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Menhardoc: A Story of Cornish Nets and Mines, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 1. Introduces Will And His Henchman, Josh |
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_ CHAPTER ONE. INTRODUCES WILL AND HIS HENCHMAN, JOSH "You don't know it, Master Will, lad, but Natur' couldn't ha' done no better for you if she'd tried." "Why, Josh?" "Why, lad? There's a queshton to ask! Why? Warn't you born in Co'rn'all, the finest country in all England, and ain't you going to grow into a Cornishman, as all old books says is giants, when you've left off being a poor smooth, soft-roed, gallish-looking creatur', same as you are now?" The utterer of these words certainly spoke them, but in a musical, sing-song intonation peculiar to the fishermen of the district. He was a fair, short man, somewhat deformed, one arm being excessively short, seeming little more than a hand projecting from one side of his breast; but this in no wise interfered with his activity as he stood there glittering in the bright morning sunshine on the deck of a Cornish lugger, shaking pilchards out of the dark-brown net into the well or hold. Josh Helston glittered in the morning sunshine like a harlequin in a limelight, for he was spangled from head to foot with the loose silvery scales of the pilchards caught during the night, and on many another night during the past few weeks. There were scales on his yellow south-wester, in his fair closely-curling hair, a couple on his ruddy-brown nose, hundreds upon his indigo-blue home-knit jersey, and his high boots, that were almost trousers and boots in one, were literally burnished with the adherent disks of silvery iridescent horn. The "poor smooth, gallish-looking creatur'" he addressed was a well-built young fellow of seventeen, with no more effeminacy in his appearance than is visible in a lad balanced by nature just on that edge of life where we rest for a short space uneasily, bidding good-bye to boyhood so eagerly, before stepping boldly forward, and with flushed face and flashing eyes feeling our muscles and the rough hair upon our cheeks and chins, and saying, in all the excitement of the discovery of that El Dorado time of life, "At last I am a man!" Josh Helston's words did not seem fair, but his way was explained once to Michael Polree as they stood together on the pier; and the latter had expostulated after his fashion, for he never spoke much, by saying: "Easy, mate, easy." "Easy it is, Mike," sang rather than said Josh. "I know what I'm about. The old un said I wasn't to spoil him, and I won't. He's one o' them soft sort o' boys as is good stuff, like a new-bred net; but what do you do wi' it, eh?" "Bile it," growled old Mike, "Cutch or Gambier." "Toe be sure," said Josh; "and I'm biling young Will in the hot water o' adversitee along with the cutch o' worldly knowledge, and the gambier o' fisherman's gumption, till he be tanned of a good moral, manly, sensible brown. I know." Then old Mike winked at Josh Helston, and Josh Helston winked solemnly at old Mike Polree, who threw a couple of hake slung on a bit of spun yarn over one shoulder, his strapped-together boots stuffed with coarse worsted stockings, one on each side, over the other shoulder, squirted a little tobacco juice into the harbour, and went off barefoot over the steep stones to the cottage high up the cliff, muttering to himself something about Pilchar' Will being a fine young chap all the same. "That's all nonsense about the Cornishmen being giants, Josh," said Will, as he rapidly passed the long lengths of net through his hands, so that they should lie smooth in the hold, ready for shooting again that night without twist or tangle. "Old writers were very fond of stretching men." "Dessay they was," said Josh; "but they never stretched me. I often wish I was ten inches longer." "It wouldn't have made a better fellow of you, Josh," said Will, with a merry twinkle in his eye. "I dunno 'bout that," said Josh disparagingly; "I ain't much account," and he rubbed his nose viciously with the back of his hand, the result being that he spread a few more scales upon his face. "Why, you're the strongest man I know, Josh. You can throw anyone in Peter Churchtown, and I feel like a baby when you grip hold of me." Josh felt flattered, but he would not show it in the face of such a chance for giving a lesson. "Babby! And that's just what you are--a big soft, overgrown babby, with no more muscle in you than a squid. I'd be ashamed o' myself, that I would, if I was you." "Can't help it, Josh," said the young fellow, wrinkling his sun-browned forehead, and still turning the soft nets into filmy ropes by passing them through his hands. "Can't help it! Why, you ain't got no more spirit in you than a pilchar'--no more'n one o' these as run its head through the net last night, hung on by its gills and let itself die, whar it might ha' wriggled itself out if it had had plenty o' pluck. If you don't take care, my lad, you'll get a name for being a regular soft. I believe if one of the lads o' your own size hit you, you'd cry." "Perhaps I should, Josh, so I hope no one will hit me." The lad thrust back his scarlet woollen cap, and bent down over the brown nets so that his companion should not see his face; and as he shook down the soft meshes, with the heap growing bigger and bigger, so did the pile of silvery pilchards grow taller, as Josh growled to himself and shook out the fish easily enough, for though the gills of the herring-like fish acted as barbs to complete their arrowy form as they darted through the sea, and kept them from swimming back, the hold on the net was very frail, and they kept falling pat, pat, upon the deck or in the well. "After all I've done for you I don't want you to turn out a cur," growled Josh