Moontide

by E.V. Thompson

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Local landowner John Bettison has forbidden his workers to attend church, but when curate Toby Lovell arrives in Porthluney, he is determined to bring about change. Injured during the Battle of Trafalgar, Toby is used to facing adversity but little does he realise the challenge that lies ahead of him.

But the trouble really starts when Toby falls in love with Bethany Poole, a local Quaker girl. When her society rejects her, she turns to Toby for support but a dreadful misunderstanding involving Bettison forces her to leave without a word of explanation and Toby will not rest until they are reunited . . .

Set on Cornwall's south coast in the early nineteenth century, Moontide is a captivating tale of loves lost and found.

Release date: July 5, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 480

Sample

Alice Rowe and her friend Charlotte Jane were returning home from Tregony fair in a very happy frame of mind. Even the cold,
grey mist, billowing inland off the sea, could not dampen their high spirits.


It had been a good fair. The best either of them could remember. They had flirted with young men they would probably not see
again until the autumn fair; enjoyed the many entertainments on offer, and were returning home with small presents for each
member of their families.


‘Did you see that Tregony boy, Charlie something-or-other? The one with the lame leg. He climbed that old oak tree to prove
he could do it, then couldn’t get down. They had to keep passing drinks up to him until he was so drunk he fell out!’


Charlotte went into peals of laughter. Alice, who had been genuinely concerned for the boy from Tregony, said, ‘It was a good
thing his friends were there to catch him, or he’d probably have broken his good leg.’


‘And what about that girl from Mevagissey? She went off to the fields with more than half-a-dozen men to my knowledge – and
in broad daylight too!’


The two friends had very different natures. Charlotte loved to gossip and was an incessant talker. Alice was quieter and the
more thoughtful of the two, but they chattered happily as they walked along the narrow country lane. The mist, sometimes dense,
more often wispy, kept the early-spring moon hidden from view, but both girls knew the road well. The sound of the sea, heaving
itself over the rocks at the base of the nearby low cliffs, was a familiar and reassuring sound.


They had walked the four miles to Tregony fair from their coastal homes that morning and were almost home now, having enjoyed
a full day at the fair. Friends since early childhood, the two girls worked together making fish nets in a small business
at Portloe, a short distance to westward along the coast.


Their homes were on the vast Porthluney Estate, home of the Bettison family. Alice’s father was a gamekeeper, Charlotte’s
mother the widow of an estate worker who had been in charge of the large stables.


Suddenly, Charlotte put out a hand and grasped Alice’s arm, bringing her to a surprised halt.

‘Look … over there!’ She pointed through the mist. ‘There’s someone in the church.’

The mist had thinned momentarily. Through a field-gate in the hedge beside the lane, they could see the squat outline of the
small, isolated church. Not very far from the cliff edge, it catered for the spiritual needs of those who lived on the Porthluney
Estate, and in the adjacent fishing communities.


The light showing through the stained glass windows was so dim, Alice thought at first that Charlotte must have been mistaken.
Then it flickered and she realised her friend was right.


‘Why would anyone be in the church at this time of night?’

‘Well, it is Feast Day. There’s always a service held there on Feast Day.’

‘There used to be,’ Alice corrected her friend. ‘That was before Parson Kempe fell out with the Bettisons. There’d be no sense his having
a Feast Day service now. No one would go to his church. Mr Bettison said they weren’t to.’


‘Well, I heard tell that Parson Kempe’s taken on a young curate. I suppose it could be him. Anyway, someone’s in the church,’ declared Charlotte. In a moment of bravado, she added, ‘Let’s go and have a look.’


‘What for?’ Alice tried to sound scornful. ‘I don’t want to look in no old church. What if it’s not the parson, or this new curate?’


‘Who else would it be?’ retorted Charlotte. ‘Come on, let’s go and find out.’


Without waiting for a reply, she hurried to the lych-gate with its slate slab on which coffins were rested on the way to burial.

The hinges of the lych-gate squeaked noisily as the gate swung open. Once inside the churchyard, where tombstones leaned towards
each other at drunken angles, Charlotte’s imagination suddenly began to play tricks on her. She even thought for a fearful
moment she had seen two of the tombstones move.


