The Salamanca Corpus: Wandering Heath (1896)

*Flora-day, May 8th.

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“Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise! "

The seventh child, the babby, they set down in the middle of the floor, like a nine-pin. And the worst of it was, the poor mite twisted his eyes so, trying to follow his mammy round and round, that he grew up with a cast from that hour.

'Tis of this child—Joby he was called— that I am going to tell you. Barring the cast, he grew up a very straight lad, and in due time began to think upon marrying. His father's house faced south, and as it came easier to him to look north-west than any other direction, he chose a wife from Gwinear parish. His elder brothers had gone off to sea for their living, and his sister had married a mine-captain: so when the old people died, Joby took over the farm and worked it, and did very well.

Joby's wife was very fond of him, though of course she didn't like that cast in his looks: and in many ways 'twas inconvenient too. If the poor man ever put hand on

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Now, there was a little fellow living over to Penryn in those times, Tommy Warne by name, that gave out he knew how to conjure. Folks believed in him more than he did himself: for, to tell truth, he was a lazy shammick, who liked most ways of getting a living better than hard work. Still, he was generally made pretty welcome at the farmhouses round, for he could turn a hand to anything and always kept the maids laughing in the kitchen. One morning he dropped in on Farmer Joby and asked for a job to earn his dinner; and Joby gave him some straw to spin for thatching. By dinner-time Tom had spun two bundles of such very large size that the farmer rubbed his chin when he looked at them.

“Why," says he, "I always thought you a liar—I did indeed. But now I believe you can conjure, sure enough."

As for Mrs. Joby, she was so much pleased

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that, though she felt certain the devil must have had a hand in it, she gave Tom an extra helping of pudding for dinner.

"Tommy Warne's a clever fellow," he said at last. '' I must see if he can tell me anything." So he walked over to Penryn on purpose.

Tommy was in his doorway smoking when Farmer Joby came down the street. "So you'm after they pack-saddles," said he.

“Why, how ever did you know? "

“That's my business. Will it do if you find 'em after harvest? "

“To be sure 'twill. I only want to know where they be."

"Very well, then; after harvest they'll be found."

Home the farmer went. Sure enough, after harvest, he went to unwind Tommy's two big bundles of straw-rope for thatching the mow, and in the middle of each was one of his missing pack-saddles.

"Well, now," said Joby's wife, "that fellow must have a real gift of conjurin'!

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“I will, then," said Joby; and he walked over to Penryn again the very next market-day.

“‘Cure your eyes,' is it?" said Tommy Warne. "Why, to be sure I can. Why didn't you ax me afore? I thought you liked squintin'."

“I don't, then; I hate it."

"Very well; you shall see straight this very night if you do what I tell you. Go home and tell your wife to make your bed on the roof of the four-poster; and she must make it widdershins,* turnin' bed-tie and all against the sun, and puttin' the pillow where the feet come as a rule. That's all."

'' Fancy my never thinkin' of anything so simple as that!" said Joby. He went home and told his wife. She made his bed on the roof of the four-poster, and widder-shins, as he ordered; and they slept that night, the wife as usual, and Joby up close to the rafters.

But scarcely had Joby closed an eye be-

* From S. to N., through E.

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fore there came a rousing knock at the door, and in walked Joby's eldest brother, the sea-captain, that he hadn't seen for years.

"Thank you, Sam, it's curin' very easy and nice, and I hope you won't disturb me."

“If 'tis Tommy Warne's cure you're trying, why then I'm part of it; so you'd best get up quickly.''

"Aw, that's another matter, though you might have said so at first. I'd no notion you and Tommy was hand-'n-glove."

Joby rose up and followed his brother out of doors. He had nothing on but his nightshirt, but his brother seemed in a hurry, and he didn't like to object.

They set their faces to the road and they walked and walked, neither saying a word, till they came to Penryn. There was a fair going on in the town; swing-boats and shooting-galleries and lillybanger standings, and naphtha lamps flaming, and in the middle of all, a great whirly-go-round, with striped horses and boats, and a steam-organ playing "Yankee Doodle." As soon as they started Joby saw that the whole thing

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was going around widdershins; and his brother stood up under the naphtha-lamp and pulled out a sextant and began to take observations.

“Decimal nothing to speak of," answered Sam.

“Then we ought to be nearing the Line," said Joby. He hadn't noticed the change, but now he saw that the boat they sat in was floating on the sea, and that Sam had stuck his walking-stick out over the stern and was steering.

“What's the longitude?" asked Joby.

“That doesn't concern us."

“'Tis west o' Grinnidge, I suppose?" Joby knew very little about navigation, and wanted to make the most of it.

“West o' Penryn," said Sam, very sharp and short. "'Twasn' Grinnidge Fair we started from."

But presently he sings out "Here we are!'' and Joby saw a white line, like a popping -crease, painted across the blue sea ahead of them. First he thought 'twas paint, and then he thought 'twas catgut, for when the

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keel of their boat scraped over it, it sang like a bird.

But when Joby tried them, what was his disappointment to find the cast as bad as ever?—only now they were slewing right the other way, towards the South Pole.

