Читать книгу Joan of the Pilchard - Mary Gaunt - Страница 4

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'What hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he had laboured under the sun?'

The body of rain Reynell prophesied came in torrents the next day. The hills that made the Coombe were hidden in mist. A wild wind tore up the gully, driving before it the spring tide. In the harbour the men gave all their attention to the fastening of their boats. In the town the women slipped in the boards at the front doors to keep out the water. The waves were tumbling in great green seas over the quay, and the stout stone wall that ran round the harbour on the west threatened every moment to give way. For the sea was as high as the Peak itself. There seemed no chance that it would go down.

Reynell, with young Quiller and Robert Trevenick, the parson's son, stood at the fish scales watching the rising water. From the half-door of the Pilchard, Joan, with a shawl thrown over her head, watched them. Seen by the dim light on the fish scales, she only recognized Reynell by his height. But the others were nothing to her.

She had just made a discovery, a discovery of vital import. There was a band of navy men, how many she was not quite sure, crouching on the slope of the hill just behind the tavern. They could rush it when they pleased, break through the doors, and be in the street in a moment. That, she was fairly sure, was what they intended to do. Even half a dozen men, catching the fishermen unawares, might take heavy toll in the storm.

She knew well enough what she ought to do. She had only to raise the alarm from the half-door where she stood and all would be well. However many there were, and of course there were others besides those she had seen, once the fishermen were warned they could look after themselves.

But Polperro had not been kind to Joan. Let them be pressed. Only that stalwart figure, blurred by the driving rain, pulled at her heart strings. At any time she would have given much for an opportunity of speech with Daniel Reynell, and here was such an opportunity made right to her hand. She would tell him, and tell him only. For once in her starved life she would be looked upon by the man she loved with all the strength of her passionate repressed nature as of some account, as the woman who kept her eyes open and helped the town.

The thought of his commendation sent the hot blood racing through her veins. She pulled the shawl tighter over her head, opened the half-door and stepped out on to the cobble stones of the roadway, where already the water was washing a foot deep. It was a very turmoil outside, dark as pitch but for the evil-smelling pilchard oil lamps that hung, one on the fish scales, and one in the doorway of the tavern. Not a star was to be seen. The clouds, driven before the south-west wind, hid all the heavens, only the white water on top of the waves that broke over the quay showed a line like cruel teeth. The roar of it rushing down the Peak, mingling with the shriek of the wind tearing up the gully, drowned all other sounds.

It took strength, Joan found, to keep her feet even on the cobble stones in front of the inn where she was, in a measure, sheltered. What faint light there was fell on Reynell's face under his sou'wester. She made her way to him, and in her tense excitement laid her hand on his arm. Never before had she done such a thing. Now it seemed to her the occasion warranted what she had only dared think of before with bated breath. He would understand. He would praise——

'Why, Joan,' he said smiling, 'the very lass I'm looking for. Canst send a message for me?'

His eyes looked straight down into hers. She felt for a moment a sense of companionship and friendliness that warmed her heart and steadied her nerves.

'Iss, that a' can,' she said eagerly, and the delight of pleasing him made her hesitate just one moment before giving him the warning. Those men on the hillside would not act just yet. She would prolong the delight of this proximity. Perhaps she could persuade him to come into the tavern. How could she say the words that would send him racing from her to organise Polperro. Just a moment——

With a careless hand he smashed her poor little dream of bliss.

'Get me someone, my lass, will run up to Raphiel Farm and tell them I cannot be there to-night. It's going to be a dirty night and I must stay near the harbour.'

The words choked in Joan's throat. She literally could not answer.

There was no need.

A small boy ran past. Reynell caught him and promised him a penny if he delivered his message. Then he put his hand to his face and looked out to sea again.

The very devils of hell raged in the girl's heart. He had forgotten her very existence. He had looked kindly at her just because he wanted to send a message to his sweetheart, just that——And Loveday Corthew would be as happy with Lieutenant Quested, or Robert Trevenick, or with young Quiller there for that matter. She was a good girl. She would make any decent man a good wife.

Joan lingered a moment. Perhaps he would look round.

But his head was full of the business of the town. If he thought of any woman at all it was of Loveday Corthew waiting for him at Raphiel Farm. Joan was less than nothing to him. He had sent his message. He turned to Bob Trevenick as if she had never been.

'What about the lamps at the head of the quay?'

So he sealed his own fate, and hers too, though he did not know it. Not from her should he hear of the cutter's crew on the hillside.

'They be knocked about proper,' said young Quiller. 'It's no good thinking of they. There be no boats out to-night. If so be's they's out, out they'll have to stay. How long to high water?'

