Pengelly's Daughter (31 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

Friday 16th August 1793 12:00 noon

F
ather sat at his desk, rustling the pages of his newspaper. Mr Scantlebury looked up and caught my eye. I thought he would be delighted Father had returned to the yard, but he seemed preoccupied, even a little distant.

‘Nothin' amazes me any more,' said Father looking over the top of his newspaper, his glasses balancing on the end of his nose. ‘Why's Sir Charles throwin' his clout behind Mr Wyndham and not his future nephew-in-law? Even if the damn fool's declared himself an abolitionist, blood's thicker when it comes to family – never more when you've neighbourin' estates.'

When neither Mr Scantlebury nor I said anything, Father resumed his reading. He was clearly in a buoyant mood even if he was more interested in the affairs of the town than those of the yard. After a short pause, he once again peered over the outspread pages, ‘What's even stranger is why Sir George and Lady Cavendish persist with the engagement of their daughter to Sir James Polcarrow? Who'd want to marry their daughter off to a man who's just ruined his political chances? Why persist in the marriage? I've heard that daughter of theirs could snare anyone she wanted.' He folded his paper, ‘Fortunately, it's not my problem – I've more pressin' matters to attend to.' He reached for his coat and hat and walked towards the door. ‘Tell your mother I'll not be home tonight. I may be gone a few days.'

‘Where're you going?' I called after his retreating back.

‘Mevagissey,' he shouted over his shoulder. He started to whistle as he crossed the yard. I looked straight at Mr Scantlebury and was not reassured by the look on his face.

‘He'll not be reasoned with. He's taken a notion we should put up our labour costs. Says it's time all yards charge the same – unity of brotherhood – he calls it. What one yard charges, all should charge – brotherhood, fraternity and equality – somethin' like that.'

I caught my breath. ‘What does he intend to do?'

‘He's for starting a Friendly Society…wants everyone to commit to chargin' higher costs.'

‘But someone will always undercut – someone will build for less.'

‘Your father says 'tis time working men stand shoulder to shoulder, to protect their rights.
Together is strength
– that's how he put it. He's after a spirit where working men work with each other, not agin' each other.'

‘But those commissioning new ships will just refuse to pay higher costs – they'll go elsewhere.'

‘Not if the charges are the same. He says we're to withdraw our labour – if no-one builds boats till they get the price they demand, they'll have no choice but pay.'

My unease was turning to alarm. What was Father thinking? ‘But, Mr Scantlebury, the yard can't survive even a short period of no work. Father will be arrested for inciting riot and we'll go bankrupt – all we've worked for – all our plans – your new brig – everything will be lost.'

‘Since he fought off bankruptcy, people think very highly of your father – they believe he knows what he's about, and your father can be very persuasive – you know that.'

The thought that anything could jeopardise the yard and threaten our future made my stomach sicken. Father could have no idea what he was about to unleash, no idea what poverty Mother and I had lived through. And the fact he had not discussed it with me worried me even further – it was not like Father to be so secretive. There was a time when I would have been the rst to know, and his abrupt departure meant I could no longer tell him about the log pool. I had been hoping to persuade him to come to the auction, but now I would have to go alone. I just hoped Jenna had remembered her brother's clothes.

Noise in the yard attracted my attention and I looked up to see wagons laden with varnish and paint pull heavily to a stop. Tom hurried to supervise the unloading, checking each consignment, carefully marking everything off against his order sheet. Mr Scantlebury stood beside me. ‘His apprenticeship's been the making of him,' he said softly.

‘One day he'll be every bit as good as his uncle.'

‘As long as we've a yard.'

‘We must have a yard, Mr Scantlebury,' I replied rmly. ‘What would you say if I could get us a log pool?'

Thomas Scantlebury's eyes crinkled. ‘Ye gladden my heart, Miss Rosehannon – ye always do. ‘'Twould mean a ready supply of logs and we'd buy when the price was low but let's be honest, lass…how will ye get us a log pool?'