“I never thought well of this cure from the first," declared Sam. "For my part, I'm sick and tired of the whole business!" And with that he bounced up from the thwart and hailed a passing shark and walked down its throat in¹ a huff, leaving Joby all alone on the wide sea.

“There's nice brotherly behaviour for you," said Joby to himself. "Lucky he left his walking-stick behind. The best thing I can do is to steer along close to the Equator, and then I know where I am.''

So he steered along close to the Line, and by and by he saw something shining in the distance. When he came nearer, 'twas a great gilt fowl stuck there with its beak to the Line and its wings sprawled out. And when he came close, 'twas no other than the cock belonging to the tower of his own parish church of Wendron!

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"Is that you, Joby Teague? Then I'll thank you to do me a good turn. I came here in a witch-ship last night, and the crew put this spell upon me because I wouldn't pay my footing to cross the Line. A nice lot, to try and steal the, gilt off a church weather-cock! 'Tis ridiculous," said he, "but I can't get loose for the life o' me! "

"Why, that's as easy as A B C," said Joby. "You'll find it in any book of parlour amusements. You take a fowl, put its beak to the floor, and draw a chalk line away from it, right and left-------"

Joby wetted his thumb, smudged out a bit of the Equator on each side of the cock's nose, and the bird stood up and shook himself.

“And now is there anything I can do for you, Joby Teague? ''

“To be sure there is. I'm getting completely tired of this boat: and if you can give me a lift, I'll take it as a favour."

“No favour at all. Where shall we go visit?—the Antipodes? ''

"No thank you," said Joby. "I've

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heard tell they get up an' do their business when we honest folks be in our beds: and that kind o' person I never could trust. Squint or no squint, Wendron's Wendron, and that's where I'm comfortable."

It seemed no more than a flap of the wings, and Joby found himself on his friend's back on one of the pinnacles of Wendron Church and looking clown on his own farm.

“Thankin' you kindly, soce, and now I think I'll be goin'," said he.

“Not till I've cured your eyesight, Joby," said the polite bird.

Joby by this time was wishing his eyesight to botheration; but before he could say a word, a breeze came about the pinnacles, and he was spinning around on the cock's back—spinning around widdershins—clutching the bird's neck and holding his breath.

"And now," the cock said, as they came to a standstill again, "I think you can see a hole in a ladder as well as any man."

Just then the bells in the tower below them began to ring merrily.

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"It looks to me," said the cock, "as if your wife was gettin' married again."

Surely enough, while the bells rang, Joby saw the door of his own house open, and his own wife come stepping, towards the church, leaning on a man's arm. And who should that man be but Tommy Warne?

"And to think I've lived fifteen years with that woman, and never lifted my hand to her!"

said the bird, "The wedding is fixed for eleven o'clock, and 'tis on the stroke now. If I was you, Joby, I'd climb down and put back the church clock.''

“And so I would, if I knew how to get to it."

“You've but to slide down my leg to the parapet: and from the parapet you can jump right on to the string-course under the clock."

Joby slid down the bird's leg, and jumped on to the ledge. He had never before noticed a clock in Wendron Church tower; but there one was, staring him in the face.

“Now," cried his friend, "catch hold of the minute - hand and turn!'' Joby did so—"Widdershins!" screamed the bird:

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“Aië, ul—ul—oo! Lemme go! 'Tis my arm you're pullin' off!" 'Twas his own wife's voice in his own four-poster. Joby had slid down the bed-post and caught hold of her arm, and was workin' it round like mad from right to left.

"I ax your pardon, my dear." I was thinkin' you was another man's bride."

“Indeed, I must say you wasn't behavin' like it," said she.

But when she got up and lit a candle, she was pleased enough: for Joby's eyes were as straight as yours or mine. And straight they have been ever since.

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A LIGHT-SHIP IDYL

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For the first week I thought the motion would drive me crazy—up and down, up and down, in that everlasting ground-swell —although I had been at the fishing all my life, and knew what it meant to lie to in a stiffish sea. But after ten days or so I got not to mind it. And then there was the open air. It was different with the poor fellows on the light-house, eighteen miles to seaward of us, to the southwest. They drew better pay than ours, by a trifle; but they were landsmen, to start with; and cooped in that narrow tower at night, with the shutters closed and the whole building rocking like a tree, it's no wonder their nerves wore out. Four or five days of it have been known to finish a man; and in those times a light-house-keeper had three months of duty straight away, and only a fortnight on shore. Now he gets only a fortnight out there, and six weeks to recover in. With all that, they're mostly fit to start at their own shadow when the boat takes them off.

But on the light-ship we fared tolerably. To begin with, we had the lantern to attend to. You'd be surprised how much employment

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On clear afternoons, too, by swarming up the mast just beneath the cage, I could see the Islands away in the east, with the sun on their cliffs; and home wasn't so far off, after all. The town itself, which lay low down on the shore, we could never spy, but glimpsed the lights of it, now and then, after sunset. These always flickered a great

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deal, because of the waves, like little hills of water, bobbing between them and us. And always we had the light-house for company. In daytime, through the glass we could watch the keepers walking about in the iron gallery round the top; and all night through there it was beckoning to us with its three white flashes every minute. No, we weren't exactly gay out there, and sometimes we made wild weather of it. Yet we did pretty well, except for the fogs, when our arms ached with keeping the gong going.

