SHOWS HOW OLIVER AND HIS FRIEND WENT TO NEWLYN AND SAW THE MACKEREL
MARKET, AND FOUND SOME DIFFICULTIES AND MYSTERIES AWAITING THEM THERE.
The beach opposite Newlyn presented a busy scene when Oliver Trembath
and his friend Charlie Tregarthen reached it.
Although the zenith of the season was over, mackerel fishing was still
going on there in full vigour, and immense crowds of men, women, and
children covered the sands. The village lies on the heights above, and
crowds of people were leaning over the iron rails which guard the unwary
or unsteady passenger from falling into the sea below. A steep causeway
connects the main street above with the shore beneath; and up and down
it horses, carts, and people were hurrying continuously.
True, there was not at that time quite as much bustle as may be
witnessed there at the present day. The railway has penetrated these
remote regions of the west, and now men work with a degree of feverish
haste that was unknown then. While hundreds of little boats (tenders to
the large ones) crowd in on the beach, auctioneers with long heavy boots
wade knee-deep into the water, followed and surrounded by purchasers,
and, ringing a bell as each boat comes in, shout,--"Now, then, five
hundred, more or less, in this boat; who bids? Twenty shillings a
hundred for five hundred--twenty shillings--say nineteen--I'm bid
nineteen--nineteen-and-six--say nineteen-an--twenty--twenty shillings
I'm bid--say twenty-one--shall I make it twenty-one shillings for any
person?" etcetera.
The bells and voices of these auctioneers, loud though they be, are mild
compared with the shouts of men, women, and children, as the fish are
packed in baskets, with hot haste, to be in time for the train; and
horses with laden carts gallop away over the sands at furious speed,
while others come dashing back for more fish. And there is need for all
this furious haste, for trains, like time and tide, wait for no man, and
prices vary according to trains. Just before the starting of one, you
will hear the auctioneers put the fish up at 20 shillings, 25 shillings,
and even 30 shillings a hundred, and in the next half-hour, after the
train is gone, and no chance remains of any more of the fish being got
into the London market by the following morning, the price suddenly
falls to 8 shillings a hundred, sometimes even less. There is need for
haste, too, because the quantity of fish is very great, for there are
sometimes two hundred boats at anchor in the bay, each with four
thousand fish on the average, which must all be washed and packed in
four or five hours. Yes, the old days cannot be compared with the
present times, when, between the months of April and June, the three
hundred boats of Mounts Bay will land little short of three thousand
tons of mackerel, and the railway, for the mere carriage of these to
London, Manchester, Birmingham, etcetera, will clear above 20,000
pounds!
Nevertheless, the busy, bustling, hearty nature of the scene on Newlyn
beach in days of yore was not so very different as one might suppose
from that of the present time. The men were not less energetic then
than now; the women were not less eager; the children were quite as wild
and mischievous, and the bustle and noise apparently, if not really, as
great.
"What interests you?" asked Charlie Tregarthen, observing that his
companion gazed pointedly at some object in the midst of the crowd.
"That old woman," said Oliver; "see how demurely she sits on yonder
upturned basket, knitting with all her might."
"In the midst of chaos," observed Tregarthen, laughing; "and she looks
as placidly indifferent to the noise around her as if it were only the
murmuring of a summer breeze, although there are two boys yelling at her
very ear at this moment."
"Perhaps she's deaf," suggested Oliver.
Tregarthen said he thought this highly probable, and the two remained
silent for some time, watching, from an elevated position on the road
leading down to the sands, the ever-changing and amusing scene below.
Talk of a pantomime, indeed! No Christmas pantomime ever got up in the
great metropolis was half so amusing or so grand as that summer
pantomime that was performed daily on Newlyn sands, with admission to
all parts of the house--the stage included--for nothing! The scenery
was painted with gorgeous splendour by nature, and embraced the
picturesque village of Newlyn, with its irregular gables, variously
tinted roofs, and whitewashed fronts; the little pier with its modest
harbour, perfectly dry because of the tide being out, but which, even if
the tide had been in, and itself full to overflowing, could not
apparently have held more than a dozen of the larger fishing-boats; the
calm bay crowded with boats of all sizes, their brown and yellow sails
reflected in the clear water, and each boat resting on its own image.
On the far-off horizon might be seen the Lizard Point and the open sea,
over which hung red and lurid clouds, which betokened the approach of a
storm, although, at the time, all nature was quiet and peaceful. Yes,
the scenery was admirably painted, and nothing could exceed the
perfection of the acting. It was so _very_ true to nature!
Right in front of the spot where the two friends stood, a fisherman sat
astride of an upturned basket, enjoying a cup of tea which had been
brought to him by a little girl who sat on another upturned basket at
his side, gazing with a pleased expression into his rugged countenance,
one cheek of which was distended with a preposterously large bite of
bread and butter. The great Mathews himself never acted his part so
well. What admirable devotion to the one engrossing object in hand!
What a perfect and convincing display of a hearty appetite! What
obvious unconsciousness of being looked at, and what a genuine and
sudden burst of indignation when, owing to a touch of carelessness, he
capsized the cup, and poured the precious tea upon the thirsty sand. At
the distance from which Oliver and his friend observed him, no words
were audible, but none were necessary. The man's acting was so perfect
that they knew he was scolding the little girl for the deed which he
himself had perpetrated. Then there was something peculiarly touching
in the way in which he suddenly broke into a short laugh, and patted the
child's head while she wiped out the cup, and refilled it from the
little brown broken-nosed teapot hitherto concealed under her ragged
shawl to keep it warm. No wizard was needed to tell, however, that this
was quite an unnecessary piece of carefulness on the little girl's part,
for any brown teapot in the world, possessing the smallest amount of
feeling, would have instantly made hot and strong tea out of cold water
on being pressed against the bosom of that sunny child!
