the penhale brothers grew and grew, put off childish things and began to seek the company of men worshipfully and with emulation, as puppies imitate grown dogs. ortho’s first hero was a fisherman whose real name was george baragwanath, but who was invariably referred to as “jacky’s george,” although his father, the possessive jacky, was long dead and forgotten and had been nothing worth mentioning when alive.
jacky’s george was a remarkable man. at the age of seventeen, while gathering driftwood below pedn boar, he had seen an intact ship’s pinnace floating in. the weather was moderate, but there was sufficient swell on to stave the boat did it strike the outer rocks—and it was a good boat. the only way to save it was to swim off, but jacky’s george, like most fishermen, could not swim. he badly wanted that boat; it would make him independent of jacky, whose methods were too slow to catch a cold, leave alone fish. moreover, there was a girl involved. he stripped off his clothes, gathered the bundle of driftwood in his arms, flopped into the back wash of a roller and kicked out, frog-fashion, knowing full well that his chances of reaching the boat were slight and that if he did not reach it he would surely drown.
he reached the boat, however, scrambled up over the stern and found three men asleep on the bottom. his heart fell like lead. he had risked his life for nothing; he’d still have to go fishing with the timorous jacky and the girl must wait.
“here,” said he wearily to the nearest sleeper. “here, rouse up; you’m close ashore . . . be scat in a minute.”
the sleeper did not stir. jacky’s george kicked him none too gently. still the man did not move. he then saw that he was dead; they were all dead. the boat was his after all! he got the oars out and brought the boat safely into monks cove. quite a sensation it made—jacky’s george, stark naked, pulling in out of the sea fog with a cargo of dead men. he married that girl forthwith, was a father at eighteen, a grandfather at thirty-five. in the interval he got nipped by the press gang in a falmouth grog shop and sent round the world with anson in the centurion, rising to the rank of quarter-gunner. one of the two hundred survivors of that lucrative voyage, he was paid off with a goodly lump of prize money, and, returning to his native cove, opened an inn with a florid, cock-hatted portrait of his old commander for sign.
jacky’s george, however, was not inclined to a life of bibulous ease ashore. he handed the inn over to his wife and went to sea again as gunner in a small falmouth privateer mounting sixteen pieces. off ushant one february evening they were chased by a south maloman of twice their weight of metal, which was overhauling them hand over fist when her foremast went by the board and up she went in the wind. jacky’s george was responsible for the shot that disabled the breton, but her parting broadside disabled jacky’s george; he lost an arm.
he was reported to have called for rum, hot tar and an ax. these having been brought, he gulped the rum, chopped off the wreckage of his forearm, soused the spurting stump in tar and fainted. he recovered rapidly, fitted a boat-hook head to the stump and was at work again in no time, but the accident made a longshoreman of him; he went no more a-roving in letters of marque, but fished offshore with his swarm of sons, ortho penhale occasionally going with him.
physically jacky’s george was a sad disappointment. of all the covers he was the least like what he ought to have been, the last man you would have picked out as the desperado who had belted the globe, sacked towns and treasure ships, been master gunner of a privateer and killed several times his own weight in hand-to-hand combats. he was not above five feet three inches in height, a chubby, chirpy, red-headed cock-robin of a man who drank little, swore less, smiled perpetually and whistled wherever he went—even, it was said, at the graveside of his own father, in a moment of abstraction of course.
his wife, who ran the “admiral anson” (better known as the “kiddlywink”), was a heavy dark woman, twice his size and very downright in her opinions. she would roar down a roomful of tipsy mariners with ease and gusto, but the least word of her smiling little husband she obeyed swiftly and in silence. it was the same with his children. there were nine of them—two daughters and seven sons—all red-headed and freckled like himself, a turbulent, independent tribe, paying no man respect—but their father.
ortho could not fathom the nature of the little man’s power over them; he was so boyish himself, took such childish delight in their tales of mischief, seemed in all that boatload of boys the youngest and most carefree. then one evening he had a glimpse of the cock-robin’s other side. they were just in from sea, were lurching up from the slip when they were greeted by ominous noises issuing from the kiddlywink, the crash of woodwork, hoarse oaths, a thump and then growlings as of a giant dog worrying a bone. jacky’s george broke into a run, and at the same moment his wife, terrified, appeared at the door and cried out, “quick! quick do ’ee! murder!”
jacky’s george dived past her into the house, ortho, agog for any form of excitement, close behind him.
the table was lying over on its side, one bench was broken and the other tossed, end on, into a corner. on the wet floor, among chips of shattered mugs, two men struggled, locked together, a big man on top, a small man underneath. the former had the latter by the throat, rapidly throttling him. the victim’s eyeballs seemed on the point of bursting, his tongue was sticking out.
