"The wreck happened in the first winter of my incumbency here. Then, as
now, I had one pupil living with me, an excellent fellow. Dick Hobart
was his name, his age seventeen or thereabouts, and my business to put
some polish on a neglected education before he entered the Army.
His elder brother had been a college friend of mine, and indeed our
families had been acquainted for years.
"Dick slept in the room you now occupy. He had a habit, which I never
cured, of sitting up late over a pipe and a yellow-backed novel: and so
he happened to be dressed that night when he saw the first signal of
distress go up from Menawhidden. He came to my room at once and called
me up: and while I tumbled out and began to dress, he ran down to Porth
to give the alarm.
"The first signal, however, had been seen by the folks down there, and
he found the whole place in a hubbub. Our first life-boat had arrived
less than three months before; but the crew got her off briskly, and
were pulling away lustily for the reef when it occurred to a few of
those left behind that the sea running was not too formidable for a
couple of seine-boats lying high on the beach: and within five minutes
these were hauled down and manned with scratch crews--Dick Hobart among
them.
"Three days of east wind had knocked up a heavy swell: but the wind was
blowing a moderate gale only--nothing to account for a big ship (as she
was already reported to be) finding herself on Menawhidden.
Three signals only had been shown, and these in quick succession.
We learned afterwards that she went down within twelve minutes of
striking. She had dashed straight on the Carracks, with the wind well
behind her beam, topmasts housed for the night, but, barring that,
canvassed like a well-found ship sure of her sea-room. And the Carracks
had torn the bottom out of her.
"The difficulty with the life-boat and two seine-boats was to find the
position of the wreck, the night being pitch dark and dirty, and the
calls and outcries of the poor creatures being swept down the wind to
the westward. Our fellows pulled like Trojans, however, hailing and
ahoying as they went; and about half-way down the line of Menawhidden
they came on the first of the _Nerbuddha's_ boats, laden with women and
children, in charge of the fourth officer and half-a-dozen seamen.
From her they learned the vessel's name and whereabouts, and having
directed her on her way to the Porth, hurried forward again.
They passed another boat similarly laden, and presently heard the
distracting cries of swimmers, and drove straight into the wreckage and
the struggling crowd of bodies. The life-boat rescued twenty-seven, and
picked up four more on a second journey: the first seine-boat accounted
for a dozen: the second (in which Hobart pulled an oar) was less
fortunate, saving five only--and yet, as I shall tell you, my young
friend had (and, for that matter, still has) abundant reason to be
thankful for his voyage in her; for on that night he plucked from the
sea the greatest treasure of his life.
"She--for it was a small girl of seven, and he took her from the arms of
a seaman who died soon after being lifted into the boat-turned out to be
the Colonel's daughter. She had stood by her mother's side above the
gangway while the women passed down the side into the boats: for that
noble English lady had insisted that as it was the Colonel's duty to
follow his men, so it was for the Colonel's wife to wait until every
other woman and every child had filed past. The _Nerbuddha_ had gone
down under her as she stood there beside her husband, steadied by his
hand on her shoulder. Both bodies were afterwards recovered.
"Altogether fifty-two were buried in this parish: other bodies were
washed ashore or picked up from time to time, some at great distances up
and down the Channel. In the end the list of those unaccounted for came
to forty, or by other accounts thirty-six. That was my first experience
of what Menawhidden could do. I have had many since: but to this day
our little church--yes, even when we decorate it for harvest-festival
and pile the sheaves within the Communion rails--remains for me the dark
little building where the bodies lay in rows waiting to be identified,
and where I and half-a-dozen volunteers took turns in keeping watch day
and night while the windows shook and the damp oozed down the walls.
"The cause of the wreck was never made clear. The helmsman had gone,
and the captain (his body was among the missing), and the first, second,
and third officers. But two seamen who had been successively relieved
at the wheel in the early hours of the night agreed on the course set by
the captain. It was a course which must finally bring them straight on
Menawhidden. Yet there was no evidence to show that the captain changed
it. The men knew nothing of Channel navigation, and had simply obeyed
orders. She had struck during the first mate's watch. The fourth
officer (survivor) had also been on deck. He gave evidence that his
superior, Mr. Rands, had said nothing about the course. For his own
part he had supposed the ship to be a good fifteen miles from the coast.