She stopped, suddenly uncertain. Perhaps her idea was not such a good one after all …

‘Have you changed your mind?’ asked Alice scornfully, aware that her friend was not the bravest of individuals and was having
second thoughts.


‘No! Of course I haven’t,’ Charlotte lied. But she made no move to go on.

It was clear now that there were lights burning inside the small church, but not very many. Nor the number of candles that
would normally be lit for a service.


As she neared the building, Alice stepped from the gravel path to the grass of the churchyard, so her footsteps would make
no sound. Charlotte remained behind.


Tiptoeing forward, Alice thought of all that had happened within the parish to make it unlikely that there would be a service
in progress inside the small and isolated church.


The rector was now an old man. In addition to Porthluney, he held the livings of two other parishes. Both were in wealthy,
expanding districts of Cornwall. They contrasted greatly with the living of Porthluney, which traditionally relied heavily
upon the generosity and goodwill of the landowning Bettison family for its upkeep and support.


Unfortunately, the present head of the family had neither the money nor the will to give his support to the church. Much of
the family wealth had been lost in recent generations through marriage settlements. A large sum also needed to be spent upon
the ancient family home if it was to be saved before it decayed beyond repair.


In addition to this, John Bettison was a gambler and a heavy drinker.


In truth, the family was close to ruin. Things were so bad that Bettison had been obliged to increase the rents of his farming
tenants. At the same time he reduced the quantity of tithes paid by the estate to the Church. It was this action that had
caused the breach between himself and the Reverend Kempe.


The dispute had become particularly bitter when Bettison tried to have Reverend Kempe removed from his living because of his
opposition to the landowner’s actions. The move had been effectively blocked by the bishop, but had done nothing to heal relations
between landowner and rector.


John Bettison might not have succeeded in removing the ageing rector from his living but, such was his influence as the area’s
principal landowner, he was able to threaten eviction for anyone who attended the church during the dispute. As a result,
no one in the parish dared attend services in the small church.


The rector was too old to remain in the front line of the battle between landlord and Church. He removed himself to another
of his parishes, St Stephen, some miles away. Here his only problem was the encroachment of the followers of the late John
Wesley.


‘What can you see?’

Charlotte’s loud whisper coming from the mist was more for the reassurance of hearing her own voice than the desire for a
reply.


‘Shut up!’ Alice hissed angrily. ‘Whoever’s inside will hear you.’

‘My gran says she’s seen the new curate,’ said Charlotte in a hoarse whisper, ignoring Alice’s demand. ‘She says he goes around
with Quakers and is hardly old enough to have learned the Lord’s Prayer, let alone look after a parish. Mind you, she’s over
ninety now. Everyone seems young to her … Can’t you see anything yet?’


Alice returned to where her friend was standing.

‘It would serve you right if I pushed you inside the church to find out for yourself what’s happening in there. It was your idea to have a look. Now, come and give me a lift up to that window just beyond the door. There’s a clear pane of glass
there. I might be able to see through it.’


Reluctantly, Charlotte allowed herself to be dragged to the window. Here, she put her arms about Alice’s hips and heaved.
She managed to lift her friend no more than a couple of inches from the ground.


It was fortunate it was no higher. She suddenly released her hold and Alice dropped heavily to the ground.

‘What’s that?’ Charlotte sounded suddenly fearful.

The sound was repeated and Alice said scornfully, ‘It’s only some old owl!’

‘Are you sure?’

The long drawn-out, tremulous sound was repeated yet again, and Charlotte said, ‘I don’t like this place, Alice. Churchyards
are spooky. Let’s go.’


‘Not yet. Now we’ve come this far I want to see what’s going on inside the church.’

An owl hooted once more, this time from the other side of the churchyard.

‘You can stay here if you want to,’ declared Charlotte hurriedly. ‘I’ll wait for you out in the lane.’ With this she hurried
away, her footsteps loud on the gravel path.


Unconsciously, Alice held her breath, believing that whoever was inside the church must be able to hear the noise of her friend’s
hasty departure.


