School life has been so often narrated, that I am going to skip over mine, and make one stride from our return after Midsummer to Christmas, when we all went back home in a very different frame of mind.
The country looked very different to when we saw it last, but it was a mild balmy winter, with primroses and cuckoo-pints pushing in the valleys, and here and there a celandine pretending that spring had come.
The roads were dirty, but we thought little about them, for we knew that the sea-shore was always the same, and, if anything, more interesting in winter than in summer.
I was all eagerness to get home and see what had been done in the Gap, for my father in his rare letters had said very little about it.
Bigley was equally eager too. Six months had made a good deal of difference in him, for, young as he was, he seemed to be more manly and firm-looking, though to talk to he was just as boyish as ever, and never happier than when he was playing at some game.
He, too, was ready enough to talk about the Gap, and wonder what had been done.
“I hope your father has made friends with mine,” he kept on saying as we drew nearer home. “It will be so awkward if they are out when you and I want to be in. Because we do, don’t we?”
“Why, of course,” I cried. “And it will be so awkward, won’t it?”
“No,” I said stoutly, “it won’t make any difference; you and I are not going to fall out, so why should we worry about it? I say, look at Bob Chowne!”
Bigley turned, and there he was once more seated upon his box, right up on the big knot of the cord, just as if he liked to make himself uncomfortable. Then his elbows were on his knees and his chin was in his hands, as he stared straight before him from out of the tilt of the big cart.
“Why, what’s the matter, Bob?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Why, there must be something or you wouldn’t look like that. What is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know; only that we’re going home.”
“Well, aren’t you glad?”
“Glad? No, not I. What is there to be glad about? I haven’t forgotten last holidays.”
“What do you mean?” said Bigley and I in a breath.
“Oh, wasn’t I always getting in rows, because you two fellows took me out and got me in trouble. I haven’t forgotten about that old suit of clothes.”
“But I say, Bob,” I cried, “didn’t you do your part of getting into trouble?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Don’t bother, I’m sick of it. I’m tired of being a boy. I wish I was a man.”
“Nay, don’t wish that,” cried the old carrier, who had been hearing everything, though he had not spoken before. “Man, indeed! Why, aren’t you all boys with everything you can wish for? How would you like to be a man and have to do nothing else every day but sit in this here cart, and go to and fro, to and fro, from year’s end to year’s end, and never no change?”
As we drew near the Bay Bob Chowne grew more fidgety and despondent, but we tried to cheer him up by making appointments to go fishing and exploring the shore; but my first intent was to run over to the Gap, and see what was going on there.
As the carrier’s cart descended the hill and we came in sight of the cottage, I saw some one at the gate, and leaning out on one side I saw that it was my father and the doctor, but before I could say so there was a jerk which nearly threw me off, and I heard a familiar voice cry:
“There you are, then. Out with your box, lad. Here’s Binnacle Bill come to carry it. How do, young gentlemen! Well, young doctor, I’ve got that rope’s-ending saved up for you whenever you like to come.”
Old Jonas did not offer to shake hands with either of us, but Bigley did after handing out his box.
“You’ll come on to-morrow,” he said quickly.
“Yes, we’ll come,” I said, answering for both; and I observed that old Jonas smiled grimly, though he did not speak.
Then Bob and I were alone and jogging down the zigzag road, traversing another five hundred yards before we reached our gate, where my father and the doctor were waiting for us.
“Brought the lads home quite safe, captain,” said old Teggley Grey. “Shall I take Mars Robert’s box on to the town, doctor?”
The old carrier remained unanswered, for we were both being heartily shaken by the hand, while old Sam came up smiling to carry in my box.
“Yes, take on the other box, Grey,” cried the doctor. “We shall walk home, Bob.”
“After a good tea,” put in my father; and I found that meal awaiting us all, and very hearty and cosy it looked after the formal repasts at school.
“Why, you’ve both grown,” said the doctor, as we sat down in the snug old room, where every object around seemed to be welcoming me.
“Yes, that they have,” said my father. “Your Bob has the best of it too.”
“Trifle,” said the doctor, “trifle. Well, sir, how many suits of clothes shall you want this time? I’ve never heard any more of the ones you lost.”
I saw Bob turn red and take a vicious bite out of a piece of bread and butter.
“They’re nearly six months older now,” said my father smiling, as he performed the feminine task of pouring out the tea, “and they’ll be more careful.”
“Will they?” said the doctor emphatically. “You see if the young varlets are not in trouble before the week’s out, sir.”
“Let’s hope not,” said my father. “Come, boys, help yourselves to the ham and eggs.”
“Come, boys, help yourselves to the ham and eggs!” said Bob Chowne to me, as soon as we were alone. “Who’s to help himself to ham and eggs when he’s having the suit of clothes he lost banged about his unfortunate head? It regularly spoiled my tea.”
“Why, Bob,” I cried, “you had three big cups, six pieces of bread and butter, two slices of ham, three eggs, a piece of cake, and some cream.”
“There’s a sneak—there’s a way to treat a fellow!” he cried, growing spiky all over, and snorting with annoyance. “Ask a poor chap to tea, and then count his mouthfuls. Well, that is mean.”
“Why, I only said so because you declared you had had a bad tea.”
“So I did—miserable,” he retorted. “I seemed to see myself again sitting at home in those old worn-out clothes, and afraid to go out at any other time but night, when no one was looking.”
