Misfortune did not daunt Ortho for long; the promising state of the home
fields put fresh heart in him. He plunged at the work chanting a pæan in
praise of agriculture, tore through obstacles and swept up his tasks
with a speed and thoroughness which left Eli and Bohenna standing
amazed.
The Penhale brothers harvested a record crop that season—but so did
everybody else. The market was glutted and prices negligible. Except
that their own staple needs were provided for, they were no better off
than previously. Eli did not greatly care—he had done what he had set
out to do, bring a good crop home—but Ortho fell into a state of
profound gloom; it was money that he wanted.
It seemed to make little difference in agriculture whether you harvested
a bumper yield or none at all. He had no capital to start in the
second-hand horse trade again—even did he wish to—and he had no
knowledge of any other business. He was on the desperate point of
enlisting in the army on the chance of being sent abroad and gathering
in a little loot, when opportunity rapped loudly on his door.
He had run down towards Tol-Pedn-Penwith with Jacky’s George one
afternoon in late September. It was a fine afternoon, with a smooth sea,
and all the coves between Merther Point and Carn Scathe were full of
whitebait. They crowded close inshore in dense shoals, hiding from the
mackerel. When the mackerel charged them they stampeded in panic,
frittering the surface like wind-flaws. The gig’s crew attacked the
attackers and did so well that they did not notice the passage of time.
Jacky’s George came to his senses as the sun slipped under, and clapped
on all sail for home. He appeared in a hurry. By the time they were
abreast of the Camper, the wind, which had been backing all the
afternoon, was a dead-muzzler. Jacky’s George did what he was seldom
known to do; he blasphemed, ported his helm and ran on a long leg out to
sea. By ten o’clock they had leveled Boscawen Point, but the wind fell
away altogether and they were becalmed three miles out in the Channel.
Jacky’s George blasphemed again and ordered oars out. The gig was heavy
and the tide against them. It took Ortho and three young Baragwanaths an
hour and a half to open Monks Cove.
Ortho could not see the reason of it, of wrenching one’s arms out, when
in an hour or two the tide would carry them in. However, he knew better
than to question Jacky’s George’s orders. Even when Monks Cove was
reached the little man did not go in, but pointed across for Black Carn.
As they paddled under the lee of the cape there came a peculiar whistle
from the gloom ahead, to which the bow-oar responded, and Ortho made out
a boat riding to a kedge. They pulled alongside and made fast. It was
the second Baragwanath gig, with the eldest son, Anson, and the
remainder of the brothers aboard.
“Who’s that you got wid ’e?” came the hushed voice of Anson.
“Ortho Penhale,” his father replied. “Hadn’t time to put en
ashore—becalmed way out. Has a showed up yet?”
“Naw, a’s late.”
“Ess. Wind’s felled away. All quiet in Cove?”
“Ess, sure. Every road’s watched and Ma’s got a furze stacked up to
touch off if she gets warning.”
“All right . . . well, keep your eye peeled for his signal.”
Light suddenly broke on Ortho. There was a run on and he was in
it—thrilling! He leaned towards Jacky’s George and whispered, “Who’s
coming? Roscoff boat?”
Jacky’s George uttered two words which sent an electric quiver through
him:
“King Nick.”
King Nick. Captain Nicholas Buzza, prince of Free Traders, the man who
had made more runs than all the rest put together, who owned a fleet of
armed smugglers and cheated the Revenue of thousands a year. Who had
fooled the riding officers times out of number and beaten off the
Militia. Who had put to sea after a big privateer sent to suppress him,
fought a running fight from Godrevy to Trevose and sent her diving down
the deep sea. The mercurial, dare-devil King Nick who was said to be
unable to sleep comfortably unless there was a price on his head; who
had raided Penzance by the light of the moon and recaptured a lost
cargo; who had been surprised by the gaugers off Cawsand, chopped to
bits with cutlasses, left for dead—and then swam ashore; who was
reported to walk through Peter Port with all the Guernsey merchants
bowing low before him, was called “Duc de Roscoff” in Brittany, and
commanded more deference in Schiedam than its own Burgomaster. King
Nick, the romantic idol of every West Country boy, coming to Monks Cove
that very night, even then moving towards them through the dark. Ortho
felt as if he were about to enter the presence of Almighty God.
“Is it a big run?” he whispered to Jacky’s George, trembling with
excitement.
