Book Three
Christopher Coombe (1888-1912)
Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be;
I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.
I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading;
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.
E. BRONTË
1
When Christopher Coombe left Plyn on his first voyage, that August day in the year 1888, it was with a dogged determination to succeed. He would skipper the Janet Coombe as his father had done before him, and as his cousin was doing now, and if a young man had courage, coupled with brains and skill, it would not take so very many years either.
So decided Christopher, Joseph’s son, at the age of twenty-two, as the ship was towed from Plyn harbour by the puffing tug-boat, and then when well clear of the land she made sail for St John’s, Newfoundland, far away across the grim Atlantic.
It was in strange company that Christopher now found himself.There were four other seamen besides himself and the cook in the fo’c’sle, while the skipper and the mate of course berthed aft.
The crew of a small schooner were something different to the crowd on board a big clipper ship, where a man could remain unmolested if he wished, as long as he was smart enough to his work, but in the cramped quarters of a vessel in the fish or fruit trade there was no getting away from your companions, and precious little time for repose, with the constant cry of ‘All hands!’ when up it was on deck to struggle with the bellying canvas, your nails torn and your eyes blinded by rain, and a kick in the pants for your pains if you bungled the job. Soaked to the skin, with an empty stomach and aching limbs, dizzy with seasickness, poor Christopher would stumble up from the fo’c’sle with the others, to find a pitch-black night and a screaming wind, the topsail carried away, and a new one to be bent. It seemed to him that they were battling with half a gale, as the ship plunged heavily into the trough of the sea, as he lost his way in the confusion on deck, and his feet as well, rolling into the lee-scuppers with a thud that nearly cracked his head in two. But no, this was apparently no more than a rattling fine wind, and hopes were expressed that it would continue thus across the Atlantic.
Sick, giddy, the young man clung to the nearest shroud, until someone yelled in his ear to climb aloft and make shift about it.
What was he expected to do when every rope felt alike, hard, damp, and swinging? How could he fight at these tight sodden knots with his fingers numb and his nails torn? Somehow he scrambled up the narrow slippery ratlines, knowing that the faintest slip would send him into that black churning sea, and then fought his way along the yard, with some wretched idea of helping the two hands who had arrived there before him, and who shouted incomprehensible directions that failed to register in his dazed mind. If this was a fair wind, what in heaven’s name was a gale?
Poor Christopher, he was soon to know, for they were scarcely five days from the Lizard when the weather changed, and it was over twenty-five days before the ship made the port of St John’s, having beat against head winds most of the way, and been obliged to steer a more northerly course to avoid the full force of these. One of the crew told the new hand that this was a poor passage, but at least the masts and rigging were free from ice, which was a constant occurrence during the winter months.And this was only September.These wretched thirty days had done nothing to help Joseph’s son in his love for the sea. He was noticeably thinner from the poor food and the lack of regular sleep, while his skin was an agony to him from the unaccustomed exposure.
Too proud to admit his sufferings, the young man wrote a scrappy sort of letter home, giving a bare account of the voyage, and mentioning little of his reactions to it, beyond saying he was as well as could be expected, after such a gruelling passage.
The Janet Coombe did not remain long in St John’s before she was away again, with her cargo of fish, bound for the Mediterranean. The next two months were hard and bitter ones for the young seaman. After unloading at Oporto they proceeded once more across the Atlantic to Newfoundland, instead of making directly to St Michaels for fruit, as had been expected. This second journey the ship was in ballast, and though the winds were favourable enough and they only got a couple of days’ bad dusting in the Bay, yet the absence of a stiff cargo caused very much pitching and tossing, and Christopher, try as he did, could not conquer his weak stomach. He found little sympathy among the hands for’ard, and cousin Dick the skipper had more serious matters to occupy his mind than to consider the feelings of this raw youngster.
Christopher began to despair. He would stick the life a while longer for his father’s sake, and his own pride’s sake, but if things became no better there would have to be a change. A final stretch of hard weather was the finish of him. He had scarcely snatched a moment of sleep for nearly a week, and the whole time it had been orders to go aloft and repair some damage, or take in sail, or set sail, or bend new canvas in place of that which had blown away, until his mind was half crazy with the conflicting orders, and his body was dropping with exhaustion and pain.
Then two days before they reached London the vessel sprung a leak in her fore hold, nothing very serious, but enough to give work for hands at the pumps, until the ship was anchored safely in the river.This terrible back-breaking process on top of the fight against the gale in the Bay filled the young seaman’s soul with hatred and rebellion.
He could not endure it further; he would cast himself overboard and end his misery rather than set off to sea again. So decided Christopher as the Janet Coombe signalled for her pilot and a tug, and they made their way slowly up the long grey fog-bound river to the docks of London.
So this was the city of fame and fortune, this was where poor boys became Lord Mayors, and ragged urchins millionaires. Well, it was hard to see much of it in this light, with the grey mists creeping from the river and wrapping everything in its clammy hands.
