A traveller making the tour of the Wye will now and then see moving
along its banks, or across the contiguous meadows, what he might take
for a gigantic tortoise walking upon its tail! Mystified by a sight so
abnormal, and drawing nigh to get an explanation of it, he will discover
that the moving object is after all but a man, carrying a boat upon his
back! Still the tourist will be astonished at a feat so herculean--
rival to that of Atlas--and will only be altogether enlightened when the
boat-bearer lays down his burden--which, if asked, he will obligingly
do--and permits him, the stranger, to satisfy his curiosity by an
inspection of it. Set square on the sward at his feet, he will look
upon a craft quaint as was ever launched on lake, stream, or tidal wave.
For he will be looking at a "coracle."
Not only quaint in construction, but singularly ingenious in design,
considering the ends to be accomplished. In addition, historically
interesting; so much as to deserve more than passing notice, even in the
pages of a novel. Nor will I dismiss it without a word, however it may
seem out of place.
In shape the coracle bears resemblance to the half of a humming-top, or
Swedish turnip cloven longitudinally, the cleft face scooped out leaving
but the rind. The timbers consist of slender saplings--peeled and split
to obtain lightness--disposed, some fore and aft, others athwart-ships,
still others diagonally, as struts and ties, all having their ends in a
band of wickerwork, which runs round the gunwale, holding them firmly in
place, itself forming the rail. Over this framework is stretched a
covering of tarred, and, of course, waterproof canvas, tight as a drum.
In olden times it was the skin of ox or horse, but the modern material
is better, because lighter, and less liable to decay, besides being
cheaper. There is but one seat, or thwart, as the coracle is designed
for only a single occupant, though in a pinch it can accommodate two.
This is a thin board, placed nearly amidships, partly supported by the
wicker rail, and in part by another piece of light scantling, set
edgeways underneath.
In all things ponderosity is as much as possible avoided, since one of
the essential purposes of the coracle is "portage;" and to facilitate
this it is furnished with a leathern strap, the ends attached near each
extremity of the thwart, to be passed across the breast when the boat is
borne overland. The bearer then uses his oar--there is but one, a
broad-bladed paddle--by way of walking-stick; and so proceeds, as
already said, like a tortoise travelling on its tail!
In this convenience of carriage lies the ingenuity of the structure--
unique and clever beyond anything in the way of water-craft I have
observed elsewhere, either among savage or civilised nations. The only
thing approaching it in this respect is the birch bark canoe of the
Esquimaux and the Chippeway Indians. But, though more beautiful this,
it is far behind our native craft in an economic sense--in cheapness and
readiness. For while the Chippewayan would be stripping his bark from
the tree, and re-arming it--to say nought of fitting to the frame
timbers, stitching, and paying it--a subject of King Caradoc would have
launched his coracle upon the Wye, and paddled it from Plinlimmon to
Chepstow; as many a modern Welshman would the same.
Above all, is the coracle of rare historic interest--as the first
venture upon water of a people--the ancestors of a nation that now rules
the sea--their descendants proudly styling themselves its "Lords"--not
without right and reason.
Why called "coracle" is a matter of doubt and dispute; by most admitted
as a derivative from the Latin _corum_--a skin; this being its original
covering. But certainly a misconception; since we have historic
evidence of the basket and hide boat being in use around the shores of
Albion hundreds of years before these ever saw Roman ship or standard.
Besides, at the same early period, under the almost homonym of
"corragh," it floated--still floats--on the waters of the Lerne, far
west of anywhere the Romans ever went. Among the common people on the
Wye it bears a less ancient appellation--that of "truckle."
From whatever source the craft derives its name, it has itself given a
sobriquet to one of the characters of our tale--Richard Dempsey. Why
the poacher is thus distinguished it is not easy to tell; possibly
because he, more than any other in his neighbourhood, makes use of it,
and is often seen trudging about the river bottoms with the huge
carapace on his shoulders. It serves his purpose better than any other
kind of boat, for Dick, though a snarer of hares and pheasants, is more
of a salmon poacher, and for this--the water branch of his amphibious
calling--the coracle has a special adaptation. It can be lifted out of
the river, or launched upon it anywhere, without leaving trace; whereas
with an ordinary skiff the moorings might be marked, the embarkation
observed, and the night netter followed to his netting-place by the
watchful water-bailiff.
Despite his cunning and the handiness of his craft, Dick has not always
come off scot-free. His name has several times figured in the reports
of Quarter Sessions, and himself in the cells of the county gaol. This
only for poaching; but he has also served a spell in prison for crime of
a less venal kind--burglary. As the "job" was done in a distant shire,
there has been nothing heard of it in that where he now resides. The
worst known of him in the neighbourhood is his game and fish
trespassing, though there is worse suspected. He whose suspicions are
strongest being the waterman, Wingate.
But Jack may be wronging him, for a certain reason--the most powerful
that ever swayed the passion or warped the judgment of man--rivalry for
the affections of a woman.
No heart, however hardened, is proof against the shafts of Cupid; and
one has penetrated the heart of Coracle Dick, as deeply as has another
that of Jack Wingate. And both from the same how and quiver--the eyes
of Mary Morgan.
She is the daughter of a small farmer who lives by the Wyeside; and
being a farmer's daughter, above both in social rank, still not so high
but that Love's ladder may reach her, and each lives in hope he may some
day scale it. For Evan Morgan holds as a tenant, and his land is of
limited acreage. Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are not the only ones
who wish to have him for a father-in-law, but the two most earnest, and
whose chances seem best. Not that these are at all equal; on the
contrary, greatly disproportionate, Dick having the advantage. In his
favour is the fact that Farmer Morgan is a Roman Catholic--his wife
fanatically so--he, Dempsey, professing the same faith; while Wingate is
a Protestant of pronounced type.
