I don’t intend to write too much about my ‘other’ life as an
author, but a couple of posts are warranted, I think. Ones that are relevant to
the A-Z Challenge and to my home in Devon.
I write historical fiction (Late Saxon and post-Roman period) and pirate-based
nautical fantasy – the Sea Witch Voyages.
For Voyage Four, Ripples In The Sand,
I brought my ex-pirate protagonist, Captain Jesamiah Acorne from the Colonies
and the Caribbean to the North Devon Coast. To be precise, Appledore and Instow, two little harbour towns nestled beside the combined estuaries of the rivers
Taw and Torridge, which lead respectively
to the bustling towns of Barnstaple and
Bideford.
It was a curious thing. I had decided on the location well before
starting this adventure, or even doing any research. Once I did start I was in
for a bit of a shock. I’d had no idea whatsoever that Bideford, back in the
early 1700’s before the river silted up, was one of the major trade ports for
Virginia tobacco. Yet here I was bringing Jesamiah to the river Torridge with a
hold full of (legal) tobacco from his recently inherited tobacco plantation in
Virginia (along with an additional illegal cargo of brandy and indigo). I
enjoyed writing a scene where he had to take his ship, Sea Witch, upriver and I deliberately put in a comment from him
about foreseeing problems if the river was not kept dredged.
One of the other scenes in the novel that I had planned very early
on was for Jesamiah to assist his wife’s brother, Ben, in escaping from jail.
(ah …. E for Escape!)
That led to some interesting research involving attempting to find
where the jail was in Barnstaple in the year 1719, and working out exactly how
Jesamiah was going to accomplish it. I knew it would involve a boat, the river,
and a small amount of gunpowder...
Before I get back to E,
here’s some history for the relevant period:
The town's wealth was originally founded on exporting wool and by the early
14th century Barnstaple was the third richest town in Devon, behind Exeter and
Plymouth. By the eighteenth century Barnstaple was the main port for landing imported Irish wool and yarn which was then carried
by land to the cloth making towns such as Tiverton and Honiton (famous for its lace).
But even as early as 1630 the harbour silting
up, so Bideford , more accessible to larger ships, gradually took over the
foreign trade, but Barnstaple retained its economic significance.
Barnstaple was a huge centre for pottery and its exported wares have
been found in excavations in Maryland, USA – undoubtedly carried there by ships
returning after bringing in tobacco, sugar and rum from the Colonies. The Great
and Little Quays were built to accommodate the increase of trade, with the
surge of prosperity being interrupted in 1642 by the English Civil War. Barnstaple
changed hands between Parliament and Cromwell’s New Model Army no less than four
times - bullet holes can still be seen
in the wall of the Penrose Almshouses in Litchdon Street, as a vivid reminder
of the various skirmishes.
Queen Anne’s Walk was created in 1708 and land was drained for a
new square in 1710.
 |
| Barnstaple Quay (1838) |
 |
and the same square today
Queen Anne's Walk
(photo geograph.org.) |
So... ESCAPE and EXCERPT
Captain Jesamiah Acorne has taken a boat up the River Taw under the cover of darkness....
Barnstaple was sleeping quietly
beneath the stealthy skies. The moon had sailed on her way, was setting now,
low towards the horizon. There would not be light for the return voyage, but
dawn would be stirring soon in the east, and the river itself was a pale ribbon
in the night darkness.
The boat
swung to leeward, two of the men too busy looking over their shoulders at the
nearing town.
“Watch your stroke!” Jesamiah warned. “Go steady. Nothing to
arouse suspicion or bring attention to us. No noise, no calls. Gently with them
oars now.”
The only activity along the river
frontage as the men rowed steadily, was from the several limekilns belching
fire and smoke as the indentured wretches kept the stinking things
working. Not one of the poor souls would be bothered with a single boat and a
few men lazily rowing up river towards the bridge.
 |
| Barnstaple Old Bridge |
A shadow
moved beneath the first spanned arch of the bridge, a low two-tone whistle, and
then a lantern light suddenly swayed in the darkness. Jesamiah pointed and as
gently as a mother puts her baby to bed, the men brought the boat in to the
quayside steps. The oars rose dripping from the water and stayed motionless,
pointing upwards like a rack of sun-bleached ribs, a soft bump, and Isiah
grasped the mooring ring, threaded the painter through.
