The Cornish Rebel (eBook)

Chapter One

On board Jane O’Leary, Falmouth Sunday 22nd March 1801, 12 p.m.

The ship was rising and falling, the wind tugging at our cloaks. ‘There – on that promontory – that’s Pendennis Castle.’ Mary James handed me the telescope and an outline of turrets and battlements sharpened into focus.

‘The soldiers have got their telescopes trained on us.’

Around us, angry white crests peaked and broke; a fresh burst of spray carried on the wind and Mary clasped her cloak tighter. ‘They’ll be expecting us. Mr Trevelyan’s very particular about letting them know we’re coming. They’ll recognise our flags. One shows we’re from America and one shows we’re carrying grain.’

This was Falmouth, England, the home of my childhood. Tears welled in my eyes. I was a child again, gripping my mother’s hand, staring back at the same squat battlements: an inconsolable child of six, devastated to be leaving St Feoca and the family I loved.

In her early thirties, Mary James was far stronger than she looked. ‘I shall miss our talks, Clara. I’ve loved your company.’ Slim and agile, she could haul a rope as well as any man. Her voice drifting on the wind, she slipped her arm through mine. ‘I love your tales of gods and goddesses – and all your talk of grand receptions and fancy dinners – the concerts, and fetes in Government House. It’s as if I’ve been there – that I’ve been using fine bone china and dining with naval officers in their gold brocade.’

I smiled with what I hoped looked like conviction and she smiled back. ‘But you know the best part? The best part is you being friends with the Governor’s daughters. I’ve not been to Grenada or Dominica, but it’s like I’ve been wearing fine silk gowns and going to balls and soirees.’

‘And I’ve learned all about the wind and currents, and how to set sails. You and Captain James have been so good to me. I can’t thank you enough.’

Shouts echoed across the deck, the men hauling on the ropes. Above us, the sails tightened, the bow heading inland to the safe waters of Carrick Roads. Before long, Pendennis Castle would rise to our left, St Mawes Castle to our right.

Captain James came to my side. ‘I said I’d get you here, and here we are. It’s been a good passage, Mrs Marshall. You must sail with us again. Not an enemy ship in sight. I’ve never known the winds so favourable.’ A thick-set man with a weather-beaten face, he put his telescope to his eye. ‘No doubt it’s all down to your gods and goddesses. Had a word with your friend, Poseidon, did you?’

‘Maybe the odd word!’

‘We’ll get extra for arriving early. Mr Trevelyan’s good like that.’ He scanned the entrance to the harbour. ‘They’ll make us anchor. We’re the first grain ship from America for several years and they’ll want to check we’re not carrying hessian fly. There’s urgent need for this corn. The harvests failed again last year – there’s severe shortages. I gather there’s been food riots. Let’s hope we don’t meet any trouble.’

‘Trouble, Captain James?’

‘As to who gets to distribute the wheat. The navy want it, the army want it, and the people want it.’

A mist hung above the town, the waves calmer now we were in sheltered water. Seagulls circled above us, a smell of manure drifting across the water. Just visible, a church tower rose above a cluster of granite roofs. Nothing but grey: grey houses, grey sky, grey sea. No reflections dancing on an azure bay, no bleached beaches, no fiery hibiscus flowers the size of saucers; no scorching sun, no oppressive heat. No one demanding money from me. Clutching my gold locket, I breathed in the air of my childhood. We’re home, Mama. We’re home.

Captain James scanned the quayside with his telescope. ‘We should make one hundred and eighty shillings a quarter.’ A green and red flag fluttered from the wharf and he examined it carefully. ‘Yes . . . there it is. We’ve got the signal to anchor.’ Swinging round, he shouted, ‘Starboard thirty degrees. We’ll anchor in Flushing, behind that naval frigate.’

Mary’s smile was apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry about your luggage, Clara. There are some very unscrupulous people on the quays in Philadelphia – we should never have let it happen.’

