The Black Rocks of Morwenstow Read online

  THE BLACK ROCKS OF

  MORWENSTOW

  JOHN WILCOX

  Many years ago I was encouraged to write and taught how to do so by Judy Lamb.

  This novel, then, is dedicated to her – wherever she may be now – with love and thanks

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By John Wilcox

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Key West, USA. Midsummer 1842

  Joshua Weyland felt vaguely uncomfortable as he walked along the shoreline of this most southerly port in the United States of America. It was a sensation that was unfamiliar to him, for in the latter part of his twenty-five years he had trodden with confidence the docksides of most of the major ports of the world, from Shanghai to Singapore, Marseilles to Montevideo.

  It was not that he looked out of place. He was a sailor in a sailor’s environment and he looked the part: wide-bottomed canvas trousers held up by a broad leather belt from which a sheathed knife hung at its back; a faded canvas shirt, worn open at the neck; his weather-beaten countenance topped by a battered straw hat, tipped well back, so that sun-bleached curls peeped from under its brim, brown eyes set in open, regular features. Ordinary enough in this seafaring town. Only the folded copy of the The Times of London thrust under his arm struck a discordant note.

  Why, then, this sense of unease? Certainly, the humidity that seemed to cling to the merchants’ warehouses fringing the sidewalk was unfamiliar. So, too, was the vista offered by the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Out to sea the ocean presented, on this side of the island, a broad panorama of tropical blue or green. Nearer the shore, however, where the water was shallower, it merged into a sullen brown.

  Further out, unseen from land, Josh knew that there were many islands of limestone outcrops, of which Key West itself was the largest. They seemed harmless, dotted here and there over the horizon, even looking picturesque in the daytime, like basking whales. Beyond them, however, he knew there lurked the greater danger of the half-submerged coral reefs, one of which had torn the bottom out of his ship as though it had been made of paper.

  Perhaps it was this memory that made him feel insecure. He shook his head and walked on. He was thirsty and looking for an inn, a tavern where he could sit quietly and read his four-week-old copy of The Times, a luxury he had picked up in the shipping agent’s office in the town. News from home was hard to get and the last letter he had had from Mary had been received in Cape Town, some six weeks ago.

  Ah. Mary! He smiled as he conjured up her round, apple-cheeked face, her brown eyes sparkling as they walked on the cliffs near her home above Dover. The smile disappeared quickly as the thought of Dover, the nearest point in England to the Continent of Europe, reminded him that it was also the gateway to the cholera epidemic that had swept through the country. She had survived it, but it had taken her father, the vicar, and her two brothers. Did it still linger in the country? Perhaps The Times would tell him. His stride lengthened. He must find a bar – and he needed a drink, anyway.

  A sign carrying an anchor and hanging low over a window that had been salt-spray washed by scores of hurricanes beckoned and he pushed the door open and entered. The bar was crowded and noisy and a fug of tobacco smoke enfolded him. The bottom of the counter was lined by a row of spittoons and he leant into a small space between the drinkers.

  The barman raised an eyebrow interrogatively.

  ‘Whisky and a beer,’ said Josh.

  ‘Rye, bourbon or Scotch?’

  ‘Er … Scotch, thank you.’

  Josh cursed himself for adding the pleasantry. Americans, he knew, never said please or thank you. He took the drinks, threw coins onto the counter and looked for somewhere to sit.

  A small bench behind a table was vacant and he sat at it and took a sip of the whisky followed by a draught of the beer – ‘starting a fire and putting it out’ his father had called it. Then he opened his newspaper.

  England seemed to be in a state of turmoil, with the nailers of the Black Country rioting, the army putting down demonstrations against turnpike tolls in Carmarthen and riots against the Corn Laws in Lancashire. And good Lord! The government has introduced income tax for the first time in peacetime – seven pence on the pound for incomes over £150! Ah well, at least that wouldn’t affect him. That was far beyond what he could earn as second mate on a merchant ship.

