than enough cargo the night of the wreck. Now you want me to pay you to carry more?”
“That’s right. All legal and proper.”
“As if you’d know the definition of either word.”
Parsons’s nostrils flared. “Careful, Hicks. You’ve got no armed militia standing behind you.”
“Not yet. But they are on their way from the Bodmin barracks.”
“For yer sake, better hope they arrive soon.”
Alex tensed at the thought of the militia joining them. Would they question him? Somehow guess his identity?
Mr. Hicks led the dozen or so volunteers down to Greenaways. When they reached the beach, Alexander saw the customs officials in the Padstow cutter, Speedwell, already in the water, and two six-oared Cornish gigs on the beach nearby.
Alex looked around but counted too few oarsmen. Hailing the coxswain, he asked, “Shorthanded, cox’n?”
“Aye,” he replied. “Short a hand is right. Moyle broke his in a brawl last night.”
“Need another man to row? I’ve had some experience.”
“Suit yerself.”
Alex climbed in and looked back at his companion. “Jago?”
The big man shook his head, wild hair flopping forward and back. “Don’t like boats. I’ll stay here and load carts.”
The first gig launched into the surf and moved toward the wreck.
“No catchin’ crabs now, boys.”
Following their lead, the coxswain commanded, “And row.” Alex and the men in the second gig complied.
“Row long!” They did so, Alex pressing hard against his oar.
When they neared the wreck, the coxswain called, “Ease up.”
While the men at the oars held the boats as steady as they could against the waves, a man in the prow of each stood and took turns throwing grappling hooks, trying to snag the Kittiwake’s rigging, visible between the waves.
After several failed attempts, Alexander spoke up. “Mind if I give it a try?”
“A cocky one, are’ee?” the man nearest him said.
Alex shrugged. He and his men had thrown many a grappling hook over the years. The hooks were used to catch an enemy ship’s rigging prior to boarding. He well remembered the dread of hearing the teeth of a grappling hook ensnaring his own ship. It had been the beginning of the loss of his beloved Victorine.
Alex carefully moved forward, took the other man’s place, coiled, aimed, and threw. His first throw slithered over the wet rigging but failed to catch. Determined, he retrieved the rope and threw the hook again, this time snagging the rigging successfully.
“Proper job,” the coxswain commended. “Not yer first time at this, I gather.”
“No, sir” was the only explanation Alex offered.
The crew from the Speedwell attached a hook as well. Line secured, the boat managed to draw alongside the damaged Kittiwake. Mr. Tresidder, engineer and shipbuilder, boarded first, making sure the vessel was relatively stable. Then the others joined him, searching the ship’s storerooms and holds for cargo.
The men succeeded in saving the mate’s chest and several barrels of salted herring, as well as a good quantity of corn.
The pilot gigs carried the salvaged goods to shore, where Jago and several other men and even a few bal maidens—women who worked for the mine—carried loads up the steep path to waiting wagons, guarded by a customs official and newly arrived officers of the North Devon Militia.
The Cornish gigs handled the waves with relative ease. If only the pilots had been able to reach the Kittiwake the night of the wreck, before Daniel drowned.
“Did you not hear our distress signal?” Alex asked the coxswain.
The man swallowed. “You were on the ship?”
Alex nodded.
“Ah. Yer the survivor. . . .”
The man looked to his mates. “No. Guess we didn’t hear it. We were all in our cups.”
“A pity. I lost my closest friend that night, and more.”
The coxswain ducked his head, avoiding Alexander’s eyes. “I’m sorry . . . for yer loss. Would have helped if we . . . could.” He sliced a glance toward Tom Parsons and then turned away. “Well, time to call it a day, I reckon.”
After dinner that evening, Alex asked Matthew Bray about the pilot gigs, and if he had been surprised they failed to show up the night of the Kittiwake’s demise.
The clergyman nodded. “I was. The gigs often carry local pilots out to guide incoming ships into safe harbour. Times are hard for local men, and competition for the pilot fees is usually fierce, so I was surprised none of them tried to reach the Kittiwake.
“One theory I overheard whispered in the village shop was that Tom Parsons, hoping for a rich wreck, somehow prevented the pilots from responding, perhaps even bribing them. Most people do not