There can be no doubt that "Fortune favours the brave," and Maggot was
one of those braves whom, about this time, she took special delight in
favouring.
Wild and apparently reckless though he was, Maggot had long cherished an
ambitious hope, and had for some time past been laying by money for the
purpose of accomplishing his object, which was the procuring of a
seine-net and boats for the pilchard fishery. The recent successes he
had met with in Botallack enabled him to achieve his aim more rapidly
than he had anticipated, and on the day following that in which
Clearemout received his deserts, he went to Penberth Cove to see that
all was in readiness, for pilchards had recently appeared off the coast
in small shoals.
That same day Oliver Trembath, having spent a night of misery in
Penzance, made up his mind to return to St. Just and face his fate like
a man; but he found it so difficult to carry this resolve into effect
that he diverged from the highroad--as he had done on his first
memorable visit to that region--and, without knowing very well why,
sauntered in a very unenviable frame of mind towards Penberth Cove.
Old Mr Donnithorne possessed a pretty villa near the cove, to which he
was wont to migrate when Mrs D felt a desire for change of air, and in
which he frequently entertained large parties of friends in the summer
season. In his heart poor Mr Donnithorne had condemned this villa "to
the hammer," but the improved appearance of things in the mines had
induced him to suspend the execution of the sentence. News of the
appearance of pilchards, and a desire to give Rose a change after her
late adventure, induced Mr Donnithorne to hire a phaeton (he had
recently parted with his own) and drive over to Penberth.
Arrived there, he sauntered down to the cove to look after his nets--for
he dabbled in pilchard fishing as well as in other matters--and Rose
went off to have a quiet, solitary walk.
Thus it came to pass that she and Oliver Trembath suddenly met in a
lonely part of the road between Penberth and Penzance. Ah, those sudden
and unexpected meetings! How pleasant they are, and how well every one
who has had them remembers them!
"Miss Ellis!" exclaimed Oliver in surprise.
"Mr Trembath!" exclaimed Rose in amazement.
You see, reader, how polite they were, but you can neither see nor
conceive how great was the effort made by each to conceal the tumult
that agitated the breast and flushed the countenance, while the tongue
was thus ably controlled. It did not last long, however. Oliver, being
thrown off his guard, asked a number of confused questions, and Rose, in
her somewhat irrelevant replies, happened to make some reference to
"that villain Clearemout."
"Villain?" echoed Oliver in undisguised amazement.
"The villain," repeated Rose, with a flushed face and flashing eye.
"What? why? how?--really, excuse me, Miss Ellis--I--I--the villain--
Clearemout--you don't--"
There is no saying how many more ridiculous exclamations Oliver might
have made had not Rose suddenly said,--"Surely, Mr Trembath, you have
heard of his villainy?"
"No, never; not a word. Pray do tell me, Miss Ellis."
Rose at once related the circumstances of her late adventure, with much
indignation in her tone and many a blush on her brow.
Before she had half done, Oliver's powers of restraint gave way.
"Then you never loved him?" he exclaimed.
"Loved him, sir! I do not understand--"
"Forgive me, Rose; I mean--I didn't imagine--that is to say--oh! Rose,
can it be--is it possible--my _dear_ girl!"
He seized her hand at this point, and--but really, reader, why should we
go on? Is it not something like a violation of good taste to be too
particular here? Is it not sufficient to say that old Mr Donnithorne
came suddenly, and of course unexpectedly, on them at that critical
juncture, rendering it necessary for Rose to burst away and hide her
blushing face on her uncle's shoulder, while Oliver, utterly
overwhelmed, turned and walked (we won't say fled) at full speed in the
direction of the cove.
Here he found things in a condition that was admirably suited to the
state of his feelings. The fishermen of the cove were in a state of
wild excitement, for an enormous shoal of pilchards had been enclosed in
the seine-nets, and Maggot with his men, as well as the people employed
by Mr Donnithorne, were as much over head and ears in fishing as Oliver
was in love. Do you ask, "Why all this excitement?" We will tell you.
The pilchard fishing is to the Cornish fisherman what the harvest is to
the husbandman, but this harvest of the sea is not the result of
prolonged labour, care, and wisdom. It comes to him in a night. It may
last only a few days, or weeks. Sometimes it fails altogether. During
these days of sunshine he must toil with unwonted energy. There is no
rest for him while the season lasts if he would not miss his
opportunity. The pilchard is a little fish resembling a small herring.
It visits the southern coasts of England in autumn and winter, and the
shoals are so enormous as to defy calculation or description. When they
arrive on the coast, "huers"--sharp-sighted men--are stationed on the
cliffs to direct the boatmen when to go out and where to shoot their
seine-nets. When these are shot, millions of pilchards are often
enclosed in a single net.
To give an idea of the numbers of fish and the extent of the fishing, in
a few words, we may state the fact that, in 1834, one shoal of great
depth, and nearly a mile broad, extended from Hayle River to St. Ives, a
distance of two and a half miles. A seine was shot into this mass, and
3,600 hogsheads were carried to the curing cellars. As there are 3,000
pilchards in each hogshead, the catch amounted to nearly eleven million
fish! The value of these might be 3 pounds a hogshead, and the clear
profit about 1 pound a hogshead, so that it is no wonder we hear of
fortunes having been made in a few hauls of the pilchard seines. At the
same time, losses are sometimes very heavy, owing to gales arising and
breaking or carrying away the nets. Such facts, combined with the
uncertainty of the arrival or continuance of the fish on any particular
part of the coast, tend to induce that spirit of eager, anxious
excitement to which we have referred as being so congenial to Oliver
Trembath's state of mind at the time of which we write.