'Not for a couple of hours yet,' said Reynell anxiously.

'Then by all that's holy the town had better clear to the hills in double quick time,' said Trevenick as a swirl of water came racing round their knees. 'It'll take some of the women all they know to fetch it.'

Not one of them gave a second thought to the girl standing swaying beside them. She could not see their faces, only the light of the little lamp on the fish scales shone on the gleaming sou'-westers of the two tall men and Bob Trevenick, sturdy but hardly up to their shoulders. She looked down the street. It was black as a wolf's maw; the driving rain blotted out everything, and the light from the pilchard oil lamps in the windows, which was all the lighting Polperro got in the ninth decade of the eighteenth century, came out as a dim gleam here and there fitful and uncertain. Another gust and out went the lamp over the door of the tavern.

The only one that counted now was the one at the fish scales.

Another swirl of water came; another; and another.

The three young men shouted at the top of their voices.

'The water! The water is in! The water is in!'

There was no doubt about it. This was no stray wave. The water was in. The town was flooding fast.

'Rouse out! Lee! Garrett! Ross! Look alive there! Rouse out, men. You can't hold the houses against the sea! Best take the women and children to the upper town. Rouse out! Rouse out!'

Not one of them remembered Joan. They rushed to the nearest house and pounded on the door.

'Take the houses up Chaple Rock way, Quiller. Some of them are in danger,' ordered Reynell. 'Bob, you take the houses on the right of the street up to the Green. I'll take those on the left.'

Above the roaring of the storm Joan heard him shout. Never one word for her, never one thought though she had stood beside him a moment ago. She was a capable girl, quick to think and quick to act. Had she not been hampered by her love she could have called attention to herself as equal in this emergency as any man to help. But that love somehow bound her hands. She could think of nothing but that she was naught to him.

The storm was growing. It was difficult to hear each other's voices. But it was self-evident they must warn the town, for this was no ordinary gale, that might merely flood out the kitchens of the housewives till the tide turned. This would drown children and women and men too, for that matter, unless they cleared out quickly.

The people were loath to leave their possessions. They might be small, but they were all they had. Reynell, standing still, sheltering one moment at the tavern door where Joan had relighted the lamp, knew there was a good night's work before him. Then Joan made her last bid for happiness for many a long day.

'Dan'el Reynell! Dan'el Reynell. Come an' help I.'

'What, Joan! A strapping wench like you!'

With a laugh he stepped back into the swirling water, knowing nothing of the raging anger in the girl's heart.

She would never tell him now of the men hidden up on the hill behind the tavern. If they liked to rush down through the bar they might for all she cared. The other women were being helped; no one was giving thought to her difficulties. Yet all Polperro might have known them. Her mother and stepfather were half drunk as usual. Betsey, the girl who helped her, was not all there. And yet she could have grappled with them if only Daniel Reynell had seen fit to give her one kindly word of encouragement. She was no weakling. But it was hard he should not even care what became of her when he was ready to help every other woman in the town.

The door of the next house was open. By a little lamp hung on a bracket on the wall high above the flood Reynell saw a man with a woman in his arms step out into the street which was running like a river now. Two little crying children were looking helplessly at the water running in and out among the chairs and tables, threatening every moment to upset the form on which they stood. He remembered then that Hugh Ross's wife had been very sick indeed. He stepped inside and picked up the babies in his arms.

'Any more, Hugh Ross?' he asked.

'No, thank God,' said the man, and they toiled up the street among a confused crowd of shrieking women, cursing men and wailing children, across the Green, feeling their way in the dark and driving rain till the hill rose. A door opened, a light streamed out, and, what was much more to the purpose, showed a room comfortable and dry. A woman's voice begged them to come inside.

Reynell, with a cheering word, put down the children and raced back. There were probably others needing help.

The street, knee deep in water, was alive with people. The rain driven before the howling wind was like a dark sheet; the forms huddled against the wet and cold showed as darker bulks in the gloom, now crushed together, an indistinguishable mass, now in single figures, blurred and indistinct. None could say who was who.

From the disorderly crowd struggling up the hillside came shrieks and curses and the shrill wail of terrified children, for such a night had not been known in Polperro in the memory of any living.

As the storm waxed the turmoil grew worse. The wind took charge the moment a door was opened, and blew out the lamps fixed against the walls. Only occasionally from a sheltered corner a man's face, set and strenuous, showed up as he crossed; a woman bent before the storm, her shawl held close; a chair floated along; a broken table; a bundle of clothing. But it would hardly have been possible for anyone who was watching—and no one was watching—to say who were the figures that drifted past, indefinite, shadowy, mysterious as figures in a dream.