“tinners!” wailed mrs. baragwanath. “been drinkin’ all day—gert stinkin’ toads!”
jacky’s george did not waste time in wordy remonstrance; he got the giant’s chin in the crook of his sound arm and tried to wrench it up. useless; the maddened brute was too strong and too heavy. the man underneath gave a ghastly, clicking choke. in another second there would have been murder done in the “admiral anson” and a blight would fall on that prosperous establishment, killing trade. that would never do. without hesitation its landlord settled the matter, drove his stump-hook into the giant’s face, gaffed him through the cheek as he would a fish.
“come off!” said he.
the man came off.
“come on!” he backed out, leading the man by the hook.
“lift a hand or struggle and i’ll drag your face inside out,” said jacky’s george. “this way, if you please.”
the man followed, bent double, murder in his eyes, hands twitching but at his sides.
at the end of the hamlet jacky’s george halted. “you owe me your neck, mate, but i don’t s’pose you’ll thank me, tedd’n in human nature, you would,” said he, sadly, as though pained at the ingratitude of mortal man. “go on up that there road till you’m out of this place an’ don’t you never come back.”
he freed the hook deftly and jumped clear. “now crowd all canvas, do ’ee.”
the great tinner put a hand to his bleeding cheek, glared at the smiling cock-robin, clenched his fists and teeth and took a step forward—one only. a stone struck him in the chest, another missed his head by an inch. he ducked to avoid a third and was hit in the back and thigh, started to retreat at a walk, broke into a run and went cursing and stumbling up the track, his arms above his head to protect it from the rain of stones, goliath pursued by seven red-headed little davids, and all the cove women standing on their doorsteps jeering.
“two mugs an’ a bench seat,” jacky’s george commented as he watched his sons speeding the parting guest. “have to make t’other poor soul pay for ’em, i s’pose.” he turned back into the kiddlywink whistling, “strawberry leaves make maidens fair.”
ortho enjoyed going to sea with the baragwanath family; they put such zest into all they did, no slovenliness was permitted. falls and cables were neatly coiled or looped over pins, sail was stowed properly, oars tossed man-o’-war fashion, everything went with a snap. furthermore, they took chances. for them no humdrum harbor hugging; they went far and wide after the fish and sank their crab-pots under dangerous ledges no other boat would tackle. in anything like reasonable weather they dropped a tier or two seaward of the twelve apostles. even on the calmest of days there was a heavy swell on to the south of the reef, especially with the tide making. it was shallow there and the atlantic flood came rolling over the shoal in great shining hills. at one moment you were up in the air and could see the brown coast with its purple indentations for miles, the patchwork fields, scattered gray farmhouses, the smoke of furze fires and lazy clouds rolling along the high moors. at the next moment you were in the lap of a turquoise valley, shut out from everything by rushing cliffs of water. there were oars, sheets, halliards, back-ropes and lines to be pulled on, fighting fish to be hauled aboard, clubbed and gaffed. and always there was jacky’s george whistling like a canary, pointing out the various rigs of passing vessels, spinning yarns of privateer days and of anson’s wonderful voyage, of the taking of paita city and the great plate ship nuestra se?ora de covadonga. and there was the racing.
very jealous of his craft’s reputation was jacky’s george; a hint of defiance from another boat and he was after the challenger instanter, even though it took him out of his course. many a good spin did ortho get coming in from the carn base wolf and other outer fishing grounds, backed against the weather-side with the baragwanath boys, living ballast, while the gig, trembling from end to end, went leaping and swooping over the blue and white hillocks on the trail of an ambitious penberth or porgwarra man. sheets and weather stays humming in the blast, taut and vibrant as guitar strings; sails rigid as though carved from wood, lee gunnel all but dipping under; dollops of spray bursting aboard over the weather bow—tense work, culminating in exultation as they crept up on the chase, drew to her quarter, came broad abeam and—with derisive cheers—passed her. speed was a mania with the cock-robin; he was in perpetual danger of sailing the game cock under; on one occasion he very nearly did.
they were tearing, close-hauled, through the runnelstone passage, after an impudent mouseholeman, when a cross sea suddenly rose out of nowhere and popped aboard over the low lee gunnel. in a second the boat was full of water; only her gunnels and thwarts were visible. it seemed to ortho that he was standing up to his knees in the sea.