“Now, Bob: where are you?” cried his father. “I’ll take him off at once, Duncan, or he’ll eat you out of house and home.”
“Hear that?” cried Bob, “hear that? Pretty way to talk of a fellow, isn’t it. I don’t wonder everybody hates me. I’m about the most miserable chap that ever was.”
“Not you, Bob. Come over to-morrow.”
“What for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. We’ll go rabbiting or something.”
“Now, Bob!” came from the doctor.
“Here, I must go. Good-bye. I’ll come if I can. I wish I was you, or old Bigley, or somebody else.”
“Or back at school,” I said laughing.
“Yes, or back at school,” he said quite seriously; and then his arm was grasped by his father.
“Just as if I was a patient,” he grumbled to me next day. “Father don’t like me. He only thinks I am a nuisance, and he’s glad when I’m going back to school. I shall run off to Bristol some day and go to sea, that’s what I shall do.”
But that was the next day. That evening I stood with my father at the gate till Bob and his father were out of sight in the lane, and then we went back into the parlour, where my father lit his pipe and sat smoking and gazing at me.
“Well, Sep,” he said after a pause, “don’t you want to know how the mine is getting on?”
“Yes, father,” I said; “but I didn’t like to ask.”
“Well, I’ll tell you without, my boy. I’ve not got much profit out of it at present, because the expenses of starting have been so great; but it’s a very fine thing, my boy.”
“Is it going to make you rich, father?”
“I hope so, boy, for your sake. There’s plenty of lead, and out of the lead we are able to get about four per cent of silver.”
“Four per cent, father!” I said; “what—interest?”
“No, boy, profit. I mean in every hundred pounds of lead there are four pounds of pure silver, but of course it costs a good deal to refine.”
“And may I go and see it all to-morrow?” I asked.
“To be sure; and I hope, after a year or two, you will be of great use to me there.”
I felt as if I could hardly sleep that night when I went to bed. There had been so much to see about the place, so much talk to have with old Sam and Kicksey, that it hardly needed the thought of seeing the mine next day to keep me awake.
I thought I should never go to sleep, I say; but I awoke at half-past seven the next morning, feeling as if I had had a thoroughly good night’s rest, and as soon as breakfast was over I started with my father on a dull soft winter’s morning to see the mine.
Bob and Bigley were to come over; but I felt that it would be twelve o’clock before Bob came, and that I should meet Bigley; so no harm would be done in the way of breaking faith in the appointment.
We walked sharply across the hill and descended into the Gap, but before we had gone far we met old Jonas Uggleston.
“Morning!” he said pleasantly. “Morning, squire!” to me. “Seen my Bigley yet?”
“No.”
“Ah! He has gone your way. Tell him I want to see him if he comes.”
We said we would, and old Jonas went his way and we ours.
“Why, father,” I said, “how civil he has grown!”
“Yes,” said my father gravely, “he has; but I would almost rather he had kept his distance. Don’t tell your school-fellow I said that.”
“Of course not, father,” I said confidently; and we went on to the mine—the silver mine, and I stood and stared at a part of the valley that had been inclosed with a stone wall. There were some rough stone sheds, a stack of oak props, and a rough-looking pump worked by a large water-wheel, which was set in motion by a trough which brought water from the side of the hill, where a tiny stream trickled down.
There was one very large heap of rough stone that looked as if barrows full of broken fragments were always being run along it, and turned over at the end, for the pieces to rattle down the side into the valley; there was a small heap close by, and under a shed there was a man breaking up some dirty wet stuff with a hammer.
That was all that was to see except some troughs to carry off dirty water, and the rough framework and trap-doors over what seemed to be a well.
“Why, Sep,” said my father laughing, “how blank you look! Don’t you admire the mine?”
“Is—is this a silver mine, father?” I faltered.
“Yes, my lad, silver-lead. Doesn’t look very attractive, does it?”
I shook my head.
“But is it going to be worth a great deal of money?”
“Yes, my boy; only wait and you’ll see. But I suppose you expected to see a hole in the earth leading down into quite an enchanted cave—eh?—a sort of Aladdin’s palace, with walls sparkling with native silver?”
“Well, not quite so much as that, father,” I replied; “but I did expect to find something different to this.”
“So do most people when they go to see a mine, Sep, and they are horribly disappointed to find that they have not used their common sense. They know that if they dig down into the earth to make a well, in twenty feet or so, perhaps less, they come to water; and it has never occurred to them that if they dig down to form a mine, it must naturally be a wet dark muddy hole just like this one upon which you look with so much disgust. But wait a bit, my boy. We shall soon have furnaces at work and be smelting our ore and converting some of it into silver. There’ll be more to see then. You don’t care to go down?” he said, leaning his hand upon a windlass over the trap-doors.
“Is there anything to see, father?” I said rather dolefully.
“To see! Well, there are the sides of a big well-like hole which you can see from here. Look!”
He threw open a trap-door, and I gazed into a well-like place with a couple of ropes hanging down it, and I noted that the walls were made of the stone that had been dug and broken out. The place looked dark and damp, and there was the trickling of dripping water. That was all.
“Well, Sep, what do you say?—will you go?”
“Is it all like this, father?” I said.
“Yes, precisely, my lad. Shall I have you let down?”
