In the Roar of the Sea

The word had gone round, none knew from whom, that the vessel had been lured to her destruction by wreckers, and that in a few minutes she would be boarded by these wolves of the sea. The captain, who should have kept order, had disappeared, the mate was disregarded, there was a general sauve qui peut. A few women were on board. At the shock they had come on deck, some with children, and the latter were wailing and shrieking with terror. The women implored that they might be saved. Men passengers ran about asking what was to be done, and were beaten aside and cursed by the frantic sailors. A Portuguese nun was ill with sea-sickness, and sank on the deck like a log, crying to St. Joseph between her paroxysms. One man alone seemed to maintain his self-possession, a young man, and he did his utmost to soothe the excited women and abate their terrors. He raised the prostrate nun and insisted on her laying hold of a rope, lest in the swash of the water she should be carried overboard. He entreated the mate to exert his authority and bring the sailors to a sense of their duty, to save the women instead of escaping in the boat, regardful of themselves only.

Suddenly a steady star, red in color, glared out of the darkness, and between it and the wreck heaved and tossed a welter of waves and foam.

“There is land,” shouted the mate.

“And that shines just where that light was that led us here,” retorted a sailor.

The vessel heeled to one side, and shipped water fore and aft, over either rail, with a hiss and heave. She plunged, staggered, and sank deeper into the sand.

A boat had been lowered and three men were in it, and called to the women to be sharp and join them. But this was no easy matter, for the boat at one moment leaped up on the comb of a black wave, and then sank in its yawning trough, now was close to the side of the ship, and then separated from it by a rift of water. The frightened women were let down by ropes, but in their bewilderment missed their opportunity when the boat was under them, and some fell into the water, and had to be dragged out, others refused to leave the wreck and risk a leap into the little boat. Nothing would induce the sick nun to venture overboard. She could not understand English; the young passenger addressed her in Portuguese, and finally, losing all patience and finding that precious time was wasted in arguing with a poor creature incapable of reasoning in her present condition, he ordered a sailor to help him, caught her up in his arms, and proceeded to swing himself over, that he might carry her into the boat.

But at that moment dark figures occupied the deck, and a man arrested him with his hand, while in a loud and authoritative voice he called, “No one leaves the vessel without my orders. Number Five, down into the boat and secure that. Number Seven, go with him. Now, one by one, and before each leaves, give over your purses and valuables that you are trying to save. No harm shall be done you, only make no resistance.”

The ship was in the hands of the wreckers.

The men in the boat would have cast off at once, but the two men sent into it, Numbers Five and Seven, prevented them. The presence of the wreckers produced order where there had been confusion before. The man who had laid his hand on the Portuguese nun, and had given orders, was obeyed not only by his own men, but by the crew of the merchant vessel, and by the passengers, from whom all thoughts of resistance, if they ever rose, vanished at once. All alike, cowed and docile, obeyed without a murmur, and began to produce from their pockets whatever they had secured and hoped to carry ashore with them.

“Nudding! me nudding!” gasped the nun.

“Let her pass down,” ordered the man who acted as captain. “Now the next – you!” he turned on the young passenger who had assisted the nun.

“You scoundrel,” shouted the young man, “you shall not have a penny of mine.”

“We shall see,” answered the wrecker, and levelled a pistol at his head. “What answer do you make to this?”

The young man struck up the pistol, and it was discharged into the air. Then he sprang on the captain, struck him in the chest, and grappled with him. In a moment a furious contest was engaged in between the two on the wet, sloping deck, sloping, for the cargo had shifted.

“Hah!” shouted the wrecker, “a Cornishman.”

“Yes, a Cornishman,” answered the youth.

The wrecker knew whence he came by his method of wrestling.

If there had been light, crew, invaders, and passengers would have gathered in a circle and watched the contest; but in the dark, lashed by foam, in the roar of the waves and the pipe of the wind, only one or two that were near were aware of the conflict. Some of the crew were below. They had got at the spirits and were drinking. One drunken sailor rushed forth swearing and blaspheming and striking about him. He was knocked down by a wrecker, and a wave that heaved over the deck lifted him and swept him over the bulwarks.

