Early next morning, when still dark, the ship had cleared the rough and tumble of Land’s End, and was now well advanced in the Channel with the Lizard lights ahead, and a stiff sou’westerly breeze and a big following sea.
The movement of the ship was changed, and she frisked along now like a mad spirit, kicking her heels at the weather astern. Joseph wanted to see his boy beside him and hear his glad shout of delight. He went to the head of the companionway and yelled to his son.
‘Come up, Chris, and watch the night. Now the motion’s easy you won’t feel ill no more. Come up, lad, when I tell ye.’
The boy was shivering in his bunk. He had got over his sickness for the moment, but he did not want to leave the warm cabin for the cold cheerless weather on deck. He wanted to be home in bed or in the shop at Bristol.
However, the habit of obedience was too strong for him, and he climbed out of the berth and struggled up the companionway.The night was pitch dark.The gale was howling in the rigging, it tore at his legs and thrashed him in the face with a stinging blow, and the bitter rain blinded his eyes.
‘Father - father,’ he screamed in terror. Joseph made a dive for him and held him tight by the arm. He was smiling, and shook the spray from his streaming oilskin. His beard was wild and tangled, his face rough and hard with the clinging salt. To the boy he seemed mad and reckless, bringing them to a frightful death.
‘Look,’ shouted Joseph pointing astern,‘baint that the grandest and most wonderful sight my Chris has ever seen? Tell me you’m happy, son, tell me you’re a real proper sailor an’ proud of the ship that belongs to us both?’
The lad peered over his father’s arm, and to his horror he saw a terrible black sea like a dark falling cliff rising in the air, and making towards them.
They were going to be drowned - they were going to be drowned.
‘Take it away,’ he screamed, ‘take it away - I hate it, I hate the sea. I always have. I’m afraid - I’m afraid.’
‘Christopher!’ cried Joseph,‘what are you sayin’, son - what d’ye mean?’
‘I don’t want to be a sailor,’ sobbed Christopher. ‘I hate the sea and I hate the ship. I’ll never go again. Oh! Father - I’m afraid - I’m afraid.’The boy tore himself from his father’s grasp, and scrambled once more down the companionway, screaming at the top of his voice in rage and fear.
Joseph watched him stupidly, and held out a trembling hand to the rail. He was stunned, unable to think.
And the Janet Coombe sped on, one with the wind and the sea.
7
For the first time, in the forty-three years of his life, Joseph knew shame and humiliation.
Better to land the boy in Plyn and send him up to his mother without another word, and he himself to shake clear of the lot of them for ever, and sail away, out of the sound and hearing of them, alone with his ship and the spirit of Janet.
These were the first bitter thoughts of Joseph. Later he stole softly down to the cabin where the boy was sleeping, and he watched the tear-stains on the pale handsome little face with mingled sorrow and compassion, swearing by the love he bore for his ship to forget his son’s words and to love him as before. Then suddenly the lad opened his eyes, and a flush of shame came over young Christopher for the look he noticed on his father’s face, which meant he was sorrowful and distressed. For a moment he longed to jump from the berth, and fling his arms around his father’s neck and ask him to help him to conquer his distrust of the sea, but he thought his father would push him away with a frown, and bid him not be a child.
And Joseph looked down on Christopher, and stifled the nigh overmastering impulse to kneel beside the boy and ask him to place all faith and trust into his keeping, but it came to him that the boy might feel shy and embarrassed to see his father act in such a way.
Thus a minute passed, waiting for the chance to unite father and son in a bond which would be close and unbreakable, but the minute passed in vain, never to return, and from henceforward Joseph and Christopher Coombe walked apart with a wall between them, a wall which could not be surmounted because of the pride of Joseph and the weakness of his son.
So the ship anchored in Plyn with the words of union unspoken.
Four years passed, with Joseph Coombe passing a few months here and there on shore, before he set sail again.
The harbour resounded with the hammers of shipwright and builder, and the noise of the clay-loading at the jetties. Samuel and Herbert Coombe were never still down at the yard, and they were joined now by their own grown-up sons: Thomas, Samuel’s eldest boy, and James, the first of Herbert’s youngsters to grow up, in a family of twelve, with five more yet to come.