“No, thank you,” I said; “I think I’ll stop up.”
He nodded and smiled, and after staying with him for a time while he examined some of the ore that the man was breaking up he set me free, but not till I had asked him how many men he had at work, and been told that at present there were only six.
I went away to see if I could find Bigley, feeling very much put out, and full of hope that Bob Chowne, when he came, would not ask me to take him to see the mine.
For, truth to tell, I had made rather a fuss about that mine, talking about silver-lead in a very important way at school; and, as I recalled my words, I felt quite a shudder of horror as I thought of all the boys in my class coming and standing at the mouth of the mine, and bursting into a roar of laughter at this being the silver cavern in the earth.
There was no likelihood of any of them coming save Bob Chowne; but there was no knowing what he would say when we got back if I offended him and he was in one of his teasing fits.
I walked down to the end of the Gap, past the cottage, and was just going to ask if Bigley had come back, when I saw old Jonas and Binnacle Bill, with another man, putting off in the lugger, which was lying by a buoy about a quarter of a mile from the shore.
After five months at school it seemed such a pretty sight to see the red sails hoisted and fill out, and the lugger begin to move slowly over the smooth water, that I sat down on a stone and watched the boat, wishing I were in her, till she gradually grew more distant, and there was a dull thud close beside me.
I looked round but saw nothing, and I was turning to watch the lugger again, when I heard a fresh pat on the slate rubbish by me, and soon after a piece of flat, thin shale struck the clatter stream behind me.
“Some one throwing,” I said to myself, and looking up, there, about six hundred feet above me on the cliff path, were Bigley and Bob Chowne.
I shouted to them, and they ran to the nearest clatter stream and began to slide down standing. Sometimes they came swiftly for a few yards; sometimes they stopped and each had a check, a fall, and a roll over, but they were up again directly, and in less than half the time it would have taken them to walk they were down by my side.
“Here, where have you been?” cried Bob, who was in the highest of glee. “Old Big says it’s such a dark quiet day that the fish are sure to bite, and he’s going to ask his father to let us have the boat, and row out.”
“But Mr Uggleston isn’t at home.”
“No, that he isn’t,” said Bigley, who had just caught sight of the lugger. “That is tiresome.”
“But they haven’t taken the boat,” cried Bob, “so it don’t matter.”
“Yes, it does,” said Bigley gravely, “because I shouldn’t like to take the boat without leave.”
“Why, of course you wouldn’t if your father was at home,” said Bob quickly; “but I’m quite sure Mr Uggleston wouldn’t like us two to be disappointed when we’d come on purpose to go.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’d mind,” said Bigley.
“But I know he would,” cried Bob, who spoke in the most consequential manner. “Your father is rough, but he is very good at bottom.”
“Why, of course he is,” cried Bigley.
“Then he wouldn’t like us to be cheated out of our treat, so you get the mussels for the bait, and some worms, and let’s go.”
Bigley hesitated. He wanted to go, for the sea was as smooth as a mill-pond—a rare thing in winter; and perhaps we should have to wait for some time before another such day arrived.
He looked at me and I wanted to go too. That was plain enough, and the chance seemed so tempting that, even if I did not openly abet Bob, I said no word to persuade Bigley not.
“You’d got all the lines and bait ready, hadn’t you?” said Bob cunningly.
“Yes, everything’s ready, and I meant to ask father as soon as I got back. Here, hi! Mother Bonnet, how long will father be?”
“Oh, all depends on the wind,” said the fresh-looking old lady coming out, smiling and smoothing her hair. “They’ve gone across to Swansea, my dear. It will be a long time ’fore they’re back.”
“There, you see, you can’t ask, and it’s no use to signal to them in the lugger, because they couldn’t understand, so you’ve got to take the boat, and we shall be back long before they are.”
“But it would be so horrible if we were to meet with any accident this time,” said Bigley. “You know how unlucky we were over the prawns. There, we’d better not go!”
“There’s a Molly for you!” cried Bob. “Just because we got in a muddle twice over in catching prawns and crabs you think we’re always going to be in a mess.”
“No, I don’t,” said Bigley; “but it would be so queer if we got into a scrape the very first time we go out.”
“Get out! Oh, I say, you do make me grin, old Big. There, go and get your lines, and a gaff, and the basket of bait. Let’s be off while the sea is so smooth.”
Bigley hesitated, and after a good deal of banter from Bob, and an appeal to me, he went off, sorry and yet pleased, to get the lines and bait.
“And now he’ll be obliged to go, Sep. Don’t let’s give him time to think, or he’s such an old woman he’ll back out.”
“But—”
“Get out! Don’t say but. There, we won’t go out far, only to the mouth there by the buoy, and we can catch plenty of fish without any trouble at all.”
I gave way—I couldn’t help it, and we two went on, so that when Bigley came with the baskets and lines we were waiting for them, and his scruples were nearly overcome.
“Think it will matter if we take the boat?” he said dubiously, for he evidently shared our longing to go.
I said no, I did not think it would, for we could clean it out after we had done fishing, and we had been boating so often with other people that I for one felt quite equal to the management of the little vessel.
But all the time there was a curious sensation of wrong-doing worrying me, and I wished that I had not been so ready to agree. It was as if I felt the impression of trouble that was coming; but I kept the feeling to myself.