The wrestle between the two men in the dark taxed the full nerves and the skill of each. The young passenger was strong and nimble, but he had found his match in the wrecker. The latter was skilful and of great muscular power. First one went down on the knee, then the other, but each was up again in a moment. A blinding whiff of foam and water slashed between them, stinging their eyes, swashing into their mouths, forcing them momentarily to relax their hold of each other, but next moment they had leaped at each other again. Now they held each other, breast to breast, and sought, with their arms bowed like the legs of grasshoppers, to strangle or break each other’s necks. Then, like a clap of thunder, beat a huge billow against the stern, and rolled in a liquid heap over the deck, enveloping the wrestlers, and lifted them from their feet and cast them, writhing, pounding each other, on the deck.

There were screams and gasps from the women as they escaped from the water; the nun shrieked to St. Joseph – she had lost her hold and fell overboard, but was caught and placed in the boat.

“Now another,” was the shout.

“Hand me your money,” demanded one of the wreckers. “Madam, have no fear. We do not hurt women. I will help you into the boat.”

“I have nothing – nothing but this! what shall I do if you take my money?”

“I am sorry – you must either remain and drown when the ship breaks up or give me the purse.”

She gave up the purse and was safely lodged below.

“Who are you?” gasped the captain of the wreckers in a moment of relaxation from the desperate struggle.

“An honest man – and you a villain,” retorted the young passenger, and the contest was recommenced.

“Let go,” said the wrecker, “and you shall be allowed to depart – and carry your money with you.”

“I ask no man’s leave to carry what is my own,” answered the youth. He put his hand to his waist and unbuckled a belt, to this belt was attached a pouch well weighted with metal. “There is all I have in the world – and with it I will beat your brains out.” He whirled the belt and money bag round his head and brought it down with a crash upon his adversary, who staggered back. The young man struck at him again, but in the dark missed him, and with the violence of the blow and weight of the purse was carried forward, and on the slippery inclined planks fell.

“Now I have you,” shouted the other; he flung himself on the prostrate man and planted his knee on his back. But, assisted by the inclination of the deck, the young man slipped from beneath his antagonist, and half-rising caught him and dashed him against the rail.

The wrecker was staggered for a moment, and had the passenger seized the occasion he might have finished the conflict; but his purse had slipped from his hand, and he groped for the belt till he found one end at his feet, and now he twisted the belt round and about his right arm and weighted his fist with the pouch.

The captain recovered from the blow, and flung himself on his adversary, grasped his arms between the shoulder and elbow, and bore him back against the bulwark, drove him against it, and cast himself upon him.

“I’ve spared your life so far. Now I’ll spare you no more,” said he, and the young man felt one of his arms released. He could not tell at the time, he never could decide after how he knew it, but he was certain that his enemy was groping at his side for his knife. Then the hand of the wrecker closed on his throat, and the young man’s head was driven back over the rail, almost dislocating the neck.

It was then as though the young man saw into the mind of him who had cast himself against him, and who was strangling him. He knew that he could not find his knife, but he saw nothing, only a fire and blood before his eyes that looked up into the black heavens, and he felt naught save agony at the nape of his neck, where his spine was turned back on the bulwarks.

“Number Seven! any of you! an axe!” roared the wrecker. “By heaven you shall be as Wyvill! and float headless on the waves.”

“Coppinger!” cried the young man, by a desperate effort liberating his hand. He threw his arms round the wrecker. A dash and a boil of froth, and both went overboard, fighting as they fell into the surf.

“In the King’s name!” shouted a harsh voice.

“Surround – secure them all. Now we have them and they shall not escape.”

The wreck was boarded by, and in the hands of, the coast-guard.

CHAPTER XXXVII

BRUISED NOT BROKEN

“Come with me, uncle!” said Judith.

“My dear, I will follow you like a dog, everywhere.”

“I want to go to the rectory.”

“To the rectory! At this time of night!”

“At once.”

When the down was left there was no longer necessity for hiding the lantern, as they were within lanes, and the light would not be seen at sea.

The distance to the parsonage was not great, and the little party were soon there, but were somewhat puzzled how to find the door, owing to the radical transformations of the approaches effected by the new rector.

