serving others has given me purpose and fills my soul when life is sometimes disappointing. I would love for you to find that same fulfillment.”
At the time, Laura had brushed off his encouragement, saying, “Don’t make it sound too grand. I am only writing a few letters. Nothing may come of it.”
Her words had been fairly accurate. Little had come of her early inquiries. But on that day when they parted company with the young man’s family, Laura said to her uncle, “You were right. It isn’t an easy or happy task, but it is worthwhile. Thank you for entrusting me with it.”
He’d patted her hand. “I am glad to hear it, my dear. But don’t thank me. It would have gone undone if not for you. I thank God He is blessing your efforts.”
After breakfast the next morning, Laura and Alexander set out together, dressed for the brisk weather, he with walking stick in hand and wearing the tall leather boots she’d given him.
They strolled along a narrow sandy lane toward Daymer Bay. The heath flowers were mostly brown, but here and there dashes of purple remained, and the gorse was still in golden bloom among the fading ferns and reeds.
Soon St. Enodoc came into view, at least those parts that were visible. Because it was set among the dunes stretching up from the estuary, sand had encroached on two sides of the chapel, covering the eastern gable, the low porch roof, and door. At this end, only the slate roof showed. Near the middle stood the squat, crooked spire the winds had twisted over the centuries.
They entered through the lych-gate. At the far end of the churchyard, a mound covered in shaggy vegetation rose to nearly the top of the north transept windows. From there it was possible to lean near the glass and look inside the mostly buried structure.
“This is the north chapel of the parish,” Laura explained. “There is also a south chapel in Porthilly. The main church is in the village of St. Minver.”
Gesturing toward the sand-covered church, Laura went on, “Some people call it Sinkininny Church or Sinkin’ Neddy, for obvious reasons.”
“Does your uncle still conduct services here?”
She nodded. “He is required to at least once a year. We lower him down through the roof with a rope—see that hatch there? It covers the skylight made for that purpose. A few stalwart parishioners go down as well, while others gather on the mound to listen to the service.”
“How strange,” he murmured.
“Yes. He is trying to raise funds to uncover and restore the church, but it is slow going.” The Roskillys were hosting a subscription ball soon, which should help his cause.
The lower graveyard was also submerged in sand, but on the higher ground, graves could be seen: Cornish crosses, tomb chests, and headstones.
She led him to a particular section of the graveyard. “These will give you an idea of what the headstone for the crew of the Kittiwake may eventually look like.”
Together they read a few inscriptions:
SACRED
to the memory of six men and a youth,
names unknown, who were cast ashore
from the wreck of the Brave I.
October 21, 1810
DEDICATED
to the unknown dead of the SS Land Ho.
November 8, 1811
Remains brought and interred by volunteer labour.
“Shipwreck victims used to be buried in mass graves near the shore,” Laura said. “Most have no markings at all, or perhaps only an anchor or figurehead. My uncle hated the practice. We were so relieved when the law changed, and we were allowed to bury people in the churchyard.”
He nodded his agreement, expression thoughtful, even solemn.
As they walked past the listing headstones and Cornish crosses, Laura pointed out a more recent grave of interest:
HERE LIE DEPOSITED
the Remains of the chief mate and thirteen seamen,
a portion of the crew of the Price, which was wrecked
at the entrance of Padstow Harbour.
September 1813
Finally, she led him to a large rectangle of recently disturbed earth near the lych-gate.
“This is where your friend and the other men lie.”
He nodded, staring at the spot. So humble. So wrong. She’d hoped viewing the other headstones and knowing this grave would be properly honored in time might ease the sting of seeing the unmarked patch of sandy dirt. But observing his expression, she doubted anything could ease his present pain.
“I will give you a few minutes alone.”
Again he nodded wordlessly, and Laura walked away to give him privacy to grieve. At the corner of the old church, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him lower himself to