“Naw, main run was at Porthleven last night. This is but the leavings. A
few trifles for the Kiddlywink to oblige me.”
“Is King Nick a friend of yours, then?” said Ortho, wide-eyed.
“Lord save you, yes! We was privateering together years ago.”
Ortho regarded the fisherman with added veneration.
“If a don’t come soon a’ll miss tide,” Anson hissed from the other boat.
“He’ll come, tide or no tide,” snapped his father. “Hold tongue, will
’e? Dost want whole world to hear?”
Anson subsided.
There was a faint mist clouding the sea, but overhead rode a splendor of
stars, an illimitable glitter of silver dust. Nothing was to be heard
but the occasional scrape of sea-boots as one cramped boy or other
shifted position, the wail of a disturbed sea bird from the looming
rookeries above them, the everlasting beat of surf on the Twelve
Apostles a mile away to the southwest and the splash and sigh of some
tired ninth wave heaving itself over the ledges below Black Carn.
An hour went by. Ashore a cock crowed, and a fisherman’s donkey,
tethered high up the cliff-side, roared asthmatically in reply. The
boats swung round as the tide slackened and made. The night freshened.
Ripples lapped the bows. The land wind was blowing. Ortho lay face-down
on the stroke thwart and yawned. Adventure—if adventure there was to
be—was a long time coming. He was getting cold. The rhythmic lift and
droop of the gig, the lisp and chuckle of the water voices had a
hypnotic effect on him. He pillowed his cheek on his forearms and
drowsed, dreamt he was swaying in gloomy space, disembodied,
unsubstantial, a wraith dipping and soaring over a bottomless void.
Clouds rolled by him big as continents. He saw the sun and moon below
him no bigger than pins’ heads and world upon glittering world strewn
across the dark like grains of sand. He could not have long lain thus,
could not have fallen fully asleep, for Anson’s first low call set him
wide awake.
“Sail ho!”
Both boats’ crews sat up as one man.
“Where away?”
“Sou’-east.”
Ortho’s eyes bored into the hollow murk seawards, but could distinguish
nothing for the moment. Then, as he stared, it seemed to him that the
dark smudge that was the corner of the Carn was expanding westwards. It
stretched and stretched until, finally, a piece detached itself
altogether and he knew it was a big cutter creeping close inshore under
full sail. Never a wink of light did the stranger show.
“Hast lantern ready?” hissed Jacky’s George.
“Aye,” from Anson.
“Cast off there, hoist killick and stand by.”
“Aye, aye!”
The blur that was the cutter crept on, silent as a shadow, almost
indistinguishable against the further dark, a black moth on black
velvet. All eyes watched her. Suddenly a green light glowed amidships,
stabbing the inky waters with an emerald dagger, glowed steadily,
blinked out, glowed again and vanished. Ortho felt his heart bound into
his throat.
“Now,” snapped Jacky’s George. “Show lantern . . . four times,
remember.”
Anson stood up and did as he was bid.
The green lantern replied, the cutter rounded up in the wind and drifted
towards them, tide-borne.
“Out oars and pull,” said Jacky’s George.
They swept within forty yards of the cutter.
“’Vast pulling,” came a voice from her bows.
“Back water, all!” Jacky’s George commanded.
“Is that George Baragwanath?” came the voice again, a high-pitched,
kindly voice, marvelously clear.
“Aye, aye!”
“What’s the word then, my dear?”
“Hosannah!”
“What’s that there boat astern of ’e?”
“Mine—my second boat.”
“Well, tell him to keep off a cable’s length till I’ve seen to ’e,” the
amiable voice continued. “If he closes ’fore I tell en I’ll blow him
outer the water as God is my salvation. No offense meant, but we can’t
take chances, you understand. Come ahead, you.”
The gig’s crew gave way and brought their craft alongside the smuggler.
“One at a time,” said the voice somewhere in the darkness above them,
mild as a ringdove. “George, my dear soul, step up alone, will ’e,
please?”
Jacky’s George went over the rail and out of sight.
Ortho heard the voice greet him affectionately and then attend to the
helmsman.