Mr. Desiderius Mules was not in bed. He was in his study, without his collar and necktie, smoking, and composing a sermon. It is not only lucus which is derived from non lucendo. A study in many a house is equally misnamed. In that of Mr. Mules’s house it had some claim, perhaps, to its title, for in it, once a week, Mr. Desiderius cudgelled his brains how to impart form to an inchoate mass of notes; but it hardly deserved its name as a place where the brain was exercised in absorption of information. The present study was the old pantry. The old study had been occupied by a man of reading and of thought. Perhaps it was not unsuitable that the pantry should become Mr. Mules’s study, and where the maid had emptied her slop-water after cleaning forks and plates should be the place for the making of the theological slop-water that was to be poured forth on the Sunday. But – what a word has been here used – theological – another lucus a non lucendo, for there was nothing of theology proper in the stuff compounded by Mr. Mules.

We shall best be able to judge by observing him engaged on his sermon for Sunday.

In his mouth was a pipe, on the table a jar of bird’s-eye; item, a tumbler of weak brandy and water to moisten his lips with occasionally. It was weak. Mr. Mules never took a drop more than was good for him.

Before him were arranged in a circle his materials for composition. On his extreme left was what he termed his treacle-pot. That was a volume of unctuous piety. Then came his dish of flummery. That was a volume of ornate discourses by a crack ladies’ preacher. Next his spice-box. That was a little store of anecdotes, illustrations, and pungent sayings. Pearson on the Creed, Bishop Andrews, or any work of solid divinity was not to be found either on his table or on his shelves. A Commentary was outspread, and a Concordance.

The Reverend Desiderius Mules sipped his brandy and water, took a long whiff of his pipe, and then wrote his text. Then he turned to his Commentary and extracted from it junks of moralization upon his text and on other texts which his Concordance told him had more or less to do with his head text. Then he peppered his paper well over with quotations, those in six lines preferred to those in three.

“Now,” said the manufacturer of the sermon, “I must have a little treacle. I suppose those bumpkins will like it, but not much, I hate it myself. It is ridiculous. And I can dish up a trifle of flummery in here and there conveniently, and – let me see. I’ll work up to a story near the tail somehow. But what heading shall I give my discourse? ’Pon my word I don’t know what its subject is – we’ll call it General Piety. That will do admirably. Yes, General Piety. Come in! Who’s there?”

A servant entered and said that there were Mr. Menaida and the lady that was married that morning, at the door, wanting to speak with him. Should she show them into the study?

Mr. Mules looked at his brandy and water, then at his array of material for composition, and then at his neckerchief on the floor, and said: “No, into the drawing-room.” The maid was to light the candles. He would put on his collar and be with them shortly.

So the sermon had to be laid aside.

Presently Mr. Desiderius Mules entered his drawing-room, where Judith, Uncle Zachie, and Jamie were awaiting him.

“A late visit, but always welcome,” said the rector. “Sorry I kept you waiting, but I was en deshabille. What can I do for you now, eh?”

Judith was composed, she had formed her resolution.

She said, “You married me this morning when I was unconscious. I answered but one of your questions. Will you get your prayer-book and I will make my responses to all those questions you put to me when I was in a dead faint.”

“Oh, not necessary. Sign the register and it is all right. Silence gives consent, you know.”

“I wish it otherwise, particularly, and then you can judge for yourself whether silence gives consent.”

Mr. Desiderius Mules ran back into his study, pulled a whiff at his pipe to prevent the fire from going out, moistened his untempered clay with brandy and water, and came back again with a Book of Common Prayer.

“Here we are,” said he. “‘Wilt thou have this man,’ and so on – you answered to that, I believe. Then comes ‘I, Judith, take thee, Curll, to my wedded husband’ – you were indistinct over that, I believe.”

“I remember nothing about it. Now I will say distinctly my meaning. I will not take Curll Coppinger to my wedded husband, and thereto I will never give my troth – so help me, God.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the rector. “You put me in a queer position. I married you, and you can’t undo what is done. You have the ring on your finger.”

“No, here it is. I return it.”

