SAARON ISLAND
Saaron Island lies about due north of Brefar, which looks eastward upon
Inniscaw across the narrow gut of Cromwell's Sound. There was a time
(the tale goes) when these three Islands made one. At low-water springs
you may cross afoot between Saaron and Brefar, and from either of them,
with a little more danger, to Inniscaw, picking your way between the
pools and along the sandy flats that curve about the southern end of
the Sound and divide it from the great roadstead. Also there are
legends of stone walls and foundations of houses laid bare as the
waters have sunk after a gale, and by the next tides covered again with
sand.
But of the past history of Saaron next to nothing could be told, even
by Ruth's husband, young Farmer Tregarthen, who rented the Island and
the one habitable house upon it. He could not even have explained how
so bleak a spot as Saaron had come to possess this farmhouse, which was
one of the roomiest on the Islands. He only knew that it had been built
for one of his forefathers, and that this forgotten Tregarthen, or the
Lord Proprietor who had chosen him for tenant, must have held ambitious
views of the amount of farming possible on Saaron. So much might be
guessed from the size and extent of the out-buildings. The "chall" or
byre, for instance, had stalls for no less than twelve cows, whereas
to-day all the Island's hundred-and-twenty acres barely afforded
pasturage for two. Considering this, he was divided between two
opinions; the first, that his ancestors had pastured their cattle upon
Brefar, driving them to and fro across the flats at low water; the
second, that in the old days the soil had been fertile, and that either
the sand, which drove across it in the prevailing westerly winds,
devastating every green herb, had started its invasion within the last
hundred years or so, or that his forerunners had possessed and lost
some art of coping with it. He had trenched the sand in many places on
the southern and easterly slopes of the two hills into which the Island
was divided, and along the valley between them, and everywhere, at the
depth of two feet or less, the spade found a fine, strong clay, capable
of carrying any crop.
Young Farmer Tregarthen in his slow way pondered a deal over this and
similar problems. Indeed, you might say that in one sense the Island
was never out of his thoughts. He had been born on it. At the age of
sixteen he had succeeded to the farm (though it was nominally leased to
his mother), and to the fight which his father had begun--the warfare
which his enemy, the sand, never allowed him to relax. He could almost
remember his father resuming it and repairing the stone hedges which
enclosed the old fields. In those days Saaron had supported, or failed
to support, five families; but of these all but Tregarthen had lost
their clutch on the barren rock and drifted away to other islands. He
could remember their going. He passed their roofless cottages half a
dozen times a day.
They had subsisted mainly by kelp-making and piloting, helped out (it
is to be feared) by more than a little smuggling. There were
conclusions to be drawn from the cellars in the farmhouse, too ample
for the needs of a small farmer. Tregarthen had a shrewd notion that
most of the guineas which his mother had hoarded in a stocking had come
at one time or another from the contraband trade; also he had a notion
that his father's renewed activities in digging and hedging must have
coincided pretty accurately with the building of the coastguard station
upon St. Lide's and the arrival of a Divisional Officer. But if
smuggling flourished once, it had fallen on evil days, and its secrets
had been hidden from his childhood. Also about that time the pilotage
had decayed in competition with the licensed pilots on St. Ann's, and
but a few hovelling jobs in and about Cromwell's Sound fell to the
share of the men of Saaron. (He could recall discussions and injurious
words, half-understood at the time, faint echoes of that old quarrel
between the two islands.)
But the kelp-making had been in full swing; and the business had a
plenty of mystery and picturesqueness to bite it upon a child's memory.
All the summer through, day after day, at low water, the Islanders
would be out upon the beaches cutting the ore-weed and dragging it in
sledges up the foreshore, where they strewed it above high-water mark,
to dry in the sun. On sunny days they scattered and turned it, on wet
days they banked it into heaps almost as tall as arrish-mows. From
morning until evening they laboured, and towards midsummer, as the near
beaches became denuded, would tail away, in twos and threes, and whole
families, to camp among the Off Islands and raid them; until, when
August came and the kelping season drew to an end, boat after boat
would arrive at high-water and discharge its burden.