at last. "Well, was I a cur last night?" cried Will eagerly. "Mike said there was a storm coming on, and that we'd better run in. Didn't I say, 'let's stop and shake out the fish,' as we hauled the nets?" "Ay, but that's not very plucky," cried Josh, giving his face another rub and placing some spangles under his right eye; "that's being foolhardy and running risks with your craft, as no man ought to do as has charge of a lugger and all her gear. Ah, you're a poor gallish sort o' lad, and it's only a silly job to try and make a man of you." It was quite early in the morning, and the sun was just showing over the bold headland to play through the soft silvery mist that hung in patches over the sea, which heaved and fell, ruddy orange where the sun glanced upon the swell, and dark misty purple in the hollows. The surface was perfectly smooth, not a breath of air coming from the land to dimple the long gentle heaving of the ebbing tide. Here and there the dark luggers, with their duck-shaped hulls and cinnamon-brown sails, stood out clear in the morning sunshine; while others that had not reached the harbour were fast to the small tub buoys; and again others that had not heeded the warnings of the threatened storm were only now creeping in, looking strange and mysterious, half-hidden as they were by the veil of mist that now opened, now closed and completely blotted them from the sight of those in the harbour. It was a wild-looking place, the little fishing town nestling on the cliff, with the grey granite rocks piled-up behind and spreading to east and west like cyclopean walls, built in regular layers by the giants of whom Josh Helston had told. The wonder was that in some north-east gale the little fleet of fishing vessels was not dashed to pieces by the huge breakers that came tearing in, to leap against the rocks and fall back with a sullen roar amidst the great boulders. And one storm would have been enough, but for the harbour, into which, like so many sea-birds, the luggers huddled together; while the great granite wall curved round them like a stout protective arm thrust out by the land, and against which the waves beat themselves to spray. It was a wild but singularly attractive view from Peter Churchtown, for the simple Cornish folk did not trouble themselves to say "Saint," but invariably added to every village that boasted a church the name of churchtown. High above it, perched upon the steepest spots, were the tall engine-houses of the tin and copper mines, one of which could be seen, too, half-way down the cliff, a few hundred yards from the harbour; and here the galleries from whence the ore was blasted and picked ran far below the sea. In fact it was said that in the pursuit of the lode of valuable ore the company would mine their way till they met the work-people of the Great Ruddock Mine over on the other side of the bay, beyond the lighthouse through the curve of the shore. As the mist lifted from where it had half-hidden the tall lighthouse, with its base of black rocks, against which the sea never ceased breaking in creamy foam, a boat could be seen on its way to a large black, mastless vessel, moored head and stern with heavy chains, and looking quite deserted in the morning light. "There they go off to work, Josh," exclaimed Will suddenly. "Well, and you're off to work too," said Josh gruffly, as he picked from the net the half, of a pilchard, the tail portion having been bitten off by some predatory fish, as it hung helplessly by its gills. "Them hake have been having a nice game wi' the fish to-night." As he spoke he picked out another and another half pilchard, and threw them as far as he could, when, almost as each piece touched the water, a soft-looking grey gull swept down and caught it from the surface with its strong beak, uttering a low peevish-sounding wail as it swept up again, hardly seeming to move its long white-lined wings. "I should dearly like to go aboard the lighter and see what they are doing," said Will eagerly. "Paying attention to their work," said Josh sharply, "and that's what you're not doing." "I'm only a few fathoms behind you, Josh, and I shall be waiting directly. I say, when we're done let's row aboard." "I don't want to row aboard," said Josh sourly, but watching the progress of the boat the while. "They've got regular diving things there, Josh, and an air-engine; and the men go down. I should like to have a look." "What are they going down for?" said Josh; "looking for oyster-beds?" "No, no. Trelynn Mine is like to be flooded by the water that comes in from one of the galleries under the sea, and the divers go down to try and find the place where it gets in, and stop it with clay and cement." "Humph! are they going to find it, d'yer think?" "Yes, I believe so. They measure so exactly that they can put a boat right over the place. I say, Josh, shouldn't you like to go down?" "What! dive down?" "Yes." "I should just think not, indeed. A man's place is in a boat floating atop of the water, and not going underneath. If man was meant to go underneath he'd have gills and fins and scales, same as these here pilchar's." "Oh, yes, I know all that; but only think of trying on a diver's suit, and being supplied with air from above, through a tube into your helmet." "This here dress is good enough for me, and my sou'-wester's a sight better than any helmet I know, and the only air as I care about having through a tube's 'bacco smoke." "But shouldn't you like to go and see the diving?" "Not I," said Josh, staring hard at the great lighter. "'Sides, when we've done here, and the fish is all salted down, I want to row across to the lighthouse." "That will be going close by, Josh. I'll take an oar with you, and let's stop on the way." "Just couldn't think o' such a thing. Come, work away, lad," cried Josh; and both he and