laura’s fingers tightly.
The men disappeared beneath the boat, beneath the waves. Laura held her breath and prayed. One by one their heads began to reappear, struggling to keep their mouths above water and return to shore. Other men on the beach, more motivated to help their own than some unknown sailors, grabbed a rope, and the bravest among them sloshed into the surf to help the struggling men. Thankfully, all four would-be rescuers made it back to shore, tired and bruised but alive. The boat, however, had suffered damage.
“How’s Pa to fish now?” Newlyn wailed. “To support the little’uns? To live?”
More people gathered on the beach, lamps or torches in hand, others carrying pickaxes. Laura surveyed the torch-lit faces, heard the stomping of feet against the cold, and saw the eager rubbing of hands.
The first discarded barrel floated to shore, and the people pounced on it, circling it like ants to a spill of honey. This was followed by one crate and then another. With their axes, they pried them open, finding treasures like salted fish, a crate of figs and another of oranges, then a cask of wine. People exclaimed and called to their neighbors, some helping themselves then and there to the wine, others filling their pocketswith fruit and fish. The scene took on the atmosphere of a macabre village fete.
Laura glimpsed golden-haired Treeve Kent among the revelers. What was he doing there?
He made to turn away, but realizing she’d seen him, he sauntered over, saying archly, “Home with a cold, I see.”
“Entertaining my uncle’s family, I see,” she countered.
He smirked. “Evening grew boring without you there. I... went out for a pint, heard the gun, and came down to see what was happening.” He avoided her gaze as he explained, she noticed.
“How long until the agent arrives?” she asked.
“Sooner than any of us would like, I imagine.”
“You too?”
He sketched a shrug. “Why not?”
Laura held her tongue and returned her attention to the foundering brig.
Apparently having seen the wiry youth washed overboard and drowned, the rest of the ship’s company remained on board. She counted nine or ten men and a boy, screaming for help. A wave crashed over the deck, sending others into the sea. One of the brig’s two masts fell, and as it floated toward shore, Laura saw a man hanging on to it with one arm, his other wrapped around a comrade, trying to keep the man’s head above water. Another wave swept over them and both men went under. The foremast popped up a few yards on, coming dangerously close to impaling one of the men in the shallows.
A desperate hand appeared above the water, before sinking again.
“He’s close now, lads. Let’s get ’im!” Newlyn’s father called. He tied the rope around his waist and strode bravely into the water, while the others held the rope. Stretching as far as hecould, Mr. Dyer reached down and grabbed the man by the back of his collar and dragged him toward shore. An incoming barrel knocked them both underwater, but friends came to John Dyer’s aid and finally both men fell onto the sand.
Mr. Dyer rolled to his back, panting. Newlyn knelt at his side. But the other man lay unmoving.
Tom Parsons—an infamous wrecker and smuggler—strode across the beach toward them. His sandy-red hair stuck out in unkempt curls beneath his hat. He had faded freckles and deep scowl marks between his brows. He must have been a darling child, but as a man of fifty, he made Laura’s skin crawl.
Seeing the unresponsive victim, Tom prodded him with a careless boot and muttered, “Good thing.”
Laura looked around for help. If only Dr. Dawe had not gone to visit his sister...
“Roll him over,” she said.
