Page 96 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Together the men pushed the tender into shallow water. Then Alexander turned to her and held out his hands. “May I?”
She nodded, mouth dry.
He lifted her into his arms, carried her to the boat, and set her down. Then the men scrambled in after her.
Propelled by both the current and oars, they rowed to the mouth of the estuary to meet the waiting lugger. By moonlight, the anchored vessel appeared a greyish black, its dark sails stowed. The ship was larger than most of the Cornish luggers she saw along their coast, with three masts rather than two. The bowsprit, a long wooden spar projecting upward from its prow, put her in mind of a bottlenose dolphin.
Reaching the ship, Treeve whistled, and they drew up alongside.
The dim shapes of a few other men appeared on deck.
Treeve called, “Seems we shall have two passengers instead of one.”
One of the men sputtered, incredulous. “A w-woman, sir?”
“Yes. Wonders never cease. Perhaps she will bring us luck.”
“Or doom.”
Despite the protests, the crew helped them into the ship and then stowed the small landing craft.
Only after they had cleared Stepper Point and were out on open water did one of the men bring up a lit lantern from below.
By its light, Laura saw three men dressed in loose trousers, dingy striped shirts, and short jackets with handkerchiefs around their necks. A stout fourth man in boots, caped coat, and cocked hat she identified as the captain.
Then she looked closer and recognized him as Newlyn’s father.
He returned her stare, his spidery eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. “Miss Callaway?”
“Mr. Dyer, you are the captain? I thought you were a fisherman.”
“I was, till my boat was damaged. But I sailed a cutter in my younger days. Gave up free trading for the missus years back. But, well, times is hard. Since my boat is in for repairs, and Mr. Kent here was in need of a skipper...”
“I see.”
No formal introductions were made, but over the next several minutes, Laura gleaned the names, or at least nicknames, of all the crewmen.
Archie, a tall, wiry fellow, was first mate; Pucky was sometimes carpenter and all-around sailor; Jackson was chief net mender and reluctant cook; while John Dyer—cap’n or skipper, in turns—oversaw everything as he smoked his pipe.
At his command, the crew began hoisting the main sail, two men pulling hard on the lines like eager bell ringers, the cross bar rising, the dark cloth unfurling. The sails were a deep burgundy, perhaps better than white for hiding from revenue men in shadowy coves.
Laura watched, noting the intricate web of pulleys, lines, chains, and coils of rope like giant embroidery floss.
The wind immediately began filling the sails, while the waves played percussion on the hull planking.
The captain stood at the helm, now and again relinquishing it to the first mate to look through the glass or to converse with Mr. Kent.
Surveying the deck, masts, and sails, Alex asked, “A lugger, yes?”
Treeve nodded. “A south coast lugger, to be precise. Narrow beam, and drawing only four feet.”
Alexander nodded. “I suppose her low draft helps navigate the estuary and avoid the hidden sands of the Doom Bar.”
“Indeed.”
“And the narrow beam?”
“Allows us to get in and out of smaller coves and landing places.”
