Читать книгу Ships in the Bay! - D. K. Broster - Страница 7

The summer day had dawned very clear, and the wind, blowing light but steady from the north, promised not only fine, but brilliantly fine weather, most congenial, since hay harvest was upon them, to all the farmers of Western Pembrokeshire in this year of grace and war 1796. It swept over the wide, airy, almost treeless expanses of Dewisland, studded with innumerable white-washed farms, ruffling the young barley and wheat; the tall pink valerian on the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace, down in the Vale of Roses, swayed to its passing; the little blue scabious in their thousands on the cliff saluted it, and the now fading thrift which the scabious had replaced: while the sea itself, on either side of the out-thrust fist of St. David’s, from Skomer Island off the one coast to Strumble Head on the other, was the livelier and the more azure for its passing.

Nor was the breeze displeasing to Miss Nest Meredith, driving her father, the Precentor, and an antiquarian visitor in a low pony-chaise towards the western shore, in order that the latter might inspect the ruins of the old chapel erected there to St. Justinian, the teacher of St. David himself. For the breeze not only tempered the heat in the high-banked and flower-bedecked channel which was the road thither, but to some extent kept away the flies from Patch, the fat, slowly-trotting old pony, who need hardly have been taken from his stable for so short an excursion but that Mr. Thistleton, lame from birth was dependent upon some means of transport.

The dust rose behind and drifted slowly on to the banks on either side—on to the troops of ferns, the hundreds of foxgloves, the recurrent patches of pink campion which harmonised so well with them and the yellow snapdragon which made so vivid a contrast, and on to the spires of the majestic, woolly-leaved mulleins planted at regular intervals, apparently by some celestial under-gardener, which were just beginning to twinkle into bloom. The distance from the Precentory to Porthstinian was less than two miles, yet Nest, as she drove, had time to feel sleepy with the heat and the dust-muffled clop-clop of Patch’s advance. Papa, she could hear, was talking to Mr. Thistleton about the restoration of the Cathedral’s west front, now in progress, but she did not listen. Soon, as she knew from past experience with visitors, they would be discussing with equal zest the curious chimney, alleged to be “Flemish,” of the farmhouse at Rhosson, which they would shortly reach and wish to stop at; indeed but a couple of minutes had elapsed before she caught the word “Flemings” already passing between the two gentlemen.

They were out of the lane now, and on their left Trefeiddan Pool, small and shallow, glittered in the stretch of moorland between them and the craggy eminence of Clegyr Boia, where the chieftain who made himself so objectionable to St. David was reputed to have had his fastness. Now a farmhouse sat beneath its slopes, just as Rhosson beneath another sudden hillock. Pool, moor and crag were all upon a small scale. A little further and they were at Rhosson; Nest pulled up Patch almost mechanically, Dr. Meredith and his guest alighted; the former pointed, they viewed; finally they entered the farmhouse.

Nest Meredith untied the ribbon of her big shady hat and fanned herself awhile with it, the sun glinting on her golden-brown ringlets. Patch stood with drooping head, only his long tail busy. The scent of hay was in the air, for one or two fields near Rhosson were already cut, though none was yet carried. In front, the rough road, rising slightly, cut off the view, but away to her right a strip of intensely blue water showed up the brown, seared promontory of St. David’s Head itself, shaped at that distance like an outstretched crocodile—not that Nest had ever seen a crocodile. She had only to turn round to see the great tower of the Cathedral emerging, with no sign of the building to which it was attached, from the hollow which held the shrine of Dewi Sant.