On the beach the young doctor found Maggot and his men launching their
boats, and of course he lent them a hand.
"Pilchards been seen?" he inquired.
"Iss, iss, doctor," was the smith's curt reply; "jump in, an' go 'long
with us."
Oliver accepted the invitation, and was rowed towards a part of the bay
where the sea appeared to be boiling. The boat was a large one,
attended by several others of smaller dimensions. The boiling spot
being reached, Maggot, whose whole being was in a blaze of enthusiasm,
leaped up and seized the end of a seine-net--three hundred fathoms long
by fourteen deep--which he began to throw overboard with the utmost
energy, while the boat was rowed swiftly round the mass of fish. David
Trevarrow assisted him, and in less than four minutes the whole net was
in the sea. One of the other boats, meanwhile, had fastened another net
to the first, and, rowing in an opposite direction from it, progressed
in a circular course, dropping its net as it went, until the two met--
and thus an immense shoal of pilchards were enclosed.
The nets being floated on the surface with corks, and their lower ends
sunk to the bottom with leads, the fish were thus securely imprisoned.
But the security was not great; a gale might arise which would sweep
away the whole concern, or the pilchards might take a fancy to make a
dash in one particular direction, in the event of which they would
certainly burst the net, and no human power could save a single fin. In
order to prevent this, the men in the smaller boats rowed round the
seine, beat the sea with their oars, hallooed, and otherwise exerted
themselves to keep the fish in the centre of the enclosure. Meanwhile a
little boat entered within the circle, having a small net, named a
"tuck-net," which was spread round the seine, inside, and gradually
drawn together, until the fish were raised towards the surface in a
solid, sweltering mass. The excitement at this point became tremendous.
Thousands of silvery fish leaped, vaulted, and fluttered in a seething
mass on the sea. Maggot roared and yelled his orders like a Stentor.
Even mild David Trevarrow lost self-command, and shouted vociferously.
"Hand the basket!" cried Maggot.
A large basket, with a rope attached to one handle, was produced.
Maggot seized the other handle, and thrust it down among the wriggling
pilchards. Trevarrow hauled on the rope, lifted the basket out of the
sea, and a cataract of living silver was shot into the boat, accompanied
by a mighty cheer. Basketful after basketful followed, until the men
stood leg-deep in fish.
"Hold on a bit!" cried Maggot, as, with rolled-up sleeves, dishevelled
hair, and glaring eyes, he threw one leg over the side of the boat, the
more easily to continue his work.
"Have a care," cried Oliver at that moment, stretching out his hand; but
he was too late. The excitable smith had overbalanced himself, and was
already head and shoulders deep down among the pilchards, which sprang
high over him, as if in triumph!
To catch him by the legs, and pull him back into the boat, was the work
of a moment, but the proceedings were not interrupted by the mishap. A
laugh greeted the smith as he was turned head up, and immediately he
braced himself to his arduous labour with renewed energy.
The boat filled, it was rowed to the shore, and here was received by
eager and noisy men, women, and children, by whom the precious contents
were carried to the "cellars," or salting-houses, where they were packed
in the neatest possible piles, layer on layer, heads and tails, with a
sprinkling of salt between.
Maggot's family had followed him to Penberth. Mrs M was there, busy as
a bee--so was Zackey, so was little Grace, and so was the baby. They
all worked like Trojans, the only difference between baby Maggot and the
others being, that, while they did as much work as in them lay, he undid
as much as possible; was in every one's way; fell over and into
everything, including the sea, and, generally, fulfilled his mission of
mischief-maker with credit. The chet was there too! Baby Maggot had
decreed that it should accompany him, so there it was, living on
pilchards, and dragging out its harassed existence in the usual way.
What between salt food, and play, kicks, cuffs, capers, and gluttony,
its aspect at that time was more demoniacal, perhaps, than that of any
other chet between John o' Groat's and the Land's End.
Volumes would scarcely contain all that might be written about this
wonderful scene, but enough has been said to indicate the process
whereby Maggot secured and salted some hundreds of thousands of
pilchards. The enclosing of the fish was the result of a few minutes'
work, but the salting and packing were not ended for many days. The
result, however, was that the lucky smith sent many hogsheads of
pilchards the way of most Cornish fish--namely, to the Mediterranean,
for consumption by Roman Catholics, and in due course he received the
proceeds, to the extent of three thousand pounds.
Thus did Maggot auspiciously begin the making of his fortune--which was
originated and finally completed by his successful mining operations at
Botallack.
And let it be observed here, that he was neither the first nor the last
poor man who became prosperous and wealthy by similar means. There are
men, not a few, now alive in Cornwall, who began with hammer and pick,
and who now can afford to drink in champagne, out of a golden flagon,
the good old Cornish toast--"Fish, tin, and copper."