A few moments later there was the sound of organ music from inside the church and Alice discovered she had been holding her
breath. She expelled it gratefully, but was no nearer to seeing inside the church.


She thought she would try one of the windows on the far side, but as she passed by the porch she noticed a thin sliver of
light escaping from the doorway. The door was not fully closed.


Slipping quietly inside the porch, Alice pushed the door open a little more, prepared to turn and flee if it creaked.

She could not see the organ from here, so she pushed the door open a little farther.

With a sudden shock, she realised she was being watched – but by no human! On the stone floor of the aisle, beside the front pew, was a rough-haired black and white dog. Head on paws, the animal looked straight at her.


For a moment Alice thought it would bark. Then, as they stared at each other, its tail brushed the floor twice, then ceased.

So too did the music.

A moment later someone passed across her line of vision and walked to the pulpit. It was indeed the young curate. Looking
down at the dog, he said, ‘Well, Napoleon, there’s only you and me here, so it looks as though you’re going to have the sole
benefit of yet another of my sermons. One thing’s certain: if there’s a heaven for dogs, you’re going to go there.’


The dog responded to the curate’s words by wagging its tail far more vigorously than before.

In the doorway, Alice gave a brief but sympathetic smile. The curate was hardly someone of whom to feel afraid.

She remained in the porch, listening to the sermon the curate preached to the patient and loyal dog. It was on the theme of
love and forbearance and was a very good sermon – one that would have appealed greatly to the absent parishioners. They had
been wont to complain in the past that the ageing rector’s sermons lacked the ingredients of ‘fire and brimstone’ which enlivened
proceedings at the nearby Methodist chapel.


Alice was almost equally impressed by the behaviour of the curate’s dog. The animal lay with its black and white head resting
on its paws. Only the movements of the dark eyes showed her that, unlike its master, it was fully aware of the hidden listener.


‘… In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.’

Bringing his sermon to a close, Toby Lovell looked down from the pulpit to his canine ‘congregation’ and sighed. ‘Well, Napoleon,
we’ve kept to the letter of Church law, at least. Now let’s put out the candles and go home and I’ll see what I can find for us to eat.’


Hurrying from the church porch, Alice found her friend shivering beside the mist-shrouded lych-gate.

‘Wh – what kept you so long? Another couple of minutes and I’d have run home to get someone to come out and look for you.’


‘I was listening to a sermon – and it was a very good one.’

‘A sermon? Was it the curate in there?’ Charlotte sounded bewildered. ‘But … there was no one inside the church to hear it.’


‘Yes, there was. The curate’s dog was there.’

‘His dog? The curate was preaching a sermon to a dog? Do you think he’s mad?’


‘No,’ replied Alice, thoughtfully. ‘He’s certainly not mad. In fact, from what I saw of him, I’d say he’s probably a good
man. But I do feel sorry for him. I think he must be very lonely.’


Walking along the lane to the rectory, Curate Toby Lovell heard the call of the owl which had so frightened Charlotte and
was reminded of the sound of the wind in a ship’s rigging – a sound he knew well after three years as a naval chaplain.


He stopped for a moment, and the dog stopped with him. Here, cut off from the world by the mist, Toby could have been the
only man in the world. A man alone. It was a far cry from the cramped and crowded surroundings of a frigate of the Royal Navy.


Toby set off once more, his thoughts of ships and battles, and the circumstances that had led to his leaving a sea-going life
behind him for ever …


‘“A frigate is expected to carry the battle to enemy ships of the line in a battle such as the one which lies ahead …”?’


Repeating his superior officer’s words, James Tasker, first lieutenant of His Majesty’s frigate Eclipse, stared open-mouthed at the commanding officer, his expression one of disbelief.


‘That’s right, James. Those are the orders of our Lord Admiral.’

Commander Henry Kempe shared his first lieutenant’s concern, but he did not allow it to show. He even managed a brief, tight
smile.


‘My Lord Nelson was emphatic. His aim is not the taking of prizes, but complete annihilation of the enemy. We are to follow
the ships of the line into battle and make absolute the work carried out by his lordship’s men-o’-war.’


