Part 36 (1/2)
”Iss, or her might a got in the water, poor lamb,” said Thomasin, who never left the dark side of a position unconsidered. Mary's face showed that the same idea had struck her.
”G.o.d grant 'tedn' nothin' like that, though maybe 'twould be better than t'other. Us caan't say she've run away, but I thot I'd tell 'e how things is so's you could spread it abroad that she'm lost. Maybe us'll hear somethin' 'fore the day's much aulder. I be gwaine to Penzance now an' I'll let 'e knaw if theer's anything to tell. Good-by, an' I be right glad all's well wi' your husband, though I don't hold wi' his 'pinions.”
But Mrs. Tregenza did not answer. Her eyes were fixed on the lugger which had now got to its anchorage and looked strange and unnatural shorn of its lesser mast. She saw the moorings dragged up; and a few minutes later the boat, which had rolled and tumbled at them all night, was baled. Thereupon men took their seats in her and began to row toward the harbor. It seemed that Gray Michael was steering, and his crew clearly pulled very weak and short, for their strength was spent.
Then, as they came between the arms of the harbor, as they s.h.i.+pped oars and glided to the steps, Tregenza's hybrid yellow dog, who accompanied the fisherman in all his goings, jumped ash.o.r.e barking and galloped up the slippery steps with joy; while, at the same moment, a woman's sharp cry cut the air like a knife and two wild eyes looked down into the boat.
”Wheer'm the bwoy, Michael? Oh, my good G.o.d, wheer'm Tom?”
Everybody strained silently to hear the answer, but though the fisherman looked up, he made no reply. The boat steadied and one after another the men in her went ash.o.r.e, Tregenza mounting the steps last. His wife broke the silence. Only a murmur of thankfulness had greeted the other men, for their faces showed a tragedy. They regarded their leader fearfully, and there was something more than death in their eyes.
”Wheer'm the bwoy--Tom? For the love of G.o.d, speak, caan't 'e? Why be you all dumb an' glazin' that awful!” cried the woman, knowing the truth before she heard it. Then she listened to the elder Pritchard, who whispered his wife, and so fell into a great convulsion of raving, dry-eyed sorrow.
”Oh, my bwoy! Drownded--my awn lil precious Tom! G.o.d a mercy! Dead! Then let me die tu!”
She gave vent to extravagant and savage grief after the manner of her kind.
She would have torn her hair and thrown herself off the quay but for kindly hands which restrained.
”G.o.d rot you, an' blast you, an' burn you up!” she screamed, shaking her fists at the sea. ”I knawed this would be the end. I dreamed it 'fore 'e was born. Doan't 'e hold me back, you poor fools. Let me gaw an' bury myself in the same graave along wi' en. My Tom, my Tom! I awnly had but wan--awnly wan, an' now--”
She wailed and wrung her hands, while rough voices filled her ears with such comfort as words could bring to her.
”Rest easy, bide at peace, dear sawl.” ”'Tis the Lard's doin', mother; an'
the lil bwoy's better off now.” ”Take it calm, my poor good creature.” ”Try an' bring tears to your eyes, theer's a dear wummon.”
Tears finally came to her relief, and she wept and moaned while friends supported her, looking with wonder upon Michael, her husband. He stood aloof with the men about him. But never a word he spoke to his wife or any other. His eyes dilated and had lost their steady forward glance, though a mad misery lighted them with flashes that came and went; his face was a very burrow of time, seared and trenched with pits and wrinkles. His hat was gone, his hair blew wild, the strong set of his mouth had vanished; his head, usually held so high, hung forward on a shrunken neck.
The brothers Pritchard told their story as a party conducted Thomasin back to her home. For the moment Gray Michael stood irresolute and alone, save for his dog, which ran round him.
