There was villainy afoot, or perhaps that should be afloat.

The leader, Blackcoat.

The Second Mate with Blackcoat looking on.

Second mate his 'ead still spinning from last night's grog.

In the early morning mist three canoes slid silently into the water beneath Brunel’s Iron Bridge at Saltash. These three ne'r do wells were making for a ketch that was laid off the shore a few cables length away.  Their leader, a piratical looking sort dressed all over in black, was sporting a headband to keep out the chill of the morning mist into which he had tucked a dirk, pulled easily ahead and was soon at the stern of the ketch. Whilst his two companions took up station on watch either side to offer early warning and protection from the excise men.

 

The Ketch "Jamaicy"

The ketch, bearing the name “Jamaicy” suddenly came to life. A light held close and shielded outlined the silhouettes of three crew on deck. They had formed a line and were passing something wrapped in hessian sacks from a forward hatch to the rear and down into the canoe which was held fast on the ketch’s bow line. This off-loading of “goods” took no more than some few minutes and with the quiet professionalism of men grown used to such tasks was accomplished without barely a word uttered.  The mist had enveloped all and given perfect cover, within moments the three were paddling for Kingsmill Lake and the farm that took its name from this stretch of water which sat nestled at the top of the creek. These were dangerous waters, the haunt of wreckers who when needed could quickly disappear into a labyrinth of patchwork fields, hidden valleys and shady woods. 

With distance the three grew more confident. The sun was now up and such workers in the fields and farms that might have glanced in their direction took no notice. Long since had they learned to cast a blind eye over such river travellers. Reaching the head of the creek well before their appointed time they laid up amongst the reed beds which gave ample cover from view from the old road bridge. It was here that they were due to hand over the booty they had collected from the ketch earlier that morning. They waited. Time rolled on with only the lapping of the outgoing tide against their hulls and the sound of the crows in the trees, sounding as though they were mocking the three. The appointed RV time had come and gone. The leader glancing at his watch whispered    ”That’s it me boyos, we weigh anchor now and run with the tide. There’ll be no business here today”

Moditon Quay.

In silence, alone with their thoughts the three leant to the paddles for the wind was now agin them. The push from the tide was totally counteracted. They were beginning to tire. They had neither food nor drink since the early hours when their escapade had started. The second mate, a tall swarthy gent with the appearance of a preacher pulled alongside the leader and motioned to a spit of land, an old jetty that would afford sanctuary, enabling them to stretch their legs and take stock of the situation. They landed at Moditon Quay. Nearby the old chimney of Wheal Sophia took on the sinister aspect of a spy platform for the Preventative men. Once ashore the three gathered in a conspiratorial huddle, the leader glanced about, his nervous eyes darting everywhere. “Boys, we bin running pasties out of Deben and into Cornwall. We durn’t pay no pasty tax. If the excise boys catch us now were done for. It’s Bodmin Gaol and a short drop at the end of a rope.” “What can we do?” cried the short fat shifty looking one, “I’m too young to dance a jig at the end of a rope.” The other two crew members, made of sterner stuff glanced pitifully at him. “We’ll eat the evidence.” said Blackcoat and with that the three tucked into their pasties declaring them “Bootifull."

The Second mate, known as "Preacher".

Blackcoat, devouring the evidence!