They had sighted no shore-lights to warn them: but the weather was hazy.
Five minutes before the catastrophe Mr. Rands had remarked that the wind
was increasing, but had deferred shortening sail. The ship was an old
one, but newly rigged throughout. Her compasses had been adjusted and
the ship swung at Greenhithe, just before the voyage. Mr. Murchison,
the captain, was a trusted commander of the H.E.I.C.: he came originally
from Liverpool, and had worked his way up in the company's service: a
positive man and something of a disciplinarian, almost a martinet--not a
man who would bear crossing easily. He was in his cabin, but came on
deck at once, ready dressed; and had, with Colonel Stanhope's
assistance, kept admirable order, getting out the three boats as
promptly as possible. A fourth had actually been launched, and was
being manned when the vessel plunged and stove her in as she went down.
"That is as much as needs be told about the _Nerbuddha_. Let me get on
to the happier part of the story, that which concerns Dick Hobart and
the small girl whom by Heaven's mercy he helped to save. Her name was
Felicia--Felicia Rose Derwent Stanhope in full. Her uncle and guardian,
Sir John Derwent, came down and fetched her home, with the bodies of her
father and mother. I have told you that Dick was just then waiting for
his commission, which, by the way, his family could poorly afford to
purchase. Well, in recognition of his 'gallantry' (as the old gentleman
was good enough to term it) Sir John, who possessed a good deal of
influence, had him gazetted within six weeks, and to the 2-th Regiment--
'for which,' so ran the gracious letter bringing the news, 'you have
performed the first of what I hope will be a long list of distinguished
services.'
"Pretty, was it not? Yes, but there's prettier to come. Felicia, who
was an only child and quite an heiress in a small way, kept up from the
first a steady correspondence with her 'preserver': childish letters, to
begin with, but Dick kept them all. In Bombay, in Abyssinia, for a few
weeks in England (when he saw her for the first time since the wreck),
then back in India again, he has told me since that the world held but
one woman for him, and that was the little girl growing up to womanhood
in her Bedfordshire home.
"Well it all happened as you are guessing. Dick, who had inherited a
little money by this time, and was expecting his majority, returned to
England in '72 on a long furlough. Needless to say he paid a visit to
Cressingham, where Felicia lived under the wing of a widowed aunt:
equally needless to say what happened there. The engagement was a short
one--six weeks: and Dick flattered me immensely with an invitation to
come up and perform the ceremony."
The Vicar paused, refilled his glass, and leaning back gazed up at the
now silent nests. "All this," thought I, "may be mighty interesting in
its way, but what--"
"But what, you'll be asking, has all this to do with John Emmet?
I'm coming to that. On the evening of my arrival at Cressingham, Dick,
who was lodging at the village inn where I too had a room, took me over
to pay my respects to the ladies. We had taken our leave and were
passing down the pretty avenue of limes to the entrance gates, when he
paused and hailed a man stooping over a fountain in the Italian garden
on our left, and apparently clearing it of dead leaves.
"'Hi! John Emmet!'
"The man straightened his back, faced round, and came towards us,
touching his hat.
"'This is the gentleman, John, who has come expressly to tie the knot
next Wednesday. You must know,' said Dick, turning to me, 'that Miss
Felicia and John Emmet are sworn friends, and he owes me a mighty grudge
for taking her away. He's been gardener here for fifteen--sixteen--how
many years is it, John?'
"'Then,' said I, 'I suppose you were here before the wreck of the
_Nerbuddha_, and knew Miss Felicia's parents?'
"The man gave a start, and his hat, which he had pulled off, and with
the brim of which he was fumbling, slipped from his fingers and rolled
on the turf.
"'Oh, yes, I forgot!' put in Dick. 'I ought to have told you that Mr.
West here is the Rector of Lansulyan, and was at the time of the wreck."
"'Indeed, Sir!' John Emmet had recovered his hat, and confronted me with
a face for which I spared a glance before bending my eyes on the daisies
at my feet. 'I--I took service here some months after that event.'