These operations filled the summer days; but it was towards nightfall
that the real fun began. For then the men, women, and children would
gather and build the kilns--pits scooped in the sand, measuring about
seven feet across and three feet deep in the centre. While the men
finished lining the sides of the kiln with stones, the women and girls
would leap into it with armfuls of furze; which they lighted and so,
strewing the dried ore-weed upon it, built little by little into a
blazing pile. The great sea-lights which ring the Islands now make a
brave show; but (say the older inhabitants) it will not compare with
the illuminations of bygone summer nights, when as many as forty kilns
would be burning together, and island signalling to island with
bonfire-lights that flickered across the roadsteads and danced on the
wild tide-races. From four to five hours the kilns would be kept
burning, and the critical moment came when the mass of kelp began to
liquefy, and word was given to "strike." Then a dozen or fourteen men
would leap down with pitchforks and heave the red molten mass from side
to side of the kiln, toiling like madmen, while the sweat ran shining
down their half-naked bodies; and sometimes--and always on Midsummer
Eve, which is Baal-fire night--while they laboured the women and girls
would join hands and dance round the pit. In ten minutes or so all this
excitement would die out, the dancers unlock their hands the men climb
out of the pit and throw themselves panting on the sand, leaving the
kelp to settle, cool, and vitrify. But while it lasted the boy knew of
no excitement comparable with it. Little wonder that he remembered
those fiery pits with the dark figures dancing around their brims! But
yet more unforgettable was the smell of the burning kelp had been more
than enough--that acrid, all-permeating, unforgettable odour. His
mother had never been able to endure it. When the wind drove the smoke
from the beach, she would shut every door and window, and build up
every crevice with a barricade of sandbags; all in vain. It crept into
the house, choking the besieged, causing their eyes to smart and their
heads to ache, and scenting clothes, linen, furniture. Even the food
tasted of it.
The kelp-making, however, was but a memory now, though a pungent one. A
night's work at the kiln produced from two to three hundred-weight, and
the price in the good seasons ranged from £4 to £5 a ton; so many
shared the labour that a family had much ado to earn £10 in a whole
season. Under such conditions, too, the work was roughly done. Too
often the sides of the kiln would fall in and the sand--always the
curse of Saaron--would mingle with the kelp and spoil it. And when some
wiser folk in Scotland learned to prepare it under cover, in ovens with
paved floors, the Islanders lost their market, almost in a single
season.
Tregarthen could recall the kelp-making, but neither the circumstances
of the collapse nor the sufferings that followed it. Children observe
the toil, but are usually quite blind to the troubles of their elders.
He only knew that the poorer families almost of a sudden drifted away
from Saaron, that he and his father and mother were left alone on the
island, that his father had begun to busy himself with farming and
required his help, and that in consequence he was released from
lessons. His mother, a farmer's daughter from Holy Vale in St.
Lide's--the one nook in the Islands where you lost sight and almost
sound of the sea, and could look out of window upon green trees--was a
better-most person and something of a scholar. (The Tregarthens had
always gone to the main island for their wives.) She taught the boy to
read, to write a little, and even to cipher up sums in addition and
subtraction. Also she took him over to Brefar to church on every fine
Sunday and taught him his catechism, on the chance (often rumoured)
that the Bishop would come across from the mainland to hold a
Confirmation. But the Bishop of those days had a weak stomach, and, on
the advice of his doctor, kept postponing the voyage.
Thus the boy grew up into a strong, slow man, gentle of manners, shy of
the sound of his own voice, but tenacious of purpose and stubborn when
his will was crossed. Except for the few months when he went wooing
after Ruth Cara--in the year after his mother's death--his life, hopes,
purposes, dreams and waking thoughts concentrated themselves upon
Saaron, and from the day he brought his bride home to it the island
became more than ever his sufficing world. He knew a thousand small
things concerning it--secrets of the soil, of the tides, of the sand
drift--voices of the wind, varying colours of the sea, and what weather
they foretold--where this moss grew, that bird nested--in what week the
wild duck arrived, on what wind the geese might be looked for, and what
feeling in the spring air announced that the guillemots were due. He
had learnt these things unconsciously, and was quite unaware of his
knowledge, having never an occasion to review it or put it into words.
Moreover, it was strangely limited. To his ancestors, to the folk who
had lived here before him, he never gave a thought, except to wonder
what their tillage had been or why they had rounded off a hedge at such
and such a corner. Of the history of his own farm-house he could tell
you next to nothing, and nothing at all of the small ruined church he
passed at least twice a day--though this testified that Saaron had been
populous once on a time. How long had the Tregarthens lived on the
Island? How far back beyond the five or six generations attested by the
signatures on old leases hidden away in his strong-box? One might as
well ask how long the sandpipers and oyster-catchers had bred on their
separate grounds under the north slope of the cliffs towards Brefar. On
the summit of the hill stood eleven mounds, and in each mound (so
tradition said) lay the burnt bones of royalty. Was he, perhaps,
descended from these Island kings? Tregarthen would not have given
sixpence to discover. They were dead, and less than names: the place of
their burial belonged to him, and he had to wring a livelihood from it
to support his wife and family. Sometimes, when he thought of his three
youngsters--of the boy especially--the man felt a vague longing which
puzzled him as well by its foolishness as by its strength; a longing to
pass, when his time came, into these barren acres and watch (though
helplessly) while his heir improved what he had painfully won. It was
absurd, of course, to desire any such perpetuity; wicked, perhaps. It
could not be reconciled with heaven and the future life promised by the
Bible. Yet it haunted him, though at rare intervals, and not
importunately. To the past he gave never a thought.