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But the treat of all was to set foot on the quay-steps, and the people crowding round and shaking your hand and chattering; and everything ashore going on just as you'd left it, and you not wishing it other, and everybody glad to see you all the same; and the smell of the gardens and the- stinking fish at the quay-corner—you might choose between them, but home was in both; and the nets drying; and to be out of oilskins and walking to meeting-house on the Sunday, and standing up there with the congregation, all singing in company, and the women taking stock of you till the newness wore off; and the tea-drinking, and Band of Hopes, and courants, and dances? We had all the luck of these; for the two Pendlurians, being up in years and easily satisfied so long as they were left quiet, were willing, to take their holidays in the dull months, beginning with February and March. And - so I had April and May, when a man can always be happy ashore; and August and September, which, is the best of the fishing and all the harvest and

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harvest games; and again, December and January, with the courants and geesy-dancing, and carols and wassail-singing. Early one December, when he came to relieve us, Old John said to me in a hap-hazard way, "It's all very well for me and Robert, my lad; for us two can take equal comfort in singin' 'Star o' Bethl'em' ashore or afloat; but I reckon 'tis somebody's place to see that Bathsheba don't miss any of the season's joy an' dancin' on our account."

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There, I've as good as told you already. When the time came and I asked her if she liked me, she said she liked no man half so well; and that being as it should be, the next thing was to put up the banns. There wasn't time that holiday; like a fool, I had been dilly-dallying too long, though I believe now I might have asked her a month before. So the wedding was held in the April following, my father going out to the Gunnel for a couple of days, so that Old John might be ashore to give his daughter away. The most I mind of the wedding was the wonder of beholding the old chap there in a long-tailed coat, having never seen him for years but in his oilskins.

Well, the rest of that year seemed pretty much like all the others, except that coming home was better than ever. But when Christmas went by, and- February came, and our turn to be out again on the Gunnel, I went with a dismal feeling I hadn't known before. For Bathsheba was drawing near

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The old man, I reckon, had a wisht time with me the next two or three weeks; but, by the mercy of God, the weather behaved furious all the while, leaving a man no time to mope. 'Twas busy all, and busy enough, to keep a clear light in the lantern, and warm souls inside our bodies. All through February it blew hard and cold from the north and northwest, and though we lay in the very mouth of the Gulf Stream, for ten days together there wasn't a halliard we could touch with the naked hand nor a cloth nor handful of cotton-waste but had to be thawed at the stove before using. Then, with the beginning of March, the wind tacked round to southwest, and stuck there, blowing big guns, and raising a swell that was something cruel. It was one of these gales that tore

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away the bell from the light-house, though hung just over a hundred feet above water-level. As for us, I wonder now how the little boat held by its two-ton anchors, even with three hundred fathom of chain cable to bear the strain and jerk of it; but with the spindrift whipping our faces, and the hail cutting them, we didn't seem to have time to think of that. Bathsheba thought of it, though, in her bed at home—as I've heard since—and lay awake more than one night thinking of it.

“Suppose that Bathsheba is dead! "

We hadn't said more than a word or two to each other for a week; indeed, till yesterday, we had to shout in each other's ear to be heard at all. My father filled a pipe and said, "Don't be a fool."

“I see your hand shaking," said I.

Said he, "That's, with the cold. At my age the cold takes a while to leave a man's extremities."

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My father answered, "She is a well-built woman. The Lord is good."

Not another word than this could I get from him. That evening — the wind now coming easy from the south, and the swell gone down in a wonderful way—as I was boiling water for the tea, we saw a dozen fishing-boats standing out from the Islands. They ran down to within two miles of us and then hove-to. The nets went out, and the sails came down, and by and by through the glass I could spy the smoke coming up from their cuddy-stoves.

' “They might have brought news,'' I cried out, "even if 'tis sorrow! "

“Maybe there was no news to bring."

“'Twould have been neighborly, then, to run down and say so.''

'' And run into the current here, I suppose? With a chance of the wind falling light at any moment.''

I don't know if this satisfied my father; but I know he meant it to satisfy me, which it was pretty far from doing. Before daylight the boats hoisted sail again, and were well under the Islands and out of sight by breakfast-time.

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After this, for a whole long week I reckon I did little more than pace the ship to and fro; a fisherman's walk, as they say—three steps and overboard. I took the three steps and wished I was overboard. My father watched me queerly all the while; but we said no word to each other, not even at meals.

“That's Old John's boat."

I took the glass from him, and was putting it to my eye; but had to set it down and turn my back. I couldn't wait there with my eye on the boat; so I crossed to the other side of the ship and stood staring at the light-house away on the sky-line, and whispered: '' Come quickly! '' But the wind had moved a couple of points to the west and then fallen very light, and the boat must creep toward us close-hauled. After a long while- my father spoke again:

“That will be Old John steerin' her. I reckoned so; he've got her jib shaking—that's it; sail her close till she strikes the tide-race,