“Back fore-sail, Zebedee; she’ll jam ’tween wind and tide. No call to
anchor. We’ll have this little deck load off in ten minutes, please God,
amen! There it is all before you, George—low Hollands proof, brandy,
sugar, and a snatch of snuff. Tally it, will you, please. We’re late,
I’m afraid. I was addressing a few earnest seekers after grace at
Rosudgeon this afternoon and the word of the Lord came upon me and I
spake overlong, I fear, trembling and sweating in my unworthiness—and
then the wind fell very slight. I had to sweep her along till, by God’s
infinite mercy, I picked up this shore draught. Whistle up your second
boat and we’ll load ’em both sides to once. You haven’t been washed in
the blood of the Lamb as yet, have you, George? Ah, that it might be
vouchsafed this unworthy vessel to purge you with hyssop! I must have a
quiet talk with you. Steady with them tubs, Harry; you’ll drop ’em
through the gig.”
For the next quarter of an hour Ortho was busy stowing casks lowered by
the cutter’s crew, but all the time the sweet voice went on. It seemed
to be trying to persuade Jacky’s George into something he would not do.
He could hear the pair tramping the deck above him side by side—one,
two, three, four and roundabout, one, two, three, four and
roundabout—the voice purling like a melodious brook; Jacky’s George’s
gruff negatives, and the brook purling on again unruffled. Nobody else
on the cutter uttered a sound; it might have been manned by a company of
mutes.
Anson called from the port side that he was loaded. Jacky’s George broke
off his conversation and crossed over.
“Pull in then. Soon’s you’ve got ’em stowed show a spark and I’ll
follow.”
Anson’s gig disappeared shorewards, wallowing deep. Jacky’s George
gripped a stay with his hook and swung over the rail into his own boat.
“I can’t do it, cap’n,” he called. “Good night and thank ’e kindly all
the same. Cast off!”
They were away. It burst upon Ortho that he had not seen his hero—that
he never would. In a minute the tall cutter would be fading away
seawards as mysteriously as she had come and the great King Nick would
be never anything to him but a voice. He could have cried out with
disappointment.
“Push off,” said Jacky’s George.
Ortho leant on his oar and pushed and, as he did so, somebody sprang
from the cutter’s rail, landed on the piled casks behind him as lightly
as a cat, steadied himself with a hand on his shoulder and dropped into
the stern-sheets beside the fisherman.
“Coming ashore wid ’e, George,” said the voice, “and by God’s grace I’ll
persuade ’e yet.”
King Nick was in the boat!
“Mind what I bade ’e, Zebedee,” he hailed the cutter. “Take she round to
once and I’ll be off to-morrow night by God’s providence and loving
kindness.” The cutter swung slowly on her heel, drifted beam on to the
lapping tide, felt her helm and was gone, blotted out, swallowed up,
might never have been.
But King Nick was in the boat! Ortho could not see him—he was merely a
smudged silhouette—but he was in the stern-sheets not a yard distant.
Their calves were actually rubbing! Could such things be?
They paddled in and hung a couple of cables’ length off shore waiting
Anson’s signal. The smuggler began his argument again, and this time
Ortho heard all; he couldn’t help it.
“Think of the money in it, George. You’ve got a growing family. Think o’
your duty to them.”
“I reckon they won’t starve—why won’t the bay men do ’e?”
“’Cos there’s a new collector coming to Penzance and a regiment o’
dragoons, and you know what they rogues are—‘their mouth is full of
cursing and bitterness, their feet are swift to shed blood’—nothing
like they poor lambs the militia. Won’t be able to move a pack horse
between Mousehole and Marazion wid they lawless scum about—God ha’
mercy on ’em and pardon ’em!”
“Who told ’e new collector and sojers is coming?”
“The old collector, Mr. Hawkesby. Took him a pin o’ crafty old Jamaica
with my respects only last Tuesday and he showed me the letter signed
and sealed. An honorable Christian gentleman is Mr. Hawkesby; many a
holy discourse have I had with him. He wouldn’t deceive me. No, George,
‘Strangers are risen up against me and tyrants.’ . . . ‘Lo, the ungodly
bend their bow.’”
“Umph! Well, why don’t ’e run it straight on north coast, handy to
market?”
