"They"re fresh as daisies, doctor," the giver would say: a man, perhaps, that I had hardly seen before, while the slightest hint at payment was looked upon as an offence.
"And there"s no knowing, doctor," said one man who presented me with a delicious hake, "I may be down at any time and want your help and advice. Didn"t you cure Sam Treporta? Lookye here doctor, don"t you go away again, you stop and practice down here. We"ll be ill as often as we can, and you shan"t never want for a bit of fish so long as the weather keeps fine."
It was one afternoon down on the little rugged granite pier that I heard the story of Tom Trecarn and the bailiffs, and being rather a peculiar adventure I give it as it was told to me.
""Is that you, Tom?"
""Iss, my son," replied Tom, a great swarthy, black-whiskered, fierce-looking, copper-coloured Cornish giant, in tarry canvas trousers, and a blue worsted guernsey shirt--a tremendous fellow in his way--but with a heart as soft and tender as that of his wife, whom he had just addressed in the popular fashion of his part as "my son." Tom had just come home from mackerel fishing off the Scilly Isles. The take had only been poor, for the wind had been unfavourable; but the few hundred fish his lugger had brought in were sold, and with a few hake in his hand for private consumption, Tom Trecarn had come home for a good night"s rest.
""Oh, Tom," burst out his wife, throwing down that popular wind instrument without which upon a grand scale no fisherman"s granite cottage is complete--"Oh, Tom," said Mrs Trecarn, throwing down the bellows, there known as the "Cornish organ"--"Oh, Tom, you"re a ruined man."
""Not yet, my son," replied Tom, stoically; "but if things don"t mend, fishing won"t be worth the salt for a score of pilchards."
""But Dan Pengelly"s broken, Tom," sobbed Mrs Trecarn.
""Then we"ll get him mended, my son," said Tom, kissing her.
""How many fish had ye?" sang a voice outside the cottage, in the peculiar pleasant intonation common amongst the Cornish peasantry.
""Thousand an" half," sang back Tom to the inquiring neighbour.
""Where did you shoot, lad?" sang the voice again.
""West of Scilly, Eddard. Bad times: wind heavy, and there"s four boats" fish."
""Pengelly"s got the bailiffs in, Thomas," sang the neighbour, now thrusting his head in at the door.
""Sorry for him," sang Tom, preparing for a wash.
""And I"m sorry for you, Thomas," sang the neighbour.
""What for?" said Tom, stoically.
""Why, aint all your craft in his store, Tom?" inquired the neighbour.
""Oh, yes--every net," sobbed Mrs Trecarn; "and we"re ruined.
Eighty-four pounds fifteen and seven-pence, too, those nets cost."
""But"t aint nothing to us," said Tom, turning a different colour, as an ordinary man would have turned pale.
""Why, your craft"s seized too, lad; and ye"ll lose it all," cried the neighbour, singing it right into the great fellow"s ear.
"Down went the pitcher of water upon the stone floor in a wreck of potsherds and splash, and crash went the staggering neighbour against the side table set out with Mrs Trecarn"s ornaments, as Tom rushed out of the house, and up the street to Daniel Pengelly"s store.
"Dan Pengelly"s store was a well-known building in Carolyn, being a long, low, granite-built and shale-roofed shed, where many of the fishermen warehoused their herring and pilchard nets during the mackerel season--the mackerel nets taking their turn to rest when dried, on account of the pilchards making their appearance off the sh.o.r.es of Mount"s Bay. For, as in patriarchal days men"s wealth was in flocks and herds, so here in these primitive Cornish fishing villages it is the ambition of most men to become the owner of the red-sailed, fast-tacking luggers which, from some hitherto unexplained phenomenon, sail like the boats of every other fishing station--faster than any vessel that ploughs the waves. Failing to become the owner of a boat, the next point is to be able to boast of having so many nets, many a rough-looking, hard-handed fisherman being perhaps possessor of a couple or three hundred pounds" worth, bought or bred (netted) by his wife and daughters.
"To Dan Pengelly"s store went Tom Trecarn, to find there a short, fresh-coloured, pudgy man leaning against one of the doorposts, holding the long clay pipe he smoked with one hand, and rubbing his nose with the key he held in the other.
""I want my nets out," said Tom, coming up furious as a bull. "I"ve got eighty pound worth of craft in here as don"t belong to the Pengellys."