  He turned the page, squinting in the poor light to scan the small print. No sign, as far as he could see, of further cholera outbreaks. Thank God! He hoped that Mary had continued to escape the dreaded scourge, escaped it so that he could hurry home now and they could be wed …

  ‘You’re a Limey, ain’t yer?’

  He looked up. The man standing, swaying slightly on the other side of the table, was huge, looking almost as wide as he was tall. Dressed in rough, well-worn sailing clothes, his face, carrying a six-day beard, was scowling.

  Josh sighed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m English, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Same thing. Bastards, all of you. Burnt down the White House, you did.’

  ‘Oh come on. That was thirty years ago.’

  ‘Well, we Yanks don’t forget them things.’ He put huge hands down on the table and leant forward. Josh could have put a match to the whisky fumes. ‘An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else.’

  Josh knew better than to argue. He didn’t want to stoke the fire. He looked around. The bar, previously a hubbub of raised voices, had gone strangely quiet. Every face was now turned to him, most of them grinning. The barman, himself the size of a stevedore in the new steamships, was leaning across his counter, a half smile on his face. Josh gulped, he was about to receive a public beating. He decided to make one more conciliatory effort.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t see why you’ve picked on me. I’m English, yes, but I’m a sailor, just like you.’

  ‘Are yer.’ The big man straightened up. ‘What’s yer ship, then, sonny?’

  ‘The barquentine, Jenny Lee. She foundered on the Washerwoman Reef three days ago. We were lucky to be rescued.’

  ‘Oh no, you weren’t, you lyin’ bastard. We all know what ’appened there. Your ship was ’companied all the way from the Bahamas by a wreckin’ ship from there an’ was standin’ by when your skipper deliberately ran his ship onto the reef, to get ’is share o’ the insurance money. You was all rescued nice and neat, together with yer cargo. It was well planned.’

  A chorus of approval rose from the crowd.

  ‘What’s more,’ the big man leant across the table and prodded a huge finger into Josh’s chest. ‘That little arrangement, matey, stopped us wreckers ’ere in Key West from doin’ an honest piece o’ salvaging. If there’s one thing we can’t stand, it’s English bastards from the Bahamas takin’ our work from us.’

  The howl of agreement was even louder now.

  ‘Look,’ said Josh, ‘my skipper and his first mate are being investigated by a tribunal as we speak. If there’s been wrongdoing it will come out in a court of law and they will be punished.’

  ‘An’ my
aunt is the President of the USA. You’re goin’ to be punished ’ere an’ now.’ He seized Josh’s shirt and pulled him towards him, raising his fist as he did so.

  Josh Weyland, however, had not sailed the Seven Seas without fighting his way out of more than one barroom brawl and he acted instinctively now. Instead of pulling away from the big man’s embrace he leant towards him, drew back his head and crashed his forehead into his assailant’s nose. Then he pushed the table hard towards the sailor and crashed the edge down onto his toes.

  Blood gushed from the nose and the man howled as the table crashed down. Josh skipped aside, ducked under a wild swing and then delivered two punches, from left and right fists, into the man’s ample paunch.

  Josh knew enough about fighting not to let an advantage slip away. As the crowd now, it seemed, roared him on, he rained punches, hard blows, into the big man’s face, splitting open an eyebrow. Inevitably, however, it could not be all one-way traffic and the sailor swung a backhanded blow that sent Josh flying. For a moment, he stood gasping, his back to the wall.

  This encouraged his assailant, who, spitting blood, lurched forward and swung his right fist in a great arc. Too great, in fact, for Josh was able easily to duck underneath it and sink two more heavy blows into the sailor’s stomach. The shouts from the crowd now were undoubtedly those of applause, in appreciation of a man who knew how to handle himself in a fight.

  This was true, however, of the sailor, too. For him, there were no rules in this sort of conflict. Blood streaming down his face and gasping for breath, he fumbled behind him and produced the knife that every sailor carried hanging in the small of his back, ready to cut away rigging that threatened the safety of his craft or himself.