Ruth Tregarthen, his wife, was one of those women who find their
happiness within their own doors. The farm-house stood some way up the
slope of the southern hill, facing eastward over the valley which
curved a little at its feet and spread into a line of small flat
meadows around the East Bay, where the farmer kept his two boats; and
the site had been chosen here to avoid the seas which, with a gale
falling on top of the equinoctial springs, are driven up the valley
from east and west, and meet to form an isthmus, cutting the Island in
two.
The state-rooms of the farm-house--parlour, hall, and best
bedrooms--looked eastward upon Cromwell's Sound; but the waters of the
Sound were hidden from the lower windows by a stout hedge of tamarisk.
The kitchen window at the back--by far the largest in the house, as the
kitchen itself, where the family took its meals on every day but
Christmas Day and Good Friday, was the true focus of the
household--looked across the town-place, or farm-yard, upon another
tall hedge of tamarisk, above which climbed the hill, steep, strewn
with small white stones, shutting out the Atlantic.
The kitchen table stood close beside this window, just beyond the edge
of the bacon-rack; and directly opposite, across the wide paved floor,
was a wide open hearth, fitted with crooks and brandises, where all the
day long something or other would be cooking, and where the night
through the logs smouldered and fell in soft grey ash, to be fed and
stirred to flame again in the early morning. Yes, and as though this
was not enough, the hearth had beside it an iron door which, being
opened, disclosed to the children a long narrow hole filled with fire;
vision to them of a passage leading straight to hell, though their own
mother (and she so gentle) stoked it with bunches of furze, and drew
from it loaves and saffron cakes, hot and detectable.
To the children it seemed that their parents seldom or never talked,
and never by any chance took a rest.
Their names were Annet, Linnet and Matthew Henry, and this was the
order of their ages--Annet nine, Linnet seven, and Matthew Henry rising
five. On fine days they attended school at Inniscaw, being rowed to and
fro across the Sound by John Nanjulian (Old Jan), the hind, or Stevy,
the farm-boy. These, with Melia Mundy, the house-girl, whose parents
lived on Brefar, made up Farmer Tregarthen's employ, and took their
meals at table with the family.
The school which Annet, Linnet, and Matthew Henry attended had been
built by the Lord Proprietor on Inniscaw shore, to serve the three
islands of Inniscaw, Brefar, and Saaron. The children brought their
school-pence weekly, on Friday mornings; but, of course, their pence
did not pay--scarcely even began to pay--for the cost. Also there were
days, and sometimes many days together, when no boat could be put
across; and, considering this, the Lord Proprietor (who was a
philanthropist in his way, but his way happened to be a despotic one)
had commanded his architect to prepare plans for a smaller school on
Brefar. This, to be sure, would not help the three children on Saaron;
but it gave him yet another reason to feel indignant with that fellow
Tregarthen for clinging so obstinately to his solitude and barren
acres.
The children themselves did not regret living so far from school; for
they were ordinary healthy youngsters though brighter-witted than most,
and felt as other youngsters feel towards that wise and elderly
beneficence which boxes them up in a room for instruction. To be sure
they missed the games in the play-ground before and after school; but
this was no such loss as the reader, remembering his own childhood,
might be disposed to think. For, sad to tell, only a few of the
hundreds of thousands of children attending schools really understand
games, or can be said to have learnt to play, and the Island children
were in this respect some way behind their brothers and sisters on the
mainland. If at whiles the small trio looked back wistfully as old Jan
rowed them homeward, or if the shouts that followed across the water
from the playground now and again reproached them, on the whole they
would not have changed places with their school-fellows even at a
price. After all, no island in the world could compare with Saaron.
Their father had never said this, but they were sure that he thought
it; and their father knew everything. As he walked along he would say
suddenly, "Go there"--but without lifting his eyes, just waving his
hand towards the spot--"and there you will find a bunting's nest, or a
stone-chat's"; nor once in a dozen times would he be mistaken.
