Sarah's Story

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

ISLE OF WIGHT
APRIL 1803

There was a fog the night he arrived. It rolled in from the Channel, cold and clammy as it clung to the curves of the cove and crept up the flanks of St Catherine's Chine toward our home. Sitting at the corner seat at my bedroom window, I watched its slow progress, as the white fingers feathered past the ancient oak and the Watching Rock where the smugglers sat to spy on the Excisemen, slithered onto the Down and frittered around the neatly clipped hedgerow boundary of our garden.

When the advance tendrils reached the chalk clunch walls of our house I hurriedly pulled shut the window and locked it tight. I don't like fog; I never have and I never will, except for one occasion that I will come to by-and-by. It is uncanny the manner in which it hides things and distorts shapes so trees can appear like people and horses like the strange monsters from children's stories. I like things open and honest and straight. Bad things happen in the fog; it is the home of smugglers and Frenchmen and Excisemen, all of which should be avoided. Except maybe the smugglers; the gentlemen of the night are useful when we need more French brandy for the wine cellars, or ribbons for my hair.

But that night I shut out the fog and hoped it would stay away.

Baffled in its attempts to invade out home, the fog recoiled and shifted inland, to spread out and smother all the landmarks of St Catherine's Down and northward to the bulk of the Island. We live on Wight, you see, that great, diamond shaped island on the south of England, Eden's Garden, the fairest place in the world, but exposed to the mists and storms of the Channel on the times when the weather is foul. Now please pay attention while I give a brief lesson in geography to those of lesser knowledge than you. I will not be asking questions but it may make my little story easier to understand.

All right then: we live in the Horse Head Inn, which is situated on the south coast of Wight, just a seagull's cry from St Catherine's Point, the most southerly tip of the island. It nestles under a ridge of St Catherine's Down, yet is still open to the Channel weather in all its variety from biting winds to ugly fogs. My mother runs this inn and has done ever since the French captured my father at sea five years back and we had to rely entirely on our own resources. We look south and ever south to where the great ocean stretches to the coast of France and beyond to Spain and the broad Atlantic and the sugar islands of the West Indies, although of course the curve of the world and sheer distance precludes us from seeing these magical lands.

I shivered, altered my stance and peered out to sea for that day there was nothing. I could see nothing; where normally the Channel would be speckled with the riding lights of ships, the mist had erased all visibility as if by the sweep of a giant's hand. I thought of the poor seamen shivering out there with each vessel isolated by fog so it was a floating island in a hostile sea, prey to French privateers, the treacherous Channel tides or the press gangs of the Navy.

'Sarah!' The voice cracked into my reverie so I looked up. 'Sarah: come down here girl!'

I sighed, straightened my dress and obeyed, stomping hard on the bare wooden stairs to show my displeasure at being disturbed. The stairs led directly to the tap room where my mother was busy washing an array of pewter tankards. 'Yes, Mother? What is it?'

'It's going to be a thick night, Sarah; I don't think we'll be busy, so best take the opportunity to get the place clean.'

'Yes, Mother,' I said, making it obvious I resented the idea, while making sure I kept out of reach of my mother's ready hand. I should have known she would find some way of spoiling the night for me and she was obsessed with cleanliness. Who cared if there was an old leaf or a speck of seaweed underfoot? Sighing, I shifted the tables and chairs out of the way and began to brush the sanded floorboards. Mother watched for a moment, opened her mouth to find fault with something then closed it again and began to check the barrels. I sighed and continued.

The rumble shook the inn so the glasses rattled together and Mother looked up from her task.

'Thunder,' I said, taking any excuse as a distraction from cleaning. 'You were right Mother dear. It's going to be a wild night.' I smiled, prepared to be friendly again. I had learned that it was always best to keep on Mother's right side. I knew she was getting old you see; she must have been nearing forty then: quite in her dotage to my youthful eyes.

She looked up, said nothing and continued with whatever she was doing.

'God help sailors on a night like this,' I said. There was nothing false about that well-used statement. Living on the south coast of Wight or the Back of Wight as we term it, we were always aware of the fickle nature of the sea.