“Well,” said Bigley, “I did mean to ask for leave.”
“Of course you did,” cried Bob Chowne; “but as your father is off you can’t. Come along, boys, and let’s get a good haul this time.”
He seized the bait-basket and made the shells of the mussels rattle as he trotted down towards where the little five-pointed anchor or grapnel lay on the beach, and began to haul in the boat.
As the light buoyant vessel came gliding over the smooth surface, and grated and bumped against and over the stones, the thoughts of whether we were doing right or wrong grew faint, and then, as the bait-basket was thrown in, and the lines followed, they were forgotten.
“In with you, lads!” cried Bob, making a spring, and leaping from a dry stone right into the boat; but his feet slipped, and he came down sitting in the basket of mussels with an unpleasant crash.
“Now, look here!” he cried in a passion, “if you fellows laugh at me I won’t go.”
Of course this made us all the more disposed; but we turned our backs and went down upon our knees to begin seeing to the hooks upon one of the reeled-up lines.
“There, you are laughing both of you!” cried Bob, who was easing the pain he felt, or thought he was, by lifting up and setting down first one leg and then the other.
“That we are not!” I cried, and certainly our faces were serious enough, as we hurriedly popped the lines over the bows, when I jumped in, and, catching up the little grapnel, Bigley took one big stride with his long legs, and was on the gunwale, which went down nearly to the water with his weight; but as the boat rose again, the impetus of the thrust he gave her in leaping aboard carried her out a couple of lengths.
There was no thought now of any wrong-doing, as Bob and I seized an oar apiece and began to paddle as the boat rose and fell and glided over the swelling tide.
“Pull away, Sep!” cried Bob. “Here, old Big, you’re sitting all on one side and making the boat lop. Get in the middle or I’ll splash you!”
Bigley moved good-humouredly, and the boat danced beneath his weight.
“Heave ho! Steady!” shouted Bob. “Don’t sink us, lad. I say, what a weight you are! Let’s put him ashore, Sep. He’s too big a Big for a boat like this.”
“Make good ballast,” said Bigley, laughing good-humouredly. “Boats are always safer when they are well ballasted.”
“I daresay they are, but I like ’em best without Big lumps in ’em. I say, how far out shall we go?”
“Oh, about a quarter of a mile, straight out, over the Ringlet rocks. You pull, I’ll watch the bearings, and drop out the grapnel. Pull hard!”
We rowed away steadily, while, to save time, Bigley took out his pocket-knife and, taking a board from the bait-basket, laid it upon the seat, and began to open the mussels and scrape out the contents of the shells ready for placing them upon the hooks when we reached the fishing ground.
For I may tell you that knowing the bottom well has a great deal to do with success in sea-fishing. A stranger to our parts might think that all he had to do was to row out in a little boat a few hundred yards, and begin to fish.
If he did that, the chances are that he would not catch anything, while a boat three or four lengths away might be hauling in fish quite fast.
The reason is simple. Sea fish frequent certain places after the fashion of fresh-water fish, which are found, according to their sorts, on muddy bottoms; half-way down in clear deeps; among piles; in gravelly swims; at the tails of weeds; or under the boughs of trees close in to the side of river or lake.
So with the sea fish. If we wanted to catch bass, we threw out in places where the tide ran fast; if we were trying for pollack, it was along close by the stones of the rocky shore; if for conger, in deep dark holes; and if for flat-fish, right out in deep water, where the bottom was all soft oozy sand.
Upon this occasion we had decided for the latter, and with Bigley giving a word now and then to direct us, as he watched certain points on the shore, we rowed away for quite half a mile, but keeping straight out from the Gap.
“Now we’re just over the Ringlets,” cried Bigley suddenly.
“Heave over the anchor then!” I shouted.
“No, go on a bit farther, about fifty yards, and then we shall be on the muddy sand. I know.”
We boys pulled, and then all at once Bigley shouted “In oars!” and we ceased rowing as the grapnel went over the side with a splash, and the cord ran across the gunwale, grating and scrorting as Bob called it, till the little anchor reached the bottom, and the drifting of the boat was checked.
“I say, isn’t it deep?” I said.
“Just about nine fathoms,” said Bigley. “You’ll have plenty of hauling to do.”
“I say, look!” I cried, as I happened to look shoreward, “you can see right up the Gap nearly to the mine.”
“Isn’t the sea smooth?” said Bob. “It’s just like oil. Now then, first fish. Put us on a good big bait, Bigley, old chap.”
The hooks were all ready with the weights and spreaders, and Bigley began calmly enough to hook and twist on a couple of the wet and messy raw mussels for Bob, and then did the same for mine, when we two began to fish on opposite sides of the boat, letting the leads go rapidly down what appeared to be a tremendous distance before they touched the ooze.
It seemed quite a matter of course that we two were to fish, and Bigley wait upon us, opening mussels, rebaiting when necessary, and holding himself ready to take off the fish, should any be caught.
I never used to think anything about Bigley Uggleston in these days, only that he was overgrown and good-tempered, and never ready to quarrel; and it did not seem to strike either of us that he was about the most unselfish, self-denying slave that ever lived. I know now that we were perfect tyrants to him, while he, amiable giant that he was, bore it all with the greatest of equanimity, and the more unreasonable we were, the more patient he seemed to grow.
We fished for some few minutes without a sign, and then Bob grew weary.
