teresa rode out of gwithian in a black temper. three days before, in another fit of temper, she had packed the house-girl from bosula, bag and baggage, and she was finding it difficult to get another. for two days she had been canvassing the farms in vain, and now gwithian had proved a blank draw. she could not herself cook, and the bosula household was living on cold odds and ends, a diet which set the men grumbling and filled her with disgust. she pined for the good times when martha was alive and three smoking meals came up daily as a matter of course.
despite the fact that she offered the best wages in the neighborhood, the girls would not look at her—saucy jades! had she inquired she would have learnt that, as a mistress, she was reported too free with her tongue and fists.
gwithian fruitless, there was nothing for it but to try mousehole. teresa twisted her big horse about and set off forthwith for the fishing village in the hopes of picking up some crabber’s wench who could handle a basting pan—it was still early in the morning. a cook she must get by hook or crook; ortho was growling a great deal at his meals—her precious ortho!
she was uneasy about her precious ortho; his courtship of the penaluna girl was not progressing favorably. he had not mentioned the affair, but to his doting mother all was plain as daylight. she knew perfectly well where he spent his evenings, and she knew as well as if he had told her that he was making no headway. men successful in love do not flare like tinder at any tiny mishap, sigh and brood apart in corners, come stumbling to bed at night damning the door latches for not springing to meet their hands, the stairs for tripping them up; do not publicly, and apropos of nothing, curse all women—meaning one particular woman. oh, no, ortho was beating up against a head wind.
teresa was furious with the penaluna hussy for presuming to withstand her son. she had looked higher for ortho than a mere farmer’s daughter; but, since the farmer’s daughter did not instantly succumb, teresa was determined ortho should have her—the haughty baggage!
after all simeon owned the adjacent property and was undeniably well to do. the girl had looks of a sort (though the widow, being enormous herself, did not generally admire big women) and was reported a good housewife; that would solve the domestic difficulty. but the main thing was that ortho wanted the chit, therefore he should have her.
wondering how quickest this could be contrived, she turned a corner of the lane and came upon the girl in question walking into gwithian, a basket on her arm, her blue cloak blowing in the wind.
teresa jerked her horse up, growling, “good morning.”
“good morning,” mary replied and walked past.
teresa scowled after her and shouted, “hold fast a minute!”
mary turned about. “well?”
“what whimsy tricks are you serving my boy ortho?” said teresa, who was nothing if not to the point.
mary’s eyebrows rose. “what do ’e mean, ‘whimsy tricks’? i do serve en a fitty supper nigh every evening of his life and listen to his tales till . . .”
“oh, you know what i mean well enough,” teresa roared. “are ’e goin’ to have him? that’s what i want to know.”
“have who?”
“my son.”
“which son?” the two women faced each other for a moment, the black eyes wide with surprise, the brown sparkling with amusement; then mary dropped a quick curtsey and disappeared round the corner.
teresa sat still for some minutes glaring after her, mouth sagging with astonishment. then she cursed sharply; then she laughed aloud; then, catching her horse a vicious smack with the rein, she rode on. the feather-headed fool preferred eli to ortho! preferred that slow-brained hunk of brawn and solemnity to ortho, the handsome, the brilliant, the daring, the sum of manly virtues! it was too funny, too utterly ridiculous! eli, the clod, preferred to ortho, the diamond! the girl was raving mad, raving! eli had visited roswarva a good deal at one time, but not since ortho’s return. teresa hoped the girl was aware that ortho was absolute owner of bosula and that eli had not a penny to his name—now. if she were not, teresa determined she should not long go in ignorance.
at any rate, it could only be a question of time. mary might still have some friendly feeling for eli, but once she really began to know ortho she would forget all about that. half the women in the country would give their heads to get the romantic squire of bosula; they went sighing after him in troops at fairs and public occasions. yet something in the penaluna girl’s firm jaw and steady brown eyes told teresa that she was not easily swayed hither and thither. she wished she could get eli out of the way for a bit.
she rode over the hill and down the steep lane into mousehole, and there found an unwonted stir afoot.
the village was full of seamen armed with bludgeons and cutlasses, running up and down the narrow alleys in small parties, kicking the doors in and searching the houses.
the fisherwomen hung out of their windows and flung jeers and slops at them.
