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CHAPTER ONE
Cornwall, September 1815
Tucked away in a secluded cove in Cornwall, a small fishing port by the name of Tristwick rested in the dim, grey light of dawn. By land, the residents’ stone houses could not be seen, hidden by undulating hills and towering cliffsides. By sea, however, aboard his own three-masted fishing lugger, Trevik Honeysett had the perfect view of the quaint hamlet he called home.
Most of the land was silent, though candles glowed in the modest windows of the cottages dotting the cove. The soft lights amplified the sleepy atmosphere, flickering in rhythm with the gentle raindrops that fell from above.
The residents of Tristwick still in their homes would be stirring now, rising to make ready for the return of the fishermen, but at sea, Trevik and his men had been working since dusk the night before.
The low hum of their voices sailed over the sea and disappeared into the wind. “It may be a maid who holds me hand in the light, but the sea be the one that holds me heart through the night.”
He’d always loved this song. Father used to tease Mother by singing it, claiming he loved the sea more than he loved her, but everyone knew who truly held Father’s heart. Just as everyone knew who—rather, what—truly held Trevik’s heart.
He swept his eyes around him, breathing in the cool, autumn air, made crisper by the sea surrounding them. Rain clicked against the boat’s deck, and gentle waves licked at the hull of the Pilferer, leaving behind bubbles against the dark wood.
The calm sea was a godsend that morning, especially after the storms they’d experienced the last few days. A tranquil sea made their task far easier than tumultuous waves.
“The nets be full, Trevik. Ought we bring ’em in now?”
Trevik joined his crew member, eighteen-year-old Jowan Cardy, at the starboard side. They both peered over the edge into the water. The cork buoys and buffs bobbed up and down in the lilting waves, revealing where the long net drifted behind the boat, four fathoms beneath the water’s surface. From Trevik’s vantage point, the reddish-brown hue of the pilchards could not be seen, but as their side of the boat dipped closer to the water, the weight of the fish in the nets was all too apparent.
“Pull ’em up,” he finally agreed. “We ought to try to catch another load ’fore the sun rises. Closer to shore, I be thinkin’.”
He glanced to Tristwick once more, the grey outline of the hovels a shade brighter. He and his men wouldn’t be able to capture a full load before the pilchards went back down to the seabed at dawn, but any extra fish would be worth the effort of shooting the nets once more.
He secured his cap over his dark hair and pulled the collar of his coat closer to his neck, hoping for a small respite from the droplets of rain sliding down his spine. “Pull ‘er up, lads!” he directed.
The two largest and strongest men on his crew—Jowan and Gryffyn Bosanko—worked together to roll the net back into the boat. As the fish were brought forth from the water, two additional men stood on hauling boards, untangling the fish from the net and allowing them to fall into the fish room below deck.
The briny scent of pilchards and unsettled sea water permeated the air as the men worked without a hitch. Trevik oversaw the process, pitching in his help when needed, watching for loose pilchards, and ensuring they brought the net in slow enough to avoid tearing the intricate mesh.
“Nearly there,” he called out as the last of the buoys inched closer to the ship.
As the older men worked, the youngest of their crew, twelve-year-old Charlie Bosanko, ran about the ship with his long-handled net, catching any spare fish that had managed to untangle themselves from the drift net. His ruddy cheeks shone with rainwater as he leaned over the bulwark, eager to prove his worth aboard the Pilferer.
“Well done, lads!” Trevik called out to his men, signaling for the skipper to move on. “We’ll shoot ’er out once more, closer to shore.”
As the men worked to set about the sails, Trevik approached young Charlie, clapping him against the back of his sodden jacket. “Ye be doin’ well, Charlie. Your father must be proud.”
“’Course I be,” Gryffyn touted as he stood beside his son. Gryffyn was ten years older than Trevik’s twenty-seven, but the two had been friends for years. “’E be comin’ to take over me own task soon enough. If ’e e’er grows bigger ’an a mimsey, that is.”
He tipped Charlie’s cap to the side lightheartedly, and Charlie righted it straightaway. “Mother says it be only a matter of time, Father. Ye best be ready for it.”
Gryffyn’s chest and arms measured nearly wider than the barrels they stored the fish in. If Charlie was to take over his father’s task of heaving up the heaviest side of the nets, the boy certainly had a long way to go.
The father and son playfully pushed one another about, and Trevik looked away with a twist in his heart. Six years had passed since his own father’s death, and still, his steady presence aboard the Pilferer was sorely missed.
“Trev?”
Trevik blinked, his thoughts mercifully fleeing. “Did ye say somethin’, Gryff?”
Charlie had since moved off to the side with his net, but Gryffyn still stood before Trevik. Rain clung to his unshaven face and gathered in the folds of the wrinkles shooting forth from the corners of his eyes.
“I just be askin’,” Gryffyn lowered his voice with a glance around, arms folded across his chest, “do ye think it be wise to shoot the net so close to shore?”
Trevik paused. “We been doin’ this for months now, Gryff. What be the ’arm now?”
“Only that, well, I did see a few men from them seinin’ companies pokin’ their pointed noses round St. Just last week.”