King Nick’s voice took on a slightly pained tone. “George, George, my
dear life, ponder, will ’e? Consider where between St. Ives and Sennen
_can_ I run a cargo. And how many days a week in winter can I land at
Sennen—eh? Not one. Not one in a month hardly. ‘He gathereth the waters
of the sea together, as it was upon a heap.’ Psalm thirty-three. And
it’s in winter that the notable hard drinking’s done, as thou well
knowest. What else is the poor dear souls to do in the long bitter
evenings? Think o’ they poor St. Just tinners down in the damp and dark
all day. ’Tis the duty of any man professing Christian love and charity
to assist they poor souls to get a drop of warm liquor cheap. What saith
the Book? ‘Blessed is he that considereth the poor and needy.’ Think on
that, George.” There were tears in the melodious brook.
Jacky’s George grunted. “Dunno as I’ve got any turrible love for
tinners. The last pair o’ they mucky toads as comed here pretty nigh
clawed my house down. Why not Porgwarra or Penberth?”
“’Cos there aren’t a man there I’d trust, George. I wouldn’t put my
trust en nobody but you—‘The faithful are minished from among the sons
o’ men.’ You run a bit for yourself; why can’t ’e run a bit more and
make a fortune? What’s come over ’e, my old and bold? ’Fraid, are ’e,
all to once? What for? You’ve got a snug landing and a straight track
over the moors, wid never a soul to see ’e pass. Riders can’t rush ’e
here in this little crack o’ the rocks; they’d break their stiff necks.
‘Let their way be dark and slippery and let the angel of the Lord
persecute them: and we shall wash our footsteps in the blood of the
ungodly.’ What makes ’e hold back, old shipmate?”
“Horses,” said Jacky’s George. “Lookee, Cap’n Nick, the money’s good and
I do respect it as much as the next man. I aren’t ’fraid of riders nor
anything else—save tumors—and if it were only a matter of landing,
why, I’d land ’s much stuff as you’ve a mind to. But carry goods to St.
Just for ’e, I won’t, for that means horses, and horses means farmers.
I’m bred to the sea myself and I can’t abide farmers. I’ve tried it
before and there’s always trouble. It do take a week walking round the
earth collecting ’em, and then some do show up and some don’t, and where
are we then? Why, where the cat was—in the tar-barrel. Paul farmers
won’t mix wid Gwithian, and Sancreed can’t stomach neither. And, what is
more, they do eat up all your profits—five shillings here, ten
shillings there—and that ain’t the end of it. When you think you’ve
done paying a farmer, slit me, you’ve only just begun. I won’t be
plagued wid ’em, so that’s the finish.”
“Listen to me a minute,” King Nick purled on, quite undeterred. “I’ll
tell ’e. . . .”
“T’eddn no manner of use, cap’n,” said Jacky’s George, standing up.
“There’s the light showing. Way all! Bend to it!”
The gig shot shorewards for the slip.
The manner in which the Baragwanath family disposed of a run contained
the elements of magic. It was a conjuring trick, no less—“now you see
it, now you don’t.” At one moment the slip-head was chockablock with
bales and barrels; at the next it was bare. They swooped purposefully
out of nowhere, fell upon the goods and—hey, presto!—spirited
themselves back into nowhere, leaving the slip wiped clean.
Including one son and two daughters-in-law, the tribe mustered fourteen
in all, and in the handling of illicit merchandise the ladies were as
gifted as the gentlemen. Ortho was laboriously trundling a cask up the
slip when he encountered one of the Misses Baragwanath, who gave him a
push and took the matter out of his hands. By the time he had recovered
his balance she had gone and so had the cask. It was too dark to see
which way she went. Not that he was interested; on the contrary, he
wanted to think. He had a plan forming in his head, a money-making plan.
He strode up and down the bare strip by the boat capstan getting the
details clear. It did not take him long, being simplicity itself. He
hitched his belt and marched up the little hamlet hot with inspiration.
Subdued mysterious sounds came from the surrounding darkness, whispering
thuds, shovel scrapings, sighs as of men heaving heavy weights. A shed
suddenly exploded with the clamour of startled hens. In another a sow
protested vocally against the disturbance of her bed. There was a big
bank running beside the stream in front of “The Admiral Anson.” As Ortho
passed by the great mass of earth and bowlders became articulate. A
voice deep within its core said softly, “Shift en a bit further up,
Zack; there’s three more to come.”
Ortho saw a thin chink of light between two of the bowlders, grinned and
strode into the kitchen of the Kiddlywink. There was a chill burning on
the table and a kettle humming on the hearth. Jacky’s George sat before
the fire, stirring a mug of grog which he held between his knees.
