(1/3) Go Saddle the Sea (29 page)

"Come, that's better!" said Sam. "Why don't us sing a catch or two, to draw the notice of our saints to the pickle we're in, and to show 'em we bain't afeared?"

And so we sang some of our favorite airs, wishing that we had Sammy's kit and my pipe, which had been left with our bundles in the caboose. But I was glad that I had my father's book and papers, in Juana's oilskin wrapping, tucked inside my shirt, next to my skin. I hoped that perhaps, since my immersion in the water had not lasted very long, the water had not penetrated the package and the writing might have been preserved.

Every now and then, breaking off from our songs, Sam would say, "Now I can see the Lizard lighthouse plain. Now I can see Coverack church; now I see St. Mawes, all in the snow. Lucky for us the tide is a-making and the wind has set to the southwest; 'tis carrying us right toward Falmouth Creek. Look at yon snow on the cliffs; it be rare, I can tell 'ee, for snow to lie long in Cornwall."

But there was a false cheer in his voice and I could guess why; because the current was carrying us faster than the wind, and, instead of drifting in the direction of St. Mawes church, which, he had told me, lay on the east side of Falmouth Creek, we were drawing all the time steadily to our left, toward the great cliffs and crashing white waves that ran along the foot of the Lizard Point.

We sang until we were hoarse, and then, in a pause, I said haltingly, "Sam, I would just like you to know how very glad I am to have known you—"

His ugly face broke into a smile. "Lad, I don't mean to die yet!" he said. "For one thing, just afore we left Llanes, I plucked up my courage an' put the question to Juana—an' she said yes!"

"Oh, Sam!" I had thought my guilt could bite no deeper, but now I felt the keenest pang of all. "She will curse the day I met you—"

"Hold it, lad!" Sam said cheerfully. "Let's not be scribing our epitaphs yet awhile! For I can see a boat this minute as ever is, a-pulling out o' Falmouth Bay!"

Turning to strain my eyes, I saw that he was right: What looked like a many-legged water beetle was pulling steadily toward us over the white surface of the sea.

"Reckon they mun ha' spotted the wreck from up top o' the lighthouse, and sent word to the lifeboat-men," Sam said. And he added in a wondering tone, "Now, bean't that a 'mazing thing, that from a whole shipload o' raskills, you an' I, Felix, should be the ones to be saved. It do make one think that Him above mid have some task for us to do!"

I had been thinking the same thought.

Soon loud, cheerful voices called, "Keep your hearts up, lads! Here we be!" and the rounded, stubby lifeboat tumbled alongside of us, pulled by ten red-faced, black-eyed rowers, who exclaimed, as they
pulled us aboard, "Why, if ee bain't a couple o' true-blue English lads! Fancy that, now! Word come as 'twas one o' they Biscay hookers as had foundered."

"Ay, an' so it was," said Sam. "But English lads can ship aboard o' Biscay hookers."

One of the oarsmen turned his head.

"I should know
that
voice!" he said. "Bean't you Sammy Pollard, as come from the liddle owd farm up to Tregarrion?"

"That I be—an' glad to get a sight o' Cornwall again, I can tell ee!" said Sam. He spoke cheerfully, and they all exclaimed in a welcoming chorus, but my heart sank. All Cornishmen know one another, it seemed; how long would it be before news of Sam's rescue reached his uncle?

After about forty minutes' rowing we reached Falmouth harbor. The snow was still pouring down, and I could see little of the small gray stone town as we clambered up steep steps onto a granite pier.

From there we were led to a custom house, close by, where we had to go through brief formalities (in consequence, it seemed, of a law passed during the French wars), declaring our names, and information regarding the ship that had sunk, its name, owners, port of embarkation, cargo, and so forth. These questions we answered as best we could. I thought that, if only Sam had not already been recognized, he could have given a false name. Mine I gave as Felix Brooke, and said that I was traveling from Spain to my father's family in Bath.

The Customs Officer, a most kindly, well-meaning man, asked what was the direction of my father's family in Bath, so that he might inform them by a message on the mail coach that I was here cast up on the shore in Falmouth, penniless and wet as a herring. For fear that he might have me apprehended as a vagrant, I gave the address as: in care of the Rose and Ring-Dove Inn. He promised that a note should be dispatched forthwith. Who would read it? I wondered.