There seemed to be many towers and buildings, somewhat dark and sinister in the gathering fog and twilight, and tall chimneys belching forth smoke; the sound of ships passing up and down, the sight of crowded wharves, the hooting of several big steamers who made the Janet Coombe look a smallish little pleasure-boat.
Inside the docks were the high masts and bewildering yards of the large clipper ships, side by side with the smaller fry, schooners and barquentines like his own vessel. The true city lay beyond all this, he supposed, away yonder where the dull lights flickered and the queer unmistakable throb of life sounded.
Christopher sighed, he knew not why, and turned to the work on deck. The ship luckily secured a berth alongside one of the wharves the following morning, and proceeded to unload.
All the cargo of fruit would be out of the hold in three days’ time, and then up anchor and back to Plyn in ballast, for ten days spell ashore perhaps if lucky, and once more load with clay for foreign waters. So much did Christopher gather from the talk in the fo’c’sle, and a word dropped now and again by his cousin the skipper.
It was impossible to continue as seaman on the Janet Coombe. He loved and respected his father, but his way was not his son’s, there was the truth of the matter. Now he must strike out on his own. There were other things in life besides the sea and a ship; there was nothing to prevent him making a name for himself in another sphere altogether. Uncle Philip had told him of London, and the path to fame for anyone who was ambitious. Well, Christopher Coombe was ambitious, and he would show his family and the whole of Plyn that he was not to be beaten. One day they would realize how right he had been to give u
p the sea; they would look with pride and respect to the man who returned to his home town with an established position and a high reputation.
And thus it was that the afternoon before the Janet Coombe weighed anchor, Christopher escaped from the ship, with never as much as a backward glance at his father’s vessel, nor a thought to the white figurehead.
Christopher found himself alone in London, with about five pounds in his pocket between him and starvation.
The first thing to do was to find lodgings for the night. He was determined to avoid this quarter by the docks, that smacked of sailorism and the sea, and taking an omnibus at haphazard he found himself in the centre of the West End, amongst the shops and the cabs. He was so interested in these new scenes that it was dark and past six before he realized how the time had flown.
There was nothing for it but to ask this policeman the address of some cheap, respectable lodging-house, though he felt fool enough to appear such an ignoramus. However, the copper seemed a pleasant sort of chap, and he even bothered to pull out his note-book and write down some names on a slip of paper.
‘All right, no trouble,’ replied the man, and the boy was impressed by his cheerful Cockney accent, and mentally determined to copy this in future, for it sounded something smarter and quicker than his own West Country drawl.The first address on his list was: ‘Mrs Johnson, 53 Albany Street, Marylebone Road’. He was advised to take an omnibus from Great Portland Street, which would carry him straight to his destination. It was a dark night with a hint of fog, and the omnibus took some time to reach Albany Street, the horses being obliged to walk carefully.
Christopher knocked at the door of No. 53, and presently a woman came to the door, and turned up the gas in the dingy hall.
‘What do you want?’ she asked sharply. She was a nervous, rat-like woman.
‘I was told I could find lodgin’s here,’ stammered Christopher, slightly taken aback at her manner.‘Maybe there’s some mistake.’
‘No - it’s all right. Come in, can’t you, and let’s take a look at you.’
Christopher stepped inside, while Mrs Johnson glanced at his mud-bespattered clothes.
‘Hum, been tramping by the look of you. I only takes in lodgers who are clean.’
‘The fault of a cab,’ he said timidly, ‘passed right close to me before I knew where I was. I’ll brush it off, if I may, direckly.’
‘You don’t speak like a Londoner,’ said Mrs Johnson suspiciously. ‘What part of the world d’you come from?’
‘I’m Cornish, m’am, by birth, but I’m come to London to look for work.’
‘Oh! dear, you’ve no employment. Oh! I’m sorry, then, but I never takes people who haven’t regular work.’
‘I mean to find the first thing I can i’ the mornin’. You’ll find me very quiet an’ steady, I assure you.’
‘People can’t be too careful who they take nowadays,’ she said nervously, glancing at Christopher’s torn finger nails. ‘So much crime about. A decent person can’t sleep in their bed. Where’ve you been to mess up your ‘ands like that?’
‘My ship docked four days ago,’ sighed Christopher wearily, ‘an’ now I’ve left her, an’ want to live ashore permanent. Does that satisfy you?’
So Christopher became a lodger at 53 Albany Street, rather damped and dismayed by his reception, but consoling himself with the thought that soon he would find work and be able to move to more comfortable quarters.
The following day he stepped out into Albany Street, a smile on his face and his spirits high. Who would seek work when there was so much to be seen, so far to wander, and no responsibilities?
Spellbound by all he saw young Christopher gave himself up to a fortnight of enjoyment. But in the third week of January, after he had paid his weekly bill at the lodgings, he found to his horror and surprise he had but one-and-ninepence in his pocket. For a few minutes he was aghast, and then he pulled himself together and vowed he would take the first vacant job he came across.