Samuel’s second son, Dick, a strong hefty young man, was now second mate under his uncle Joseph, and proving himself a fine sailor. Joseph was fond of his nephew, but he longed for his own boy Christopher to be in his place.
In September of 1882 Joseph Coombe dropped anchor in Plyn harbour, after discharging his cargo at London. He was content with the thought of a few weeks at home before going away again. As he watched his men making all snug, below and aloft, he glanced over the bulwark and saw Christopher and brother Herbert Coombe pulling out towards him in a boat. This had never happened before, and he knew at once that something was amiss. Thank God, Christopher was safe, that was his first thought. He remarked the boy’s pale, unhappy face, and Herbert’s grave expression.
In a few moments they were both on the deck beside him.
‘Prepare yourself, dear Joe, for bitter and melancholy news,’ said Herbert, his eyes filling with tears. ‘And grieved indeed am I that it has fallen on me to break it to you.’
‘Out with it quick!’ said Joseph gruffly.
‘Your dear wife, Susan, has left us yesterday,’ said Herbert gently. Christopher at once burst into tears, and walked away. ‘She was took bad just after tea, and though the boys ran at once for the doctor, and came to me and Samuel, she passed away by six o’clock. Oh! brother, this is a wretched homecoming for you.’
Joseph wrung his hand without a word, and going over to Christopher, he kissed the boy’s head. Then he climbed into the boat, and the others followed him.
As he gazed down upon his wife’s face, now white and silent for evermore, Joseph was possessed with a great pity that she should be gone from her children, but for himself he felt no emotion.
He had never really loved her; he had used her as a way of escape from his own loneliness. And now she had fled beyond him, seeking her own salvation, and not at his side. Poor Susan, she had given him seventeen years of affection and care, and now it was over. She had given him Christopher. . . . He turned away, and as he went down the stairs he wondered what would come to the home and the children without her.The boys would soon be able to fend for themselves, but Kate was merely a child.
The problem was happily solved by his two nieces, Mary and Martha, now tall and strapping young women of twenty-six, suggesting that they should come and keep house for him. Thus, the matter was lifted from his mind.
Another surprise was in store for Joseph on his return, besides the sad hearing of his wife’s death. He went down to the broker’s firm on the afternoon of his arrival home, and found brother Philip seated at the desk in the office which had always belonged to the senior partner.
‘Why, Philip,’ exclaimed Joseph, ‘what in the name of thunder are you doing here?’
‘Merely sitting at my own desk in my own room,’ replied Philip. ‘I’m sorry to hear of your wife’s death; I’m sure she will be a very great loss to you. However, Time the great healer will perhaps - hum . . .’ he pretended to sort his papers.
‘Listen, Philip, I don’t seem somehow to get the hang o’ this,’ said Joseph frowning, ‘what’s come to Mr Hogg?’
‘The old man died a month ago, and I have bought up the partnership.’ Philip leant back in his chair and watched his brother’s astonished expression with cool enjoyment. ‘You see, Joe, while you and my brothers ha
ve spent your time marrying and raisin’ large families, I have quietly put by with no one but myself to keep, and here I am, aged forty-two, a partner in this business and a moderately rich man, and my own master in the bargain. Samuel and Herbert are already middle-aged men, and you, I suppose, make some sort of existence on the family vessel?’
‘No need to sneer, Philip,’ said Joseph quietly.‘I’ve no reason to be ashamed of my calling, which is the finest in the world, and a man’s job, what’s more. You can be the gentleman of the family for all I care, and welcome to it if it brings you any satisfaction.’
‘Thank you,’ said Philip, with a superior smile. ‘Incidentally, I suppose you are aware that the remainder of the family have sold their shares of the ship? You and I are joint holders now.’
‘But that’s goin’ agen the original agreement,’ cried Joseph, smashing his fist on the desk. ‘We was all to share equal, an’ everyone to have a benefit.’
‘Perhaps so, but the others being, I imagine, in the need of ready money, competition is fierce, you know, in Plyn, were only too willing to hand over their rights to me. Any objection?’
Joseph had no reply to this. The procedure was entirely legal, but he mistrusted Philip.
‘No,’ he said, shortly.