Listening from the edge of the quarterdeck, navy chaplain Toby Lovell silently agreed that the first lieutenant’s concern
was wholly justifiable. A frigate should not be expected to engage vessels possessing more than three times its own firepower.
A single broadside from a hundred-gun ship of the line was capable of blowing a frigate into oblivion.


Despite this, Toby knew that every man on board Eclipse would raise a cheer when the order was given to engage the enemy’s men-o’-war.


He felt a deep sadness within him. There would be much work for a chaplain before the sun sank below the horizon off Cape
Trafalgar on this day. Tragic work.


The Eclipse was a thirty-eight-gun frigate, with a crew of three hundred men. The vessel was part of a fleet which for months had been
seeking a combined French and Spanish force of thirty-three ships. Among the enemy ships were the three most powerful warships in the world.


Yesterday they had finally found them and, today, were closing in to engage them in battle.

Commander Kempe had just returned on board after attending a meeting held on board Admiral Lord Nelson’s flagship, Victory. The object of the meeting was to make every captain in the fleet aware of the tactics Nelson intended using when they joined
battle with the enemy.


That this would be a battle of historic proportions and significance was never in doubt. The ship’s officers and the lower
deck men could smell it in the very air.


Lord Nelson had pursued the fleet of the French Admiral Villeneuve across the Atlantic Ocean and back again in a desperate
game of hide-and-seek. Now the two fleets were on a converging course that was destined to end in a decisive battle. It would
be the culmination of a frustrating chase which had led Nelson on a desperate fourteen-thousand-mile pursuit of his elusive
enemy. Now the chase was almost at an end, not far from where it had begun, many months before.


Today Nelson intended bringing Admiral Villeneuve to book. The outcome would decide, once and for all, whether naval supremacy
would be held by Britain or France for the duration of the war between the two countries.


The date was 21 October, the year 1805. It was a date that would be entered in the annals of British history alongside Crécy
and Agincourt.


It was an encounter that Villeneuve would gladly have foregone, even though the ships of France and its Spanish allies under
his command had considerable superiority in firepower over the British vessels. He was acutely aware that his men, the Spanish
seamen in particular, did not share the British sailors’ enthusiasm for a fight.


‘You are not relishing the thought of the battle, Padre?’

The frigate’s commander had been looking in Toby’s direction whilst speaking to his first lieutenant and had observed the
expression that passed across Toby’s face when the impending battle was mentioned.


‘I share Lord Nelson’s hope for a decisive victory,’ declared Toby. ‘But included in my prayers will be a fervent hope that the price of such a victory might not be a high one.’


‘No price can be too high to secure the seas against such a tyrannical enemy,’ said Commander Kempe.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Toby. ‘Nevertheless, I would like to hold a brief service. It will do no harm to add the power of prayer
to the gunnery of the fleet.’


After only a moment’s hesitation, Commander Kempe nodded his agreement. ‘Very well. Hold your service, Padre – but keep it
brief. My own opinion is that a good meal before battle serves a man better than a prayer. We’ll call the men on deck now
and they can enjoy a meal afterwards. That should prepare them for whatever the day – and the French admiral – has to offer.’


Half-an-hour later the crew of the Eclipse were mustered on the quarterdeck to hear the chaplain’s prebattle prayers.


Toby kept the service short – and tactful. He said nothing that might make them dwell upon thoughts of the heavy casualties
that must inevitably be suffered during such an engagement as lay ahead. Nor did he mention the joys of the hereafter, that
so many seamen would soon know.


His duty was to assure each man that he would be fighting in a just cause. Because this was so, he told them, the angels of
the Lord would swell their ranks. This must undoubtedly ensure that at the end of the day, victory would belong to the British
navy.


It was a difficult service to conduct. Filled with both excitement and apprehension, there was a restlessness in the men that
was not conducive to prayer and contemplation.


Nevertheless, Chaplain Toby Lovell’s words were heeded in typical fashion. When representatives from each seamen’s mess mustered
to collect the daily rum ration, one man, tongue-in-cheek, requested extra tots for: ‘Them there angels as is fighting with
us.’