“Ship your
oars and stay as quiet as church mice,” Jesamiah ordered. “Be ready to shove
off the moment we get back. And assume we will be in a hurry.”
With Rue –
a small keg balanced on his shoulder – Jasper, and Skylark, who carried a coil
of rope, Jesamiah stepped ashore, walked towards a man emerging from beneath
the bridge.
“So you
did not bring Carter Trevithick?” Winnard Doone stated. “You have ascertained
that he can be a liability.”
“Like you
said, we want no obvious suspects do we?” Jesamiah answered. “Shall we get on
with this?”
Not
missing the hostility, Winnard handed a sealed, folded letter to Jesamiah. “My
father sends you this to take to Spain. It is clearly addressed.”
Jesamiah put it straight into his coat pocket without glancing at it.
The quay
was filled with bales of Irish wool, barrels and crates, kegs and clutter, in
the darkness, though, no one was about. Only a scruffy cat slunk silently away.
“Bridewell Prison is just off the Square over
there,” Doone said as they started walking away from the river. “The night
watchman has already been dealt with; he made friends with a bottle of brandy
about half of an hour ago. Have you got what we need?”
 |
| Queen Anne Square |
“Rue has
it,” Jesamiah answered, nodding towards the keg, and looking around the square for signs of movement. “I don’t like this, it’s a bit open here. We’ll
have the militia on us the moment we get started.”
Winnard
also looked around, the place appeared secure, but he agreed, it was too open.
“I know the alleyways well enough to dodge most redcoats, I will get you back
to your boat.”
“Especially
with the aid of a useful distraction.” Jesamiah grinned at Winnard who grinned
back.
They
walked on in silence, heading away from the Square, Queen Anne’s Walk, and the
prison, their shadows bobbing eerily in the dim light from Winnard Doone’s
high-held lantern. The alleyways between the houses were narrow, dark, and
stank of detritus, human and animal. Outside several houses were piles of furze
brushwood – Barnstaple had a thriving pottery industry, each house with its own
wheel and small kiln; the furze piles were strictly illegal because of the
potential spread of fire, but who cared for petty laws? While tempted to make
use of residential misdemeanours, the furze piles were not large enough for
what Jesamiah wanted. Ah! A bank! That would do! Jesamiah had no conscience
about possibly ruining a few rich men.
“Set it
here, Rue, and wait my signal. Do your business then run as fast as your stumps
can carry you back to the boat.” Jesamiah looked grim as he added, “It will be each
man for himself. If you don’t make it, you’ll have to do the best you can. Is
that understood?”
The men
muttered agreement. Understood.
“Jasper,
you stay with Rue. Make sure he is not disturbed.”
Jasper
nodded, Jesamiah ruffled his hair. He was a good lad, trustworthy and reliable.
“Good. Take us to this ‘ere prison, Master Doone. We’re right behind you.”
Leaving
Rue and Jasper busy about their task, Jesamiah and Skylark followed Winnard
Doone back to the Square and Diamond Lane. Bridewell Prison was in darkness,
its two barred windows staring bleak and depressive out onto the empty street. The
smell emanating from the rooms beyond, obnoxious. By day passers-by stared in
to gawp at the miserable wretches within, taunting and throwing rotten food,
which the starving prisoners devoured regardless of its mouldering state.
Checking
no one was around, Winnard stepped up to the bars, peered in, resisting the
urge to put his hand over his nose against the stench.
“Ascham?
Son?” he whispered.
“Father!”
The shout was loud, accompanied by a sob of relief. A drawn, pale face appeared
on the other side of the bars.
“You are a
bloody fool. I told you not to join those smugglers. When are you going to learn to listen to me,
not your grandfather?”