‘By the way, how’s that eldest son of yours shaping?’ inquired Philip carelessly. ‘He’s old enough to go to sea, I suppose?’
Joseph rose from his chair and seized his hat. He longed to hit his brother in the face, with his sneering attitude, and his hints against Christopher. ‘My boy will be ready when I want him an’ not afore,’ he said and made for the door.
‘Well, Joe,’ called Philip as a parting shot, ‘I gather you are a happy man with this big growing family of yours. However, I’m glad I’ve been single and free during the best years of my life. No ties or anything. Now I have an established position though, I may look around me and choose some beautiful young thing to share my home. I’m still a comparatively young man, you see. Good day to you.’
Joseph laughed as he left the building. So that was why Philip had lived so much in retirement all these years. He would control much of the shipping in future, he supposed, if he was buying up shares in this manner.Well, he could hang himself for all Joseph cared.
The next few weeks in Plyn Joseph spent much of his time up at Nicholas Stevens’ farm, where his sister Lizzie was always pleased to welcome him and give him a meal. He liked the happy, friendly atmosphere of this place, and the obvious mutual devotion of Lizzie and her kind husband. They were three in the family, two girls and a boy. Joseph found himself much attracted to this lad, Fred, who though only twelve or so was a keen, intelligent youngster, with ready answers and a lift to his chin which reminded him of Janet.
Thomas Coombe was now seventy-seven, a frail tremulous old man, who could just manage to creep down the road to the yard now and again, to see how things were going.
He would sit on a bench and puff at his pipe, making some remark from time to time which nobody would notice, and follow with his eyes his namesake and grandson, Thomas, Samuel’s eldest son, in whom he liked to see himself all over again. And then Mary would appear to fetch him home, a stout middle-aged woman whose expression and character had changed very little in all these years; she had still the same affectionate self-effacing character. Joseph’s heart always beat faster when he approached the path to Ivy House. At times he was a boy again, playing in the front garden with his eye on the kitchen window, from which Janet would peep, waving to him, taking her mind off her work; and at other moments he was a young man, returning from the sea, knowing that she was there waiting for him. He could never look at the room above the porch without remembering his first homecoming from the Francis Hope, when she appeared with her girl’s plaits at the window, and he had climbed up to her, hand over hand, by the thick-branched ivy. Nearly thirty years ago.
One afternoon Mary met him at the door with a worried expression on her face.
‘Father’s poorly,’ she told him. ‘He’s up in bed and seems so weak. I don’t know whether ’tis tiredness only or if I should call the doctor. Come up and see what you think.’
He found his father propped up by pillows, his face white and sunken, his eyes gazing vacantly to the open window, and his thin hands plucking nervously at the sheet.The veins stood out on his temples, and his lips were blue.‘Is that you, Sammie?’ he murmured.
Joseph knew at once that his father was dying.
‘Fetch the doctor,’ he said in a low tone to Mary, and she went at once, frightened and distressed.
‘It’s Joe, father,’ he said gently, and going towards the bed he took his father’s hand. ‘Be there anythin’ I can do for ye?’
‘Back from the sea, boy, eh?’ Thomas Coombe peered up at his son. ‘I can’t see ye without my spectacles, but I’m sure you’m well and hearty, an’ glad to be home. Give my compliments to Captain Collins, that worthy man.’
‘That’s right, father. Why not try an’ get a little sleep, dear?’
Thomas moved his head fretfully about the pillow. ‘I ought to be down at the yard,’ he said. ‘They’ll be launchin’ that new boat tomorrow forenoon, and I’m blessed if those boys will do it proper. The Squire will be vexed if anythin’ goes wrong, an’ your brothers haven’t the experience that’s mine.’
Squire Trelawney had been dead twenty years, and his nephew lived up at the House now.
Joseph felt the tears coming into his eyes.They rolled down his cheek and into his beard.
The afternoon quietly faded, and the sky was streaked with crimson and golden patterns. They shone upon the surface of the harbour water. From the yard came the steady clanging of hammers, as planks were nailed into the ribs of some new ship. Presently Mary returned. The old doctor was dead, and this new one was a younger man, and a stranger to Plyn. He held Thomas’s wrist and felt his pulse.
