"Chancy thing, mackerel fishin'—some days y' finds nothin', other days . . ." He was without his smile as he went on, "Well, t'day every soul in Polperro—save us—has good luck." They stopped at the edge of the fish quay and he pointed out a strapping woman with a basket on her back and voluminous pockets filled with salt. "That's a fish jowter, sellin' our fish all over th' parish. She's sittin' pretty 'cos with everyone lucky the market's flooded and prices go t' the devil."
He gave a theatrical sigh and added, "Will we be seein' ye again, Mr Jem?"
After crumpling into their bed of nets Stirk and Calloway slept until midday, at which point hunger drove them to re-enter the world. Mrs Puckey had seen the boats arrive and land their catch, and her lips were thin.
"What's fer vittles, darlin'? I'm gut-foundered," Puckey said, sprawling wearily in his chair.
"Teddies 'n' point—what else c'n thee expect?" she muttered, bringing over a pot.
"Th'—the what, Mrs Puckey?" Calloway asked hesitantly.
Puckey grinned, without humour. "Taties as we grows at the back, an' she'll point out th' meat fer thee in case y' misses it."
After the thin meal Stirk made his excuses and the two shipmates wandered down to the harbour and the outer pier where they sat leaning companionably against a pile of nets. At first Stirk said nothing, letting the keening of the gulls wheeling over the fish quay form a backdrop to his thoughts. He lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his aching limbs.
He heard Calloway stir. "What d' we do next, Mr Stirk?"
He grunted. "Fer now, cully, I'll allow it's 'Toby' till we're back aboard." But were they getting any closer to uncovering anything to do with smuggling? It was odd, but here the fisher-folk were clearly dirt-poor and hard-working, not as would be expected if they were living high on the proceeds of smuggling.
"Aye aye, Toby," Calloway replied, and went on more soberly, "I don't want t' go back t' Mr Kydd wi' nothing, y' know."
"As we both don't, mate," Stirk muttered.
"What d' ye think he'd do if'n he was here, Toby?"
"I don't know what Mr Kydd would do if'n he was here, younker," Stirk said sarcastically. But of a surety in his place Kydd could be relied on to find some cunning way through. If there was one thing Kydd had, it was a right sound headpiece that had set him apart from the start, that and the sand to stand up for himself when it was needed.
He didn't want to let the man down: what must it have cost Kydd to claw his way to the quarterdeck and now be captain of his own ship? In a way Stirk took personal pride in this, one of his own gun crew of the past reaching for the stars and getting there.
And besides which, Kydd was a right true seaman, not like some he could put a name to. No, he had to do something. "Luke, step down t' Mr Butters an' help him. See if y' can hear aught o' this smugglin'—but steer small, cuffin. They's a short way wi' them as runs athwart their hawse."
He stood up stiffly. There was nothing to be gained from sitting about and waiting. He would take a stroll, see something of the place, keep a weather eye open.
Polperro was as distinctive a fishing village as it could be. Its focus was the small harbour, of course, and the steepest sides of the coombe were bare of dwellings but as he walked he could see that this separated the settlement into a working western side with the fish quay and humble homes, and the eastern area, with more substantial residences.
A charming rivulet ran down to the sea, along which ageless buildings crowded together in a communal huddle. Stirk walked the narrow streets, passing the chapel by the tiny green and one or two humble shops. Nothing in any wise betrayed the presence of smuggling.
Folk looked at him curiously but he could detect no suspicion or hostility. Either Polperro's reputation was undeserved or the Revenue was getting the better of the problem, both of which contradicted what Mr Kydd had been told. It was a conundrum and Stirk knew he would have to try harder to resolve it.
Puckey was outside his house, mending nets. He gave a friendly nod and Stirk went inside for his bundle. Then he had an idea. Carefully he cleared the fishing gear and clutter away from the far corner, exposing the dusty earth floor. He found a stick and brought it firmly across, feeling as he went. Nothing. Then again, a few inches further—and the stick caught. He smoothed the surface and looked closely until he found what he was looking for: a faint line in the dust.
He slipped out his seaman's knife, prodded and twisted until he had the disguised trapdoor free, then swung it up to reveal a cavernous space below. A candle stub in a pottery dish stood nearby. He took a sniff. This hiding-place had been used recently.
He replaced everything and left quickly. Outside, Puckey looked up. "If thee has th' time, m' wife would thank ye well fer a hand at th' taties."
She was half-way up the hill, scraping a furrow in the thin soil of a little plot and was grateful for Stirk's help. He didn't mind: without this to sustain them in bleak times they would starve and, besides, it gave him time to think.
They worked on silently until Mrs Puckey stopped suddenly and listened; from afar off there was a faint cry—it was repeated with an urgency that set Stirk's hair on end. "It's th' huer," she breathed. "God be praised!"
"Th' huer?" Stirk asked, in astonishment, as the cry was taken up from windows and rooftops along the steep hillsides and round the harbour. People hurried from their houses and fields and began to scramble for the lower parts, the cry now plain. "Hevva! Hevva! Hevva!"
"Wha—"
"See?" She pointed down to the rocks that guarded the entrance to the harbour. On the highest Stirk could see a figure capering about, clutching what looked like a tin trumpet through which he kept up his cry.
"The huer! Hue 'n' cry! Get down wi' ye," she shouted, and pushed past him. "The pilchards're here!"
Stirk looked out to sea; below circling and plummeting gannets he saw a peculiar long stain of red-purple and silver in the water extending for a mile or more. With the rest he scrambled and slid until he reached the path and joined the throng converging on the harbour.
A sharp-faced man with an open notebook sized him up in an instant. "Pull an oar?" he snapped.
"Aye."
"Volyer," he ordered, and gestured impatiently at a curious low and broad open boat being readied.
Sitting at his oar Stirk grinned to himself: a gunner's mate brought to this pass! But if he didn't show willing to lend a fist with the rest, his chances of getting near to them would fade.
A net was manoeuvred into the boat and as they pulled out of the harbour the plan was explained to him: the other boat had the main "stop" net to encircle as much of the pilchard shoal as they could, at which point their boat would close the gap and assist to bring ashore the captives. A third boat, the lurker, would bear the master seiner who would direct the operation.
Stirk knew there would be hard, skilled work before the fish could be landed. They made a wide sweep, carefully approached the shoal from seaward and slowed to a stop. The man on the oar opposite nudged him: the huer on the high rocks had stopped his cries and was now holding a coloured cloth in each outstretched hand which he wig-wagged in a series of signals, watched attentively by the master seiner.
"Give way, y' bastards," he bawled, throwing the tiller over. Their own boat followed obediently, and Stirk saw they were essentially being directed by the watcher high on the rocks to where the fish were, and the master seiner was deploying accordingly.
At just the right moment and place, the quarter-mile-long stop seine began shooting into the sea along its length in a curve right in the path of the shoal and when it was out the toil of joining the ends together in a vast circle started.