Page 69 of A Castaway in Cornwall
What should she do? Confide in her uncle? He might insist Alexander leave immediately or even report him to the militia or local constable. And if the agent saw this notice, he might recall the name Daniel Marchal as being among the dead identified by the survivor, Alexander Lucas. Or was it Alexander Carnell?
Rule 5. Fighting, quarreling, or exciting the least disorder is strictly forbidden, under pain of a punishment proportionate to the offence.
—PAULCHAMBERLAIN,THENAPOLEONICPRISONOFNORMANCROSS
Chapter 13
Alexander had left Fern Haven early to take the ferry to Padstow before the tide went out, hoping to find Treeve Kent or a ship’s crew willing to take him home.
As the ferry crossed the estuary, he thought back to the night before. Miss Callaway had found a silver flask. It might not be the same flask, he cautioned himself. But found on a nearby beach shortly after the demise of theKittiwake? It had to be....
Slowed by injuries and discouraged by his circumstances, Alex’s urgency to pursue his plan had dimmed over recent days. He had allowed himself to be lulled into a stupor of inaction, telling himself even had he the means or connections to find another way home, it was unlikely his return would do any good. For he had lost the only evidence he knew of that might exonerate his brother and free him from prison and impending execution. He’d thought it had slipped from his grasp forever, consigned to Davy Jones’s locker, never to be seen again.
But now?
If Laura Callaway had rescued the letter that could saveAlan, he might be tempted to believe God had orchestrated their meeting.
How stunned he’d been to see the flask in the hand of Tom Parsons. Even if it was the same flask, however, would the paper still be inside and intact, or had the flask leaked and ruined the letter and his hopes with it?
He’d been tempted to demand its return then and there but worried Miss Callaway might refuse, because in all truth, it did not belong to him. Or she might hold fast to her “year and a day” principle, and he did not have that long to wait.
Reaching the harbour, he walked along the quay and soon found John Dyer, Newlyn’s father, in a substantial vessel at least forty-five feet long moored nearby.
“Impressive ship,” he called.
The man raised a hand in greeting. “Aye.”
He walked closer. “May I ask where you’re bound on your next journey?”
“Not sure. Guernsey, mayhap.”
Hope rose. “Would you be willing to take me across the Channel?”
The older man frowned. “Why? What’s yer business there?”
“I ... simply wish to return home,” he replied. “To see my brother and ailing father.”
The man’s expression eased but still he shook his head. “Not up to me. You mistake the matter—this ain’t my ship. I just signed on because my fishing boat needs repairs. A decision like that would be up to the owner.”
“Who is he?”
Dyer hesitated. “Not my place to say.”
“Then would you ask him for me?”
He shrugged. “Very well. I’ll send a reply through Newlyn.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dyer. The sooner the better.”
Alex waved and walked away. He stopped to speak to two old salts bent over a newspaper. “Good day, gentlemen....” He went on to describe his predicament and goal. In his urgency to secure passage, his voice wavered, and he heard the accent he tried so hard to curtail.
The men seemed to hear it as well, for they scowled and turned away, muttering the wordforeignerunder their breaths.
Determined not to give up, Alex continued down the quay, looking for another likely vessel. But he was distracted from his purpose by an unexpected sight: François talking with Tom Parsons, who was gesturing to a smaller sailboat in the harbour. François handed the smuggler something and the two shook hands.
Alexander’s suspicion was instantly aroused. He hailed, “François!”
LaRoche walked toward him, leaving Parsons watching from behind.
