Stirk listened for any others who might be coming, then stood up and stretched. 'Shut y' trap, younker, an' do as I says.' Even though they had made it this far, just a mile from the tiny fishing village, they were not safe yet.
Stirk hefted his bundle and they resumed their journey. It got steeper. The village glimmering below was nestled in a coombe, a deep valley with precipitous sides, and seemed shoehorned into a tiny level area.
The lane had become not much more than a path when they finally reached the first houses by a little stream. 'Bless me, Mr Stirk, but th' place stinks,' Calloway protested. A strong, insistent reek of fish was thick in the night air. Stirk stopped and listened again: strangers would be viewed suspiciously in this small community as possible spies for the Revenue, and all it needed was for some frightened widow to raise an alarm . . . but there was no sign that the inhabitants were in a mind to roam abroad in the dark.
'Where d' we kip, Mr Stirk?'
'First we finds th' kiddleywink,' Stirk snapped.
'Th' what?'
'What the Janners call a pothouse, lad,' he said, looking around. Even a village this size should have two or three. They headed towards the snug harbour and on the far side near the fish-quay buildings the Three Pilchards was a noisy beacon of jollity. Stirk checked about carefully, then he and Calloway passed by a blacksmith's shuttered forge and hastened into the tavern.
It was small but snug, and dark with the patina of age. The aroma of spilt liquor eddied up from the sawdust on the floor and the heady reek of strong cider competed with the smell of rank fish from outside.
The tavern fell silent. Half a dozen weathered faces turned to them, distrust and hostility in their expressions. The tapster approached them, wiping his hands. 'Where youse come frum, then?' he demanded.
'As is none o' y'r business,' Stirk said mildly, and crossed to a corner table from which he could survey the whole room, 'but a shant o' gatter 'd be right welcome,' he said, sitting and gesturing to Calloway to join him.
The tapster hesitated, then went back to pull the ale. One of the men sitting at a nearby table fixed unblinking eyes on Stirk and threw at him, ''E axed yez a question, frien'.'
Stirk waited until the ale came in a well-used blackjack, a tarred leather tankard. 'Why, now, an' isn't this a right fine welcome f'r a pair o' strangers?' He took a long pull, then set it down quietly. He felt in his pocket and slapped down a small pile of coins. 'This'n for any who c'n find us somewheres t' rest. Maybe two, three days, nice an' quiet like, an' then we'll be on our way.' He clinked the coins patiently. After a few mutters with his companion the man came back loudly, 'I knows what thee are—ye're navy deserters, b' glory.'
Stirk bit his lip and then said warily, 'S' what's it t' you, mate? Thinkin' on sellin' us out?'
The man cackled delightedly. 'Knew 'oo ye was, soon as I clapped peepers on yez.' He turned to the other and said something that raised a laugh.
'Ah, but ye'll be stayin' more'n a coupla days, I reckon,' the other added. He had a milky-blue blind eye. 'Else theys goin' t' cotch ye.'
Stirk said nothing.
'What they call yez, then?' the first asked.
'Jem'll do, an' this skiddy cock is m' shipmate Harry.'
'Oh, aye—but if y' wants t' stop here, Mr Jem, we can't have useless bodies a-takin' up room. Thee looks likely lads—done any fishin'?'
'Mackerel, flounder—some hake.' Stirk's boyhood had been the hard life of an inshore fisherman at Hythe in Kent.
It seemed to satisfy. 'Davey Bunt,' the first said.
'Jan Puckey,' the other came in. 'An' t'night I'll see y' sleepin' in a palace, I promise ye.'
They slept in one right enough: in coarse canvas on a bed of nets reeking of fish, in what the Cornish called the 'fish pallace,' the lower room of dwellings turned over to keeping the family fishing gear and storing pilchards pressed into tubs.
Stirk rolled over, vainly seeking a more comfortable position and ruefully recalling that nights at sea in a small fishing-boat were far worse. Had this been a bad mistake, a decision made on the spur of the moment that he would come to regret? And had he been right to involve Luke? The young man knew so little of the wider world.
Stirk was under no illusions of the risk: they were not yet trusted and could be disowned on the spot until they had proved themselves, and in the future . . .
It was all because of what he had done at Stackhouse cove that night several weeks ago. Mr Kydd had remembered his smuggling reminiscences and seen his knowledge at first hand. Now he had allowed himself and Luke to be landed ashore and, under the pretence that they were deserting seamen, they had made their way to the smugglers' haunt of Polperro to see if they could win confidence and discover something of the unknown genius who controlled the trade.
In the darkness he heard Calloway grunt and turn over; he must be missing his comfortable hammock, Stirk thought wryly.
For Luke it had been the adventure that appealed, but the only reason Stirk had volunteered was the deep respect and, indeed, lopsided friendship he felt for his captain, whom he had seen grow from raw landman to first- class seaman, then achieve the quarterdeck, and now the command of his first ship. It was unlikely that in trim little
'Thank 'ee, Mrs Puckey,' Stirk said gratefully, to the close-mouthed woman after she had handed him a piece of coarse bread to go with his gurty milk—thin seed gruel.
She said nothing, her dark eyes following his every move.
'Th' first time I've bin fishin', Mr Puckey,' Calloway said respectfully. 'I aim t' learn, sir.'