“press gang,” teresa was informed. they had landed from a frigate anchored just round the corner in gwavas lake and had so far caught one sound man, one epileptic and the village idiot, who was vastly pleased at having some one take notice of him at last.
a boy line fishing off tavis vov had seen the gang rowing in, given the alarm, and by the time the sailors arrived all the men were a quarter of a mile inland. very amusing, eh? teresa agreed that it was indeed most humorous, and added her shrewd taunts to those of the fishwives.
then an idea sprang to her head. she went into the tavern and drank a pot of ale while thinking it over. when the smallest detail was complete she set out to find the officer in command.
she found him without difficulty—an elderly and dejected midshipman leaning over the slip rails, spitting into the murky waters of the harbor, and invited him very civilly to take a nip of brandy with her.
the officer accepted without question. a nip of brandy was a nip of brandy, and his stomach was out of order, consequent on his having supped off rancid pork the night before. teresa led him to a private room in the tavern, ordered the drinks and, when they arrived, locked the door.
“look ’e, captain,” said she, “do ’e want to make a couple of guineas?”
the midshipman’s dull glance leapt to meet hers, agleam with sudden interest, as teresa surmised it would. she knew the type—forty years old, without influence or hope of promotion, disillusioned, shabby, hanging body and soul together on thirty shillings a month; there was little this creature would not do for two pounds down.
“what is it?” he snapped.
“i’ll give you two pounds and a good sound man—if you’ll fetch en.”
the midshipman shook his tarred hat. “not inland; i won’t go inland.” press gangs were not safe inland in cornwall and he was not selling his life for forty shillings; it was a dirty life; but he still had some small affection for it.
“who said it was inland? to a small little cove just this side of monks cove; you’ll know it by the waterfall that do come down over cliff there. t’eddn more’n a two-mile pull from here, just round the point.”
“is the man there?”
“not yet, but i’ll have en there by dusk. do you pull your boat up on the little beach and step inside the old tinner’s adit—kind of little cave on the east side—and wait there till he comes. he’s a mighty strong man, i warn ’e, a notable wrestler in these parts, so be careful.”
“i’ll take four of my best and sand-bag him from behind,” said the midshipman, who was an expert in these matters. “stiffens ’em, but don’t kill. two pound ain’t enough, though.”
“it’s all you’ll get,” said teresa.
“four pound or nothing,” said the midshipman firmly.
they compromised at three pounds and teresa paid cash on the spot. ortho, the free-handed, kept her in plenty of money—so different from eli.
the midshipman walked out of the front door, teresa slipped out of the back and rode away. she had little fear the midshipman would fail her; he had her money, to be sure, but he would also get a bounty on eli and partly save his face with his captain. he would be there right enough.
she continued her search for a cook in paul and rode home slowly to gain time, turned her horse, as usual, all standing, into the stable, and then went to look for her younger son.
she was not long in finding him; a noise of hammering disclosed his whereabouts.
she approached in a flutter of well-simulated excitement.
“here you, eli, eli!” she called.
“what is it?” he asked, never pausing in his work.
“i’ve just come round by the cliffs from mousehole; there’s a good ship’s boat washed up in zawn-a-bal. get you round there quick and take her into monks cove; she’m worth five pounds if she’m worth a penny.”
eli looked up. “hey! . . . what sort of boat?”
“gig, i think; she’m lying on the sand by the side of the adit.”
eli whistled. “gig—eh! all right, i’ll get down there soon’s i’ve finished this.”
teresa stamped her foot. “some o’ they mousehole or cove men’ll find her if you don’t stir yourself.”
eli nodded. “all right, all right, i’m going. i’m not for throwing away a good boat any more’n you are. just let me finish this gate. i shan’t be a minute.”
teresa turned away. he would go—and there was over an hour to spare—he would go fast enough, go blindly to his fate. she turned up the valley with a feeling that she would like to be as far from the dark scene of action as possible. but it would not do eli any harm, she told herself; he was not being murdered; he was going to serve in the navy for a little while as tens of thousands of men were doing. every sailor was not killed, only a small percentage. no harm would come to him; good, rather. he would see the world and enlarge his mind. in reality she was doing him a service.
nevertheless her nerves were jumping uncomfortably. eli was her own flesh and blood after all, john’s son. what would john, in heaven, say to all this? she had grasped the marvelous opportunity of getting rid of eli without thinking of the consequences; she was an opportunist by blood and training, could not help herself.
well, it was done now; there was no going back—and it would clear the way for ortho.
yet she could not rid herself of a vision of the evil midshipman crouching in the adit with his four manhandlers and sand-bags waiting, waiting, and eli striding towards them through the dusk, whistling, all unconscious. she began to blubber softly, but she did not go home; she waddled on up the valley, sniffling, blundering into trees, blinking the tears back, talking to herself, telling john, in heaven, that it was all for the best. she would not go back to bosula till after dark, till it was all over.
eli strapped the blankets on more firmly, kicked the straw up round the horse’s belly, picked up the oil bottle and stood back.