'God help them indeed,' Mother said softly. She stepped beside me and laid a hand on my shoulder. 'You get that floor finished Sarah, and then I want you to…' I never heard what her mother wanted next as a louder than average peal of thunder set the shutters trembling and echoed from the cliffs a few yards from the inn.

'Dear God in Heaven,' Mother said, and touched a hand to her heart. 'It's a perfect hurricane.'

By that time people had been entering the Horse Head, looking for ale to fortify them against the weather, or something stronger if they had a throat for spirits. My good friend Kitty seldom entered the inn, as she and Mother did not see eye-to-eye and young single women are not always comfortable in the company of the rough privateers, coastal sailors and free-traders who frequented this coast in these heady, dangerous days. There are always exceptions of course and in our case they are old Mrs Downer who saw all and heard all and says nothing, and Molly Draper, who would position herself in a corner and talk to anybody.

'Weather's getting a bit rough,' Molly agreed. She was one of the few friends who remained by me despite my inquisitive nature.

'Things could get busy later,' Mother said cryptically, and Molly smiled.

'There'll be pickings,' she said. I liked Molly. She was born on the wrong side of the blanket, and her father, so they said, was the Reverend Barwis. She was slightly older than me and once or twice took me to the church at Binstead, where there is a most scandalous ancient idol of a woman holding open her private person in the most outrageous fashion. All the local boys used to point and mock and make comments until their mothers discovered them and put such a flea in their ear that they would never forget. And quite right too.

Although I guessed what she meant I kept my own council, which was unusual for me.

'Sarah,' Mother called for me to serve the master of a Ventnor coaster who had put back into harbour due to the bad weather.

'We're due for a real pea-souper of a fog,' the master said. I knew him well, John Nash, a good man with a stout wife and six children.

'Well Captain Nash,' I said brightly, 'I am sure you are safe in here until it all blows over.'

'That won't be till the small hours,' John Nash said, 'I'll just have a couple and get back home.' He shifted himself comfortable on the wooden chair, sighed deeply and sunk a tankard of ale in a succession of mighty swallows that augured well for Mother's profits but ill for his waistline.

I settled my mind for a long night's work if there were others like John Nash looking for a quiet refreshment. I saw his wet boot prints on the floor and wondered why I had ever bothered sweeping up.

John Nash was correct about the weather. The fog thickened until the Horse Head seemed pressed down by the weight of it, seeped under the door and hovered at the windows until Mother ordered me outside to close the shutters and keep out the damp. I did so, and was surprised when Molly came to help.

She pumped me for information about our few customers and I told her in fervent whispers, with the great rollers crashing on the bay beneath us and the mist clinging to our hair and clothes. She had the strangest eyes, Molly, as if she could read inside your head and see what you were thinking, but she was the most amiable of companions.

'Wait…' Molly held up her hand, palm toward me. 'Something is happening.'

I stopped in mid-sentence. When Molly said that sort of thing it was best to take heed.

'Listen,' she took hold of my sleeve and stared out to sea.

I listened. At first I thought it was more thunder, the rolling sort that grumbles away for a long time and then fades into nothing without there being any lightning or even rain. I was wrong though, which was more usual than I cared to admit. It was not any sort of thunder.

'That's gunfire,' John Nash joined us outside. He lifted his tankard to indicate the south west. 'Coming from that way.'

'No,' I said, for of course I knew better than he did. 'It's from over there,' I pointed south east by east.

John Nash shook his head. 'The fog distorts sound,' he said, speaking serious- like and without his usual smile. 'It's south west by west; two vessels at least.' He pointed with his tankard again. 'See there?'

At first I saw nothing but the greasy coils of fog, shifting around the coast and hugging the beach like an ugly grey blanket.

'I see it,' Molly said and, not to be outdone, I chimed in.

'So do I.'

'What do you see?' Mother had joined us. She put both hands on my shoulder, either to ensure I did not fall over the cliff and lose her an unpaid skivvy or because she might actually care for me. Probably the former, I thought, uncharitably.