“It’s no good here, Big, they won’t bite. Let’s go on farther.”
“Bait’s off, perhaps,” suggested Bigley.
“No, it isn’t. I haven’t had a touch.”
“Perhaps not, but the flat-fish suck it off gently sometimes. Pull up.”
Bob drew in the wet line hand over hand, till the lead sinker hit the side of the boat; and Bigley proved to be right, both baits were off his hooks, and as they were being rebaited I hauled in my line to find that it was in the same condition.
By the time Bob’s lead was at the bottom, my hooks were being covered with mussel, and I threw in again.
As mine reached the sandy ooze, and I held the line in one hand, there was a slight vibration of the lead, but it passed away again, and I fished, to pull up again at the end of a few minutes and find both baits gone.
Bob’s were the same, and so we fished on till he declared that it was of no use, that it was the tide washed the bait off, and that there wasn’t a fish within a hundred yards. “But I’m sure there are lots,” said Bigley. “Why, how can you tell?” cried Bob. “You can’t see two feet down through the water, it’s so muddy.”
“I know by the baits being taken off,” replied Bigley decidedly. “There are fish here I’m sure, and—”
“I’ve got him,” I shouted, beginning to haul in, for I could feel something heavy at the end of the line which had given several sharp snatches as I hauled.
“Oh, what a shame!” cried Bob. “I don’t see why they should come first to old Sep. Here, I know what it is. Only an old bow-wow.”
“No, it isn’t,” I exclaimed as I caught a glimpse of something white, looking like a slice of the moon far down below the boat. “It’s a flat-fish, and a big one.”
I proved to be right, as I hauled it flapping over the side, and Bigley seized what proved to be a nice plaice, and took the hook from its jaws.
As the line, being rebaited, was thrown in again, there was a serious examination of the prize, which was about to be transferred to the basket brought to hold our captures, when Bob shouted, “I’ve got him!” and began to haul in with all his might.
We both adjured him to be careful, but in his excitement he paid no heed, only dragged as hard as he could, and hoisted in a long grey fish, at which he gazed with a comical aspect full of disgust.
I laughed, and as I laughed he grew more angry, for his prize was what he had previously called a “bow-wow” and attributed to me. For it was a good-sized dog-fish, one which had to be held at head and tail lest in its twining and lashing about it should strike with its spine and do some mischief.
“Here, let me take him off,” cried Bob.
“No, no; you mind the line isn’t tangled,” cried Bigley; but Bob gave him a push, the dog-fish, which was nearly a yard long, was set free, and began to journey about amongst Bob’s line, while, when he placed his foot upon its head, the fierce creature bent half round, and then let itself go like a spring, with the effect that it struck Bob’s shoe so smart a blow with one of its spines that the shoe was pierced by the toe, and it required a tug to withdraw the spine.
“Are you hurt, Bob?” we both cried earnestly.
“No, not a bit. My toes don’t go down as far as that. Ah, would you?”
This was to the fish, which was lashing about fiercely.
“Let me do it, Bob. I’ll kill it in no time, and I know how to manage him.”
“So do I,” said Bob independently, as he made another attack upon the dog-fish, which resented it by a fresh stroke with its spine, this time so near to Bob’s leg that he jumped back and fell over the thwart.
“I say, that was near,” he cried. “You have a try, Big.”
Our school-fellow wanted no second bidding, and taking hold of the line, he drew the fish’s head under his right foot, pressed down its tail with his left, took out the hook, and then with his knife inflicted so serious a cut upon the creature that, when he threw it over, it only struggled feebly, as it sank slowly and was carried away.
“There’s a cruel wretch!” cried Bob. “Did you see how vicious he was with his knife?”
“It isn’t cruel to kill fishes like that,” retorted Bigley. “See what mischief they do hunting the other fish and eating everything. See how they bite the herrings and mackerel out of the nets, only leaving their heads.”
“He wouldn’t have said anything if the dog had spiked him,” I said.
“Why, so he did spike me,” cried Bob; “and—”
“I’ve got another,” I cried, beginning to haul up, and as I hauled Bob sent his freshly-baited and disentangled hook down to the bottom.
I had caught another flat-fish about the size of the first, and directly after Bob caught one. Then there was a pause, and I took another dog-fish, and after that we fished, and fished, and fished for about half an hour and caught nothing.
It was December, but the air was still, and we did not feel it in the slightest degree cold. I suppose it was the excitement kept us warm, for there was always the expectation of taking something big, even if the great fish never came.
Just as we were thinking that it was of no use to stay longer the fish began to bite again, and we caught several, but all small, and then all at once, as I was lowering my lead, I cried out:
“Look here! I can’t touch bottom.”
“Nonsense!” said Bob, lowering his line, but only to become a convert, and exclaim accordingly.
“Why, we’re drifting,” cried Bigley, going to the line that held the anchor, to find that it had been dragged out of the muddy sand, and that we had slowly gone with the tide into deeper water, whose bottom there was not length enough of rope for the grapnel to touch.
“I’ll soon put that right,” cried Bigley, unfastening the line and letting about three fathoms more run out, but even then the anchor did not reach bottom, and without we were stationary it was of no use to fish.
“Haul in your lines, lads,” cried Bigley, setting us an example by dragging away at the cord which held the anchor. “We must row back a bit. We’ve drifted into the deep channel. I didn’t know we were out so far.”
