The fleet of fishing-boats as they approached the coast steered in
different directions, some keeping towards Kynance and Landewednach,
while Paul Trefusis shaped his course for Mullyan Cove, towards the
north, passing close round the lofty Gull Rock, which stands in solitary
grandeur far away from the shore, braving the fierce waves as they roll
in from the broad Atlantic.
Asparagus Island and Lion Rock opened out to view, while the red and
green sides of the precipitous serpentine cliffs could now be
distinguished, assuming various fantastic shapes: one shaped into a
complete arch, another the form of a gigantic steeple, with several
caves penetrating deep into the cliff, on a level with the narrow belt
of yellow sand.
Young Michael, though accustomed from his childhood to the wild and
romantic scenery, had never passed that way without looking at it with
an eye of interest, and wondering how those cliffs and rocks came to
assume the curious forms they wore.
The little "Wild Duck," for that was the name Paul Trefusis had given
his boat, continued her course, flying before the fast increasing gale
close inshore, to avoid the strong tide which swept away to the
southward, till, rounding a point, she entered the mouth of a narrow
inlet which afforded shelter to a few boats and small craft. It was a
wild, almost savage-looking place, though extremely picturesque. On
either side were rugged and broken cliffs, in some parts rising sheer
out of the water to the gorse-covered downs above, in others broken in
terraces and ledges, affording space for a few fishermen's cottages and
huts, which were seen perched here and there, looking down on the
tranquil water of the harbour.
The inlet made a sharp bend a short distance from its mouth, so that, as
Paul's boat proceeded upwards, the view of the sea being completely shut
out, it bore the appearance of a lake. At the further end a stream of
water came rushing down over the summit of the cliffs, dashing from
ledge to ledge, now breaking into masses of foam, now descending
perpendicularly many feet, now running along a rapid incline, and
serving to turn a small flour-mill built a short way up on the side of
the cliff above the harbour.
Steep as were the cliffs, a zigzag road had been cut in them, leading
from the downs above almost to the mouth of the harbour, where a rock
which rose directly out of the water formed a natural quay, on which the
fishing-boats could land their cargoes. Beyond this the road was rough
and steep, and fitted only for people on foot, or donkeys with their
panniers, to go up and down. Art had done little to the place.
The little "Wild Duck," a few moments before tossed and tumbled by the
angry seas, now glided smoothly along for a few hundred yards, when the
sails were lowered, and she floated up to a dock between two rocks.
Hence, a rough pathway led from one of the cottages perched on the side
of the cliff. At a distance it could scarcely have been distinguished
from the cliff itself. Its walls were composed of large blocks of
unhewn serpentine, masses of clay filling up the interstices, while it
was roofed with a thick dark thatch, tightly fastened down with ropes,
and still further secured by slabs of stone to prevent its being carried
away by the fierce blasts which are wont to sweep up and down the ravine
in winter.
There was space enough on either side of the cottage for a small garden,
which appeared to be carefully cultivated, and was enclosed by a stone
wall. At the upper part of the pathway a flight of steps, roughly hewn
in the rock, led to the cottage door.
The door opened as soon as Paul's boat rounded the point, and a young
girl with a small creel or fish basket at her back was seen lightly
tripping down the pathway, followed by an old woman, who, though she
supported her steps with a staff, also carried a creel of the ordinary
size. She wore a large broad-brimmed black hat, and a gaily-coloured
calico jacket over her winsey skirt; an apron, and shoes with metal
buckles, completing the ordinary costume of a fish-wife of that
district. Little Nelly was dressed very like her grandmother, except
that her feet were bare, and that she had a necklace of small shells
round her throat. Her face was pretty and intelligent, her well-browned
cheeks glowed with the hue of health, her eyes were large and grey, and
her black hair, drawn up off her forehead, hung in neat plaits tied with
ribbons behind her back. Nelly Trefusis was indeed a good specimen of a
young fisher-girl.
She tripped lightly down the pathway, springing to the top of the
outermost rock just before her father's boat glided by it, and in an
instant stepping nimbly on board, she threw herself into his arms and
bestowed a kiss on his weather-beaten brow.