When first the men of Polperro were aware that strangers were helping them they could hardly have said. Glad enough were they of that help, they were not stopping to ask questions. A strong arm picked up a girl who had slipped and fallen; another rescued a good dame's precious feather bed; and yet again a pair of stout arms helped a young woman carry her possessions up the hill, and when a light showed her comeliness, snatched a kiss as payment. No one said aught, least of all the lady herself.

But the disaster had come upon them so suddenly there was no method in the work. The driving rain, the howling wind, the rising water and the roaring of the sea took charge, deadening and belittling all other sounds. Rescuers and rescued could not see each other's faces save by chance; shouts and shrieks and wails were feeble things before the roaring of the storm; every man could only do what seemed best in his own eyes. The obvious thing was to get the helpless and such furniture as they could lay hands on to the higher houses in the upper town.

Confusion there was bound to be.

But it seemed to Reynell, as the night wore on, that the confusion, instead of settling itself, grew worse. He raced along from house to house and satisfied himself that they were empty; there was no danger of anyone being drowned even if the houses fell.

There came a sudden lull, as if sea and wind had hushed for a moment. The worst had passed?

Then to his surprise a cry arose out of the darkness that the chains had broken, and the boats were adrift.

Down came the wind again with a wild shriek. But even above it was the cry.

'The boats! The boats! The boats are adrift!'

It was an ominous cry, for by the boats the little fishing town lived. If the boats were lost then starvation stared Polperro in the face.

Daniel Reynell was close to the upper town when it reached his ears. He raced for the harbour. The cry of alarm rang louder and louder. He could hear it above the howl of the storm.

'The boats! The boats! The boats! Look to the boats!'

'The boats are all right!' he shouted. 'The boats are all right! I saw to them myself. Ross, Trevenick, Quiller, the chains are fast, I tell you. The chains are fast. Garrett,' he shouted to the man next him, 'what is the meaning of this? Tell them the boats are all right. Yell, man, yell. You don't know what may happen if they lose their heads.'

They passed the long pencil of light that came through an open door. Just for a moment it fell on the face of the man beside him. It was not Amos Garrett, as he had supposed, but a total stranger. They plunged into darkness again. The rain beat cutting on his face. He put out his hand and laid it on the stranger's shoulder.

'And who the devil——' he began, for he knew every creature in the town, where he had lived all his days, and he was surprised to see a stranger on a night like this.

'All right, Skipper,' said the man with a laugh. 'Any port in a storm. I'll help if I am a stranger. They boats are adrift they say——'

'The boats are not adrift,' said Reynell, still racing towards the harbour and glancing at his other side.

There was another man there. Of course it was——But no, a light streamed from another door, a comparatively bright light this time, for someone had made a flare with a rope soaked in pitch. This man too was a stranger.

Something was wrong. Conviction came. Something was very wrong. It was from the group round him the alarm about the boats was coming. But what in heaven's name was their object? The women were safe as far as he knew, and to send the men racing back to the quay——

In a flash he knew—he knew.

'The press gang!' he yelled. 'The press gang! Look to it there! The press gang.'

He did not fear for himself. He had a permit, but his sympathies were with these fishermen who would be rudely torn from their homes. He raced on with the men beside him till the street opened out at the head of the harbour. There he paused, for the water rose to his waist. Unless he swam he could go no farther. Besides, there was no object in going farther. He turned. And found a man still on either side.

'Clear out!' he swore angrily, 'and be damned to you!'

He ran back to the fish scales still shouting, 'The press gang! The press gang!'

The night was ideal for their purpose.

He would warn all he could. He heard above the tumult the man beside him laugh derisively and fear just touched him with his cold breath. These two strangers, sailor men by the cut of their jib, were after his stalwart proportions. Once taken could he convince any one he was skipper and owner of the Reaper, a man with a permit? It would take time. Such men had been taken before—had been killed before the mistake had been rectified. And he was to be married on New Year's Day! Lieutenant Quested had not lingered in the little town for nothing.

He grew hot with anger and wild with anxiety.

Not a fortnight to his wedding day! But surely it was simple enough to get away!

He made for the narrow lane that ran by the Pilchard. Once there he reckoned on the steep slippery steps that led uphill to baffle his pursuers. He was familiar with them. They were not. He turned and hit out furiously. The thought of Loveday's bright eyes lent strength to his arms. One man dodged him. The other slipped and stumbled on the cobble stones. He took advantage of the momentary hold up to put on a spurt that brought him right into the narrow passage between the Pilchard and the house opposite.