""So have I," and "So have I," growled a couple of the group of men lolling about and looking on in the idle way peculiar to fishermen when winds are unfavourable.
""Can"t help that," said the man, ceasing to rub his nose, and b.u.t.toning up the key in his pocket. "I"m in possession, and nothing can"t come out of here. The goods are seized for debt."
""But I ain"t nothing to do with Pengelly"s debts," said Tom. "My nets ain"t going to pay for what he owes. I earned my craft with the sweat of my brow, and they"re only stored here like those of other lads."
""Iss, my son--"tis so--"tis so," said one or two of the bystanders, nodding their heads approvingly.
""I"ve got nothing to do with that," said the man in possession; "the goods are seized, and whatever"s in Daniel Pengelly"s store will be sold if he don"t pay up; and that"s the law."
""Do you mean to tell me that the law says you"re to sell one man"s goods to pay another man"s debts?" said Tom.
""Yes, if they"re on the debtor"s premises," said the man, coolly.
""Then I"m blest if I believe it," cried Tom, furiously; "and if you don"t give up what belongs to me--"
"Here he strode so furiously up to the bailiff that a couple of brother-fishermen rushed in, and between them hustled Trecarn off, and back to his cottage, where the poor fellow sat down beside his weeping wife, while the two ponderous fellows who had brought him home leaned one on either side of the door, silent and foil of unspoken condolence.
""Eighty-four pound!" groaned Tom.
""Fifteen and seven-pence!" sobbed his wife.
""Eight bran-new herring nets of mine," said one of his friends.
""And fifteen pound worth of my craft," muttered the other.
""And this is the law of the land, is it?" growled Tom.
""They took Sam Kelynack"s little mare same way as was grazing on Tressillian"s paddock," said friend number one; and then they all joined in a groan of sympathy.
"Now, in most places the men would have adjourned to a public-house to talk over their troubles; but here in the Cornish fishing villages a large percentage of the men are total abstainers; and Mrs Trecarn having brewed a good cup of tea, and fried half-a-dozen split mackerel, they all sat down and made a hearty meal; while during the discussion that followed, some comfort seemed to come to the troubled spirits of the men, so that about eight o"clock that night they went arm-in-arm down the ill-paved street, singing a glee in good time, tune, and the harmony so well preserved, that a musician would have paused in wonder to find such an accomplishment amongst rough fishermen--an accomplishment as common as bra.s.s bands amongst the Lancashire and Yorkshire artisans.
""Not another drop, I thanky," said the bailiff to one of Tom"s friends, who stood by him tumbler in hand, stirring a stiff gla.s.s of grog.
"It was a fine night though it had been raining, and the water lay in pools around, one of the largest being in front of the door stone of Pengelly"s store, beside which the bailiff stood; for though carefully locked up, the man felt a disinclination to leave it, and he equally disliked shutting himself inside and sleeping upon a heap of nets; so he had treated the advances made by the man who had protected him from Trecarn with pleasure, and between them they had finished one strong tumbler of rum and water, and were well on with the second.
""Not another drop! thanky," said the bailiff; so Nicholas Harris again broke his pledge, taking a moderate sip, and pa.s.sed the gla.s.s once more to the bailiff, who took it, sipped long and well, and then sighed; while it was observable that the last draught had so paved the way for more, that he made no further objections even when the gla.s.s was filled for the third and fourth time--each time the liquor being made more potent.
"At the filling of the fifth gla.s.s at eleven o"clock, when nearly the whole village was asleep, Nicholas Harris, who seemed wonderfully sober, considering, stopped and whispered to a couple of men in one of the corners behind the store; and in another half-hour, the said two shadowy figures came up to find the bailiff sitting in the pool of water in front of the store, and shaking his head in a melancholy way at his companion.
""I don"t feel well," said Harris, "and I"m going home. P"r"aps you"ll help that gentleman up to the King"s Arms."
"Neither of the new-comers spoke; but each seized the bailiff by an arm, and tried to lift him to his feet. But he did not wish to be lifted to his feet, and sat him down down again in the wettest spot of the road, making the water fly from beneath him, while every fresh attempt to get him away was fiercely resisted.
""Have you got it?" whispered one of the new-comers.
""Ay, lad!" said the other, "it"s all right."
""Then fetch a barrow."