THE STORM.
"HOW are you, grandfather?" asked Judith, next morning, tapping at the
old man's door.
"Come in, dear," he answered. "I'm not well; quite tired out, Judith.
I'm not so young as I was. I must give up work, except mending and
making nets, and I like doing that as well as anything; it reminds me
of the disciples when the Master called them. It can't be long before
He calls me."
"I'll bring you a cup of tea, grandfather," said the little girl,
stooping down to kiss him tenderly. "I'm so glad you didn't try to get
up until you are more rested."
Towards afternoon Captain Nance was so far better as to take his old
place in his arm-chair. He tried to mend a net, but his hands did not
move so rapidly as usual.
"I must give in to-day, Philippa," he said at last. "I'm so very, very
weary. I'm going to tell John he was right when he said I wasn't fit to
be a huer this year. I'm going to look-out for something better than
pilchards—my sailing orders, they won't be long before they come."
"You're tired and out of spirits to-day, father," said Mrs. Trevan,
kindly. "Another night's rest will set you up again."
"Never, Philippa; I've gone beyond that. I've only one prayer to be
answered now, then I can say,—
"'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy
word.'
"On my bended knees, night and day, I have and will supplicate my
Heavenly Father, that Willy may yet return. His coming will bring
matters into plain sailing before I go the way of all flesh. I shall
have nothing left to wish for or to care for. He'll come before I die."
Mrs. Trevan's eyes filled with tears, but she made no remark, and for
some minutes neither father nor daughter spoke.
"I think I'll have a little walk," said Captain Nance, breaking the
silence, and rising from his arm-chair. "Give me my stick, Philippa."
"Let one of the children go with you, father, or I will. You seem too
poorly to be alone."
"I'd rather go by myself, Philippa. I shall only walk as far as the
Tolcarne. You may send the children after me in half an hour."
The old man wended his way slowly down New Street, and crossed the
bridge over the little river which runs through Newlyn. Turning past
the flour mill, he took a narrow road which led up a steep hill, and
brought him to the Tolcarne. These rocks command a charming view of
Mount's Bay and the hills around it, for they lie on the edge of a high
cliff. In Cornwall is heard what is locally termed the calling of the
sea; a murmuring roaring noise which sometimes extends eight or ten
miles inland. As Captain Nance gazed on the scene which he had known
from boyhood, he thought he heard the sea calling.
"Calling me home," he said aloud. "What mercy there is in the call. I'm
ready to answer;—
"'Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth.'
"I'm not afraid of receiving my sailing orders."
And the aged man stretched out his hands as if he wished to respond to
what seemed to him a call to another and brighter world. But he drew
them back when he heard footsteps approaching, and recognised voices
that he knew.
"Who were you speaking to, grandfather?" asked Dorothy.
Captain Nance smiled. "To the waves, dear," he replied. "It's almost
hard to return back again to the world, even to be with those I love so
well. I feel so very, very weary to-day."
"Grandfather, come home," said Judith, taking his hand, gently. "You go
the other side, Dorothy."
So they led him down the hill, and beguiled him along by their loving
words. He fell into a calm sleep on his return, and then they told
their mother how they had found their grandfather, and what he had said.
"I believe the end is approaching," she answered; "we shall have to
brace ourselves up to bid him farewell soon. We shall miss him, but we
dare not pray to God to let him live amongst us when he longs so much
to be safely landed with his Saviour."
The month of September found the fishermen still busy; but a great
change had passed over Captain Nance in the few weeks which intervened
since he had taken an active part in curing the first pilchards of the
season. He no longer attempted to make or mend a net, but sat in his
arm-chair all day long. He rarely tried to walk even so far as the iron
railings, and sometimes slept for several hours during the day.
The doctor said that no medicine could prevent the candle of life from
burning out.
To the question which his friends so often asked, "How are you to-day,
Captain Nance?" he replied, "As well as I ever shall be. I'm waiting,
waiting, waiting for my sailing orders to come."