As the laughter of his shipmates erupted around him, the seaman added, ‘And don’t be stinting with it, neither. If any of them as preaches on the Lord’s behalf is anything to go by, they’ll be a hard-drinking lot.’


‘Then it’s lucky we’ve got Padre Lovell on board Eclipse,’ retorted the quartermaster. He carefully measured out the rum ration with the aid of a series of copper jugs of differing
sizes. ‘He’s as close to teetotal as you’ll find anywhere in His Majesty’s fleet. He’ll send any drunken angel packing before
he has time to get so much as a sniff of your grog. If I’m wrong you can take the angel’s name and send him along to see me.
I’ll give him a double tot – and one extra for you. Now, move along and let me get the rest of this rum issued. If every mess
orderly has your chatter we’ll be up with the Frenchies before I’m done.’


Below decks, in his small cabin, Toby Lovell pulled off the robes he had worn for the service and dropped to his knees in
front of the small crucifix nailed to the wooden bulkhead. He kneeled in silence with bowed head for some minutes before looking
up at the symbol of his calling.


Quietly, he said, ‘Lord, give me the courage to carry out my duty in the manner expected of me. May I bring comfort to those
in pain, and tranquillity to those who are about to pass into Your keeping. Forgive their past transgressions and welcome
them as brave men who died fighting for the cause of a Christian country. Amen.’


Crossing himself, he rose to his feet and stowed his cassock inside a sea-chest which occupied a corner of the cabin.

After shrugging on his coat, he looked about the cabin, hoping he would see it again. Closing the door behind him, he made
his way to the upper deck. In such a battle as that in prospect for the ships of Nelson’s fleet, survival was an outcome upon
which few gamblers would risk their money.


The combined fleet of French and Spanish men-o’-war held a course steadily northwards, past Cape Trafalgar. To the men on
the British ships it was a magnificent yet awesome sight.


The British fleet was intercepting the enemy’s line on a converging course. Viewing the French and Spanish ships from the
deck of the Eclipse, Toby Lovell thought that an admiral commanding such a fleet might, with some justification, consider it indomitable.


It should have appeared in a similar light to the crews of the British ships. They headed for a point ahead of the enemy fleet,
sailing in two columns, at a tantalisingly slow rate of knots. Yet the British sailors had a sublime faith in their admiral.
They were convinced that under his leadership a British battle fleet could outgun, outsail, and outfight any navy in the world.


It seemed the views of Villeneuve were in accord with those of the British sailors. He showed no inclination to turn and fight.
Instead, he was driving his ships hard in a bid to reach the relative safety of the Spanish port of Cadiz without doing battle.


Villeneuve’s efforts were doomed to failure. His fleet was steering almost due north with little help from the wind. Nelson
was intercepting from the west, with what little wind there was behind him.


The signal ‘Prepare for Action’ had been fluttering from the yardarm of Victory for some time. Suddenly, it came down and another signal flag raced to the masthead.


‘Engage the enemy more closely,’ translated the first lieutenant in an excited voice. The Battle of Trafalgar had begun!

The two lines of British ships turned in upon the enemy immediately. Their intention was to split the French and Spanish fleet
into three parts.


Admiral Collingwood, Nelson’s second-in-command, was leader of the second of the two British columns. His was the first vessel
to go into action, exchanging fire with one of the French ships as soon as they came within range of each other.


It was the opening salvo in what was to be a fierce and unyielding battle, one that grew more bitter with each passing minute.
The Eclipse was one of four frigates following in the wake of Collingwood’s ships of the line. By the time it reached the battle area
smoke from cannons and burning ships was rolling across the sea in greeting.


Toby Lovell thought the scene reminiscent of a painting he had once seen that was meant to represent the terrors of Hades.

Two French ships, totally dismasted, drifted clear of the main fleet. Their masts, sails still set, had crashed down on crowded
decks, causing many casualties. Canvas, spars, rigging and men were tangled together and had spilled from ship to sea.