‘I can’t do anything for him,’ he said gently. ‘I’m afraid his time has come. There’s very little life left, you see, and I think he will be gone in a few hours. There will be no pain. Would he care to see the parson?’
Mary threw her apron over her head and began to cry softly to herself. Joseph saw she would be the better for something to do.
‘Go down to the yard and tell Sam and Herbie to come at once, and Philip too if you can find him at the office.’
Then when she was gone he took his place once more at Thomas’s bedside. The old man muttered sentences from time to time, but it was impossible to catch what he said. The orange light dwindled in the sky. Long shadows crept across the floor. Suddenly the sound of hammers ceased down at the yard. Joseph knew that his brothers had been told.
With the silence Thomas spoke in a clear, firm voice.
‘They’ve stopped work for the night,’ he said, ‘the boys will be comin’ home to supper.’
‘Yes, father.’
‘I reckon as all will be quiet now, till mornin’ agen, won’t it Joe?’
‘Aye, that’s so, dear.’
For a few minutes there was silence, and then Thomas spoke again.
‘I don’t fancy as I’ll read the Bible, not just at present. Seems as though my eyes is come over terrible dim, and I’ll fancy restin’ awhile. Maybe Mary’ll read it later on, when I feels refreshed.’
‘Just as you like, father.’
The house was very still. Down in the parlour below the old clock was ticking on the wall. Joseph could hear the sound through the thin boards of the floor.
Quietly the other brothers made their way into the room, followed by Mary. Philip had been impossible to find, and it was too far to run and fetch Lizzie.The tears were flowing fast down Herbert’s cheeks, but Samuel knelt beside the bed and whispered in a low tone:‘Be there somethin’ you require, father?’
Thomas felt for his head in the gathering dusk.
‘That you, Sammie? I’m glad you’m come. You’ll have a tidy wrist for the saw if you practise hard, sonnie, but you m
ust always heed my advice in all things, so see.’
His voice wavered uncertainly, he tried to raise himself on the pillow. ‘How the evenin’s do draw in for sartin, we’ll be havin’ the light for supper now regular. I can mind the time when ’twas sweet to feel the fall o’ dusk on Plyn, and me, as a young chap in a tidy way, callin’ your mother up to Castle ruin . . .’
He leaned back exhausted, and closed his eyes. The breathing came slow and harsh now, difficult to control. The three men waited beside their father, with Mary at the window. For a long time he did not speak, and the room was quite dark. No one thought of lighting a candle.
Then he spoke once more, his voice sounding immeasurably tired, and coming from far away.
‘Janie,’ he said, ‘Janie, where are you to?’
Joseph bent low over the bed and watched his father’s eyes. They opened wide and looked into his.
‘You’ll not be forsakin’ me, lass, I’m thinkin’.We’ll bide a tidy while together, you an’ I. D’you know that it’s terrible strong the love I have for you, Janie, leavin’ me all of a tremble at times like a flummoxed lad.’ He held out his two hands and covered Joseph’s eyes, and then sighed gently and so fell asleep.
Thomas Coombe was buried beside his wife Janet in Lanoc Churchyard, next to the thorn hedge and the old elm tree.Their tombstone stands today, high above the waving grass, with long stems of ivy clustered about their names. Beneath the inscription are these words in faded lettering:
‘Sweet Rest at Last.’
In early spring the first primroses nestle here, and the scattered blossom falls from a forsaken orchard beside the lane.
8
Albert Coombe had gone to sea beside his father the Skipper, and his cousin Dick. Charles was at a training camp for soldiers away in the Midlands somewhere. Only Christopher remained at home, pleading his health as an excuse for not going to sea. He was working down at the yard with his uncles and his three cousins, and imagined that he was wasting his time. Christopher could not banish the demon of restlessness that was ever at large within him. He loathed and detested the thought of being a sailor, his only experience these eight years ago had never been forgotten. He read the disappointment in his father’s eyes. Every time Joseph returned the son was aware of the unspoken question that never passed his lips. ‘Will you come with me this time?’ Then ashamed, miserable, half-rebellious at heart, Christopher would show his father that even if he was a poor sailor, he would make a splendid workman. Secretly he disliked the business, he dreamt of leaving Plyn and seeking his fortune farther afield, but had no idea how this could come about.