Chapter Thirty One.
Describes a Marred Plot, and tells of Retributive Justice
Meanwhile the gossiping woman of the cottage on the moor, whose grateful heart had never forgotten the little kindness done to her boy by the young doctor, and who knew that the doctor loved Rose Ellis, more surely, perhaps, than Rose did herself, went off in a state of deep anxiety to St. Just, and, by dint of diligent inquiries and piecing of things together, coupled with her knowledge of Clearemout’s intentions, came to a pretty correct conclusion as to the state of affairs.
She then went to the abode of young Charles Tregarthen, whom she knew to be Oliver’s friend, and unbosomed herself. Charlie repaid her with more than thanks, and almost hugged her in his gratitude for her prompt activity.
“And now, Mrs Hicks,” said he, “you shall see how we will thwart this scoundrel. As for Oliver Trembath, I cannot imagine what could take him into Penzance in the wild state that you describe. Of course this affair has to do with it, and he evidently has learned something of this, and must have misunderstood the matter, else assuredly he had not been absent at such a time. But why go to Penzance? However, he will clear up the mystery ere long, no doubt. Meanwhile we shall proceed to thwart your schemes, good Mr Clearemout!”
So saying, Charlie Tregarthen set about laying his counter-plans. He also, as the managing director had done, visited several men, some of whom were miners and some smugglers, and arranged a meeting that evening near Cape Cornwall.
When evening drew on apace, four separate parties converged towards Priest’s Cove. First, a boat crept along shore propelled by four men and steered by Jim Cuttance. Secondly, six stout men crept stealthily down to the cove, led by Charlie Tregarthen, with Maggot as his second in command. Thirdly, Rose Ellis wended her way to the rendezvous with trembling step and beating heart; and, fourthly, George Augustus Clearemout moved in the same direction.
But the managing director moved faster than the others, having a longer way to travel, for, having had to pay a last visit to Wheal Dooem, he rode thence to St. Just. On the way he was particularly interested in a water-wheel which worked a pump, beside which a man in mining costume was seated smoking his pipe.
“Good-evening,” said Clearemout, reining up.
“Good-hevenin’, sur.”
“What does that pump?” asked the managing director, pointing to the wheel.
“That, sur?” said the miner, drawing a few whiffs from his pipe; “why, that do pump gold out o’ the Londoners, that do.”
The managing director chuckled very much, and said, “Indeed!”
“Iss, sur,” continued the miner, pointing to Wheal Dooem, “an’ that wan theere, up over hill, do the same thing.”
The managing director chuckled much more at this, and displayed his teeth largely as he nodded to the man and rode on.
Before his arrival at the rendezvous, the boat was run ashore not far from the spot where Tregarthen and his men were concealed. As soon as the men had landed, Charlie walked down to them alone and accosted their leader.
“Well, Cuttance, you’re a pretty fellow to put your finger in such a dirty pie as this.”
Cuttance had seen the approach of Tregarthen with surprise and some alarm.
“Well, sur,” said he, without any of the bold expression that usually characterised him, “what can a man do when he’s to be well paid for the job? I do confess that I don’t half like it, but, after all, what have we got to do weth the opinions of owld aunts or uncles? If a gurl do choose to go off wi’ the man she likes, that’s no matter to we, an’ if I be well paid for lendin’ a hand, why shouldn’t I? But it do puzzle me, Mr Tregarthen, to guess how yow did come to knaw of it.”
“That don’t signify,” said Tregarthen sternly. “Do you know who the girl is?”
“I don’t knaw, an’ I don’t care,” said Jim doggedly.
“What would you say if I told you it was Miss Rose Ellis?” said Charlie.
“I’d say thee was a liard,” replied Cuttance.
“Then I do tell you so.”
“Thee don’t mean that!” exclaimed the smuggler, with a blaze of amazement and wrath in his face.
“Indeed I do.”
“Whew!” whistled Jim, “then that do explain the reason why that smooth-tongued feller said he would car’ her to the boat close veiled up for fear the men should see her.”
A rapid consultation was now held by the two as to the proper mode of proceeding. Cuttance counselled an immediate capture of the culprit, and pitching him off the end of Cape Cornwall; but Tregarthen advised that they should wait until Clearemout seized his victim, otherwise they could not convict him, because he would deny any intention of evil against Rose, and pretend that some other girl, who had been scared away by their impetuosity, was concerned, for they might depend on it he’d get up a plausible story and defeat them.
Tregarthen’s plan was finally agreed to, and he returned to his men and explained matters.
Soon afterwards the managing director appeared coming down the road.
“Is all right?” he inquired of Cuttance, who went forward to meet him.
“All right, sur.”
“Go down to the boat then and wait,” he said, turning away.