Michael had leaped on shore to fend off the boat, so that he lost the
greeting she would have given him.
"You have had a good haul with the nets to-night, father," she said,
looking into the baskets; "Granny and I can scarce carry half of them to
market, and unless Abel Mawgan the hawker comes in time to buy them, you
and Michael will have work to do to salt them down."
"It is well that we should have had a good haul, Nelly, for dirty
weather is coming on, and it may be many a day before we are able to
cast our nets again," answered Paul, looking up affectionately at his
child, while he began with a well-practised hand to stow the boat's
sail.
Nelly meantime was filling her creel with fish, that she might lessen
the weight of the baskets which her father and Michael had to lift on
shore. As soon as it was full she stepped back on the rock, giving a
kiss to Michael as she passed him.
The baskets were soon landed, and the creel being filled, she and Nelly
ascended the hill, followed by Paul and Michael, who, carrying the
baskets between them, brought up the remainder of the fish.
Breakfast, welcome to those who had been toiling all night, had been
placed ready on the table, and leaving Paul and his boy to discuss it,
Polly Lanreath, as the old dame was generally called, and her little
granddaughter, set off on their long journey over the downs to dispose
of their fish at Helston, or at the villages and the few gentlemen's
houses they passed on their way. It was a long distance for the old
woman and girl to go, but they went willingly whenever fish had been
caught, for they depended on its sale for their livelihood, and neither
Paul nor Michael could have undertaken the duty, nor would they have
sold the fish so well as the dame and Nelly, who were welcomed whenever
they appeared. Their customers knew that they could depend on their
word when they mentioned the very hour when the fish were landed.
The old dame's tongue wagged cheerfully as she walked along with Nelly
by her side, and she often beguiled the way with tales and anecdotes of
bygone days, and ancient Cornish legends which few but herself
remembered. Nelly listened with eager ears, and stored away in her
memory all she heard, and often when they got back in the evening she
would beg her granny to recount again for the benefit of her father and
Michael the stories she had told in the morning.
She had a cheerful greeting, too, for all she met; for some she had a
quiet joke; for the giddy and careless a word of warning, which came
with good effect from one whom all respected. At the cottages of the
poor she was always a welcome visitor, while at the houses of the more
wealthy she was treated with courtesy and kindness; and many a housewife
who might have been doubtful about buying fish that day, when the dame
and her granddaughter arrived, made up her mind to assist in lightening
Nelly's creel by selecting some of its contents.
The dame, as her own load decreased, would always insist on taking some
of her granddaughter's, deeming that the little maiden had enough to do
to trot on so many miles by her side, without having to carry a burden
on her back in addition. Nelly would declare that she did not feel the
weight, but the sturdy old dame generally gained her point, though she
might consent to replenish Nelly's basket before entering the town, for
some of their customers preferred the fish which the bright little
damsel offered them for sale to those in her grandmother's creel.
Thus, though their daily toil was severe, and carried on under summer's
sun, or autumn's gales, and winter's rain and sleet, they themselves
were ever cheerful and contented, and seldom failed to return home with
empty creels and well-filled purses.
Paul Trefusis might thus have been able to lay by a store for the time
when the dame could no longer trudge over the country as she had
hitherto done, and he unable to put off with nets or lines to catch
fish; but often for weeks together the gales of that stormy coast
prevented him from venturing to sea, and the vegetables and potatoes
produced in his garden, and the few fish he and Michael could catch in
the harbour, were insufficient to support their little household, so
that at the end of each year Paul found himself no richer than at the
beginning.
While Nelly and her grandmother and the other women of the village were
employed in selling the fish, the men had plenty of occupation during
the day in drying and mending their nets, and repairing their boats,
while some time was required to obtain the necessary sleep of which
their nightly toil had deprived them. Those toilers of the sea were
seldom idle. When bad weather prevented them from going far from the
coast, they fished with lines, or laid down their lobster-pots among the
rocks close inshore, while occasionally a few fish were to be caught in
the waters of their little harbour. Most of them also cultivated
patches of ground on the sides of the valley which opened out at the
further end of the gorge, but, except potatoes, their fields afforded
but precarious crops.