“think he’ll do now,” he said.
bohenna nodded. “?’es, but ’twas a mercy i catched you in time, gived me a fair fright when i found en.”
“i’ll get ortho to speak to mother,” eli said. “?’tisn’t her fault the horse isn’t dead. here, take this bottle in with you.”
bohenna departed.
eli piled up some more straw and cleared the manger out. a shadow fell across the litter.
“might mix a small mash for him,” he said without looking round.
“mash for who?” a voice inquired. eli turned about and saw not bohenna but simeon penaluna dressed in his best.
“been to market,” simeon explained; “looked in on the way back. what have you got here?”
“horse down with colic. mother turned him loose into the stable, corn bin was open, he ate his fill and then had a good drink at the trough. i’ve had a proper job with him.”
“all right now, eddn ’a?”
“yes, i think so.”
simeon shuffled his expansive feet. “don’t see much of you up to roswarva these days.”
“no.”
more shufflings. “we do brearly miss ’e.”
“that so?”
simeon cleared his throat. “my maid asked ’e to supper some three months back . . . well, if you don’t come up soon it’ll be getting cold like.”
there was an uncomfortable pause; then eli looked up steadily. “i want you to understand, sim, that things aren’t the same with me as they were now ortho’s come home. my father died too sudden; he didn’t leave a thing to me. i’m nothing but a beggar now. ortho . . .”
the gaunt slab of hair and wrinkles that was simeon’s face split into a smile.
“here, for gracious sake, don’t speak upon ortho; he’s pretty nigh talked me deaf and dumb night after night of how he was a king in barbary and what not and so forth . . . clunk, clunk, clunk! in the lord’s name do you come up and let’s have a little sociable silence for a change.”
“do you mean it?” eli gasped.
“mean it,” said simeon, laying a hairy paw on his shoulder. “did you ever hear me or my maid say a word we didn’t mean—son?”
eli rushed across the yard and into the house to fetch his best coat.
teresa was standing in front of the fire, hands outstretched, shivering despite the blaze.
she reeled when her son went bounding past her, reeled as though she had seen a ghost.
“eli! my god, eli!” she cried. “what—how—where you been?”
“in the stable physicking your horse,” he said, climbing the stairs. “i sent ortho after that boat.”
he did not hear the crash his mother made as she fell; he was in too much of a hurry.
ortho climbed the forward ladder and came out on the upper deck. the ship was thrashing along under all plain sail, braced sharp up.
the sky was covered with torn fleeces of cloud, but blue patches gleamed through the rents, and the ship leapt forward lit by a beam of sunshine, white pinioned, a clean bone in her teeth. a rain storm had just passed over, drenching her, and every rope and spar was outlined with glittering beads; the wet deck shone like a plaque of silver. cheerily sang the wind in the shrouds, the weather leeches quivered, the reef points pattered impatient fingers, and under ortho’s feet the frigate trembled like an eager horse reaching for its bit.
“she’s snorting the water from her nostrils, all right,” he said approvingly. “step on, lady.”
so he was aboardship again. how he had come there he didn’t know. he remembered nothing after reaching zawn-a-bal cove and trying to push that boat off. his head gave an uncomfortable throb. ah, that was it! he had been knocked on the head—press gang.
well, he had lost that damned girl, he supposed. no matter, there were plenty more, and being married to one rather hampered you with the others. life on the farm would have been unutterably dull really. he was not yet thirty; a year or two more roving would do no harm. his head gave another throb and he put his hand to his brow.
a man polishing the ship’s bell noted the gesture and laughed. “feelin’ sick, me bold farmer? how d’you think you’ll like the sea?”
“farmer!” ortho snarled. “hell’s bells, i was upper yard man of the elijah impey, pick of the indies fleet!”
“was you, begod?” said the polisher, a note of respect in his voice.
“aye, that i was. say, mate, what packet is this?”
“triton, frigate, captain charles mulholland.”
“good bully?”
“the best.”
“she seems to handle pretty kind,” said ortho, glancing aloft.
“kind!” said the man, with enthusiasm. “she’ll eat out of your hand, she’ll talk to you.”
“aha! . . . know where we’re bound?”
“west indies, i’ve heard.”
“west indies!” ortho had a picture of peacock islands basking in coral seas, of odorous green jungles, fruit-laden, festooned with ropes of flowers; of gaudy painted parrots preening themselves among the tree ferns; of black girls, heroically molded, flashing their white teeth at him. . . .
west indies! he drew a deep breath. well, at all events, that was something new.
the end