“luff!” shouted jacky’s george.
his eldest son jammed the helm hard down, but the boat wouldn’t answer. the way was off her; she lay as dead as a log.
“leggo sheets!” shouted the father. “aft all hands!”
ortho tumbled aft with the baragwanath boys and watched jacky’s george in a stupor of fright. the little man could not be said to move; he flickered, grabbed up an oar, wrenched the boat’s head round, broke the crest of an oncoming wave by launching the oar blade at it and took the remainder in his back.
“heave the ballast out an’ bale,” he yelled gleefully, sitting in the bows, forming a living bulwark against the waves. “bale till your backs break, my jollies.”
they bailed like furies, baled with the first things to hand, line tubs, caps, boots, anything, in the meanwhile drifting rapidly towards the towering cliffs of tol-pedn-penwith. the crash of the breakers on the ledges struck terror through ortho. they sounded like a host of ravenous great beasts roaring for their prey—him. if the boat did not settle under them they would be dashed to pieces on those rocks; death was inevitable one way or the other. he remembered the portuguese seamen washed in from the twelve apostles without heads. he would be like that in a few minutes—no head—ugh!
jacky’s george, jockeying the bows, improvising a weather cloth from a spare jib, was singing, “hey, boys, up we go!” this levity in the jaws of destruction enraged ortho. the prospect of imminent death might amuse jacky’s george, who had eaten a rich slice of life, but ortho had not and was terrified. he felt he was too young to die; it was unfair to snatch a mere boy like himself. moreover, it was far too sudden; no warning at all. at one moment they were bowling along in the sunshine, laughing and happy, and at the next up to their waists in water, to all intents dead, cold, headless, eaten by crabs—ugh! he thought of eli up the valley, flintlock in hand, dry, happy, safe for years and years of fun; thought of the owls’ house bathed in the noon glow, the old dog asleep in the sun, pigeons strutting on the thatch, copper pans shining in the kitchen—thought of his home, symbol of all things comfortable and secure, and promised god that if he got out of the mess he would never set foot in a boat again.
the roar of the breakers grew louder and he felt cold and sick with fear, but nevertheless baled with the best, baled for dear life, realizing for the first time how inexpressibly precious life may be. jacky’s george whistled, cracked jokes and sang “the bold british tar.” he made such a din as to drown the noise of the surf. the “british tar” had brave words and a good rousing chorus. the boys joined in as they baled; presently ortho found himself singing too.
six lads toiling might and main can shift a quantity of water. the gig began to brisk in her movements, to ride easier. fifty yards off the foam-draped hella rock jacky’s george laid her to her course again—but the mouseholeman was out of sight.
no dundee harpooner, home from a five years’ cruise, had a more moving story of perils on the deep to tell than did ortho that night. he staggered about the kitchen, affecting a sea roll, spat over his shoulder and told and retold the tale till his mother boxed his ears and drove him up to bed. even then he kept eli awake for two hours, baling that boat out over and over again; he had enjoyed every moment of it, he said. nevertheless he did not go fishing for a month, but the baragwanath family were dodging off st. clements isle before sun-up next day, waiting for that mousehole boat to come out of port. when she did they led her down to the fishing grounds and then led her home again, a tow-rope trailing derisively over the game cock’s stern. they were an indomitable breed.
ortho recovered from his experience off tol-pedn and, despite his promise to his maker, went to sea occasionally, but that phase of his education was nearing its close. winter and its gales were approaching, and even the fearless cock-robin seldom ventured out. when he did go he took only his four eldest boys, departed without ostentation, was gone a week or even two, and returned quietly in the dead of night.
“scilly—to visit his sister,” was given by mrs. baragwanath as his destination and object, but it was noted that these demonstrations of brotherly affection invariably occurred when the “admiral anson’s” stock of liquor was getting low. the wise drew their own conclusions. ortho pleaded to be taken on one of these mysterious trips, but jacky’s george was adamant, so he had perforce to stop at home and follow the game cock in imagination across the wintry channel to guernsey and back again through the patrolling frigates, loaded to the bends with ankers of gin and brandy.
cut off from jacky’s george, he looked about for a fresh hero to worship and lit upon pyramus herne.
