After more than a week of hiding in sea caves, poaching and trapping to keep alive, I reached the hills dominating the harbour. The sea was flat calm and misted as I crested a rise and looked down to the quay. Yellow sands flashed brilliant light, fishing-boats dotted the bay. And the black hulk of the Cestria stretched its great length against the jetty where coal trams were rumbling from the nearby mine to a waiting schooner. Already the ship had unfurled her sails, jerseyed seamen were running her decks and the air was filled with hoarse cries; merchants’ stalls were end to end along the sea wall, their vendors screaming their wares as I went down the main street to the quay. Market day by the look of it, the place thronged with coalmen, limemen, and labourers from the mine, coal-grimed, weary. Women bent under loads too heavy for men, barefooted children ran in the gutters, screaming a Welsh I did not understand. Beggars flung up skinny arms as I went down to the ship, fishermen lounged by their boats or needled at nets. Excitement grew within me at the sight of the ship, but I knew that I must not raise suspicion. Too many fugitives were travelling these days for eagerness. With Tara gripped against me I turned into a tavern. The room was crowded to the doors with men, seamen chiefly, roaring, bantering, thumping the counter, the mugs going down, mugs upturned in shafts of the morning sun. Welsh here, chiefly; men of the sea, barrel-chested, brown-faced, with the blue slits of eyes for scanning horizons. They parted good natured as I elbowed my way to the counter.
“A quart ale,” I said, slapping down money, and got the mug and steered it through the sailors to a corner, and set it down.
“God,” said a voice.
Matthew Luke John, his corn-coloured hair standing on end.
“Lord,” he breathed. “You on the same do as me, boy?”
His eyes were shadowed with the sleeping out, his face pinched and pale with hunger.
“The Cestria, evening tide,” I said. “You leaving your mam to fend alone, then?”
“The old man passed on,” said he. “So she sold up and got out of farming – other ways to starve, she said. You hop out of it, man, she said, and take the chance I missed, and she gave me five pounds for steerage if I brought back a fortune.”
“America, is it?”
“Couldn’t be worse than this bitch of a place though it ought to be God’s country. Lucky my mam was poorly or I’d have been on the march for Carmarthen. You heard about Flannigan?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“And Toby Maudlin, Tom the Faith, and …”
“Tom’s not taken?” I asked, straightening.
“Taken like the rest of them. John Penry, Howell Jones, Will Raven, I for Walker – could go on for weeks. The dragoons were knocking on my door within two hours of the Carmarthen business. Justin did us well.”
“Justin?” I stared at him.
“You haven’t heard? Turned Queen’s Evidence. They booted him twice in the workhouse yard and he couldn’t gabble the names quick enough.”
“God Almighty,” I said.
He raised his sad eyes to mine. “You reckon he’s Welsh?”
“Doubtful,” I said.
“Nothing you can put your tongue to, eh? Forget him. The dragoons booted him harder after it and now he’s explaining to St Peter. Found dead in a well within two miles of Carmarthen.”
“Do they know who?” I asked.
“Rebecca. She didn’t leave notes. The world’s well rid of him.” He sighed. “You signed on yet?”
“The Cestria? Not yet.”
“Nor me. These boys say the dragoons will search her any minute. I’ve been waiting days for them to clear her. But the captain isn’t choosey, thank God. Saints or convicts, he says, five pounds steerage. I got away from the house with ten minutes to spare – saw my mam giving hell to those dragoons – so I’m not rushing things now.” He drank and gasped, wiping with his sleeve. “Been mooching round here for the last ten days.”
“We sail together then?”
“Wacko!” said he. “We’ll give them America. Do you reckon they starve out there?”
“Not if you work, they say.”
“I drink to that,” said he. “You heard about Tom Rhayader?”
I saw a vision of the beloved Rhayader; square-faced, tanned, his eyes of steel, and shook my head.
“Hit out two of them and tried to escape, but they got him in ten yards. He didn’t come out of it.”
I closed my eyes. “And his wife and kids?”
“Carmarthen workhouse last time I heard. God knows now. You leaving that woman, Jethro?”
I looked at him.
“The night gown woman,” said he. “The one who filled that was worth while bringing,” and he winked at Tara. “Poor exchange with that old bitch. She bedded?”
“Not that woman,” I said.
“Has she gone fripperty with another Welsh chap, then?”
“Leave it, Matthew.”
“Only asking, mind. No offence.”
“Leave it,” I said.
Commotion on the cobbles outside now; hoofbeats, clanks, the angry cries of vendors, shouted commands. We rose. The sailors were pressing to the windows, jugs dangling, fists clenched as the horsemen drew sabres to clear a path to the Cestria. With a captain leading they forced their way along the quay to the gangplank where the skipper stood, hands on his hips. Three soldiers pushed past him and went aboard. We watched, tense, but they came back in five minutes.
“Routine check,” I said. “Their hearts are not in it.”
“Give them an hour,” said Matthew.