“I refuse to take it. I have nothing whatever to do with the ring. Captain Coppinger put it on your hand.”

“When I was unconscious.”

“But am I to be choused out of my fee – as out of other things!”

“You shall have your fee. Do not concern yourself about that. I refuse to consider myself married. I refuse to sign the register, no man shall force me to it, and if it comes to law, here are witnesses, you yourself are a witness, that I was unconscious when you married me.”

“I shall get into trouble! This is a very unpleasant state of affairs.”

“It is more unpleasant for me than for you,” said Judith.

“It is a most awkward complication. Never heard of such a case before. Don’t you think that after a good night’s rest and a good supper – and let me advise a stiff glass of something warm, taken medicinally, you understand – that you will come round to a better mind.”

“To another mind I shall not come round. I suppose I am half married – never by my will shall that half be made into a whole.”

“And what do you want me to do?” asked Mr. Mules, thoroughly put out of his self-possession by this extraordinary scene.

“Nothing,” answered Judith, “save to bear testimony that I utterly and entirely refuse to complete the marriage which was half done – by answering to those questions with a consent, which I failed to answer in church because I fainted, and to wear the ring which was forced on me when I was insensible, and to sign the register now I am in full possession of my wits. We will detain you no longer.”

Judith left along with Jamie and Mr. Menaida, and Mr. Mules returned to his sermon. He pulled at his pipe till the almost expired fire was rekindled into glow, and he mixed himself a little more brandy and water. Then with his pipe in the corner of his mouth he looked at his discourse. It did not quite please him, it was undigested.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Desiderius. “My mind is all of a whirl, and I can do nothing to this now. It must go as it is – yet stay, I’ll change the title. General Piety is rather pointless. I’ll call it Practical Piety.”

Judith returned to Pentyre Glaze. She was satisfied with what she had done; anger and indignation were in her heart. The man to whom she had given her hand had enlisted her poor brother in the wicked work of luring unfortunate sailors to their destruction. She could hardly conceive of anything more diabolical than this form of wrecking: her Jamie was involved in the crime of drawing men to their death. A ship had been wrecked, she knew that by the minute guns, and if lives were lost from it, the guilt in a measure rested on the head of Jamie. But for her intervention he would have been taken in the act of showing light to mislead mariners, and would certainly have been brought before magistrates and most probably have been imprisoned. The thought that her brother, the son of such a father, should have escaped this disgrace through an accident only, and that he had been subjected to the risk by Coppinger, filled her veins with liquid fire. Thenceforth there could be nothing between her and Captain Cruel, save antipathy, resentment, and contempt on her part. His passion for her must cool or chase itself away. She would never yield to him a hair’s breadth.

Judith threw herself on her bed, in her clothes. She could not sleep. Wrath against Coppinger seethed in her young heart. Concerned she was for the wrecked, but concern for them was over-lapped by fiery indignation against the wrecker. There was also in her breast self-reproach. She had not accepted as final her father’s judgment on the man. She had allowed Coppinger’s admiration of herself to move her from a position of uncompromising hostility, and to awake in her suspicions that her dear, dear father might have been mistaken, and that the man he condemned might not be guilty as he supposed.

As she lay tossing on her bed, turning from side to side, her face now flaming, then white, she heard a noise in the house. She sat up on her bed and listened. There was now no light in the room, and she would not go into that of her aunt to borrow one. Miss Trevisa might be asleep, and would be vexed to be disturbed. Moreover resentment against her aunt for having forced her into the marriage was strong in the girl’s heart, and she had no wish to enter into any communications with her.

So she sat on her bed, listening.

There was certainly disturbance below. What was the meaning of it?

Presently she heard her aunt’s voice down-stairs. She was therefore not asleep in her room.

Thereupon Judith descended the stairs to the hall. There she found Captain Coppinger being carried to his bedroom by two men, while Miss Trevisa held a light. He was streaming with water that made pools on the floor.

“What is the matter? Is he hurt? Is he hurt seriously?” she asked, her woman’s sympathy at once aroused by the sight of suffering.