Ere long he was joined by Rose, with whom he entered into conversation, leading her over the cape so as to get out of sight of the men, but young Tregarthen crept among the rocks and never for a moment lost sight of them. He saw Clearemout suddenly place a kerchief on Rose’s mouth, and, despite the poor girl’s struggles, tie it firmly so as to prevent her screaming, then he threw a large shawl over her, and catching her in his arms bore her swiftly towards the boat.
Tregarthen sprang up and confronted him.
Clearemout, astonished and maddened by this unexpected interference, shouted,—“Stand aside, sir! You have no interest in this matter, or right to interfere.”
Charlie made no reply, but sprang on him like a tiger. Clearemout dropped his burden and grappled with the youth, who threw him in an instant, big though he was, for Tregarthen was a practised wrestler, and the managing director was not. His great strength, however, enabled him to get on his knees, and there is no saying how the struggle might have terminated had not Cuttance come forward, and, putting his hard hands round Clearemout’s throat, caused that gentleman’s face to grow black, and his tongue and eyes to protrude. Having thus induced him to submit, he eased off the necklace, and assisted him to rise, while the men of both parties crowded round.
“Now, then, boys,” cried Jim Cuttance, “bear a hand, one and all, and into the say with him.”
The managing director was at once knocked off his legs, and borne shoulder-high down to the beach by as many hands as could lay hold of him. Here they paused:—
“All together, boys—one—two—ho!”
At the word the unfortunate man was shot, by strong and willing arms, into the air like a bombshell, and fell into the water with a splash that was not unlike an explosion.
Clearemout was a good swimmer. When he came to the surface he raised himself, and, clearing the water from his eyes, glanced round. Even in that extremity the quickness and self-possession of the man did not forsake him. He perceived, at a glance, that the boat which, in the excitement of the capture, had been left by all the men, had floated off with the receding tide, and now lay a short distance from the shore.
At once he struck out for it. There was a shout of consternation and a rush to the water’s edge. Maggot shot far ahead of the others, plunged into the sea, and swam off. Observing this, and knowing well the courage and daring of the man, the rest stopped on the shore to witness the result.
Clearemout reached the boat first, but, owing to exhaustion, was unable to raise himself into it. Maggot soon came up and grasped him by the throat, both men managed to get their arms over the gunwale, but in their struggle upset the boat and were separated. Clearemout then made for the shore with the intention of giving himself up, and Maggot followed, but he was not equal in swimming to the managing director, whose long steady strokes easily took him beyond the reach of his pursuer. He reached the shore, and stalked slowly out of the water. At the same moment Maggot sank and disappeared.
The consternation of his comrades was so great that in the confusion their prisoner was unheeded. Some sprang into the sea and dived after Maggot; others swam to the boat, intending to right it and get the boat-hooks.
Suddenly those who had remained on the beach observed something creep out of the sea near to some rocks a little to the right of the place where they stood. They ran towards it.
“Hallo! is that you, old Maggot?” they cried.
It was indeed the valiant smith himself! How he got there no one ever knew, nor could himself tell. It was conjectured that he must have become partially exhausted, and, after sinking, had crept along the bottom to the shore! However, be that as it may, there he was, lying with his arm lovingly round a rock, and the first thing he said on looking up was,—“Aw! my dear men, has any of ’ee got a chaw of baccy about ’ee?”
This was of course received with a shout of laughter, and unlimited offers of quids while they assisted him to rise.
Meanwhile Tregarthen was attending to Rose, who had swooned when Clearemout dropped her. He also kept a watch over the prisoner, who, however, showed no intention of attempting to escape, but sat on a stone with his face buried in his hands.
The men soon turned their attention to him again, and some of the more violent were advancing to seize him, with many terrible threats of further vengeance, when Rose ran between them, and entreated them to spare him.
Tregarthen seconded the proposal, and urged that as he had got pretty severe punishment already, they should set him free. This being agreed to, Charlie turned to the managing director, and said, with a look of pity, “You may go, sir, but, be assured, it is not for your own sake that we let you off. You know pretty well what the result would be if we chose to deliver you up to justice; we care more, however, for the feelings of this lady—whose name would be unavoidably and disagreeably brought before the public at the trial—than we care for your getting your merited reward. But, mark me, if you ever open your lips on the subject, you shall not escape us.”
“Iss,” added Jim Cuttance, “ann remember, you chucklehead, that if you do write or utter wan word ’bout it, after gettin’ back to London, there are here twelve Cornish men who will never rest till they have flayed thee alive!”
“You need have no fear,” said Clearemout with a bitter smile, as he turned and walked away, followed by a groan from the whole party.
“Now, lads,” said Cuttance after he was gone, “not wan word of this must ever be breathed, and we’ll howld ’ee responsible, David Hicks, for t’ wife’s tongue; dost a hear?”
This was agreed to by all, and, to the credit of these honest smugglers, and of Mrs Hicks, be it said, that not a syllable about the incident was ever heard of in the parish of St. Just from that day to this!
Chapter Thirty Two.
Touches on Love and on Pilchard Fishing
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.”