“Oh, I say, look!” cried Bob. “It’s beginning to rain, and we’ve no greatcoats.”
“Never mind,” said Big, getting hold of the anchor as we drew in our leads, and laid them with the hooks carefully placed aside, ready for beginning again.
“Now, then, who’s going to pull along with me!”
“You pull, Sep,” said Bob. “I want to count the fish.”
I took an oar, and just as I was about to pull the boat’s head round I looked towards the mouth of the Gap, which was nearly three-quarters of a mile away, and though at present the smooth sea was just specked here and there by the falling drops, over shoreward there was what seemed to be a thick mist coming as it were out of the mouth of the Gap, and a curious dull roar towards where we were.
“Going to be a squall,” said Bigley. “Pull away, Sep, and let’s get ashore.”
Easy enough to say—difficult enough to do, as we very soon found, in spite of trying our very best.
I have told you who did not know what our coast was like—one high wall of cliffs and hills from six hundred to a thousand feet high, with breaks where the little rivers ran down into the sea, and these breaks, after the fashion of our Gap, narrow valleys that run into the land with often extremely precipitous walls, and a course such as a lightning flash is seen to make in a storm, zigzagging across the sky.
If you do not know I may as well at once tell you what is often the effect of rowing or sailing along such a coast as ours: You may be going along in an almost calm sea for hours, perhaps, till, as you row across one of these valleys or combes, the wind suddenly comes rushing out like an enormous blast from some vast pipe. All the time, perhaps, there has been a sharp breeze blowing high up in the air, the great wall of rock preventing its striking where you are, but no sooner are you in front of the opening than you feel its power.
Beside this, all may be calm elsewhere, while down the steep-sided valley a keen blast rushes, coming from far inland, high up on the moor, where it has perhaps behaved like a whirlwind, and having finished its wild career there, has plunged down into the combe to make its escape out to sea.
It was just such a gust as this last which suddenly came upon us, raising the sea into short rough waves, and bearing upon its wings such a tremendous storm of sharp cutting rain and hail, that, after fighting against it for some time and feeling all the while that we were drifting out to sea, we ceased rowing and allowed the boat to go, in the hope that the squall would end in a few minutes as quickly as it had come on.
The rush of the wind and the beating and hissing of the rain was terribly confusing. The waves, too, lapped loudly against the sides and threatened to leap in; and while we glanced to right and left in the hope of being blown in under shelter of the land, we found that the boat was rushing through the water, our bodies answering the purpose of sails.
We crouched down together, not to diminish the power of the wind, but in that way to afford each other a little shelter from the drenching rain.
“It can’t last long,” shouted Bigley, for he was obliged to cry aloud to make himself heard above the shrieking of the storm.
But it did last long and kept increasing in violence. The heavens, in place of being of the soft bluish-grey that had been so pleasant when we came out, had grown black, the rain all about us was like a thick mist that shut out the sight of the cliffs, and with it the power of seeing the hissing water descend into the sea for a few yards round, we forming what seemed to be the centre of the mist.
And there we were, drive, drive before the wind at what we felt was quite a rapid rate, till all at once the rain passed on, leaving us wet, and cold, and wretched, and ready to huddle more closely still for the sake of warmth.
But though the rain had passed on, and it was clear behind us as it was dark ahead, while we could see the mouth of the Gap and the lowering cliffs, the wind did not cease, but seemed to be blowing more angrily than ever—with such force, indeed, that we could hardly make each other hear.
There was an unpleasant symptom of danger, too, ready to trouble us, in the shape of the waves, which made the boat dance up and down and then pitch, as it still went rapidly on farther out to sea.
“Ready?” shouted Bigley, as I sat with my teeth chattering in the piercing wind.
I nodded, for I did not care to open my mouth to speak; and, in obedience to a sign, I held the water while he began to pull round as fast as he could and get the boat’s head to the wind.
For a minute or so we were in very great danger, for as soon as we were broadside to the wind the waves seemed to leap up and the wind to strive to blow us over; but by sheer hard work Bigley got her head round, and then we pulled together, with the boat rising up one wave and plunging down another in a way that was quite startling.
Bob Chowne did not speak, only crouched down in the bottom of the boat and watched us as we tugged hard at the oars, under the impression that we were rowing in. But we soon knew to the contrary. We were only boys, the boat was a heavy one and stood well out of the water, and as we pulled the wind had tremendous power over our oars. In fact all we did was to keep the boat’s head straight to the wind, and so diminished the violence of its power over us, while of course this was the best way to meet the waves that seemed to come directly off the shore.
“Come and pull now, Bob,” I shouted after tugging at the oar for a long time. My feeling of chilliness had passed away, and I was weary and breathless with my exertions.
I kept on pulling while Bob came to my side, and as he took the oar I gradually edged away and crept under it to go and take the place where he had crouched.
It was a black look-out for us; for it was already growing dim, and we knew that in half an hour it would be quite dark. The wind was still rising and the sea flecked with little patches of foam; while, as I looked towards the Gap, I could not help seeing with sinking heart that not only were the high rocks growing dim with the shades of the wintry night, but with the distance too.
You know how quickly the change comes on from day to night at the end of December. You can imagine, then, in the midst of that sudden storm, how anxiously I watched the shore, and tried to persuade myself that we were getting nearer when I knew that we were not.
