‘I’m fed up with hiding for most of the time.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have been born with a black face,’ said O’Gara, jocularly. ‘It makes you stand out, Moses, so it’s better if we move at night. Unlike me, you can’t dive black into a pool and come out white.’ He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘After all those months cooped up, that swim we had was wonderful.’
Dagg nodded enthusiastically. ‘We haven’t had a treat like that for ages.’
‘It helped to wash off the prison stink.’
Making their escape from Devon proved more difficult than they’d imagined. Dartmoor had deliberately been built in a remote part of moorland. The soil and the climate were unsuitable for growing crops so no extensive agriculture had developed there. Ice cold in the winter, it was also enveloped in thick blankets of fog that bewildered anyone foolish enough to travel across the bare landscape. The fugitives had the advantage of warmer weather and clearer skies but so did the mounted patrols sent out after them. Much of their days had therefore been spent concealed in various hiding places. When their food ran out, they were careful to take very little from the occasional farm. Had they stolen large quantities, the theft would have been noticed and reported. Hunger would have given their location away to those engaged in the manhunt and O’Gara knew that, if recaptured, he could expect no quarter from Captain Shortland. A reunion with the governor had to be avoided at all costs.
‘When do we make our move, Tom?’ asked Dagg.
‘We’ll wait another hour or so until they’ll all have gone to bed.’
‘It’s dark enough now.’
‘I’m taking no chances.’
‘How long will it take us to get to London?’
‘That depends on the weather,’ said O’Gara. ‘We’ll hug the coast for safety.’
‘It’ll be good to be back at sea again.’
‘That’s where we belong, Moses.’
‘I’d hate to be locked up again. We were like caged animals.’
‘We’ll be safe in London. They’ll never find us there.’
They were crouched behind a hedge at the margin of a field. Having worked their way south-west, they’d found a hamlet on the coast. It was little more than a straggle of whitewashed cottages along a pebbled beach. Fewer than thirty souls lived there. When the fugitives first saw it in daylight, the sight of a couple of small boats lifted their spirits. If they could steal one, they could at last shake off the constant pursuit. While they bided their time, they took note of the tides and the jagged rocks they’d need to negotiate once afloat. A long, frustrating day had eventually yielded itself up to darkening shadows. The hamlet had gradually lost colour and definition.
Tom O’Gara was acting on instinct. When he felt that the time was ripe, he slapped his friend on the shoulder and they set off into the gloom. As they got closer to the shore, they found the aroma of the sea invigorating. A bracing wind tugged at their clothing. When it was harnessed, it could speed them away from the county. They crept warily past the little houses, reassured that no light showed in any of the windows. Reaching the boats, they dragged one of them slowly and carefully towards the water, thrilled when they felt the sea lapping at their ankles. They heaved on until the vessel began to float.
‘We’ve done it, Moses,’ said O’Gara, joyfully.
‘They’ll never catch us now.’
‘Goodbye, Captain Shortland, you murderous bastard.’
‘All aboard, Tom.’
With the boat now bobbing as each new wave rolled in, they climbed into it and felt the familiar sensation of the sea beneath them. They were just in time. Out of the darkness, a large, angry dog suddenly appeared, baring its teeth and barking furiously. Running into the water until the sand disappeared beneath its paws, it began to swim frantically towards them, as if intent on tearing them both apart. The animal gave them the impetus to hoist the sail at speed and catch the first full gust of wind. Before the dog could get within yards of it, the boat was being powered out to sea beyond its reach, as if pushed by a huge invisible hand. The last thing they heard were the plaintive howls of the dog and the outraged yells of the people who’d been roused by the barking and run out of their cottages to see what was happening. The shouting continued but the sailors ignored it. When the protests eventually faded away, they were replaced by the whistle of the wind, the flapping of the sail and the jib, the creak of the timber and the sound of the waves splashing against the hull.
They sailed on towards London.
Micah Yeomans handed over the money then raised his tankard in celebration.