The Loving Spirit (37 page)

The meal passed in silence. Little Jennifer was aware of the atmosphere; when she began a sentence in a loud voice about something she had seen during the day her mother bade her sharply to be quiet, and her brother frowned. She started and turned crimson, unused to a scolding for no reason, and lowered her head over her plate. She felt her lip tremble and her heart swell, the corners of her mouth turned down for all her efforts to prevent them. The tears welled up into her eyes. She tried to force her milk pudding down her tightened throat, but it would not go. She did not understand why they were cross with her. She choked suddenly and the spoon dropped on her plate. When Christopher saw her tears something seemed to move inside his heart; he rose from the table and left the room. He drew on his oilskins and his boots and let himself out into the blinding storm. Jennifer had cried. Everything else had failed to rouse him, the broken expressions on the faces of his cousins, his wife’s sympathy, his son’s helpful words, they all had failed to stir him from his lethargy of despair. But the tears in Jennifer’s eyes - these had brought him to his senses once again: more than this, they had brought him to a cold, unwavering decision that was leading him from the house, down the hill, through the streets, up the road to his uncle’s house.

Philip Coombe must die, and Christopher would kill him with his own hands. No turning back now, no softening of his heart. Through the streets of Plyn went Christopher, while the wild winds shook the buildings, and the lashing broke against the quays. There stood the bleak house at the end of the terrace, there was the light in the upper window.

Christopher cared not that he would swing for his deed. Tomorrow he would give himself up willingly to the hands of the law.

Uncle Philip must die. Christopher climbed the steps of the silent house, he clutched at the iron railing, and beat with his fist against the door. The wind shouted in his ear and the rain blinded him. Murder was in his heart, murder gleamed in his stricken eyes, love and compassion were dead intangible things, no longer possessed, no longer part of him. By killing Uncle Philip he would destroy himself. He knew this, he believed this, but he did not care.

‘There’s no salvation,’ he thought, ‘we’re doomed both of us, Philip Coombe and I, but I’ll suffer in eternity to have him suffer now. There’s nothing can save him.’

For a moment he paused, preparing for one tremendous blow that should summon his uncle from the room above. As he waited a sudden startling crash sounded in his ears, followed by another and then another. Three reports flung into this night of hell and chaos. Three rockets rose into the air, borne by the sobbing wind—

It was the Lifeboat Call.

 

 

In less than five minutes the crew was assembled on the quay, some half-clad, buttoning their oilskins, some fumbling with the strings of their sou’westers. Last of all came Christopher Coombe, staggering, breathless from his mad run down the hill. He took his place in line with the others, he jumped with them into the waiting boat, and pulled towards the lifeboat moored some fifty yards away. It was not long before the coverings were ripped aside, the moorings cast, and the men at their places on the thwarts.

Beyond the point a ship was speeding to destruction, there were live men on board who must be saved. This was the one thought in the mind of each member of the lifeboat’s crew, the only thought. Christopher bent to his oar, the sweat pouring into his eyes, his arms nearly wrenched from their sockets. Gone was the lust for murder. He was filled with exultation. He had been born for this moment that was lifting him from desolation to the heights of splendour. Over the sweeping seas at the harbour mouth, beyond the bar, beyond the rocks, away to the helpless ship that should not call in vain.

He had no fear of the breaking sea. The knowledge of this was a triumph to him, something overwhelming and strange, he knew that in all his life he had never experienced the feeling of courage and strength that he now possessed. The forty-six years he had lived counted as nothing compared to this moment. The lifeboat call had come to him as a summons, a demand into the depths of his being, bidding him rise and enter the light, enter into promise and fulfilment. It seemed to him that the courage of his father Joseph had become part of him, that in some great and incomprehensible way they were together now, and fighting hand in hand. Someone had called to him out of the blackness of the night, someone had cried that his time was come.

All was forgotten save this finding of himself and his father Joseph. The dim shape of the stricken ship loomed out of the darkness, he heard the shouts and the cries of men, he heard the grim shaking of the torn rigging above the thunder of the breakers.

