A yacht like the Mignonette, with a sail attached to a boom that swung over to change tack, could be sailed far closer to the wind than the clumsy square-riggers. Their rigid yards at right angles to the mast made it impossible for them to make any progress in anything approaching a head-wind.
The prevailing westerlies in the Channel would often pin the French fleet in harbour at Brest, but such gales often backed southerly. Britannia’s square-rigged ships-of-the-line could not rule the waves if the French were able to put to sea while the British fleet was trapped in harbour. As a result, Falmouth was passed over in favour of Plymouth.
The packet boats carrying mails brought some prosperity to the town but the trade was narrow in focus. To deter attacks by pirates, the fast, armed boats were forbidden to carry any other cargo than the mails. The only trade goods they carried were those hidden in the sea-chests of the crewmen, and the gemstones they smuggled attracted the largest Jewish population in England outside London and made Falmouth a temporary rival to Antwerp and Amsterdam.
Falmouth had held the mail contract since 1688, but it was lost to Southampton in 1852, and the port began to decline. There was still work for some yards repairing ships limping into port after a battering from gales on the Atlantic crossing. Ships loaded at other ports also continued to make a last call at Falmouth ‘for orders’ from the shipping agents who, gauging the current market conditions in a hundred overseas ports, would give them their destination. Falmouth’s central wharves remained busy and bustling, but the days of the packet boats were now long past and an air of dilapidation and dereliction hung over the outlying docks.
As the Moctezuma nosed into the sheltered waters of the Roads, Lowry glanced at Simonsen. ‘You’ll not be allowed to tie up at the quay,’ he said. ‘There’s a cholera scare and any foreign ship is suspect.’
Simonsen smiled. ‘I’ve no intention of tying up there. I’ve crewmen aboard who would jump ship at the first whiff of a landfall. Let them swim for it.’
Under Lowry’s instructions, the Moctezuma dropped anchor on Falmouth Bank, a mile from the town, early on the morning of Friday, 6 September. He took his payment, said his farewells, then sailed his pilot boat to shore, passing the flotilla of watermen’s bumboats heading in the opposite direction. They were soon clustered around the hull of the ship, clamouring like costermongers as they offered water, beer, fresh meat, fruit, vegetables and passage to shore for any passengers. Grease-dealers climbed on board trying to buy the cook’s ‘slush’ from the voyage and were as quickly repelled by Captain Simonsen.
Lowry tied up at the dock and headed for a waterfront tavern, where his tale of the castaways aboard the Moctezuma earned him a few free drinks. The story was circulating through the town well before one of the local watermen, Richard Hodge, brought the three men and Captain Simonsen ashore.
Beyond the breakwater surrounding the inner harbour, Tom saw the rear of the Georgian Customs House at the centre of the quay. Next to it was a taller granite building, housing the harbour master’s office, with a top-floor balcony from which he could survey his domain.
Fishing smacks and coasters crowded the waters and half a dozen barques were tied up at the quayside. Another two lay in the repairers’ yards further round the bay. Merchants and agents jostled for space on the quayside with crewmen and dock-workers loading and unloading cargo.
The watermen operated out of Barracks Ope Quay, a narrow wharf flanked by a tall warehouse, a quarter of a mile further along the waterfront. Hodge tied up near a fishwife taking crabs from a wicker basket and binding their claws with twine. She tossed them into another basket, where they landed with a clack of shells like the roll of dice on a tavern table.
Hodge helped up Tom, Brooks and Stephens from the boat in turn. They stood staring, mouths agape, disoriented and intimidated by the colour, noise and bustle of activity around them as watermen loaded and unloaded their craft, porters touted for business and fishermen, costermongers and street hawkers shouted their wares.
Tom remained for a moment on the granite setts at the water’s edge, offering a silent prayer of thanks for his deliverance as he explored the unfamiliar sensation of solid ground beneath his feet. He stumbled as he walked along the quay, struggling to readjust after four months of adaptation to the constantly shifting deck of a ship at sea.
Drawn by Gustavus Lowry’s tavern tales, a large crowd had gathered at the end of the quay to greet the survivors from the Mignonette. Among the spectators was a local customs officer and a sergeant in the Falmouth Harbour Police, James Laverty.
Tom winced with pain as he was seized by the arms, hoisted on to an upturned barrel outside the tavern and forced to address the crowd. As he looked over the sea of faces, uncertain of his reception, he heard boos and jeers from one section of the crowd.
‘Why did you not draw lots?’ a voice shouted. ‘It is the custom of the sea.’
‘I offered to,’ Tom said. ‘My men refused. After a few more days had passed, the lad drank sea-water during the night. He was dying anyway. What, then, would have been the sense in drawing lots between still-living men with families and children depending on them, and a sick and dying orphan boy?’
Tom again scanned the circle of faces below him. There were mutterings, then nods and murmurs of assent. A moment later a voice shouted, ‘Three cheers for Captain Dudley and his men, hip-hip—’ There was a roar and hats were waved in the air to celebrate the men’s survival.
The crowd detained them a little longer, pestering them with questions about the wreck and their ordeal, but finally they were allowed to leave. A precipitous flight of granite steps ran up the narrow alleyway leading to the street. All three men were still very weak and could walk only with difficulty on level ground. It took them almost half an hour to negotiate the steps.
Simonsen stayed with them for a while but then, at Tom’s insistence, moved on ahead, making for the office of the German consul in Falmouth.
As the three men reached the street and paused for breath, they were confronted by the customs officer and Sergeant Laverty. ‘You are aware that the three of you and the captain of the Moctezuma are required to make a deposition about the wreck before the shipping master?’
Tom nodded. ‘We are, but may we first rest and eat?’
The customs officer hesitated, looking to Laverty for guidance. He said nothing at first, looking from Tom to the others with an expression of distaste.
‘We are on our way to the Sailors’ Home,’ Tom said, after waiting in vain for some reply. ‘We shall break our fast and rest for a while, but we shall appear before the shipping master not later than noon.’
‘Be sure you do,’ Laverty said, turning on his heel.
The customs officer gave a nervous glance after him, then turned back to Tom with an uncertain smile. ‘The sooner you make your depositions, the sooner you will be able to continue your journey home.’ Brooks waited until the man was out of earshot, then looked at Tom. ‘What is this statement?’
‘It is a formality, but it must be done. It is required by law after the loss of any merchant ship.’
‘And is that all the shipping master will wish to know about?’
‘He must be told about the boy too.’
‘And what will you tell him?’
Tom met his gaze. ‘The truth.’
‘But, Cap—’
Tom interrupted him: ‘What have I to fear from the truth? There is no man walks this earth whose eye I cannot meet, nor one who can say I have wronged him.’