‘No . . . please don’t blame yourself. I should have guarded it better, but trunks and clothes can be replaced. Papa can bring some more clothes when he comes.’ I dived beneath my cloak and reached for my letter. ‘I’ve written all about how very kind you’ve been, and what a comfortable crossing we’ve had. Will you post this to him when you get back?’

‘Of course I will.’ She read the address. ‘Reverend J. S. Turner, Headmaster’s House, Germantown Academy, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.’

I hoped my smile looked convincing. ‘The Academy couldn’t do without him. He’s very well thought of. He has a doctorate in Divinity and the boys love him. They converse with him in Greek and Latin. He’s an inspiring teacher as well as a brilliant scholar.’

Falmouth looked smaller than I remembered, or did I remember it at all? It was hard to know what my memories were and what I had been told. Mama hardly ever mentioned Falmouth but her tone always lifted when she spoke of her parents. Her smile would broaden, her eyes fill with love, as she recounted stories of Grandfather’s treasure hunts, his love of riddles, his knowledge of flowers. Her memories had acted like light in the darkness, a beacon reassuring me of home. But there was always a stumble when she mentioned her beloved elder sister: always a catch to her voice. What would Aunt Hetty think of you slouching like that? Back straight – never forget you come from English gentry.

Mary must have read my mind. ‘Not quite Philadelphia, is it? But don’t judge it from today’s weather. Cornwall’s very beautiful. In the sun, the houses in Truro shine like gold.’ Her eyes softened. ‘I hope we’ve been of some comfort to you, Clara. We so feel for your loss.’

I felt for the gold band on my third finger. ‘You’ve brought me great comfort. Thank you.’ Far greater comfort than she would ever know.

‘So you’re to teach in your aunt’s school? How will you get there?’

Mama’s voice had been a whisper: The ferry for the Passage Inn leaves from Falmouth Quay. From there, take another ferry across Restronguet Creek. The gatehouse is on the water’s edge. You won’t get lost. Tell the ferryman Aunt Hetty will pay.

I tried to sound strong. ‘I need to take the coach to Penzance. My aunt’s school overlooks the sea. Father tells me it’s very straightforward and easy to find.’

Inching forward under two small sails, Captain James rechecked the chart. A row of smart houses lined the quay, a group of men watching us from behind a stack of lobster pots. ‘What’s our depth?’

One of the crew was bending over the bow with a knotted chain. ‘Five fathoms . . . four fathoms . . .’

‘Drop anchor.’ The anchor splashed and Captain James took the wheel. The stern swung round and started pulling against the rope. A crowd was gathering, children watching from the window of a grand house. ‘Seems to be holding. Good.’ Hardly a timber creaked, a stillness on the ship we had not felt for six weeks.

Across the water the houses of Falmouth were hardly distinguishable in the grey mist. The sound of oars carried across the water: a rowing boat was splashing towards us. ‘Here are the Excise men. They’ll need to see your papers. They’ll check everyone’s health records and if there’s any sign of fever they’ll stop us unloading.’

Mary reached for my gloved hands. ‘Fortunately, that’s not the case. I shall miss you, Clara.’ There was kindness in her eyes. ‘You’re very lovely, my dear. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to love as dearly as you loved Mr Marshall.’

‘Thank you, Mary.’ With her holding my hands, I could not cross my fingers.

She reached up to prevent a rope from swinging too near my face. ‘Why not collect your belongings and we’ll ask them to clear you first? Jack can take you ashore once your papers are cleared. It would be a shame if you just missed the coach.’

I clutched my bag, my fear subsiding. My papers were in order – Clara Marshall, born 1780, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. No one had noticed the 1730 had been changed to 1780. The fine drizzle was strengthening to steady rain and I pulled my hood further over my bonnet. Jack’s rowing was strong, the water calm, the inner harbour of Falmouth full of ships. Placing the oars in the bottom of the boat he leaned over to catch the chain. The boat tipped and I grabbed the sides. ‘Mind these steps, Mrs Marshall, they’ll be slippery. Best hold the rope. What a downpour!’

I was home. Home. A huge wooden crane towered above us, a group of men unloading the hold of a ship. Harnessed oxen waited in a line, a man shouting...