“Father,
I…”
Jesamiah
interrupted. “Sort your domestic issues later. All of you in there, get as far
away from these bars as you can and protect yourselves. Be ready to run, stay
with us, we’ve a boat waiting. If you don’t run, you hang. Hold that bloody
lantern still Doone, I can’t see what I’m doing.” He was attaching two small
leather pouches and the length of rope to the vertical bars. Skylark was
keeping watch, pistol cocked and ready, but the town was asleep, most of the
inhabitants in a drunken slumber; what else was there to do except work, sleep,
fornicate and drink?
“Stand
back,” Jesamiah advised as he finished. “Alright Skylark. Do it.”
Winnard
Doone moved a few paces along the street, covered his face with his sleeve.
Skylark raised the pistol above his head and fired, the shot loud in the still,
night air as it echoed in the narrow street. One, two, three, four…. Five seconds later a louder, fiercer, more
dreadful sound boomed through Barnstaple, setting roosting gulls and pigeons
screaming in panic into the air, a blast of red and yellow light and black
smoke belching after them. Jesamiah paid no attention, set his own pistol to
the end of the fuse protruding from one of the pouches, blew in the priming pan
fanning the sparks. The fuse lit, sputtered, hissed, and Jesamiah turned away,
covering his head and ears with his hands as the gunpowder inside the pouches
ignited and blew with a bang not quite as loud as Rue’s keg of gunpowder, but
loud enough. Jesamiah yanked on the attached rope. The window
bars together with part of the supporting wall tumbled to the ground.
“Out!
Out!” he bellowed, gesturing simultaneously with his arm.
The lad,
Ascham, scrambled through the hole first, followed by two who were clearly
brothers. Then Ben – even in the poor lantern light Jesamiah recognised the
likeness to Carter and Tiola.
Winnard
Doone slapped his son, hard, across his cheek.
Ascham, in
his late teens - at the awkward, lanky stage of a boy’s life, cowed away,
raising his arm to ward off a second blow.
“By God,
boy, I feel tempted to leave you in there to be hanged for the trouble you’ve
caused me!”
Skylark
thumped Doone's shoulder as he ran past. “Leave that for later, mate. Now ain’t
the time.”
“Get
going!” Jesamiah shouted, “we’re done here!”
Dragging
his son by the arm, Doone started off in the opposite direction. “I have horses
waiting, we’ll make for the moors.”
“Suit
yourself, Doone.” Jesamiah had no inclination to argue, felt relieved to be rid
of the bastard.
As he
hared off in the wake of the others, Jesamiah called over his shoulder to the
last man left inside the gaol. “Run, you idiot!”
The man
growled, an animal sound in his throat as he stepped through the gaps in the
partially destroyed wall and stood there, undecided. Tall, lean, thin; his skin
pale, his eyes a deep sapphire blue. His black hair was soiled by grime and
filth, but he had the air of one who possessed wealth and pride - and of
someone who was, perhaps, not quite human. He growled again, showing bared,
white teeth and then as silent as a wraith, disappeared in the opposite
direction into the consuming cloak of darkness.
More
intent on helping Ben Trevithick, who had barely strength to walk, let alone
run, Jesamiah had forgotten all about the stranger. Ben was injured, his leg
black with dried blood; giving up trying to drag him, Jesamiah bent and hoisted
the lad over his shoulder, ran on.
(excerpt above is from an unedited version - may contain errors)
 |
Quayside, river Taw looking towards the new Bridge -
and seaward |
The blue-eyed stranger is to appear in Voyage Five, On the Account - which I am currently writing ...
and as for Jesamiah, well, trouble follows him like a ship's wake!
You might have noticed the character called Winnard Doone? Yes, that's right I've borrowed the Doones of Exmoor for my stories and you might be interested to know that the original photo (taken by Simon Murgatroyd) is sunset on Instow Beach.
You'll meet Instow again under guess what letter of the alphabet!
...my 'FAT LITTLE LADIES'
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for the full 
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