Flames had already gained a hold on one of the vessels. Despite this, in the midst of the chaos sailors hacked at the rigging
in a bid to clear wreckage from the upper deck and bring more guns into play.


Even as they worked feverishly, a British man-o’-war was closing upon them. Minutes later a broadside was fired from point-blank
range.


In every direction the two fleets were locked in fierce and confused battle. Near the Eclipse, a British ship had drawn alongside a Spanish vessel and red-coated marines were fighting their way on board.


‘Look! Two French ships have struck their colours already, and Nelson and his squadron have only just come within range! Have
you ever seen such a glorious sight, Padre?’


The Eclipse’s first lieutenant could hardly contain his excitement as the frigate neared the heart of the battle.


Suddenly, the frigate’s commander called, ‘Take her to starboard, helmsman. We’ll go alongside the large Spanish man-o’-war – the one with only its foremast intact. Her gunners
are giving Conqueror a desperate fight to starboard. We’ll take up position on her port side and give her a broadside. That should provide sufficient
distraction and allow Conqueror’s boarding party to take her.’


The helmsman heaved on the wheel until the deck tilted and the frigate came around slowly. Catching a little more of the now
indifferent breeze, the vessel edged nearer to the furious duel.


Closing in on the far flank of the Spanish ship, the Conqueror was taking a severe battering from the heavier guns of its adversary. As soon as the frigate came within range, Captain Kempe
brought his ship broadside on to the enemy vessel and fired a salvo.


The cannon balls struck home, raking the upper deck and taking the Spaniards by surprise. All the gunners and seamen had been
busily engaged in the fight with Conqueror.

The surprise was so complete that Eclipse was able to fire off a second broadside before the Spanish ship retaliated. However, when it came, the reply was devastating.
Although less than half the Spanish vessel’s guns were laid accurately on their target, this number was almost equal to the
total armament carried by Eclipse – and the guns were of a far larger calibre.


One of the frigate’s masts came crashing down, the falling rigging and canvas sweeping a number of sailors into the sea. Many
more lay on the deck, having suffered terrible injuries.


‘Cut the rigging and heave that mast overboard! Get the wounded men below, First Lieutenant … and check the gun deck! I want
another salvo fired at the Spaniard – and I want it NOW! Helmsman, bring her broadside on once more …’


The Eclipse’s captain shouted his orders above the pandemonium on board his ship. The salvo from the Spanish man-o’-war had inflicted many
casualties on the smaller vessel and the wounded were being helped below.


Toby helped in this work. It was part of the duty of a chaplain during battle.

The surgeon and his assistants were already working in the dimly lit between-decks area allocated to them as sick bay and
operating theatre.


Not noted for his finesse or professional expertise, the surgeon was already carrying out amputations with a speed and efficiency
that might have been the envy of a market butcher.


In truth, the sailors of Eclipse feared their surgeon far more than they did any Frenchman, or his allies.


While he worked, some of the surgeon’s assistants were employed holding down the patients about to be ‘operated’ on. Others
were treating the wounds of those for whom surgery was either unnecessary or inappropriate.


Toby dressed the wounds of a number of men before pausing to offer comfort to a dying sailor. The man was trying desperately,
but unsuccessfully, to mouth a last message to be passed on to his family at home.


Meanwhile, the guns were still firing. Shots came not only from the starboard side now, but from both sides of the frigate.
Their small ship had reached the heart of the desperate battle.


Suddenly, they shuddered under the weight of yet another enemy broadside.

‘There’ll be more casualties on deck.’ Toby spoke the words to one of the surgeon’s assistants. ‘Come up top with me and help
bring them down.’


He hurried up the ladder to the upper deck, followed by the surgeon’s assistant. Here they encountered a scene of carnage.
The last enemy broadside had raked the upper deck of the Eclipse. Dead and wounded lay everywhere and not one officer remained on his feet.


Commander Kempe was being carried below, barely conscious. Among the dead was the helmsman – and there was no one at the wheel.
A mast with spars, rigging and sails hung over the side, causing the small frigate to turn towards the giant bulk of the Spanish
vessel. At the same time flapping sails on the broken mast prevented the gunners along most of the starboard side from laying