Chapter Thirty-eight

M
other and Jenna were meeting Mrs Munroe to discuss our return to Coombe House and were not expected back until later. Father was in Mevagissey, so I had plenty of time to dress in my borrowed jacket and breeches. This time, I took much greater care, using several more pins to keep my hair in place, even rubbing a piece of blackened coal above my lips and around my jaw. It was far from perfect but it took the pallor from my chin and with my hat pulled down and my collar pulled up, I thought it would do quite nicely.

Thomas Warren, with his sideways looks and weasel eyes, had set my alarm bells ringing. I did not like the man, I did not trust him and I needed to know if my instincts were right. But I was late – the auction would start at eight so I had twenty minutes to get to the Ship Inn.

Boarding the ferry proved no problem but halfway across the river, the sea mist, hovering at the entrance of the harbour, began creeping silently across the water. Even Joshua Tregen stopped his banter and began to concentrate as he rowed through the fading visibility. Dark hulls loomed from nowhere and mufed shouts began echoing across the water. I began to take heart. Whereas this sea fog was the last thing most people wanted, it was exactly what I needed to slip unseen into the auction.

Most auctions took place in the Ship Inn. I had been to an auction before when Father had bid for a hoist, so I was condent I knew where to go. The lamps shone like solid spheres of light, beckoning me from across the square and I made my way quickly through the thickening mist, grateful not to be seen.

Pausing only briey to draw courage, I opened the heavy oak door and made my way down the corridor to where at least thirty men crushed into a tiny back room. It was unbearably smoky but dark and suited my purpose. The shutters were rmly closed, lanterns casting small pools of light and, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I grew condent I would remain undetected. A number of men had already taken off their jackets and my borrowed clothes felt hot and heavy. Perspiration ran down my back. The man beside me peered at his fob watch – ve minutes to go and, as I dodged his sharp elbow, I peered through the half-darkness, searching for Thomas Warren.

I have always been glad of my height, but as I stood on my toes to scan the room my view was blocked by a huge man standing in front of me. He had great bulky shoulders, a shaven head and a tattooed snake creeping up his neck from beneath his collar. The snake was poised to strike and even in the half-light I could see the venom in its eyes.

Most of the men were facing away and, as I searched for Thomas Warren, my anxiety grew. A voice from the front announced the auction was starting, so I squeezed further forward, peering at the faces around me. Some I recognised as tradesmen, but most were strangers. The dimness of the light and thick smoke made it hard to make out faces, but my heart leapt as I saw Thomas Warren in the furthest corner.

He was sitting at a table, deep in conversation. His companion was smartly dressed, his head bent, his tall hat pointing at the crowd as if to keep us at bay. He looked up and my initial dislike spiralled to hatred. He was Philip Randall, steward of Pendenning Hall, Sir Charles's land agent. Very few people in Fosse or Porthruan could look at him without fear or loathing. His forced eviction had left Jenna's family homeless – he had showed no pity, just trampled his way into their homes and lit the res. The cottages were in the way of the great park. A lake was to be created; whole families left without homes for the sake of the view.

I tried to think rationally. Thomas Warren and Philip Randall would obviously know each other – they were both powerful men and had been stewards of neighbouring estates for many years, but watching their hunched shoulders and urgent conversation, their deepening scowls and obvious displeasure, I felt increasingly uneasy and ducked behind the man with the tattooed snake, afraid they would see me watching.

‘The door, if you please,' a man's voice rang out and the crowd surged forward, stragglers pushing their way into the last remaining spaces. The door slammed and I heard the key turn in the lock.

‘You know the rules, gentlemen,' the voice of the auctioneer boomed. ‘The door'll remain locked till the auction's completed. It'll stay locked throughout the proceedings an' only be opened after the nal bid. All bids must be nancially sound, all bids are binding an' must be paid by ten o'clock tomorrow or the sale will be rendered void.'