Just beyond this couple, three tired men, in blue flannel shirts, long
boots, and sou'-westers, grouped themselves round a bundle of straw to
enjoy a pipe: one stretched himself almost at full length on it, in lazy
nonchalance; another sat down on it, and, resting his elbows on his
knees, gazed pensively at his pipe as he filled it; while the third
thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood for a few seconds with a
grand bend at the small of his back (as if he felt that his muscles
worked easily), and gazed out to sea. The greatest of the old masters
could have painted nothing finer.
Away to the right, an old man might be seen tying up the lid of a basket
full of fish beside his cart, and dividing his attention between the
basket and the horse, which latter, much to his surprise, was unwontedly
restive that evening, and required an unusual number of cautions to
remain still, and of threats as to the punishment that would follow
continued disobedience, all of which afforded the most intense and
unutterable delight to a very small precocious boy, who, standing
concealed on the off side of the animal, tickled its ear with a straw
every time it bent its head towards the bundle of hay which lay at its
feet. No clown or pantaloon was there to inflict condign punishment,
because none was needed. A brother carter standing by performed the
part, extempore. His eye suddenly lit on the culprit; his whip sprang
into the air and descended on the urchin's breech. Horror-struck, his
mouth opened responsive to the crack, and a yell came forth that rose
high above the surrounding din, while his little legs carried him away
over the sands like a ragged leaf driven before the wind.
To the left of this scene (and ignorant of it, for the stage was so
large, the actors were so numerous, and the play so grand, that few
could do more than attend to their own part) a cripple might be seen
with a crutch hopping actively about. He was a young man; had lost his
leg, by an accident probably, and was looking about for a cast-away fish
for his own supper. He soon found one. Whether it was that one had
been dropped accidentally, or that some generous-hearted fish-dealer had
dropped one on purpose, we cannot tell, but he did get one--a large fat
one, too--and hobbled away as quickly as he could, evidently rejoicing.
The cripple was not the only one who crossed the stage thus lightly
burdened. There were several halt and maimed, and some blind and aged
ones there, whose desires in regard to piscatorial wealth extended only
to one, or perhaps two, and they all got what they wanted. That was
sufficient for the evening's supper--for the morrow there was no need to
care; they could return to get a fresh supply evening after evening for
many a day to come, for it was a splendid mackerel season--such as had
not been for many years--so said the sages of the village.
There were other groups, and other incidents that would have drawn
laughter as well as tears from sympathetic hearts, but we must forbear.
The play was long of being acted out--it was no common play; besides, it
is time for _our_ actors to come upon the stage themselves.
"I see old Hitchin," exclaimed Oliver Trembath, starting suddenly out of
a reverie, and pointing into the thickest of the crowd.
"How can you tell? you don't know him," said his companion.
"Know him! Of course I do; who could fail to know him after the graphic
description the lawyer gave of him? See--look yonder, beside the cart
with the big man in it arranging baskets. D'you see?"
"Which? the one painted green, and a scraggy horse with a bag hanging to
its nose?"
"No, no; a little further to the left, man--the one with the broken rail
and the high-spirited horse. There, there he is! a thin, dried-up,
wrinkled, old shabby--"
"Ah! that's the man," exclaimed Tregarthen, laughing. "Come along, and
let's try to keep our eyes on him, for there is nothing so difficult as
finding any one in a crowd."
The difficulty referred to was speedily illustrated by the fact that the
two friends threaded their way to the spot where the cart had stood, and
found not only that it was gone, but that Hitchin had also moved away,
and although they pushed through the crowd for more than a quarter of an
hour they failed to find him.
As they were wandering about thus, they observed a very tall
broad-shouldered man talking earnestly in undertones to a sailor-like
fellow who was still broader across the shoulders, but not quite so
tall. It is probable that Oliver would have paid no attention to them,
had not the name of Hitchin struck his ear. Glancing round at the men
he observed that the taller of the two was Joe Tonkin, and the other his
friend of the Land's End, the famous Jim Cuttance.
Oliver plucked his companion by the sleeve, and whispered him to stand
still. Only a few words and phrases reached them, but these were
sufficient to create surprise and arouse suspicion. Once, in
particular, Tonkin, who appeared to be losing his temper, raised his
voice a little, exclaiming,--"I tell 'ee what it is, Cuttance, I do knaw
what you're up to, an' I'll hinder 'ee ef I can."
The man confirmed this statement with a savage oath, to which Cuttance
replied in kind; nevertheless he was evidently anxious to conciliate his
companion, and spoke so low as to be nearly inaudible.
Only the words, "Not to-night; I won't do it to-night," reached the ears
of the listeners.
At this point Tonkin turned from the smuggler with a fling, muttering in
an undertone as he went, "I don't b'lieve 'ee, Cuttance, for thee'rt a
liard, so I'll watch 'ee, booy."
Oliver was about to follow Tonkin, when he observed Hitchin himself
slowly wending his way through the crowd. He had evidently heard
nothing of the conversation that appeared to have reference to himself,
for he sauntered along with a careless air, and his hands in his
pockets, as though he were an uninterested spectator of the busy scene.