Then I did see it. Great white flashes through the fog, flickering a few seconds ahead of another of those deep rumbles. 'Lightning,' I said at once. It was in the south west, exactly where John Nash said and nowhere near where I thought.

'That is the muzzle flare of cannon,' John Nash said quietly. 'A broadside of six pounders I reckon, so maybe a brig of war or the like.' He took a swallow of his ale, 'or a Revenue cutter after a smuggler or mebbe a Frog privateer taking advantage of the fog to coast our shores and snap up a prize or two.'

'It's lucky you did not venture out, John,' Mother's grip tightened on my shoulders, as they often did when there was talk of trouble at sea.

'Aye, lucky,' John Nash said. He patted Mother's arm in a gesture I did not yet understand. 'He is a good man, Charlotte; a good man and he is missed. If the French still hold him they may exchange him soon.'

'Aye.' Mother touched his hand, and then altered her tone. 'Why is my counter not polished bright? It is ten minutes since I told you, Sarah! Come on girl, there is work to be done.'

'There is always work to be done,' I said, but rather than obey, I watched Mother as she peered out the open door. I joined her and we both stared into the white fog, holding each other close. I could feel her shivering.

'It's all right, Mother,' I said. I rubbed my hand up and down her back. I never knew what to say on these occasions.

'I was thinking of your father,' Mother said softly as if I did not know, and then straightened up. 'Oh well, Sarah. There is nothing we can do here. This is not getting the place tidy. Come on girl and get the work done.'

She slapped my arm for me but this time I felt no resentment. Mother had nearly let me inside her secret thoughts there. For one second she had opened up that hidden hurt and I was grateful to her for the confidence.

I finished the floor, starting every time the gunfire sounded, but after a while the noise stopped and our customers drifted away in a hubbub of noise and a reek of stale ale. Then there was nothing but the slow ticking of the grandfather clock that was my mother's pride and joy. It stood in the corner of the room diagonally opposite the door so it was the first thing that guests and customers saw when they walked in. It was a beautiful creation of honey oak with an arched face and Roman numerals that ticked softly.

'Don't just look at it then, Sarah,' Mother said. 'Polish it so it gleams.' As I did so, she stood behind me, ensuring I did the best job I possibly could.

'That was your father's wedding gift to me,' Mother told me as if I could ever forget. 'He ordered it specially made from Richard Clarke of Newport and used all the prize money from three years voyaging to buy it and he will want to see it pristine when he walks in the door.'

I nodded as I applied the beeswax and polished away for dear life. One has always to work one's hardest when Mother is around.

'He will come back soon now,' mother said, 'you can depend on it.'

'Yes Mother,' I agreed. The oak was a fine sheen now, gleaming so it reflected my face in the body of the clock.

Mother looked up and jerked her thumb toward the door. 'I heard hoof beats, so there will be another guest.'

How did she do that? How could she hear so much? I had heard nothing but if Mother said she had heard a horse, then a horse she had heard. Sure enough, only a few moments later the door opened and a stranger walked in. My life started anew, although I did not know that yet. At that minute he was only an anonymous guest coming to disturb my peace and help us square the accounts, but soon that man would be the centrepiece of all sorts of troubles. A billow of mist followed him like smoke around the tail of Beelzebub; it dissipated the moment he slammed shut the door yet it was that image that remains in my mind even yet as I remember that moment; the stranger that life had used hard with the mist coiling like smoke in his wake. I looked at him as he surveyed the room, noting his weather-battered appearance and the deep tan of his face. He looked like the mate of a merchant vessel or perhaps the master of a coasting brig, but down on his luck to judge by the threadbare clothes he wore. Yet even then I knew there was more; there was a presence about this man that I had never met before.

'Is this the Horse Head Inn?' The man asked. His voice was so sharp edged it could have chopped through an oaken plank, but there was an intonation in it that I did not recognise. He certainly was not a Caulkhead, a native of the island; he was an Overner, a mainlander but so obviously a seaman that I could forgive him his origin. I imagined him roaring his lungs out at the height of a Channel gale and wondered if my father was of his ilk. I pushed that thought away as well; I had no desire to court sorrow.