"'Come, Padre'--these were the next words I heard--'if you wish to prod
up all the daisies on Felicia's property, arise early to-morrow and
begin. But if we're to dine at the Hall to-night it's time to be
getting back to the inn and changing our clothes.'
"I looked up, and my eyes fell on the retreating back of John Emmet,
already half-way towards the Italian garden."
"'Queer fellow, that--what's his name?--John Emmet,' said I late that
night on our return to the inn, as Dick and I mixed our whiskey and
prepared for a smoke before his sitting-room fire.
"'Tile loose, I fancy,' answered Dick, pausing with a lighted match in
his hand. 'I've an idea that he owes me a grudge for coming here and
carrying off Felicia.'
"'What gives you that notion?'
"'Well, you see he has always been a favourite of hers. She tells me
that the hours she managed to steal and spend in the garden, chatting
with John Emmet while he worked, were the happiest in her childhood.
He seems to have been a kind of out-of-door protector to her, and I'll
bet she twisted him round her small thumb.'
"'That's little enough to go upon,' was my comment. 'It struck me, on
the contrary, that the man eyed you with some affection, not to say
pride.'
"'Well, it's a small thing, but I can't help remembering how he took the
news of Felicia's--of our engagement. You see, it happened at a
fancy-dress dance.'
"'What happened?'
"'Don't be dense, Padre. Why, _it_--the engagement. The dance was
given by some people who live two miles from here--people called
Bargrave. Felicia and I drove over. She wore an old Court dress of her
grandmother's or great-grand-mother's: I'm no hand at costumes, and can
only tell you that she looked particularly jolly in it. I went in
uniform--mess uniform, that is. It's one of the minor advantages of the
service that on these occasions a man hasn't to put on a cavalier's wig
and look like a goat out for a holiday. Well, as I was saying, at this
particular dance _it_ happened. It was daybreak when we started to
drive home; a perfect midsummer morning, sun shining, dew on the hedges,
and the birds singing fit to split themselves. Felicia and I had a lot
to say to each other, naturally; and it occurred to us to stop the
carriage at the gates and send it on while we walked up to the house
together. We took the path leading through the Italian garden, and
there--pretty well in the same place where you saw him this afternoon--
we came on John Emmet, already out and at work: or rather he was leaning
on a hoe and staring after the carriage as it moved up the avenue behind
the limes. We came on him from behind, and, I suppose, suddenly.
Anyhow, we scared him. I never saw such a face in my life as he turned
on us! It went all white in an instant, and then slowly whiter.
No doubt our dress was unusual: but I'm not accustomed to be taken for a
ghost--'
"'Was it _you_ who frightened him?'
"'Yes, I think so. He kept his eyes on me, anyway: and at first, when
Felicia asked him to congratulate her, he didn't seem to hear. After a
bit, however, he picked up his speech and muttered something about fate,
and wishing her joy--I forget what. Felicia confessed afterwards that
his face had fairly frightened her.'
"'Look here,' I asked; 'it may seem an irrelevant question, but has the
2-th made any changes in its uniform lately?--any important changes, I
mean.'
"'No: the War Office has been obliging enough to leave us alone in that
respect: out of sight out of mind, I suppose. In point of fact we've
kept the same rig--officers and men--for something like a quarter of a
century.' He paused. 'I see what you're driving at. The man, you
think, may be an old deserter!'
"'Not so fast, please. Now here's another question. You remember the
night after the wreck of the _Nerbuddha_: the night you took a turn in
Lansulyan Church, watching the bodies? You came to me in the morning
with a story which I chose to laugh at--'
"'About the face at the window, you mean?' Dick gave a mock shudder.
'I suppose my nerves were shaken. I've been through some queer things
since: but upon my soul I'd as soon face the worst of them again as take
another spell with a line of corpses in that church of yours.'
"'But--the face?'
"'Well, at the time I'd have sworn I saw it: peering in through the last
window westward in the south aisle--the one above the font. I ran out,
you remember, and found nobody: then I fetched a lantern and flashed it
about the churchyard.'
"'There were gravestones in plenty a man could hide behind. Should you
remember the face?'
"Dick considered for a while. 'No: it didn't strike me as a face so
much as a pair of eyes; I remember the eyes only. They were looking
straight into mine."