Under these circumstances Coracle has a friend at head-quarters, in Mrs
Morgan, and an advocate who visits there, in the person of Father
Rogier.
With this united influence in his favour, the odds against the young
waterman are great, and his chances might appear slight--indeed would
he, were it not for an influence to counteract. He, too, has a partisan
inside the citadel, and a powerful one; since it is the girl herself.
He knows--is sure of it, as man may be of any truth, communicated to him
by loving lips amidst showers of kisses. For all this has passed
between Mary Morgan and himself.
And nothing of it between her and Richard Dempsey. Instead, on her
part, coldness and distant reserve. It would be disdain--ay, scorn--if
she dare show it; for she hates the very sight of the man. But,
controlled and close watched, she has learnt to smile when she would
frown.
The world--or that narrow circle of it immediately surrounding and
acquainted with the Morgan family--wonders at the favourable reception
it vouchsafes to Richard Dempsey--a known and noted poacher.
But in justice to Mrs Morgan it should be said, she has but slight
acquaintance with the character of the man--only knows it as represented
by Rogier. Absorbed in her paternosters, she gives little heed to ought
else; her thoughts, as her actions, being all of the dictation, and
under the direction, of the priest. In her eyes Coracle Dick is as the
latter has painted him, thus--
"A worthy fellow--poor it is true, but honest withal; a little addicted
to fish and game taking, as many another good man. Who wouldn't with
such laws--unrighteous--oppressive to the poor? Were they otherwise,
the poacher would be a patriot. As for Dempsey, they who speak ill of
him are only the envious--envying his good looks, and fine mental
qualities. For he's clever, and they can't say nay--energetic, and
likely to make his way in the world. Yet, one thing he would make--
that's a good husband to your daughter Mary--one who has the strength
and courage to take care of her."
So counsels the priest; and as he can make Mrs Morgan believe black
white, she is ready to comply with his counsel. If the result rested on
her, Coracle Dick would have nothing to fear.
But it does not--he knows it does not--and is troubled. With all the
influence in his favour, he fears that other influence against him--if
against him, far more than a counterpoise to Mrs Morgan's religious
predilections, or the partisanship of his priest. Still he is not sure;
one day the slave of sweet confidence, the next a prey to black bitter
jealousy. And thus he goes on doting and doubting, as if he were never
to know the truth.
A day comes when he is made acquainted with it, or, rather, a night; for
it is after sundown the revelation reaches him--indeed, nigh on to
midnight. His favoured, yet defeated, aspirations, are more than twelve
months old. They have been active all through the preceding winter,
spring, and summer. It is now autumn; the leaves are beginning to turn
sere, and the last sheaves have been gathered to the stack.
No shire than that of Hereford more addicted to the joys of the Harvest
Home; this often celebrated in a public and general way, instead of at
the private and particular farm-house. One such is given upon the
summit of Garran Hill--a grand gathering, to which all go of the class
who attend such assemblages--small farmers with their families, their
servants too, male and female. There is a cromlech on the hill's top,
around which they annually congregate, and beside this ancient relic are
set up the symbols of a more modern time--the Maypole--though it is
Autumn--with its strings and garlands; the show booths and the
refreshment tents, with their display of cakes, fruits, perry, and
cider. And there are sports of various kinds, pitching the stone,
climbing the greased pole--that of May now so slippery--jumping, racing
in sacks, dancing--among other dances the Morris--with a grand _finale_
of fireworks.
At this year's fete Farmer Morgan is present, accompanied by his wife
and daughter. It need not be said that Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate
are there too. They are, and have been all the afternoon--ever since
the gathering began. But during the hours of daylight neither
approaches the fair creature to which his thoughts tend, and on which
his eyes are almost constantly turning. The poacher is restrained by a
sense of his own unworthiness--a knowledge that there is not the place
to make show of his aspirations to one all believe so much above him;
while the waterman is kept back and aloof by the presence of the
watchful mother.
With all her watchfulness he finds opportunity to exchange speech with
the daughter--only a few words, but enough to make hell in the heart of
Dick Dempsey, who overhears them.
It is at the closing scene of the spectacle, when the pyrotechnists are
about to send up their final _feu de joie_, Mrs Morgan, treated by
numerous acquaintances to aniseed and other toothsome drinks, has grown
less thoughtful of her charge, which gives Jack Wingate the opportunity
he has all along been looking for. Sidling up to the girl, he asks in a
tone which tells of lovers _en rapport_, mutually, unmistakably--
"When, Mary?"
"Saturday night next. The priest's coming to supper. I'll make an
errand to the shop, soon as it gets dark."
"Where?"
"The old place under the big elm."
"You're sure you'll be able?"
"Sure, never fear, I'll find a way."
"God bless you, dear girl. I'll be there, if anywhere on earth."
This is all that passes between them. But enough--more than enough--for
Richard Dempsey. As a rocket, just then going up, throws its glare over
his face, as also the others, no greater contrast could be seen or
imagined. On the countenances of the lovers an expression of
contentment, sweet and serene; on his a look such as Mephistopheles gave
to Gretchen escaping from his toils.
The curse in Coracle's heart is but hindered from rising to his lips by
a fear of its foiling the vengeance he there and then determines on.
Volume One, Chapter XVII.