  ‘I’ll carve yer eyes out, you Limey bastard,’ he cried, advancing warily, the knife held back as he extended his other hand to judge his thrust.

  ‘Oh no you won’t.’ The barman’s voice rang out firmly as he swung a large belaying pin onto the big man’s wrist, sending the knife spinning away. Then he hit the man firmly at the back of the head, so that he stumbled, dazed, onto the floor.

  ‘You know the rules of the ’ouse,’ the barman bent over and spoke loudly. ‘Fists is fine. Knives is crime. Now get out of ’ere, Louis, before I call the militia. Get out, and don’t come back until you’ve learnt some sense. Oh, and don’t lurk around the corner waiting fer this lad to come out, cos he’s got a knife too and the way he was goin’ he could probably cut you up before you got near him.’

  The barman looked around. ‘All right, lads, the fun is over. Get on with yer drinkin’ now.’ As Louis slowly got to his feet, the barman gave him a half-friendly kick up the bottom to send him on his way.

  ‘Now, son,’ he said. ‘Yer drink’s bin spilt. You’re due another on the ’ouse. Go on. Put the table up again an’ I’ll bring yer a beer and a Scotch.’

  ‘Well, thank you. But I can pay.’

  ‘Do as you’re told. Sit down. I don’t want any more fights ’ere. Things get broken an’ they never get paid for.’

  Josh realised that he was shaking, breathless and his knuckles hurt like hell. He licked his lips and regained his precious copy of The Times. The crowd, it seemed, had lost interest and the hum of conversation rose again as the barman deposited the Scotch and the beer on the table, drew up a stool and sat down.

  Looking at him now, Josh realised that the man had a kindly, if gnarled, face that had probably seen many a watch at sea, with twinkling eyes and grizzled grey hair. His accent, though, was puzzling: difficult to pin down – certainly not southern states American – and yet vaguely familiar.

  ‘What’s yer name, son?’

  ‘Joshua Weyland.’

  ‘Ah yes. Second mate of the Jenny, eh?’ He extended a hand. ‘Albert Wilson from Liverpool, although they call me Al around here. Yes, a Limey, like you.’

  Of course, that accent retained strong traces of the English north-west. Josh raised his eyebrows. ‘Good Lord, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Making more money from this place than I ever did from Yankee whalin’ ships off Nantucket, I can tell you. Now,’ he leant forward, ‘not much goes on in little old Key West that I don’t hear about in my bar. All that stuff that Louis was talkin’ was the truth, from what I hear. Is that right?’

  Josh frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know. It’s true that our skipper seemed to pick up the wrecking ship in Nassau and she sailed with us until we hit that reef in the darkness. But, if there was some sort of wrecking deal, I know nothing about it. All I want to do now is to get home. Look,’ he leant forward, ‘I don’t really understand this wrecking business. From where I come from, wrecking is really about luring a ship onto rocks and then plundering the cargo. But it seems it’s different here.’

  ‘It certainly is.’ Wilson turned around and gestured to the woman – his wife? – who had taken command of the bar. ‘The usual, Bessie,’ he cried. ‘I’ll take it here. No, wrecking is a respectable, accepted trade here. It’s even licensed by the State of Florida. You can’t go to the aid of a ship in trouble to get her off the reef and take off crew and cargo unless you’ve got a licence from the State Government.’

  ‘Louis and people like him,’ he gestured to the crowd, ‘and that’s most of them in here, they earn their living, waiting for a ship to hit the reef, then they race out to be the first to offer help to the grounded skipper to save crew and cargo and claim salvage.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s a rough game, sailing usually in filthy weather in fast schooners and then working like pigs on the reefs to unload the ships and then get ’em off the coral. Oh yes, we lose quite a few lads here in Key West in this game. You could say that this town is the centre of the wrecking business.’

  Josh nodded his head and then frowned. ‘But how do the schooner captains know when a ship has hit a reef? Visibility will be terrible in a storm, won’t it?’