If I had had any doubt about it, Bigley, who had been used to sea-going from a little child, put an end to it by suddenly shouting:
“It’s of no good; we are only drifting out. I’m going to try and get under shelter of the cliff.”
Then, shouting to Bob to ease a little, he pulled hard at the boat’s head to get her a little to the west instead of due south, and then shouted to our companion again to pull with all his might.
Bob did pull—I could see that he did; but we did not get under the shelter of the cliff, for the change in the position of the boat presented more surface to the wind, and we could feel that we were drifting faster still.
We tried not to lose heart; but it was impossible to keep away a certain amount of despondency as we realised that all our pulling was in vain, and as we grew wearied out Bigley said that it was of no use to row. All we were to do was to keep the boat’s head well to the wind.
I crept after a time to Bigley’s place in answer to a sign from him, for we had grown very silent; and as he resigned his oar to me and I went on pulling, while he crept aft to sit in the stern, it seemed as if it had all at once grown dark above us. The shore died away, all but one spot of light—a tiny spot that shone out like a star, one that we knew to be in the cottage where Mother Bonnet had no doubt a good hot cup of tea waiting for us, who were perishing with the cold and gradually drifting farther and farther away.
We could not talk for the wind. Besides, too, it was very hard work to talk and row in such a sea; so I sat and thought of how hard it was to be situated as we were, and to have again got into trouble in what was meant for a pleasant recreation.
I thought all this, and I believe my companions had very similar thoughts as we danced up and down on the short cockling sea.
Then all at once, as the darkness overhead seemed to have grown more intense, and the sea with its foam to give the little light we enjoyed, we were aware of a fresh danger.
The wind and the hissing and beating of the sea made a great deal of noise, but that loud washing splash sounded louder to us, and so did the rattle of a tin pot which Bigley seized, and lifted the board from over the bit of a well and began to bale.
For one of the waves had struck the bows, risen up, and poured three or four gallons of water into the boat.
Bigley was ready for the emergency, though, directly, and we saw the rise and fall of the tin pan as he swept it up and down and sent the water flying on the wings of the wind.
Before he had baled the boat out the first time another wave swept in, and he had to work hard to clear that out; but he soon had that done after correcting our rowing, for I was pulling harder than Bob, and the consequence was that the boat was not quite head to wind and did not ride so easily as she should.
Darker and darker, with the faint star in the Gap quite gone now, and all around us the hissing waste of waters upon which our frail shell of a boat was tossed! It was so black now that we could hardly see each other’s faces, and in a doleful silence we toiled on till all at once there was a sobbing cry from Bob Chowne, who fell forward over his oar. Then the boat fell off and a wave came with a hissing rush over the bows.
“Back water, Sep!” yelled Bigley as he dragged Bob Chowne away, seized his oar, and began pulling, when the boat seemed to be eased again and rose and fell regularly; but a quantity of water kept rushing to and fro about poor Bob Chowne, who kept receiving it alternately in his back and face.
“Sit up and bale, Bob!” shouted Bigley. “Do you hear? Take the pannikin and bale.”
Bob did not move, and Bigley shouted to him again.
“Take the pannikin and bale. Do you hear me? Take the pannikin and bale.”
“I can’t,” moaned Bob. “I can’t. Let me lie here and die.”
Dark as it was I could just make out Bigley’s actions, for I was in the fore part of the boat, and he before me.
“Bale, I say! Do you hear? Bale!” he shouted in his deep gruff voice.
“I can’t,” moaned Bob piteously.
“Then we shall sink—we shall go to the bottom.”
“Yes; we’re going to die,” groaned Bob.
“No, we’re not,” cried Bigley in a fierce angry way that seemed different to anything I had before heard from him. “Get up and bale!”
“No, no,” groaned Bob again.
“Get up and bale!” thundered Bigley, and I felt hot and angry against him, as I heard a dull thud, and it did not need Bob Chowne’s cry of pain to tell me that Bigley had given him a kick on the ribs.
“Oh, Big!” I cried.
“Row!” he roared at me; and then to Bob: “Now, will you bale?”
“Yes,” groaned Bob, struggling to his knees, and, holding on with one hand, he began to dip the baler in regularly and slowly, throwing out about a pint of water every time.
“Faster!” shouted Bigley; “faster, I say.”
“Oh!” moaned poor Bob; but he obeyed, and it seemed a puzzle to me that our big companion, whom we bantered and teased, and led a sorry life at school, should somehow in this time of peril take the lead over us, and force us to behave in a way that could only have been expected of a crew obeying the captain of a boat.
I bent forward to Bigley as we kept on with the regular chop chop of the oars, making no effort to get nearer to the shore, only to keep the boat’s head level, and I whispered in his ear:
“Shall we get to shore again!”
“Yes,” he said confidently; “only you two must do what I tell you. I must be skipper now. Go on, you, Bob Chowne!” he roared. “Heave out that water. Do you want me to kick you again?”
Bob whimpered, but he worked faster, scooping the water clumsily out and throwing it over, the side, and, after he had done, and been sitting crouched at the bottom, Bigley seemed to attack him again unkindly, as if he were going to take advantage of his helplessness, and serve him out for many an old piece of tyranny.