Then out of the mist she swept, desolate, forlorn, like a great and mournful gull with its wings broken, heading for the rocks. Christopher raised his eyes and saw the shuddering, trembling vessel, he looked at the bows and beheld the white figurehead, her hands at her breast, her proud face turned towards the surf upon the shore. Straight into his eyes she looked. As the ship plunged in the trough of the sea he read the white letters on the starboard bow -
Janet Coombe
.

The lifeboat drew alongside, borne on the swell of a big sea. The skipper stood upon the deck; he placed his hands to his mouth and shouted; ‘We can save the ship yet,’ he roared above the fury of wind and sea. ‘We can save her if the tugs come quick an’ get her in tow.’

‘No - no,’ cried the men from the lifeboat, ‘jump now, all of you, jump for your lives. The ship must go.’

The schooner’s crew tumbled like scared sheep into the waiting boat, but the skipper shook his head.Then Christopher rose from his place and clung to the rope’s end that his cousin had flung. ‘There’s time yet!’ he yelled. ‘Look there!’

He pointed to the harbour entrance, where slowly round the point, plunging and rearing into the gigantic seas, came the lights of the two tugs.

‘They’ll do it, I tell you, they’ll do it,’ shouted Christopher, ‘get on board, some of you, to lend a hand in making fast the hawser when they come.’ The poor, frightened crew cowered in the boat, too exhausted and wet to move, while the men in the lifeboat hesitated, glancing from the tugs to the foaming rocks. They would never be in time.

‘Stay in your place, Coombe,’ ordered the coxswain of the boat. ‘It’s your life you’ll be riskin’ if you climb aboard that vessel. There’s none can save her now.’

Another big sea lifted the ship towards the waiting rocks.

Christopher smiled, and catching hold of the rope’s end he swung himself aboard the schooner, and stood by the side of his cousin Dick, the skipper.

The lifeboat hung away from the helpless ship, and the men lay on their oars, ready to stand by when she struck. The
Janet Coombe
was deserted save for the two cousins, who waited, silent and motionless, as the tugs drew nearer and the ship swept on to destruction. Christopher knew that they were not alone, he knew that Joseph was beside him giving him his courage, he knew that Janet was with him bidding him be calm. He had never known danger and now it was before him. The great cliffs stared up towards him, the smouldering surf rang in his ears like a wild sweet song.That moving thing in the mist was the tug, that flying, tearing rope was the flung hawser. Blindly, instinctively, Christopher and Dick worked in the darkness, yelling at one another, stumbling on the sea-swept deck.

There was a shudder and a crash as the ship struck the first ledge of rock - but the hawser held. A gigantic sea swept the face of the vessel - but the hawser held. Inch by inch over the tumbled breaking sea plunged the little tugs, with the
Janet Coombe
in tow, a jagged hole in her bottom, the hold fast filling with the churning water. Another sea swept Christopher from his feet and hurled him, face downward, upon a broken spar. Dick clung to the wheel, spent and exhausted. ‘Give us a hand here, Chris,’ he called. ‘Just a hand, lad, for the worst is over now.’

But his cousin never moved.

 

 

When Christopher opened his eyes he saw the black skies above his head, and he felt the soft rain fall upon his face.

He was lying on the old cobble stones of the quay, and it seemed to him that the eyes of many folk were upon him, and that they were talking amongst themselves. He tried to move, and as he did so the blood rose in his throat and choked him. Then he remembered that he had been fighting, he remembered one wild stupendous moment on the
Janet Coombe
, when the hawser held.

Someone wiped away the blood from his mouth.

‘Did we save her?’ he asked.

A voice spoke in his ear. ‘Aye, you saved her, but she’ll never sail again. There’s a hole in her bottom, an’ the keel clean ripped away. It’s the mud now for the
Janet Coombe
, though you kept her from the rocks.’

‘I’m glad for that,’ he said, ‘I’m glad she’s safe.’