Meanwhile, since we were soaked and half starving, we were now permitted to take ourselves off to the nearest inn, one on the quayside.

Falmouth consists of one long narrow street leading up a hill to a castle which Sam told me was called Pendennis castle. I was all eyes for everything English—but felt obliged to admit to myself that the narrow street, full of snow and sailors, and the little whitewashed inn, did not either of them display the grandeur I had expected in England.

However, we were led to a blazing fire, which was most welcome, and I awaited the food we had ordered with curiosity. This, too, when it came, was something of a disappointment: the meat was half raw and the vegetables tasted like seaweed; the bread was bitter and the cider was horrible: sharp enough to tie your stomach in a knot. The best part of the meal was a dish of large savory pastries, made with a thick crust and filled, I think, with mutton and turnip. Cornish pasties, Sam said they were called.

While we ate, sitting beside the fire, all manner of persons entered the inn parlor, to look at us with wonder and congratulate us on our escape; for it seemed that the storm had been so fierce, along the Cornish coast, that no fishing boats had put to sea for three days, and the packet from France had been long overdue; so the sight of our boat from the clifftop had been a cause for general amazement.

In the midst of all this cheerful commotion, a little black-clad fellow sidled into the parlor where we sat. His appearance reminded me, all in a moment, of the
mercado
at Oviedo, and my heart jumped up into my mouth.

Next moment he was tapping Sammy on the shoulder.

"Is your name Sam Pollard?" says he.

"Yes, it is!"

"Then I would have you know," says the little fellow, "that you are under arrest for debt!"

Sam's arrest was a piece of the most arrant ill-luck. Had the weather been different—had our ship not been wrecked—had we not been washed ashore near Falmouth, where he was well known—or had we landed a day later, after the storm had abated, when Sam could have put off again directly on one of several packets that were in port, waiting to leave—mát-ters would have fallen out otherwise.

But it so happened that his uncle's bailiff, or agent, a man of a mean contriving nature named Jonas Brewer, had been in Falmouth for three days, impatiently awaiting the arrival of a load of French silk expected from the port of Le Havre, which was overdue because of the storm. It seemed that Sam's uncle Ebenezer had sold his farms, gone into the cloth business, and prospered amazingly; he was now Mayor of Truro. But his spite gainst the nephew who had married his daughter was still bitter, and the bailiff, knowing this, and chancing to hear the tale of our lucky rescue noised about the town of Falmouth, made haste
to earn his master's favor by informing the constables and instructing them to arrest Sam.

I asked the bailiff how much the debt was, for which Sam had been apprehended, since I still had thirty-five Spanish dollars tucked in my belt, which amounted, I learned, to about a hundred and sixty shillings, or eight pounds English money.
^*
I offered this sum, but the man smiled scornfully and said that Sam owed his uncle more than eighty pounds.

"Eighty?" said Sam. "Why, it was but fifty!"

"Arr, but you be reckoning without the interest, my young jack-dandy," said the bailiff—who was a most evil, weaselly-looking little fellow—"interest have been a-mounting, while 'ee've been gallivanting in furrin parts/

And he smiled in a satisfied way, no doubt at the thought of his master's delight in having caught his enemy at last.

Despite all my protestations and prayers, two constables and this horrible man took Sam off in a coach to Truro. I was not even allowed to accompany them! I begged and beseeched, but was pushed rudely out of the way. All I could do was press my money into Sam's hand to pay for necessaries in jail, keeping only a couple of coins. Oh, so long as I live, I hope never to suffer another parting like that one! Sam, it is true, bore his arrest stoically enough: "Mayhap 'twas fated to fall out like this," he said calmly. "Don't grieve, lad!" But I was nearly mad with rage and sorrow and self-blame.

"What can I do that's best for you?" I asked, in the brief moments before the coach came to the door and he was taken away.

His face broke into its usual grin.

"Why, lad, the very best is that you should find your great kinsfolk, and have them recognize you and take you in! Naught would ease my heart so much as to know that you were in safety and comfort; it frets me sore to be obliged to leave you thus, wi'out a single friend in a land that's strange to you."

"Oh,
that
is no matter," said I. "I shall do well enough. And I
will
find my great kin, Sammy, and I shall ask them to pay off your debt."