'It is the Horse Head Inn,' I agreed. I wondered if I should mention the sign board that swung above the front door, with the name proudly displayed.

“Then I have come to the right place.” The man removed his tricorne hat and placed it on the counter that doubled as a work desk. I ignored the moisture that ran onto the wood that I had bees-waxed with much labour only that morning, but noticed the deep cut on the hat that had been roughly cobbled together. The stitching was hurried, rough; it was the handiwork of a man but I wondered what had caused that slash. It matched the less-than-subtle patch that had been placed on the sleeve of his travelling cloak and the black paint that tried hard to disguise the scuffed leather of the riding boots. His clothes had seen hard wear indeed, augmented by a hard life, I suspected. Helping my mother run an inn gave me much insight into people.

'I want a room for a week, to begin with,' the man said.

My mother dried her hands and arms on a rag as she moved closer from her position at the wash tub. She eyed the man up and down, her eyes narrow. 'We always ask an arenest here,' she said, and quickly translated from Wight talk into mainland English for the benefit of the Overner. 'We ask for a sum to bind the bargain in advance.'

I was not sure if the man was going to laugh or snarl, but he compromised with a small smile. 'And you shall have it,' he said.

Of course I knew why my mother was being so rude. We had bitter experience of Overner guests who arrived and demanded a room, only to leave a few days later without paying a brass farthing. We were wary of strangers with long pockets and short arms, especially in these hard times. All the same, I felt quite sorry for this seaman in his battered tricorne hat and coat that had obviously seen better days. More fool me, as it turned out, but I did not know him, then.

As the man reached inside his cloak, mother pressed her forefinger onto the counter. 'I wish your name as well, sir. I do not care for strangers who remain anonymous.'

'Howard.' The man said after a short but significant pause. 'Adam Howard.'

My mother grunted. 'So you say.' She had noticed that hesitation as well. She held out her right hand, palm uppermost. 'I charge five shillings a week Mr Howard, for board and lodgings.'

Mr Howard raised his eyebrows. 'Five shillings,' he repeated, in a tone that might have contained wonderment or amusement or both.

'In advance,' Mother insisted.

Mr Howard sighed and pulled out his pocketbook. He used his hand to shield the contents as he extracted a silver crown, but I heard the musical chink of coin on coin and knew he was not quite as purse-pinched as his appearance would suggest.

He placed the coin in mother's palm. 'Here are five shillings, Ma'am.'

Mother lifted the crown piece, bit into it to test the purity of the silver and placed it in the leather purse she wore tethered from the belt around her waist. 'Sarah will show you to your room, sir. You have baggage?'

I noticed the change in Mother's term of address from a terse 'Mr Howard' to a more respectful 'sir'. She had obviously seen the contents of his pocket-book.

'I have a small bag,' Mr Howard admitted, and forestalled my offer to carry it with a swift, 'which I will bring in myself. Do you have a lad to stable my horse?'

'Sarah will see to your horse,' Mother said.

'Sarah seems to see to a great deal,' Mr Howard said, but his smile removed any sting from the words. He stepped outside into the misty darkness and quickly lifted a tarred canvas bag from behind the saddle of his horse. He held it close to him, as if it held some amazing treasure. I am no lover of cold so I huddled deeper into my shawl as I led Mr Howard's brown mare into our miniscule stable and began to remove the saddle and bridle. I could still smell the powder smoke in the air and wondered what had happened out there in the unknown dark beyond the fringe of surf that marked Chale Bay.

Mr Howard had followed me in to the stable and now watched me work, with his head still hatless and his queue pointing neatly downward.

'What is her name?' I asked as I blew into the mare's nostrils and looked deep into her eyes.

'Why do you ask?' Mr Howard was immediately on the defensive.

I looked at Mr Howard as he stood just inside the doorway. He tilted his head slightly to one side and raised his eyebrows. He was handsome enough, I thought, in a rough and tumble sort of manner. Or rather he had been handsome some twenty years or so ago.