There were compensations, too, in living on an island where on any
morning you might wake and find a gale of wind blowing, forbidding you
to go to school. But even in fine weather one could always look forward
to Saturday and Sunday, each a whole holiday.
It was Saturday. The three had opened their eyes soon after daybreak
and lay in their cots "chirruping," as their mother called it--talking,
planning out a campaign of adventures for the long two days before
them. The sun shone through their nursery window, which faced the East.
They had curled themselves to sleep before the great fog came up and
covered the Islands, and the sound of guns had neither awakened them
nor reached their dreams. They awoke to a clear morning sky, and while
they chatted, waiting the order to tumble out and dress, their father
looked in at the nursery door and astonished and excited them with news
of a great steamer which had entered the Roads in the night and was
already lifting anchor to pursue her voyage.
From the hill above the farmhouse they watched her, after breakfast, as
she steamed past the southern point of the island, nosed her way slowly
through Chough Sound, between Inniscaw and St. Lide's, and so headed
away to the northward until her smoke lay in a low trail on the
horizon. They had never before seen a steamer of her size.
Thus strangely began a day which the three had still stranger cause to
remember. They had planned to take their dinner wrapped in their
handkerchiefs and climb to the old tombs on the hill overlooking
Brefar, then to play at being Aztecs, from hints which Annet had dug
out of an old History of Mexico on her mother's bookshelf, and at
hiding treasure from the Spaniards, whose ships were to come sailing
through the Off Islands. Having concealed their hoard, they were either
to descend upon the Western Bay, which they called The Porth, and there
offer a bloody resistance to the invaders, or (this was Annet's notion,
which for the present she kept to herself) to wait until the north
channel dried and make a desperate escape across the sands to Brefar.
The trouble was, she could not be sure of low water being early enough
to let them dash across and back before dusk again. She was a brave
girl--a great deal braver, at least in these adventures, than her
sister Linnet; but she had to bear in mind that Matthew Henry was but
five years old and easily tired, and also that if they arrived home
after dusk her mother would be anxious and her father angry. So she
nursed the project in her own heart, and when the three had taken
seizin of the northern hill, eaten their manchets of saffron cake, and
shared their canful of milk, she took up a post from which, while the
others scanned the offing for Spaniards, she could watch and time the
ebb of the tide on the flats.
The afternoon was sunny; the flat rock on which they were perched lay
out of the wind's reach; and to beguile the interval of waiting Annet
drew out a book which she had brought with her--a much-worn copy of
Hans Andersen which had arrived at Christmas, three years ago, as a
gift from that mysterious Aunt Vazzy of whom their mother talked so
often. Linnet stoutly maintained that this aunt of theirs, whom they
had never set eyes on, must be a fairy herself--neither more nor less;
and Annet had her doubts on this point. But the book, at any rate, was
real, with a real inscription on the fly-leaf; and the children (though
some of the stories puzzled them) believed it to be the most beautiful
book in the world.
Each child had a favourite story. Matthew Henry's was "The Tinder-Box,"
and he would wake in the night from dreams, deliciously terrible, of
the three dogs "with eyes as big as coach wheels." Linnet, who had a
practical mind, preferred such as dealt with rolling-pins, flat-irons,
and shirt-collars, because these were familiar objects, and their
histories usually ended cheerfully--(she liked "The Ugly Duckling"
because he was a duckling, but objected to much of the tale as being
too sad). Annet declared for "The Little Mermaid," which is perhaps the
saddest of all; and this was the one she chose to-day, though
half-penitently, because she felt pretty certain that it would make
Linnet cry.
But to-day Linnet no sooner recognized the opening of the story than
she set her face defiantly; and when Annet reached that most pathetic
passage where the little mermaid glances down sorrowfully at her fish's
tail, and "Let us be merry," says the grandmother, "let us dance and
play for the three hundred years we have to live," Linnet lifted her
chin, stared hard at the horizon and said resolutely--albeit in a voice
that trembled a little--
"I don't believe there are any such things as mermaids!"
Young Matthew Henry opened his mouth and stared, round-eyed at such
dreadful scepticism.
Annet, too, gazed up from her book.
"But the story says there are," she answered, simply and gravely.
"Who ever saw one?" persisted doubting Linnet.
"Hundreds of people--" Annet began, and with that, as a shadow fell on
the rock, she lifted her eyes and uttered a little cry.
Just above, on the flat tombstone that jutted over the ridge, stood a
beautiful lady, and looked down on them.