Will did work away, the latter saying nothing more, for he knew his man, and that there was eager curiosity and also intense longing in the looks directed by the fisherman across the water from time to time. The result was, that, armed with a couple of good-sized pollack as a present to the skipper in charge of the lighter, Josh Helston and his young companion rowed alongside the well-moored vessel before the morning was much older, and were soon on deck watching the proceedings with the greatest interest. One of the divers was just preparing to go down as they set foot aboard; and they were in time to see the heavy leaden weights attached to his back and breast, and the great helmet, with its tail-like tube, lifted over his head and screwed on to the gorget. Then with the life-line attached he moved towards the gangway, the air-pump clanking as the crew turned the wheel; and step by step the man went down the ladder lashed to the lighter's side. Josh involuntarily gripped Will's hand as the diver descended lower and lower, to chest, neck, and then the great goggle-eyed helmet was covered, while from the clear depths the air that kept rapidly bubbling up rendered the water confused, so that the descending figure looked distorted and strange. "Three fathom o' water here, my lad," whispered Josh, as with his companion he leaned over the side and gazed down at the rocks below. "Three and a half, isn't it, Josh?" said Will in a low tone. "Mike always says there's three and a half here at this time of the tide." "And I says it's three fathom," growled Josh dogmatically. "My, but it's a gashly sight for a man to go down like that!" "Why, I wouldn't mind diving down, Josh," said Will excitedly. "Diving down! Ay, I wouldn't mind diving down. It's being put in prison, and boxed up in them gashly things as makes it so horrid. Here, let's be off. I can't stand it. That there poor chap'll never come up again alive." "Nonsense, Josh! He's all right. There, you can see him moving about. That pump sends him down plenty of air." "Lor', what a great soft sort of a chap you are, William Marion!" said Josh. "You'll never larn nothing. The idee of a pump pumping air! They're a-pumping the water from all round him, so as to give the poor chap room to breathe. Can't you see the long soft pipe? Here, I don't like it. I want to go." "No, no: not yet," cried Will excitedly. "I want to watch the diver." "An' I don't," said Josh, turning his face away. "I never could abear to see things killed, and I never would go and see it. I can stand fish, but that's enough for me. Here's a human bein' goin' to be as good as murdered, and I won't be one o' them as stands by and sees it done." "What nonsense, Josh!" cried Will. "This is regular diving apparatus. That's an air-pump; and the man has air pumped down into his helmet through that india-rubber pipe." "Garlong; don't tell me, boy," cried Josh indignantly. "Into his helmet indeed! Why, you can see all the water bubbling up round him. That's what it is--pumped away. I tell 'ee I'm off. I won't stop and see the gashly work going on." Just then there was a cry from one of the men by the gangway, for the life-line was jerked. "More air!" he shouted; and the men spun the wheel round faster; but the line jerked again. "There's something wrong!" shouted one of the others. "Here, lay hold there--quick! Keep on there with that handle, stupids! Do you want the man to choke? Pump, I tell you. Now, then, haul!" "There, I told you so, Will," cried Josh, whose ruddy-brown face was looking mottled with white. "I know'd the gashly old job was wrong. Come away, boy, come away." For answer, in his excitement Will thrust his arm aside and ran to the line to help haul. "No, no, my lad; stand aside," cried the man who seemed to be captain of the diving-crew, and who was dressed for the work all but his helmet. "Haul away, do you hear?" The men were hauling hard, but the rope had come taut; and instead of their bringing up the diver it was plain to all that the poor fellow had got the line hitched round a piece of rock, or else one of his legs wedged in some crevice of the rocks he was exploring. "Shake the rope loose for a moment and haul again," cried the leader. The men obeyed and then hauled again, but the line came taut once more; and if they had hauled much harder it would have parted. "Lend a hand here quick with that other helmet. Make fast there! I'll go down and cast him loose. Here, quick, some of you!" "He'll be a dead un afore you get to him," growled the skipper of the lighter, "if you arn't sharp." "I knowed it, I knowed it," whispered Josh hoarsely. "I see it all along." "Screw that on," panted the leader; "and you, Winter, stand by the engine. Be cool. Now, the helmet. Hah!" There was a loud crash just then as the trembling and excited man who was handing the second helmet let it fall upon an iron bar lying upon the deck, so injuring the delicate piece of mechanism that the men stared at each other aghast, and Will's hands grew wet with horror. "Is there a man here who can dive?" shouted the skipper coming forward with a thin coil of line. And, amidst a breathless silence Will stepped forward. "No, no, he can't," shouted Josh excitedly; and then he stood open-mouthed and with one hand clasping the other as he saw Will make a rapid hitch in the line, throw it round his waist, tighten it, and then, after a quick glance round, seize one of the diver's leaden weights lying on an upturned cask. Then stepping to the side he said quickly, "Josh, look to the line!" and with the heavy weight held out at arm's-length he leaped from the gangway, right where the air-bubbles were still rising, and plunged headforemost into the sea. ------------------ Note: Net-making in Cornwall is called net-breeding. _ |
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