Thus it happened that when he passed the fishmonger’s ‘Druce’, in Albany Street, and saw chalked upon the board ‘Boy wanted’, he made his way to the desk inside the shop, and demanded in humble tones to be given a trial.
So Christopher Coombe, of Plyn in Cornwall, became a fish-monger’s assistant in a small shop in Albany Street, London, thankful to be rid of the demon of starvation, but scarcely proud of his new position.
He then wrote the following letter home, dated the twenty-fifth of January, eighteen hundred and eighty-nine.
Dear Father,
I am happy to say I have found a very good situation, and I intend to stick at this until I have a good cheque put by in the savings bank.
The line I am at present following is the fish business. I dare say you thought I was very foolish to run away from the ship, but I must tell you before I proceed that just at present I have no intention of returning home again yet awhile. It is very unpleasant to feel you may not think as much of me as you used to do, but I do trust that you have not altered in your affections. I am very distressed not to have heard from you or my brothers, and fear you may find it hard to forgive me.
London is a fine place, and I have seen many wonderful sights, but it is a sad feeling to think I may not see your dear face again for some time. I do hope you are enjoying the best of health as I am myself at present, and I sincerely trust you will soften your heart towards me. I will now draw to a close with my fond love to all, and shall still remain your affectionate son, Christopher Coombe
PS - Kindly send me a letter in return if you please, dear father, c/o Mrs Johnson, 53 Albany Street, Marylebone Road, London.
This letter was placed in a box with the seal unbroken, and found, amongst many others, nearly thirty-five years later by Jennifer Coombe, in 1925.
2
The months passed, and Christopher was still an assistant at Druce’s shop, glad to pocket his weekly wages, half of which went for board and lodging, but sadly disillusioned in the glamour of the city, which had been described so much better by Uncle Philip.
Besides this London life did not greatly improve his physical health. He was not exhausted and dog-weary as he had been on the ship, but accustomed as he was from boyhood to the pure air of Plyn, the warmth of the sun even in winters, and the fine sea breezes, he found the cold and the fogs of London infinitely disagreeable, the plodding round on wet pavements a miserable undertaking.
If only he could get a position as clerk somewhere, it would be a step in the upward direction. He could write a clear hand, and spell correctly, he had been bright enough at school in spite of his jibbing at discipline. Surely it would not be so very difficult to find a situation.
It was then that the idea of going to night-school and polishing up his learning occurred to him.
When the local evening classes resumed, Christopher took his place on the benches besides lads some years younger than himself and men old enough to be his father. Fortunately the schoolmaster, Mr Curtis, at once took a liking to Christopher, saw that the young man was a cut above the usual class who attended his school, and singled him out for some attention.
This fishmonger business was clearly so much waste of time, brains, and energy. They talked the matter over together, and the schoolmaster found Christopher had very vague ideas as to the kind of work he wanted.
Finally, after Christopher had attended night-school for six weeks, the schoolmaster suddenly thought of the Post Office.
Mr Curtis at once began to make inquiries, and a few weeks later, after the necessary applications had been made, Christopher found himself sworn in as a servant of the Government. He took up his new duties on 1 May in the big branch office in Warren Street. The schoolmaster advised him to stay here for three months on trial, and then, if he liked the work, and was keen to rise, Mr Curtis would prepare him for the necessary examination which he must pass before he could obtain a position of any authority.
It was now September 1889, and exactl
y a year since Christopher had left home. He had not heard from his father or any of his family, and though he continued to write it was in a half-hearted fashion. He resented the way he had been treated, as though he had committed some heinous crime, and was more determined than ever not to return.
In his capacity in the Warren Street Post Office, Christopher made the acquaintance of a young man of his own age, who seemed friendly, and the pair spent their free time together. During one of their conversations Christopher mentioned that he was lonely in his lodgings in Albany Street, and wished he could make the effort to move.
‘Why did you never say anything of this before?’ exclaimed his friend. ‘You are a funny fellow. I gathered that you liked your own company and would not have moved for the world. Of course you must come to the place where I’m living. It’s a highly respectable boarding-house, kept by a Mrs Parkins, a fine woman. There are three daughters in the family, she being a widow, and I must say I find no time to be lonely at No. 7. We’re a very happy crowd indeed. It’s about two minutes’ walk from your present lodgings. Look here, what about coming along to tea tomorrow, Sunday, and I’ll introduce you. Of course, Mrs Parkins is highly particular who she takes, but you being a friend of mine, don’t you know? Didn’t you tell me your father owned a ship or something?’
‘Yes, and he was a master in the Merchant Service.’
‘Oh! it’s sure to be all right. Only you know what people are: must have everything genteel and just the thing.’
‘Oh! quite, I perfectly understand.’
The following afternoon Christopher rang the bell at No. 7 Maple Street, and was admitted by a stiff maidservant. His friend, Harry Frisk, was waiting for him in the hall.
‘These Sunday afternoon teas are just a wee bit formal,’ he whispered nervously. ‘Thought I’d better warn you, in case you entered a trifle too free and easy. Never fear though, I’ll back you up. I’m a favourite with Mrs P.’