It had never occurred to Nest Meredith, the daughter of the Cathedral’s chief dignitary—for here at St. David’s, where there had never been a Dean, the Precentor or Chanter held that position—to criticise the unprecedented site which the Cathedral itself occupied, down in the valley of the river Alan, while the little town was grouped along the ridge above. She was too much accustomed to its unique position; indeed, rather proud of it. But her married sister Jane, when she came from her present home in Lincolnshire to visit them, would often speak in disparaging terms of old Peter de Leia, the builder of this, the third church to rise over St. David’s bones. But of course she did this out of her father’s hearing; yet when Nest reminded her that Bishop Peter did not choose the site, Jane would reply impatiently: “My dear Nest, if we all went on slavishly copying our forefathers, what would become of progress?” Jane would never have talked thus about “progress” before her marriage, and Nest feared that the development must have some connection with the alarming fact that her husband, if not she herself, read Tom Paine and Rousseau, even though it were mere intellectual curiosity and not real sympathy which led Mr. Stalybridge to investigate the subversive ideas of these writers, which all true-hearted Englishmen must so abhor.

It was certain on the other hand that no such literature was ever perused by Nest’s naval brother William, he who in these days of possible French invasion was contributing towards keeping the shores of Britain inviolate. Yet even William had once declared, à propos of the Cathedral, that he did think those old fellows might have chosen the quarterdeck instead of the hold while they were about it; and that it was, from a sailor’s point of view, almost a crime to have wasted such a good daymark as the great tower would probably have made, by erecting it in a rabbit run. In such unsuitable terms had he referred to the charming green valley of the Alan, yellow a month ago with flags, and now all white and fragrant with the meadow-sweet.

Ah, here were Papa and Mr. Thistleton coming out of the farmhouse, Mrs. Lloyd curtseying behind them. Into the pony-chaise they got again, the vehicle swaying to the Precentor’s weight, for he was a large man and of slightly full habit—not more so, however, than was consonant with and indeed conducive to dignity. Nest flicked her whip, and Patch slowly put himself once more into motion.

The pony-chaise topped the slight rise, and as they began to descend again Ramsey Sound came into view, a wide blue floor streaked with silver currents, cutting off the high ground ahead which, to the visitor’s surprise, revealed itself as an island of some extent. Further out to the right swam Careg Rhosson and other islets. Mr. Thistleton gave exclamations of surprise and appreciation.

“Yes,” said Dr. Meredith, “that is Ynys Dewi, or Ynis-yr-hyrddod, as it is sometimes called. As with Bardsey Island, twenty thousand saints are said by tradition to have been buried there, which, as Ramsey is only a couple of miles long, must have necessitated somewhat crowded sepulture. It was there that St. Justinian, who appears to have been a severe disciplinarian, is said to have been slain by his servants; but his body, according to legend, walked over the Sound, carrying its head under its arm, and was originally buried in the spot we are approaching. His chapel, which you can now see, in consequence, I suppose, of this holy feat, used to be resorted to by those crossing to and from Ramsey Island, either to pray for a safe passage or to give thanks for one. We must get out here, I am afraid; this is too steep for Patch.” And leaving that steed, never known to stir unbidden, the three of them went down the rough track towards the little roofless shrine.

But Nest did not go in with the two gentlemen; she wished to see, rather, what was occupying the attention of the small group of men on the grassy point just beyond, overlooking the minute landing-place which gave the spot its name of Porth. One of the men had a telescope to his eye. Perhaps he was looking at a seal or two come over from their breeding place in the caves on the other side of the island, and Nest dearly loved to watch seals. Now she could see the whole expanse of the Sound and Pont-y-Geist, the terrible line of jagged teeth running right out from Ramsey into the narrowest part of the channel, past which the tide raced and foamed always; but it was something under the lee of the mainland which caught her attention. Round to the left, close inshore, but at some distance from Porthstinian, a ship was anchored.

Miss Meredith’s heart gave an unpleasant jump. When one lives on a seacoast in time of war, still more, as in her case, between two seacoasts, even a strange sail in the offing may raise alarm. And here was an unknown and rather curious-looking vessel moored in the Sound, while a boat which had evidently come from her was already well on its way to the little landing-place.

The group of men, all known to Nest, had turned at her approach and saluted her.

“I hope that is not a French ship, Mr. Watkins!” said the girl, trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice.

“No, no, Miss Nest bach,” said the man with the telescope reassuringly. “Though indeed you might well be thinking that she should be a foreigner, for foreigner she was once, for sure. But now she will be a prize; look you, she do fly the British flag!” He held out his telescope. “If you was to look through this, miss, you ’ould see the way her mainmast has been shot about; and indeed to goodness the boat on the davits there have a great hole in it!”