He was sitting at the table, one hand searching through the many papers strewn in front of him, the other taking hold of a chain which hung from the beam above. One of the lamps was extinguished, making the room even darker and with so many people cramming into the space, I began to feel suffocated. ‘First auction is for the freehold of the land known as Tideswell Creek, just upriver from Pont Pill. It comprises the creek an' a small stretch of dense woodland. The creek submerges in the tide an' the land can only be accessed by the river. Gentlemen, I'll start the auction. Is the door locked?'

‘Yes, Mr Owen,' came a voice from the dark.

‘The rules are those of any candle auction – we'll burn one inch of tallow an' the last bid before the candle's extinguished is the winning bid. This bid will be binding.' A murmur of assent went round the room.

The remaining lamp was extinguished and darkness engulfed us. A int was struck and the chain rattled, hoisting the candle over our heads. The tiny ame wavered, gradually steadying as it penetrated the darkness above us. Like everyone else, I lifted my eyes to the ickering light. A copper plate had been placed under the candle, hiding it from view, and all I could see was the surrounding glow. Bidders could only guess the rate at which it would burn and I had no idea how long that might be. Twenty minutes, maybe fteen? Only those at the front had seen the width of the candle and I took heart that Thomas Warren had positioned himself so close to the table.

The rst bid came promptly, then the second, then the third. The voices came from the back of the room. Thomas Warren cleared his throat. ‘Two guineas,' he shouted.

‘Two pounds, ten shillings,' came the responding bid.

‘Three guineas,' replied Mr Warren.

‘Four guineas,' came the immediate reply.

The room grew silent, everyone staring at the glow of the candle. Shadows danced across the ceiling, dark shapes leapt from the corners. This was a game of nerves – if a person bid too soon he would give away his interest and would raise the price. I only hoped Thomas Warren knew how long to wait.

‘Four pounds, ten shillings,' came a voice from the back of the room.

Trickles of sweat ran down my back. My face was burning and I began to regret my decision to use coal dust to darken my chin. The bids seemed to stop. The room was silent.

‘Five guineas,' shouted Phillip Randall.

Another bid from the back. ‘Six guineas.'

‘Seven guineas.' Phillip Randall's reply was instant.

‘Eight guineas.' was the immediate response.

The ame oundered and the room plunged into darkness. Murmurs grew louder as everyone peered through the dark. I caught my breath. The copper plate was swallowed by blackness but, as we waited, the faintest light began to show and I stared at the tiny icker, willing it to glow. The ame spluttered, gained in strength and once again cast eerie shadows in the darkness.

‘Nine guineas,' shouted Phillip Randall.

I knew Thomas Warren's token bid would not be repeated. He had no intention of securing the land – he was in league with Phillip Randall who clearly wanted it. The log pool was slipping from my grasp. Frustration welled inside me. I was a woman and counted for nothing. I had no right to property or land. I was nobody. I could do nothing but watch my dream being snatched away.

Why did I not ask Mr Scantlebury to come with me? Anger burnt my cheeks – anger against myself as much as against the injustice of my situation. But I could not, would not, lose this creek. Suddenly, it seemed so simple. I was dressed as a man, I would bid – the slimmest chance, maybe, but I would have to take it. My mind was racing. My timing would have to be perfect. Thomas Warren and Phillip Randall would be alerted and would bid against me. Surely the whole room could hear the thumping of my heart.

I remembered the huer's hut when Jim and I huddled round the candle. We had an inch of candle and I remembered it ared just before it died. Did all candles are at their dying? If they did, I would watch for a change of brightness. I strained my eyes, knowing if I called too soon, all would be lost. Then I saw it – the slight surge of a nal are. ‘Ten guineas,' I shouted as the room plunged into darkness.

‘Ten guineas,' came the voice of the auctioneer. ‘Sold to the gentlemen in the middle. Your name, sir? Get a lamp lit, for God's sake. We've got more than enough to get through.'

A lamp was lit and I knew I must make my way to the auctioneer's table. Thomas Warren was looking in my direction, his face distorted by rage. For a moment, I thought he must have seen me but he was looking at the huge man in front of me. I saw him mouth the words ‘get him' and I ducked to one side, my heart pounding. The tattooed man turned his great bulk away from me and I breathed with relief.