Now their voices sounded faint in his ears, and he could no longer see their faces. The sky was speckled with queer dancing lights. He felt very weary, very tired. People lifted his head and held him in their arms. They were all slipping away from him though, he thrust out his hands towards them and they were gone.

‘Tell Father I wasn’t afraid,’ said Christopher. ‘Tell Father I’ll never fear the sea no more, for I’ve conquered it at last.’

Book Four

Jennifer Coombe (1912-1930)

 

 

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world’s tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.

E. BRONTË

 

... And there are bosoms bound to mine
With links both tried and strong;
And there are eyes whose lightening shine
Has warmed and blest me long:
Those eyes shall make my only day,
Shall set my spirit free,
And chase the foolish thoughts away
That mourn your memory.

E. BRONTË

1

 

 

J
ennifer Coombe was six when her father Christopher died. The horror and fear that this cast upon her was to become part of her childhood, and even when she grew up, with him already many years in his grave, the memory of the death haunted and tormented her, causing by its presence a strange, unaccountable dread of the future. She would always remember, somewhere in the dark desolate places of her mind, the night that he had gone from her, never to return.

It was like the coming of a great darkness upon the glory of her little day. Hitherto life had been a succession of months, a following of winter upon summer; moments when she could play in the garden for hours on end, and moments when she must stay in the house with her toys because of the wet skies and blustering winds. Living was a matter of routine to her. She awoke in the mornings with a song on her lips and a happy expectation in her heart, reaching for her teddy bear, and glancing across to the big bed where her father and mother lay. Only a tuft of Daddy’s fair hair was visible, he slept on his front with his face buried in his hands.

When Mother had washed and finished dressing, she went downstairs, and then Jennifer’s moment had come. She scrambled out of her cot, and climbed on to the big double bed. She tripped over Daddy’s foot beneath the blanket, and he stirred restlessly in his sleep.Then she struggled with the sheet and curled in beside him, contented with the strange warmth of his body and the comfort it gave to her.

He opened one eye and seeing her there he smiled, and held her close.

‘Hullo, Jenny!’ he said.

At breakfast she sat beside him, and it was he who poured the extra helping of cream on to her porridge, making the whole an island surrounded by a white lake. Then he was off, and away to his work at the yard, with Jennifer running to the end of the garden path with him, her short legs striving to keep in time with his long stride. She swung backwards and forwards on the creaking gate, watching his back as he disappeared down the hill, waiting for his turn as he reached the corner and waved his last farewell.

In summer-time he took her on to the cliffs by the Castle, and peering over his shoulder she saw the sea stretching away for ever like part of the sky, the sea whose murmur woke her in the mornings and whose whisper was the last thing she remembered before sleeping.

During the day the sound of it rang in her ears, summer and winter, always the sigh of the waves as they broke against the Castle rocks. When the rain came, and the mists, and the hollow echoing wind and sea shouted fierce and insistent, laughing at the wet gulls, Jennifer was never afraid. She could not imagine a world without the sea, it was something of her own that belonged to her, that could never be changed, that came into her dreams at nights and disturbed her not, bringing only security and peace. The sea was part of her life that could never be taken away from her, any more than her father could be taken from her.

When she lay in the narrow truckle bed at nights, her last biscuit eaten, and the last candle blown, she listened one moment to the hum and murmur of her father’s voice in the room beneath. Soon, aware of the thin ceiling boards, he raised his voice and called up to her, ‘Are you asleep, Jenny?’ This was her last signal that all was well. She turned on her side, sighing for no reason, and fell asleep knowing that he would never forsake her, knowing that in the morning she would wake to see his fair tousled head buried in the pillow of the big bed beside her mother.

At last the day came when Daddy went to Sudmin. He started early in a motor-car with the uncles, and the novelty of this was exciting to her, but he forgot to wave his hand.

It was dark before he returned, and as she ran into the hall to kiss him he put her away from him gently, and went into the parlour. No one spoke at supper. When Jennifer could bear it no longer, and her mother scolded her, she burst into tears, and above her mug of milk she saw her Daddy’s face, white and fearful.