Nest took the telescope and, since it was not the first time she had used such an instrument, she was able quickly to eschew the succession of bobbing circles, blank save for the blue heaving which filled them, in favour of a small section of the captured vessel. Lighting, however, upon the figure of a man in the ship who, having evidently just washed his only shirt, was hanging it over the side to dry, she hastily lowered the telescope with a blush; but, unwilling so soon to relinquish it, sought instead for the oncoming boat and, after several false casts, was successful in hitting it off. There first appeared in her field of vision the back of a grizzled and rather bald head, swaying to the oar at which its owner was tugging; then, as she slightly shifted the telescope, she came upon the stem of the advancing boat itself, with the water shearing up like crystal on either side of it; after which there swung into view the shoulder of the rower in the bow and the back of his head. He was evidently a young man, for, though he wore a blue, tasselled woollen cap, she could see how thick was his dark brown hair. His neck was tanned, but not wrinkled like the other man’s. She gave back the telescope with a word of thanks.

“Good morning, Watkins; good morning, John Llewelyn!” said her father’s voice behind her. “I see, miss, that you prefer science to art, the new to the old!”

“Yes; for, Papa, see!” explained Nest in excitement, “there’s a ship in the Sound—a prize—and a boat is coming ashore from her. ’Twill soon be in!”

And soon, indeed, the boat with its crew of four was gliding into the recess in the cliffs (for it was not much more) which formed the landing-place. The party from the Precentory watched from above while Watkins shouted down to ascertain what it had come for. One of the rowers scrambled ashore, an individual in a blue frieze waistcoat and wide canvas trousers, and shouted up in a hoarse voice:

“Prize crew from the Fair Penitent, letter of marque of Liverpool, taking back a Dutch prize, and bein’ short of water and the wind contrary we’ve put in for a cask or so. Will ’ee show us where to get it?”

“I incline to wonder,” murmured Mr. Thistleton above, in Dr. Meredith’s ear, “that they don’t ask for something stronger than water!”

Mr. Watkins went down, and was seen to be informing the privateersman of the nearest source of supply, while Nest from her eminence inspected the crew of the boat. They did indeed look somewhat ruffianly: all bearded and middle-aged, save the young bow oar with the blue cap who, though unshaven, was not hirsute to anything like the same extent. From where she was, Nest could not distinguish his features, but she noticed that though at first he had sat with his head bent over his oar, he was now gazing about him with every appearance of interest.

Presently he with the two others shipped their oars, got out of the boat, each with a couple of water-kegs, mounted the steps cut in the cliff and passed within a few yards of the spectators, subsequently disappearing up the sloping road.

“Brave and worthy fellows, no doubt, in spite of their somewhat unprepossessing appearance,” commented Dr. Meredith. “We must remember the risks they run, the hard life they lead. Did their leader say that it was a Liverpool privateer which captured the vessel there in the Sound?”

“Yes,” replied his guest. “A privateer with a very odd name—the Fair Penitent, if I heard aright.”

“Very odd,” agreed the Precentor. “It is, I think, the title of an old play.”

“Perhaps her owner has literary leanings,” suggested Mr. Thistleton, as they started back towards the pony-chaise. “Or, more probably, an admiration for Mrs. Siddons. I believe, now I come to think of it, that the Fair Penitent was one of the tragedies in which she used to enact the heroine when she was playing in Liverpool and Manchester twenty years ago, before she came to London. Liverpool possesses many privateers, does it not?”

“Scores, my dear sir, scores. As many, or more than Bristol. We see them sometimes passing the Bishop and Clerks out there. And slave ships also; the port has a great trade to the Guinea coast. But I cannot remember either a privateer or a prize ever putting in here before.”

Patch being roused from his meditations, they now drove slowly home again. Of the privateersmen there was no further sign, and conversation, abandoning present day affairs, flowed once more round the relics of the past.