Paul and Michael had performed most of their destined task: the net had
been spread along the rocks to dry, and two or three rents, caused by
the fisherman's foes, some huge conger or cod-fish, had been repaired.
A portion of their fish had been sold to Abel Mawgan, and the remainder
had been salted for their own use, when Paul, who had been going about
his work with less than his usual spirit, complained of pains in his
back and limbs. Leaving Michael to clean out the boat and moor her, and
to bring up the oars and other gear, he went into the cottage to lie
down and rest.
Little perhaps did the strong and hardy fisherman suppose, as he threw
himself on his bunk in the little chamber where he and Michael slept,
that he should never again rise, and that his last trip on the salt sea
had been taken--that for the last time he had hauled his nets, that his
life's work was done. Yet he might have had some presentiment of what
was going to happen as he sailed homewards that morning, when he
resolved to tell Michael about his parents, and gave him the account of
his father's death which has been described.
The young fisher boy went on board the "Wild Duck," and was busily
employed in cleaning her out, thinking over what he had heard in the
morning. Whilst thus engaged, he saw a small boat coming down from the
head of the harbour towards him, pulled by a lad somewhat older than
himself.
"There is Eban Cowan, the miller's son. I suppose he is coming here. I
wonder what he wants?" he thought. "The `Polly' was out last night, and
got a good haul, so it cannot be for fish."
Michael was right in supposing that Eban Cowan was coming to their
landing-place. The lad in the punt pulled up alongside the "Wild Duck."
"How fares it with you, Michael?" he said, putting out his hand. "You
did well this morning, I suspect, like most of us. Did Abel Mawgan buy
all your `catch'? He took the whole of ours."
"No, granny and Nelly started off to Helston with their creels full, as
they can get a much better price than Mawgan will give," answered
Michael.
"I am sorry that Nelly is away, for I have brought her some shells I
promised her a month ago. But as I have nothing to do, I will bide with
you till she comes back."
"She and granny won't be back till late, I am afraid, and you lose your
time staying here," said Michael.
"Never mind, I will lend you a hand," said Eban, making his punt fast,
and stepping on board the "Wild Duck."
He was a fine, handsome, broad-shouldered lad, with dark eyes and hair,
and with a complexion more like that of an inhabitant of the south than
of an English boy.
He took up a mop as he spoke, whisking up the bits of seaweed and
fish-scales which covered the bottom of the boat.
"Thank you," said Michael; "I won't ask you to stop, for I must go and
turn in and get some sleep. Father does not seem very well, and I shall
have more work in the evening."
"What is the matter with Uncle Paul?" asked Eban.
Michael told him that he had been complaining since the morning, but he
hoped the night's rest would set him to rights.
"You won't want to go to sea to-night. It's blowing hard outside, and
likely to come on worse," observed Eban.
Though he called Paul "uncle," there was no relationship. He merely
used the term of respect common in Cornwall when a younger speaks of an
older man.
Eban, however, did not take Michael's hint, but continued working away
in the boat till she was completely put to rights.
"Now," he said, "I will help you up with the oars and sails. You have
more than enough to do, it seems to me, for a small fellow like you."
"I am able to do it," answered Michael; "and I am thankful that I can."
"You live hard, though, and your father grows no richer," observed Eban.
"If he did as others do, and as my father has advised him many a time,
he would be a richer man, and you and your sister and Aunt Lanreath
would not have to toil early and late, and wear the life out of you as
you do. I hope you will be wiser."
"I know my father is right, whatever he does, and I hope to follow his
example," answered Michael, unstepping the mast, which he let fall on
his shoulder preparatory to carrying it up to the shed.
"I was going to take that up," said Eban; "it is too heavy for you by
half."
"It is my duty, thank you," said Michael, somewhat coldly, stepping on
shore with his burden.
Slight as he looked, he carried the heavy spar up the pathway and
deposited it against the side of the house. He was returning for the
remainder of the boat's gear, when he met Eban with it on his shoulders.
"Thank you," he said; "but I don't want to give you my work to do."
"It's no labour to me," answered Eban. "Just do you go and turn in, and
I will moor the boat and make a new set of `tholes' for you."