Now was his chance. He was fresh still, for all his hard work. Once on the hillside of which he knew every inch, every stick and stone and turn——He could have shouted with laughter at the thought of the dance he would lead the poor beggars, saving some poor fishermen from their unwelcome attentions too. They had put their money on the wrong horse when they thought to take the owner of the Reaper under cover of the night. There would be some sick and sorry sailor men——

And then——

If Joan had arranged things on purpose to vent her spite on him she could not have arranged it better. The door of the little tavern opened, and there tumbled out into the narrow street the landlord and landlady of the inn, both somewhat dazed with sleep and drink, followed by Betsey, the stupid serving maid. Between them they bore a great feather bed, with, heaped among its folds, pillows and blankets and various other odds and ends. Joan stood just above.

By the lamp which flickered and died down and rose again in the wind he saw her face, and saw too, to his dismay that the whole way was blocked. Turn he could not. It would be running right into the arms of his pursuers. His only hope now was that he might slip through into the inn. He looked back.

Against the white water tumbling over the sea wall loomed the bulk of men, friend or foe he was not sure which. He dared not chance anything. If only the first comers were enemies they were more than he could tackle.

'Gangway there,' he cried. 'Gangway! Joan, clear them for God's sake or there'll be no wedding for me at the New Year!'

A simple soul was Daniel Reynell!

He looked forward to his wedding. To him it seemed the very strongest reason why he should preserve his freedom. He felt the girl would recognise it as such. It was an appeal not to be gainsaid.

Joan stood like a block of wood looking down on the three people struggling so futilely with the great smothering bed. Her stepfather was cursing as usual; her mother was whining; while Betsey was giggling and groaning alternately.

But Reynell's voice dominated all the rest.

'Gangway there! Gangway there!' The sodden landlord stood staring stupidly. As Reynell ran he stepped out of his way but he still clung to the bed, brought it right across the fugitive's path, and before he could stop himself he was on top of it. The three people clinging to it collapsed on top of him, and on top of them came the men who were racing up the street.

For a brief second the human wails were smothered by the water.

Joan, looking on, knew she would have helped if he had not mentioned his wedding day. She did not want him wed. That stayed her hand.

The men on top were up, cursing and laughing and spitting out water; Betsey, shrieking, made a grab at her mistress, and Reynell, scrambling up half drowned out of the knee-deep water, hit out wildly and, catching the landlord one on the mouth, turned him into an active enemy.

For a moment it was pandemonium. The light from the inn fell directly on the struggling crowd. The girl, looking on, saw legs and arms and heads bobbing up in the water in the midst of the smothering feather bed that kept coming up in unexpected places. Every head that rose up swore aloud. She could hear the angry voices even above the howling of the gale. For a moment she thought Reynell was going to fight his way free. She was prepared to help him; to shut the tavern door and hold it in the face of all comers. Unluckily, as she stepped forward Reynell saw her and guessed her intention.

'Good girl, Joan! For my girl's sake——'

One of the men caught his legs and pulled him under water again. When he got his head up four men had him in their grasp.

'Got un at last,' said one with an oath. 'My word, Bill! But he's a dandy to fight! Look out, Bill!'

But Bill wasn't quick enough. Their victim managed to wrench an arm free, clenched his fist and hit Bill a clout between the eyes that sent him reeling under water.

Now was Joan's opportunity.

But instead of flinging herself upon his captors as she might well have done, as he fully expected her to do—she and Betsey might easily have made a diversion in his favour—she stood there looking down idly in the flaring lamplight as if it were no business of hers.

'Oh, curse the girl! Why was she such a fool when so much was at stake! If these four people at the Pilchard would only fight for him—Joan standing there must see how little it would take——'

'Joan! Joan! Give a helping hand for Loveday Corthew's sake! Rouse the lads! If I can't get away——'

The thought that he might after all be carried away overwhelmed him. Such things had been. Such things would be again. With set teeth he wrestled with these men who were cursing him with all the fervour and fluency of which the lower deck of the navy of those days was capable. Their remarks were torrid and to the point. They were using their fists. He was getting the worst of it.

And the woman to whom he was all the world looked on dully. Why should she save him for another woman? They had his arms. They had his legs. He turned his face to the girl standing there.

'Tell them up at Raphiel Farm——'

As he mentioned the farm that held all he cared for, he gave another last struggle. His captors, with an oath that rang above the storm, dragged him down under water again. His message ended in a sobbing gurgle.