”Us was tackin' when it fust began to blaw, an' all bustlin' 'bout in the dark, when the mainsail went lerrickin' 'cross an' knocked the poor dam bwoy owerboard into as ugly a rage o' water as ever I seed. Tom had his sea-boots on, an' every sawl 'pon the bwoat knawed 'twas all up as soon as we lost en. We shawed a light an' tumbled 'bout for quarter o' an hour wi'
the weather gettin' wicked. Then comed a scat as mighty near thrawed us 'pon our beam-ends, an' took the mizzen 'long wi' it. 'Tis terrible bad luck, sure 'nough, for never a tidier bwoy went fees.h.i.+n'; but theer's worse to tell 'e. Look at that gert, good man, Tregenza. Oh, my G.o.d, my blood do creem when I think on't!”
The man stopped and his brother took up the story.
”'Twas arterwards, when us had weathered the worst an' was tryin' to fetch home, Michael failed forward on's faace arter the bwoy was drownded; an' us had to do all for the bwoat wi'out en. But he comed to bimebye an' didn't take on much, awnly kept so dumb as a adder. Not a word did er say till marnin' light; then a 'orrible thing fell 'pon en. You knaw that yaller dog as sails wi' us most times? He turned 'pon en sudden an' sez: 'Praise G.o.d, praise the Lard o' Hosts, my sons, here's Tom, here's my lad as us thot weer drownded!' Then he kissed that beast, an' it licked his faace, an' he cried--that iron sawl cried like a wummon! Then he thundered out as the crew was to give G.o.d the praise, an' said the man as weern't on's knees in a twinklin' should be thrawed out the bwoat to Jonah's whale. G.o.d's truth!
I never seed nothin' so awful as skipper's eyes 'pon airth! Then er calmed down, an' the back of en grawed humpetty an' his head failed a bit forrard an' he sat strokin' of the dog. Arter that, when us seed Newlyn, it 'peared to bring en to his senses a bit, an' he knawed Tom was drownded. He rambled in his speech a while; then went mute again, wi' a new look in his eyes as though he'd grawed so auld as history in a single night. Theer he do stand bedoled wi' all manner o' airthly sufferin', poor creature. Him wi' all his righteousness behind en tu! But the thinkin' paarts of en be drownded wheer his bwoy was, an' I lay theer ban't no druggister, nor doctor neither, as'll bring 'em back to en.”
”Look at that now!” exclaimed another man. ”See who's a talkin' to Tregenza! If that ban't terrible coorious! 'Tis Billy Jago, the softy!”
Billy was indeed addressing Gray Michael and getting an answer to his remarks. The laborer's brains might be addled, but they still contained sane patches. He had heard of the fisherman's loss and now touched his hat and expressed regret.
”Ay, the young be s.n.a.t.c.hed, same as a build-in' craw will pick sprigs o'
green wood for her nest an' leave the dead twig to rot. Here I be, rotten an' coffin-ripe any time this two year, yet I'm pa.s.sed awver for that braave young youth. An' how is it wi' you, Mr. Tregenza? I s'pose the Lard do look to His awn in such a pa.s.s?”
Gray Michael regarded the speaker a moment and then made answer.
”I be that sleepy, my son, an' hungry wi' it. Iss fay, I could eat a b.l.o.o.d.y raw dog-fish an' think it no sin. See to this, but doan't say nothin' 'bout it. The bwoat went down wi' all hands, but us flinged a bottle to Bucca for en to wash ash.o.r.e wi' the news. But it never comed, for why? 'Cause that d.a.m.nation devil bringed the bottle 'gainst granite rocks, an' the message was washed away for mermaids to read an' laugh at; an' the gra.s.s-green splinters o' gla.s.s as held the last cry o' drownin' men--why, lil childern plays wi' 'em now 'pon the sand. 'Sing to the Lard, ye that gaw down to the sea.' An' I'll sing--trust me for that, but I must eat fust. I speaks to you, Billy, 'cause you be wan o' G.o.d's chosen fools.”
He stopped abruptly, pressed his hand over his forehead, said something about breaking the news to his wife, and then walked slowly down the quay.