"'Well, now. I've always guessed there was something queer about that
_Nerbuddha_ business: though till now I've never told a soul my chief
reason for believing so. After you left me that night, and while I was
dressing, it occurred to me from the last of the three signals--the only
one I saw--that the wreck must be somewhere near the Carracks, and that
Farmer Tregaskis had a seine-boat drawn up by the old pallace [1] at
Gunner's Meadow, just opposite the Carracks.'"
"'It struck me that if it were possible to knock up Tregaskis and his
boys and the farmhand who slept on the premises, and get this boat
launched through the surf, we should reach the wreck almost as soon as
the life-boat. So I took a lantern and ran across the fields to the
farm. Lights were burning there in two or three windows, and Mrs.
Tregaskis, who answered my knock, told me that her husband and the boys
had already started off--she believed for Gunner's Meadow, to launch
their boat. There had been talk of doing so, anyhow, before they set
out. Accordingly, off I pelted hot-foot for the meadow, but on reaching
the slope above it could see no lanterns either about the pallace or on
the beach. It turned out afterwards that the Tregaskis family had
indeed visited the beach, ten minutes ahead of me, but judging it beyond
their powers to launch the boat short-handed through the surf, were by
this time on their way towards the Porth. I thought this likely enough
at the time, but resolved to run down and make sure.
"'Hitherto I had carried my lantern unlit: but on reaching the coombe
bottom I halted for a moment under the lee of the pallace-wall to strike
a match. In that moment, in a sudden lull of the breakers, it seemed to
me that I heard a footstep on the loose stones of the beach; and having
lit my candle hastily I ran round the wall and gave a loud hail. It was
not answered: the sound had ceased: but hurrying down the beach with my
lantern held high, I presently saw a man between me and the water's
edge. I believe now that he was trying to get away unobserved: but
finding this hopeless he stood still with his hands in his pockets, and
allowed me to come up. He was bare-headed, and dressed only in shirt
and trousers and boots. Somehow, though I did not recognise him, I
never doubted for a moment that the man belonged either to my own or the
next parish. I was a newcomer in those days, you remember.
"'"Hulloa!" said I, "where do you come from?"'
"'He stared at me stupidly and jerked his thumb over his shoulder
towards the west. I inferred that he came from one of the shore-farms
in that direction. He looked like a middle-aged farmer--a grizzled man
with a serious, responsible face. "But you're wet through," I said, for
his clothes were drenched.
"'For answer he pointed towards the surf, and lifting my lantern again,
I detected a small cask floating a little beyond the breakers.
Now before coming to Lansulyan I had heard some ugly tales of the
wrecking done in these parts, and at the sight of this I fairly lost my
temper. 'It seems to me,' said I, "a man of your age should be ashamed
of himself, lurking here for miserable booty when there are lives to
save! In God's name, if you have a spark of manhood in you, follow me
to the Porth!" I swung off in a rage, and up the beach: after a moment
I heard him slowly following. On the cliff track I swallowed down my
wrath and waited for him to come up, meaning to expostulate more gently.
He did not come up. I hailed twice, but he had vanished into the night.
"'Now this looked ugly. And on reflection, when I reached the Porth and
heard men wondering how on earth a fine ship found herself on
Menawhidden in such weather, it looked uglier yet. The fellow--now I
came to think it over--had certainly shrunk from detection.
Then, thirty hours later, came your story of the face, and upset me
further. I kept my suspicions to myself, however. The matter was too
grave for random talking: but I resolved to keep eyes and ears open, and
if this horrible practice of wrecking did really exist, to expose it
without mercy.
"'Well I have lived some years since in Lansulyan: and I am absolutely
sure now that no such horrors exist, if they ever existed.'
"'But the man?' was Dick's query.
"'That's what I'm coming to. You may be sure I looked out for him: for,
unlike you, I remembered the face I saw. Yet until to-day I have never
seen it since.'
"'Until to-day?'
"'Yes. The man I saw on the beach was Miss Felicia's gardener, John
Emmet. He has shaved his beard; but I'll swear to him.'
"All that Dick could do was to pull the pipe from his mouth and give a
long whistle. 'But what do you make of it?' he asked with a frown.