  Al’s eyes lit up. ‘Well, if you walk around Key West you’ll see quite a few high wooden towers. Probably the highest of them is right in the centre of town at Mallory Square. The wreckers with telescopes man them during daylight hours and as soon as a ship in trouble is seen the call will go out “wreck ashore” and then the fun begins. There is a scramble to put to sea and the first boat to reach the wreck is called “the wrecking master”. That skipper then has control of the wreck and him an’ his crew usually gets the biggest cut.’

  ‘What about the crew of the wrecked ship and passengers, if they have any?’

  ‘Well, by federal law the wreckers are obliged to try to save crews and passengers as well as the ship itself. In fact, the law says that they are only allowed to remove enough cargo to float the wrecked ship free at the next high tide, unless of course it is totally wrecked.’

  Al’s brown face broke into a sea of wrinkles. ‘Obviously, when the matter goes to court there are a lot of questions to be answered. But the judge usually sorts it out amicably enough, though there can be lots of fuss.’

  Josh nodded. ‘Is there any question of ships being lured onto the reefs by disreputable wreckers?’

  ‘No. Maybe that used to happen years ago, but not now. The wreckers play fair and will warn a skipper if he is likely to be heading for a reef.’

  Josh rubbed his sore knuckles and took a pull from his beer. ‘But are there enough shipwrecks to keep these men in business?’

  ‘Oh bless you, yes. These are some of the most dangerous waters in the world. First time here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even so, you will probably know that the Florida Keys lie in a one-hundred-and-fifty-mile semicircle along the northern and western edges of the Straits of Florida, guarding the entrance, so to speak, of the Gulf of Mexico. Key West is to the Gulf of Mexico what Gibraltar is to the Mediterranean. It commands the outlet of all trade from Jamaica, the Caribbean, the Bay of Honduras and the Gulf.’

  Wilson sat back proprietarily. ‘We’ve got a wonderful harbour here in Key West. Incidentally, d’you k
now how this place got its name?’

  ‘I’ve always presumed because it was the most western of the islands.’

  ‘That’s true, but it’s not the reason. No.’ Al was warming to his tale now. ‘The Spaniards were the first here, of course, and it was then an Indian burial ground, so the dons found scores of bones. Accordingly, they called it “Cayo Hueso”, Bone Island. When the British took over in the seventeen hundreds the name sounded to them like “Key West”. And so it has remained, thanks to us Limeys.’

  Josh grinned. ‘Old what’s-his-name, Louis, didn’t seem to give us credit for it.’

  ‘Oh, he’s a bit of a drunkard but all right when you get to know him. Now – I was telling you about this harbour.’

  ‘So you were.’

  ‘It’s deep enough to take the largest ships and it’s protected on all sides from the weather, except from the south-west and bad stuff doesn’t often come from there, so sailing ships can enter the harbour in any wind. But, by gum, the weather can be foul. We’ve got the Gulf Stream current, goin’ at a rate of knots, unpredictable countercurrents, calms in summer, hurricanes in the autumn – what they call the fall here – and gales in the winter. And all of this swirling around God knows how many reefs just above and below the surface, with teeth sharper ’n sharks.

  ‘Why,’ he leant forward, ‘this year we’ve been having shipwrecks at the rate of one a week.’ He seemed almost to be boasting of the dangers of his adopted home.

  ‘Blimey! So wrecking is quite a profitable business here?’

  ‘Profitable and almost the only trade, except for merchanting, of course. And most of the merchants around here own the wrecking schooners.’

  A silence fell between them, broken eventually by Wilson. ‘You’ll see now why old Louis cut up rough a minute or two ago. First of all, these chaps are all sailors and bloody good ones. They would never deliberately wreck a ship, which the word is what your skipper did. And they are very protective of their trade here. The Bahamians used to come and try and pinch it. But our lads roughed ’em up and they don’t try it much now.’