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 Teazer they would achieve anything like lasting fame in their duties in the Plymouth command; Stirk was well aware that, without it, the best that could be expected for Kydd was a quiet retirement amid the fading glory of once having commanded a King's ship. He would try his copper-bottomed best to give Kydd a triumph to bear back.
"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."
He grunted. "You will, son," he said significantly, and his glance flicked to Stirk. "Mackerel, y' said."
"Aye."
"We'll be out handlinin' tonight—Boy Cowan says he's a-willin' t' have youse along."
"Owns th' boat?"
"An' we all has shares in th' catch," Puckey said firmly.
Stirk finished his bread. "No business o' mine, cully, but we sometimes hears as Polperro's not a place t' beat fer free tradin'. Why, then—"
There was a sudden tension in the room. Puckey laid down his spoon very deliberately and glared at Stirk. "We doesn't talk about such here, cuffin. Ye understan' me?"
"O' course. Me bein' in the trade as a kitlin' an' all," Stirk added quietly, meeting his eyes. There was no response and he bent to his meal again.
A ragged child came up and stood gazing at the strangers. "Good day, y' young scamp," Stirk said.
The boy continued to stare at him, then suddenly broke into a chant:
Mother at the cookpot, Father with his brew
Waitin' for the gennelmen who'll dish the Revenoo!
Mrs Puckey clapped her hands and scolded him. He disappeared.
It was bright outside as the three men made their way to the quay, the early-morning sun drying the effects of the overnight rain and setting off the little village to gleaming perfection. Gulls wheeled and keened about the fish quay in front of the Three Pilchards while boats bobbed and snubbed at their lines in the harbour.
On each side, the land sloped up steeply with, occasionally, cottages perched at seemingly impossible angles. It was as individual a place as could be imagined, every house set to suit its tiny plot of rock and thin soil, the dwellings of all hues, owing more than a little to shipwreck timbers.
Along the seafront fishermen were taking advantage of the clear morning light to mend nets and work on tackle. Past the tavern was a jumble of rocks and a final jagged cliff soared at the narrow but picturesque harbour entrance. A short pier beyond the Three Pilchards gave shelter to the inner harbour.
"Well, now, an' here's Boy hisself," said Puckey, as they reached the level area of the fish quay. "Mornin', Mr Cowan."
Cowan was well into his sixties and white-haired, but had a genial manner that gave him a serenity beyond any cares. "Jan, are these th' noo hands ye told me of?"
"Aye. Jem here, an' that's Harry."
"Ye've whiffled f'r mackerel, Jan tells me."
"I did."
"An' can ye tell me what yarn y' used fer y' snoods?" Cowan asked casually.
"Cobbler's thread, mebbe gut," Stirk answered, in the same tone, "an' a long shanked hook if we's expectin' hake."
Cowan eased into a smile. "We likes horse-hair in Polperro, Jem. Like t' bear a hand on th' nossil cock, you an' young Harry both?" This was a simple wooden device that twisted together yarns for greater strength into a snood—the final length carrying the hook that stood out from the main hand-line.
Calloway was set to pulling an endless cord passing over a series of whirligigs that were set into a frame to spin hooks with the yarns beneath. Stirk, with a piece of soft leather, took the strands and evened out the twists, lead weights giving it all a momentum. Finally the nossil was detached, and a hook whipped to the line with a mackerel feather. "There we is, mate," said Stirk, looking with satisfaction at his finished snood. "Where's the backin' line?"
Forty fathoms of line looked an overwhelming amount lying in a heap, but Stirk faked it out in six-foot coils and patiently began the task of working a figure-of-eight knot every half a foot, needing to heave the whole length of line through for every knot. These would be where the snoods would attach and it would see him occupied for hours.
Calloway was sent away to help with the barking—dipping nets and sails into the boiling cutch, a nauseating mix of Burma bark and tallow.
"Can't we not fin' 'em some breeks, darlin'?" Puckey said, when his wife came with the noon tea. "They'll be haulin' fish b' evenin'."
From somewhere she found smocks, knit-frocks and canvas trousers reeking with old fish-slime, and two seamen were translated on the spot into fishermen. Later, the most important article appeared: sea boots, the like of which Calloway had never seen— huge and thigh-length, they were of hard leather encrusted on the soles with hobnails.
Boy Cowan cocked an eye skyward and, with a seraphic smile, pronounced, "Mackerel or herring, they a-goin' t' be about t'night. Bait up, boys."
His work finished until evening, Stirk decided to wander round the narrow lanes to the Consona rocks where the boat-yard was seeing the last touches to a repair on the skipper's boat. "Which 'un is Mr Cowan's?" he called, to an aproned shipwright working on a vessel propped up in the mud.