Opposite him sat a tall old man dressed in unrelieved black from neck to
toe. A wreath of snowy hair circled his bald pate like a halo. A pair of
tortoise-shell spectacles jockeyed the extreme tip of his nose, he
regarded Jacky’s George over their rims with an expression benign but
pained.
Jacky’s George looked up at Ortho’s entrance.
“Hallo, what is it?”
“Where’s King Nick? I want to see him.”
The tortoise-shell spectacles turned slowly in his direction.
“There is but one King, my son, omnipotent and all-merciful. One
King—on High . . . but my name is certainly Nicholas.”
Ortho staggered. This the master-smuggler, the swashbuckling,
devil-may-care hero of song and story! This rook-coated, bespectacled,
white-headed old Canorum [Methodist] local preacher, King Nick! His
senses reeled. It could never be, and yet he knew it was. It was the
same voice, the voice that had blandly informed Anson he would blow him
out of the water if he pulled another stroke. He felt for the door post
and leaned against it goggling.
“Well?”
Ortho licked his lips.
“Well? I eddn no fiery dragon to eat ’e, boy. Say thy say.”
Ortho drew a long breath, hesitated and let it out with a rush.
“I can find the horses you’re wanting. I can find thirty horses a night
any time after Twelfth Night, and land your goods in St. Just under four
hours.”
King Nick screwed round in his chair, turning the other side of his face
to the light, and Ortho saw, with a shock of revulsion, that the ear had
been sheared off and his face furrowed across and across with two
terrible scars—relics of the Cawsand affair. It was as though the old
man was revealing the other side of him, spiritual as well as physical.
“Come nearer, lad. How do ’e knaw I want horses?”
“I heard you. I was pulling stroke in boat.”
“Son o’ yourn, George? He don’t favor ’e, seem me.”
“Naw. Young Squire Penhale from Bosula up-valley.”
“You knaw en?”
“Since he were weaned.”
“Ah, ha! Ah, ha!” The smuggler’s blue eyes rested on Ortho, benevolent
yet probing. “And where can you find thirty horses, my son? ’Tis a brear
passell.”
“Gypsy Herne rests on my land over winter; he has plenty.”
“An Egyptian! An idolater! A worshiper after false gods! Put not thy
trust in such, boy—though I do hear many of the young ones is baptized
and coming to the way of Light. Hum! Ha! . . . But how do ’e knaw he’ll
do it!”
“’Cos he wants the money bad. He lost three parts of his stock in Wales
this summer. I was with en.”
“Oh, wid en, were ’e? So you knawn en well. And horse leaders?”
“There’s seven Romanies and three of us up to farm.”
“You knaw the country, s’pose?”
“Day or night like my own yard.”
King Nick turned on Jacky’s George, a faint smile curling the corners of
his mouth. “What do ’e say now, George? Can this young man find the
horses, think you?”
“Ess, s’pose.”
“Do ’e trust en?”
A nod.
“Then what more ’ave ’e got to say, my dear?”
The fisherman scratched his beard, breathed heavily through his nostrils
and said, “All right.”
King Nick rose to his feet, rubbing his hands together.
“‘Now let Jacob rejoice and Israel be glad.’ That’s settled. Welcome
back to the fold, George, my old soul. ‘This is my brother that was dead
but is alive again.’ Soon’s you give me word the Romany is agreeable
I’ll slip ’e the cargoes, so shall the poor tinner be comforted at a
reasonable price and the Lord be praised with cymbals—‘yea, with
trumpets also and shawms.’ Gather in all the young men and maidens,
George, that we may ask a blessing on our labors! Fetch ’em in to once,
for I can feel the word of the Lord descending upon me!”
* * * * *
Dawn peering through the bottle-panes of Jacky’s George’s Kiddlywink saw
the entire Baragwanath family packed shoulder to shoulder singing
lustily, while before them, on a chair, stood a benevolent old gentleman
in black beating time with one of John Wesley’s hymnals, white hair
wreathing his head like a silver glory.
“Chant, my dear beauties!” he cried. “Oh, be cheerful! Be jubilant! Lift
up your voices unto the Lord! ‘Awake up, my glory, Awake lute and harp!’
Now all together!”
“When passing through the watery deep
I ask in faith His promised aid;
The waves an awful distance keep
And shrink from my devoted head.”