"Nay, lad," he said, laughing. "Eighty pound English is more than you reckon! A man could hardly earn such a sum in three years. Never fret about me—I mun abide my fortune as best I may."

And then they led him off to the coach.

I stood there in the snowy street, watching the horses pull the coach away up the hill, and my heart felt like a stone inside my chest. I thought of poor Juana in Llanes, waiting for Sam to return. I wished the earth would open up and swallow me. I wished that I had been drowned when the
Guipuzcoa
went down. I wished that Sam had never had the ill-luck to meet me; I cannot say what else I wished. And I felt
more miserably alone than ever before in my travels, and looked about this English town with hatred. The little stone whitewashed houses appeared utterly dingy and poverty-stricken, the sky was gray and gloomy, the street was foul with snow and beasts' droppings, and the people's voices sounded harsh and strident.

However, as I stood shivering in the roadway, without a notion in my head what to do next, a kindly voice broke into my sad thoughts.

"Hey-day, my lad! Do 'ee wish to travel to Bath? Eli Button, up to Customs House, did say as 'ee had folks a-living there? My son-in-law Ned, 'e be a carter, an' 'e be setting off for Bath town, directly, wi' a load o' salt pilchards; Ned'll take 'e along and welcome! A wagon bain't so fast as a stagecoach, mind; 'twill take 'ee the best part o' three days, but ee'll get there in the end, sartin sure."

It was the landlord of the inn who addressed me, and suddenly, looking round, I realized that, instead of being friendless as I had thought, I had many people on my side; there was general sympathy for poor Sam and indignation at the heartless way in which he had been snatched off while his clothes were hardly dried yet after the shipwreck.

"'Tis a proper shame," the landlord's wife said. "But everyone do say that Ebenezer Pinchplum be the meanest curmudgeonly old maw-worm this side o' Tamar, Arr! Someone'll inform on
him
one o' these days and then he'll laugh on't'other side o' his face!"

A whole group of people commiserated with me
on my friend's misfortune and said that one of these days old Pinchplum would choke on his own meanness, and I began to feel more kindly disposed toward the English.

Then Ned, the landlord's son-in-law, appeared—a big, smiling simple fellow, dressed in a coarse linen tunic; he pulled his forelock shyly and said he'd be main glad of my company on the road to Bath, for he had to travel it once a week and had driven it back and forth so many times that he was fair wearied by it, and had much ado to keep awake along the way.

So, as I had no reason to linger in Falmouth, and no wish to, I paid our reckoning at the inn, said good-bye to the friendly innkeeper, and climbed onto the wagon, which was drawn by four massive gray horses—I had never before seen such beasts, they seemed more like elephants than our slender horses and mules in Spain. I soon discovered that they were necessary, however, for the hills in Cornwall are steep—not high, but very sharp—and the roads very bad, muddy and slippery with snow.

It seemed late in the day to set out, but Ned explained, that we would spend a night with his aunt, who lived in a village the other side of Truro; that would give us a good start on the morrow, and then, by the night of that day we would be able to reach Exeter, where he had a cousin who would give us a bed. Then, if all went well, we should arrive in Bath by the evening of the second day. I asked how far it was to
Bath and he said, about a hundred and forty miles; the English reckon in miles rather than leagues.

Dusk soon fell as we rumbled along, and I, being weary and heartsick from all our adventures, and the loss of Sam, fell into a kind of doze, curled up in the wagon among the barrels of fish, under a piece of sack which Ned kindly provided. Indeed so tired was I that I was sleeping when we passed through Truro, and so missed seeing the town where Sam lay confined. This filled me with shame when I discovered what I had done.

I remember little of that night. We halted at a small place, called, I think, St. Morion, only two or three houses, which seemed to be situated in a wilderness. I helped Ned feed and stable his horses in a stone barn; then we went into his aunts house, which was very tiny, with stone walls and stone floors, and a fire of earth coal burning in an iron grate; we were given some broth of mutton and turnips by the aunt, an old, old, white-haired woman who was bent double by rheumatism; and then I asked if I might lie down to sleep, since I could hardly keep my eyes from closing, and was led up a little narrow flight of wooden stairs to a room no bigger than a dog kennel, where I flung myself down on a mattress so damp that it reminded me of my bed in Villaverde.