“Now, then,” he shouted—and it seemed to be his father speaking, not our quiet easy-going school-fellow, but the rough seafaring man who had the credit of being a smuggler—“Now then, you, Bob Chowne,” he roared, “get up, and come and take Sep Duncan’s oar.”
“I can’t,” he groaned piteously, and he let himself fall against the side of the boat. “I’m so cold, I’m half dead.”
“Oh, are you?” shouted Bigley. “No you ar’n’t, so get up and creep over here.”
“I can’t,” cried Bob again.
“Then I’ll make you,” cried Bigley fiercely, and lifting his oar out of the rowlocks he sent it along the gunwale, till he made it tap heavily against the back of Bob Chowne’s head.
“Oh!” shrieked Bob, and I felt my cheeks burn, cold as I was.
“Now, will you come and work, you sneak?”
“I—I can’t.”
“Get up, or I’ll come and heave you overboard,” roared Bigley. “I won’t have it.”
“Oh—oh!” sobbed poor Bob.
“Let him be, Big,” I cried. “I’m not very tired.”
“You hold your tongue,” was the response I had in an angry tone. “You be ready to give up your oar when he comes. Now, then, up with you, or I’ll do it again.”
Bob Chowne groaned piteously and crawled forward.
“Why can’t you let a fellow die quietly?” he sobbed out, and then he crept over the seat where Bigley was rowing, so as to get to where I still tugged at my oar in hot indignation.
“Die, eh?” shouted Bigley with a forced laugh. “Yes, you’d better. Leave us to do all the pulling, would you? Oh, no, you don’t. I’m biggest and I’ll make you pull.”
“Oh—oh—oh!” whimpered Bob. “Why can’t you let a poor fellow be?”
“Be! What for?” shouted Bigley to my astonishment, for I could not have believed him guilty of such brutality. “Yes, I’ll let you be. I’ll make you work, that’s what I’ll do. I wish I’d a rope’s end here.”
“It’s too bad, it’s too cruel, Big,” I cried passionately. “How can you behave so brutally to the poor fellow!”
“Here, you stick to your own work,” cried Bigley fiercely. “Look, you’re letting me do all the work. Keep her head to the wind, will you?”
His orders were so sharp and fierce that I found myself obeying them directly, and went on baling while Bob whimpered, and Bigley kept on hectoring over us, as I ladled out a little water now and then.
The wind blew as fiercely as ever, and we knew that we were rapidly being carried out farther and farther, right away to a certain extent towards the Welsh coast, but of course being also in the set of the tide, and going out to sea. The cold was terrible whenever we ceased pulling from utter weariness, but we managed among us to keep the boat’s head to wind hour after hour, and danced over and over the waves till by degrees the fury of the wind died out, though we could not believe it at first. Soon, though, it become very evident that it was sinking, and I heard Bigley utter a sigh of relief.
It was quite time that the little gale did pass over, for during the last half hour the water had been coming into the boat more and more, so that it had become necessary for one of us to keep on baling, for the waves seemed to be getting more angry; a sharp rain of spray was dashed from their tops into our necks, and soaking our hair, and every now and again there was a blow, a splash, and a rush of water through the boat.
It was quite true, though we at first thought that we must be under shelter of the land; the wind was sinking fast, and the waves lost their fierce foaminess. They rose and fell, and leaped against the boat, but it was with less splash and fury, and then, as the danger died away, so did our remaining strength. Bigley and I, who were now rowing, or rather dipping our oars from time to time, slowly threw them in, and the boat lay tossing up and down at the mercy of the waves; but no water dashed in over the gunwale, and Bob Chowne’s hand with the baler rested helplessly by his side.
No one spoke out there in the darkness, but we sat in the terrible silence, utterly exhausted, and rapidly growing chilled through and through in our saturated clothes. I remember looking out, and away through the darkness towards the shore as I thought, but I could see nothing till I raised my eyes toward the sky, and then I saw that the clouds had been driven away by the wind, and the stars were out, while straight before me there was the only constellation I knew—the Great Bear.
I was too weary for it to trouble me, but I learned then that the boat must have turned almost completely round since we had left off rowing, for where I had thought the land lay was out to sea, and the Welsh coast—in fact I had been looking due north instead of due south.
It did not trouble me much, for I was hungry and thirsty, and then I felt sleepy, and then shivering with cold, while a few minutes later I felt as if nothing mattered at all, for I was utterly wearied out.
Bigley was the first to speak, but it was not in the fierce tone of a short time before. He seemed to have changed back into our big mild school-fellow as he said:
“Come on over here, Sep, and let’s all creep together. It won’t be so cold then.”
I noted the change in his tone, but I could not say anything, only obey him.
“Come, Bob,” I said, as I climbed over the thwart, and tried to stand steadily in the dancing boat.
But Bob did not move or speak, and we others crept close to his side, beginning by edging up and leaning against each other, shivering the while, but the improvement was so great at the end of a few minutes, that we thrust our arms under each other’s soaked jackets, and held on as closely as we could, to feel bitterly cold outside but comfortably warm on the inner.
The stars came out more and more, the wind died away, and the short dancing motion by very slow degrees subsided into a regular cradle-like rock, that, in spite of the cold, had a lulling effect upon us; and at last I seemed to be thinking of the miserable-looking mine in the Gap, and my father scolding me for going away without asking leave, and then everything seemed to be nothing, and nothing else.