'Horses are like people,' I told him. 'They like it better when you call them by name.' I smoothed my hand over the mare's fetlocks, lifted a brush and set to work.

'Her name is Chocolate,' Mr Howard said, and I swear there was nearly a smile in his voice. I liked him better for his choice of name.

“That is a good name,” I approved, but I did not lift my eyes to meet his.

Mr Howard was silent for a while but I was aware of his eyes on me as I bent to wash Chocolate's legs.

'I presume you are a local girl?'

“Born and bred in the Island” I told him, as I put the saddle aside and piled the harness on top. It was heavy leather, as battered and scarred by hard usage as its owner but at one time this had been a saddle of the highest quality. I noticed rub-marks on both sides of the crupper where something had hung down, and wondered exactly who Mr Howard was and why he was here. You will forgive my suspicion when you recall that this was1803 and Britain was at war with Bonaparte's France. We on the island were on the front line and fearful of invasion at any time.

'Then perhaps you can help me?' Mr Howard asked. I saw the gleam of silver between his fingers.

'I am not that sort of girl, sir,' I felt my heart begin to thunder; I had heard of men like Adam Howard but had never met one. All the men in the Back of the Wight knew me well enough to let well alone. No man had ever used me ill and I swore I'd give a pretty tannen – that’s a hard beating if you do not understand island speak - to the man that tried. I backed toward the pitchfork I always left leaning against an upright in case of a sudden onslaught by the French or a drunken smuggler. I rested my hand on it and tried to look fierce.

'I am not for an instant suggesting anything untoward,' Mr Howard said. He did not look afraid of my scowling face. Instead he gave that small smile again. 'I only require some information that only a local person would know.'

I stopped trying to look as savage as a French guardsman but kept my hand hovering close to the long haft of the pitchfork. 'What sort of information would that be, sir?' I prepared myself to deny any knowledge of the free traders who frequented this part of the Island but Mr Howard surprised me with his request.

'Are you aware of a place called Knighton Hazard?' He held out the silver shilling, keeping it beyond arms-length so I could not quite reach it.

'I am indeed, Mr Howard,' I said. 'It lies slightly inland of here and to the west. It is a large manor house with a dragon weathervane. You can't miss it; there is a folly on a rise beyond the house and a square chapel outside.'

Mr Howard nodded. 'That is what I was told,' he said.

'Then why ask for something you already know?' I asked hotly. 'Are you making game of me?'

'I am not making game of you,' Mr Howard retained hold of his shilling. 'I was merely testing your knowledge.'

Or my honesty, I thought. This Mr Howard had heard of our island way of leading strangers astray.

'Does Mr Bertram still own Knighton Hazard?' Mr Howard asked.

'He still does,' I said, slightly sulkily. I was beginning to not like this handsome man with the battered hat.

'Well and good,' Mr Howard spun the shilling and caught it in the palm of his hand. 'And do you know Limestone Manor?' He finally held out the silver shilling, which I took of course, although I would have imparted with the information for nothing if he had been less offensive. I also knew that Limestone Manor was the real object of his questioning.

'I know it equally well,' I said. I tested the shilling and secreted it inside my boot lest he demand it back. 'It is only a mile or so along the coast.'

'To the east?' Mr Howard's eyes were sharp.

I shook my head. 'To the north west,' I said and pointed in that direction. 'But if you intend to visit sir, you will be wasting a journey. There's nobody there. Limestone Manor has lain empty for years.'

Mr Howard nodded. 'All the same, I think I will take a small ride in that direction tomorrow. Thank you Sarah.' He slipped away from the stable without another word, leaving me to finish stabling his horse and cleaning his equipment. I took my time for I do not care to rush such an important job, besides the poor horse had been ridden hard and needed some attention. Yet all the time I was rubbing Chocolate down I was thinking about Mr Howard. My curiosity forced me to find out more about him, and there was only one way to do that. However, fate had me in its grasp and there was other work for me that night.