"There's no going out fishing to-day," said John Trevan, entering
the room where his wife sat with her father, about twelve o'clock
one morning in the third week of September. "It's blowing a strong
sou'-wester outside the bay; when the tide turns we shall have rough
weather. Give me a bit of dinner, wife, for I'm going to take the 'Mary
Ann' into Penzance harbour, lest any harm should befall her; there's
not much chance for a fishing-boat if she breaks away from her moorings
in such a gale as we shall have."
Mount's Bay was soon alive with vessels sailing across from Newlyn to
find a better place of refuge than the little harbour affords when the
wind sets in from this quarter. Not only were the small craft glad to
gain shelter, but many merchant-ships were seen making for the bay.
At the turn of the tide, John Trevan's words were verified. The waves
rolled up with terrific force, and broke over houses and walls; over
the high road between Penzance and Newlyn, which lies exposed to
the beach; over carriages and carts; over grown-up people and young
children.
It happened to be market day at Penzance, so that many were passing to
and from Newlyn. At length the road became dangerous, for the waves
threw up great stones; so the women took to the fields and the men
ran along the wall which divided the road from the fields. Many were
heavily laden; husbands had been making purchases, and wives had their
baskets filled with provisions for home consumption; but even the
fields were flooded at last, and few escaped a wetting.
The water dashed over the seawall at Newlyn, and right up the narrow
way past John Trevan's house. Dorothy and Judith, who were standing at
the iron railing, were nearly swept down by the fury of a wave, and,
thoroughly drenched, were glad to run home.
John Trevan was returning from Penzance after placing the "Mary Ann" in
safe anchorage, when he spied a boat which had evidently broken from
its moorings in the bay. "Do unto others as you would that they should
do unto you" was his motto, so he went down on the beach to see if he
could save the boat from being dashed on the rocks.
"Let it alone," shouted one of his comrades; "it belongs to James
Thompson, and if it's lost, he deserves it."
"Nay, nay," answered John, "that's not what my Gospel teaches me. Come
and give me a hand."
The other man passed on. But John was not to be deterred from doing the
right by this conduct. He stopped one and another of the fishermen who
had been to Penzance on the same errand as himself, and enlisted their
services. The boat was secured at last and dragged into a place of
safety, just as Thompson, who had been warned of the danger to which it
was exposed, came running up to look after his property.
He was a cross-grained fellow, and not a favourite in Newlyn; but he
now advanced to John Trevan and offered him his hand.
"You've done more to make me acknowledge the truth of the Gospel than
any man in Newlyn," he said. "I did not believe you when you declared
one day you tried to carry out the golden rule in your words and
actions; now I do believe you. There must be something real in such
religion as yours. I shan't forget this in a hurry."
John shook the hand thus held out to him warmly, and from that hour
these two became staunch friends.
By six o'clock in the evening the waves dashed mountains high, and
the whole length of the shore was a bubbling, surging mass of foam.
One ship was struggling across the bay; she was driven about in all
directions, but evidently hoped to reach the harbour.
Between Newlyn and Penzance there are many reefs of rocks, and it needs
careful navigation to steer clear of them; it seemed as if the vessel
which was battling with the waves must be wrecked on these rocks.
As she neared the pier she drifted to seaward; the coast-guardsmen
signalled to her and prepared boats and rockets; when anxiety was at
its height, a sudden shift of wind caught her sails, and she safely
cleared the pier.
While this vessel was saved, another, later in that evening, was lost.
She came from America and was bound to Plymouth, but she could not
reach Mount's Bay; she was driven into Lamorna Cove.
It is a wild spot at all times, for the rocks are on a large scale,
and the shore is strewn with great boulders. A few workmen's cottages
scattered here and there are the only signs of habitation. The sea
on a calm day leaves only a fringe of sand, but in storm dashes up
furiously, carrying all before it.
The American vessel soon went to pieces. Only two of her crew reached
land, and only one of the two lived through the night. Both of them
were cast on to a rock; a young man and an old man. While the latter
had no strength to crawl out of danger, his companion managed to creep
high enough away from the waves to save his life. There he lay unable
to move until morning broke, when he was discovered by one of the
workmen, who took him to his cottage.
This was how Willy Trevan came home.
————————