"'As yet, nothing. Where does the man live?'
"'In a small cottage at the end of the village, just outside the gate of
the kitchen-garden.'
"'Married?'
"'No: a large family lives next door and he pays the eldest girl to do
some odd jobs of housework.'
"'Then to-morrow,' said I, 'I'll pay him a call.'
"'Seen your man?' asked Dick next evening, as we walked up towards the
house, where again we were due for dinner.
"'I have just come from him: and what's more I have a proposition to
make to Miss Felicia, if you and she can spare me an hour this evening.'
"The upshot of our talk was that, a week later, as I drove home from the
station after my long railway journey, John Emmet sat by my side.
He had taken service with me as gardener, and for nine years he served
me well. You'll hardly believe it"--here the Vicar's gaze travelled
over the unkempt flower-beds--"but under John Emmet's hand this garden
of mine was a picture. The fellow would have half a day's work done
before the rest of the parish was out of bed. I never knew a human
creature who needed less sleep--that's not the way to put it, though--
the man _couldn't_ sleep: he had lost the power (so he said) ever since
the night the _Nerbuddha_ struck.
"So it was that every afternoon found the day's work ended in my garden,
and John Emmet, in my sixteen-foot boat, exploring the currents and
soundings about Menawhidden. And almost every day I went with him.
He had become a learner--for the third time in his life; and the
quickest learner (in spite of his years) I have ever known, for his mind
was bent on that single purpose. I should tell you that the Trinity
House had discovered Menawhidden at last and placed the bell-buoy there
--which is and always has been entirely useless: also that the Lifeboat
Institution had listened to some suggestions of mine and were
re-organising the service down at the Porth. And it was now my hope
that John Emmet might become coxswain of the boat as soon as he had
local knowledge to back up the seamanship and aptitude for command in
which I knew him to excel every man in the Porth. There were
jealousies, of course: but he wrangled with no man, and in the end I had
my way pretty easily. Within four years of his coming John Emmet knew
more of Menawhidden than any man in the parish; possibly more than all
the parish put together. And to-day the parish is proud of him and his
record.
"But they do not know--and you are to be one of the four persons in the
world who know--that _John Emmet was no other than John Murchison, the
captain who lost the 'Nerbuddha'!_ He had come ashore in the darkness
some five minutes before I had surprised him on the beach: had come
ashore clinging to the keg which I saw floating just beyond the
breakers. Then and there, stunned and confounded by the consequences of
his carelessness, he had played the coward for the first and last time
in his life. He had run away--and Heaven knows if in his shoes I should
not have done the same. For two nights and a day a hideous fascination
tied him to the spot. It was his face Dick had seen at the window.
The man had been hiding all day in the trench by the north wall of the
churchyard; as Dick ran out with a lantern he slipped behind a
gravestone, and when Dick gave up the search, he broke cover and fled
inland. He changed his name: let this be his excuse, he had neither
wife nor child. The man knew something of gardening: he had a couple of
pounds and some odd shillings in his pocket--enough to take him to one
of the big midland towns--Wolverhampton, I think--where he found work as
a jobbing gardener. But something of the fascination which had held him
lurking about Lansulyan, drove him to Cressingham, which--he learned
from the newspaper accounts of the wreck--was Colonel Stanhope's country
seat. Or perhaps he had some vague idea that Heaven would grant him a
chance to make amends. You understand now how the little Felicia became
his idol.
"At Lansulyan he had but two desires. The first was to live until he
had saved as many lives as his carelessness had lost in the _Nerbuddha_.
For it was nothing worse, but mere forgetfulness to change the course:
one of those dreadful lapses of memory which baffle all Board of Trade
inquiry. You may light, and buoy, and beacon every danger along the
coast, and still you leave that small kink in the skipper's brain which
will cast away a ship for all your care. The second of his desires you
have helped me to fulfil. He wished in death to be John Murchison
again, and lie where his ship lies: lie with his grand error atoned for.
John Emmet needs no gravestone: for John Emmet lived but to earn John
Murchison's right to a half-forgotten tablet describing him as a brave
man. And I believe that Heaven, which does not count by tally, has
granted his wish."
[1] Pilchard store.