“He has had a bad fall,” replied her aunt. “He went to a wreck that has been cast on Doom Bar, to help to save the unfortunate, and save what they value equally with their lives – their goods, and he was washed overboard. Fell into the sea, and was dashed against that boat. Yes – he is injured. No bones broken this time. This time he had to do with the sea and with men. But he is badly bruised. Go on,” she said to those who were conveying Coppinger. “He is in pain, do you not see this as you stand here? Lay him on his bed, and remove his clothes. He is drenched to the skin. I will brew him a posset.”

“May I help you, aunt?”

“I can do it myself.”

Judith remained with Miss Trevisa. She said nothing to her till the posset was ready. Then she offered to carry it to her husband.

“As you will – here it is,” said Aunt Dionysia.

Thereupon Judith took the draught, and went with it to Captain Coppinger’s room. He was in his bed. No one was with him, but a candle burned on the table.

“You have come to me, Judith?” he said with glad surprise.

“Yes – I have brought you the posset. Drink it out to the last drop.”

She handed it to him; and he took the hot caudle.

“I need not finish the bowl?” he asked.

“Yes – to the last drop.”

He complied, and then suddenly withdrew the vessel from his lips. “What is this – at the bottom? – a ring?” He extracted a plain gold ring from the bowl.

“What is the meaning of this? It is a wedding-ring.”

“Yes – mine.”

“It is early to lose it.”

“I threw it in.”

“You – Judith – why?”

“I return it to you.”

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at her fixedly with threatening eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“That ring was put on my finger when I was unconscious. Wait till I accept it freely.”

“But – Judith – the wedding is over.”

“Only a half wedding.”

“Well – well – it shall soon be a whole one. We will have the register signed to-morrow.”

Judith shook her head.

“You are acting strangely to-night,” said he.

“Answer me,” said Judith. “Did you not send out Jamie with a light to mislead the sailors, and draw them on to Doom Bar?”

“Jamie, again!” exclaimed Coppinger, impatiently.

“Yes, I have to consider for Jamie. Answer me, did you not send him – ”

He burst in angrily, “If you will – yes – he took the light to the shore. I knew there was a wreck. When a ship is in distress she must have a light.”

“You are not speaking the truth. Answer me, did you go on board the wrecked vessel to save those who were cast away?”

“They would not have been saved without me. They had lost their heads – every one.”

“Captain Coppinger,” said Judith, “I have lost all trust in you. I return you the ring which I will never wear. I have been to see the rector and told him that I refuse you, and I will never sign the register.”

“I will force the ring on to your finger,” said Coppinger.

“You are a man, stronger than I – but I can defend myself, as you know to your cost. Half married we are – and so must remain, and never, never shall we be more than that.”

Then she left the room, and Coppinger dashed his posset cup to the ground, but held the ring and turned it in his fingers, and the light flickered on it, a red gold ring like that red gold hair that was about his throat.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A CHANGE OF WIND

After many years of separation, father and son were together once more. Early in the morning after the wreck in Dover Bar, Oliver Menaida appeared at his father’s cottage, bruised and wet through, but in health and with his purse in his hand.

When he had gone overboard with the wrecker, the tide was falling and he had been left on the sands of the Bar, where he had spent a cold and miserable night, with only the satisfaction to warm him that his life and his money were his. He was not floating, like Wyvill, a headless trunk, nor was he without his pouch that contained his gold and valuable papers.

Mr. Menaida was roused from sleep very early to admit Oliver. The young man had recognized where he was, as soon as sufficient light was in the sky, and he had been carried across the estuary of the Camel by one of the boats that was engaged in clearing the wreck, under the direction of the captain of the coast-guard. But three men had been arrested on the wrecked vessel, three of those who had boarded her for plunder, all the rest had effected their escape, and it was questionable whether these three could be brought to justice, as they protested they had come from shore as salvers. They had heard the signals of distress and had put off to do what they could for those who were in jeopardy. No law forbad men coming to the assistance of the wrecked. It could not be proved that they had laid their hands on and kept for their own use any of the goods of the passengers or any of the cargo of the vessel. It was true that from some of the women their purses had been exacted, but the men taken professed their innocence of having done this, and the man who had made the demand – there was but one – had disappeared. Unhappily he had not been secured.