Story 9—Chapter 1.
Paul Petherwick the Pilot—a Tale of the Cornish Coast.
The Sea-Gull Pilot-boat, hailing from Penzance, and owned and commanded by old Paul Petherwick, lay hove-to, one winter’s day many years back, in the chops of the Channel. The dark-green seas rose up like walls capped with snow on either side of the little craft; now she floated on the foaming, hissing summit of one of them, again to sink down into the deep watery trench from which she had risen. Thus, as rising and falling, her white staysail glancing brightly, she looked not unlike the sea-bird whose name she bore.
Old Paul was the only person on deck, and he had lashed himself to the bulwarks. His white hair, escaping from under his “sou’-wester,” streamed in the wind, and ever and anon he turned his head aside to avoid the showers of spray which flew over him, covering his flushing coat with wet. Again he would look out in search of any homeward-bound vessel which might need his services. His heart was heavy, for the previous night a fearful sea had struck the cutter, and washed his mate, Peter Buddock, and another man overboard. The latter had seized a rope, but it had slipped from his grasp; and poor Buddock was carried far away, his shriek of despair as he sank beneath the waves being his last utterance which reached the ears of his shipmates.
Another of Paul’s crew, an old hand, had been injured by a blow from a block, and the rest were young men, willing and active enough, but not able to take entire charge of the cutter. Still, old Paul was a determined man, and as long as there was a chance of meeting a vessel to pilot up Channel, and as long as the cutter could keep the sea, he would not give in.
Hour after hour passed by. Suddenly the crew, sitting round the stove in the little after-cabin, heard a loud report, followed by a deep groan. The trysail gaff had parted, and, falling, had struck the old pilot to the deck. They carried him below, and placed him in his berth. Not a moment was to be lost if their own lives were to be saved. The helm was put up, and the little craft, paying off under her head-sail, before the rough sea, which came roaring onwards, had reached her, was running up Channel towards the Cornish coast. Old Paul continued to groan, seeming unconscious, and evidently suffering great pain. One or other of his young crew every now and then went below to ask him the right course to steer, for not even the outline of the coast could be seen. It was getting very dark, and thick flakes of snow were beginning to fall. The old pilot probably did not comprehend them; not a word could he utter. They endeavoured, therefore, to rig a spar on which to set the trysail; but no sooner did they hoist it than it was carried away, and at length they gave up the attempt in despair. They could not, therefore, heave the cutter to, and were obliged to run on. One of them went below, and endeavoured by every means he could think of to bring the old man to consciousness. The darkness increased as the night advanced, and the snow came down thicker and thicker. On flew the cutter.
“We must be nearing the land,” said Jacob Pinner, the best seaman of the crew. “I wish that the old man would rouse up. I don’t like the look of things, mates, that I don’t.”
Scarcely had he spoken when a deep, sullen roar, easily distinguished by a seaman amid the howling of the tempest, struck on the ears of the crew. “Breakers! breakers ahead!” they shouted.
“Port the helm—hard a-port!” cried a deep voice. It was that of the old pilot. The sound of the breakers had reached his ears even below, and roused him up. The order came too late. At that moment there was a loud crash; the cutter struck, and her rudder was carried away. The following sea lifted her and carried her on, while other seas came roaring up, and hissed and foamed round her. Though they covered her with sheets of spray, her crew were still able to cling to the rigging and preserve their lives. Providentially, most of the hours of the night were already spent, for they could not long have endured the cold and wet to which they were exposed. When daylight broke they found that they were near the end of a reef, about a mile from the shore. The gale had greatly abated. The tide was low. Inside of the reef there was smooth water. If they could launch their boat, which had remained on deck uninjured, they might save themselves before the return of the tide, when the cutter would be sure to go to pieces. Though the little boat narrowly escaped being stove in, the attempt was successful. The shore was reached. It was close to Paul Petherwick’s house, some miles to the eastward of the port to which the cutter belonged.
Close to the spot where Paul and his crew landed, on the shore of a romantic bay, stood the residence of Sir Baldwin Treherne, known as the Manor House. Sir Baldwin was lord of the manor—a kind, warm-hearted, generous man. He had himself been at sea in his youth, but on coming into his estate had given up the profession. He had learned when at sea, probably from experiencing some of the hardships sailors have to endure, to sympathise with them, and to feel for their sufferings. He had seen through his telescope, while dressing in the morning, the wreck on the reef, and had immediately set off to find out what assistance could be rendered to the crew. He met the old pilot and his people not far from the shore, and insisted on their coming at once to the Manor House to be warmed and fed. Paul Petherwick would indeed have been unable to have reached his own home, as his strength and spirits were already exhausted. As the day advanced the wind again increased, and when the tide rose the Sea-Gull, battered by the waves, was seen quickly to disappear.
Great was old Paul’s grief as he watched the destruction of the vessel. “God’s will be done,” he said, bowing his head. “My poor wife and children, what will become of them? With her goes all the means I have of supporting them, and part of her cost is still unpaid.”
The kind baronet overheard him. “Paul, we have known each other a good many long years,” he said, putting his hand on his shoulder. “I should like to make you a Christmas-box. Let you and me go off to Plymouth to-morrow, and see if we cannot fall in with as fine a cutter as the Sea-Gull. It won’t do to be letting our ships knock about the chops of the Channel this winter weather without you to show them the way up; so I’ll find you a craft, and may she have better luck than the poor Sea-Gull!”
“Oh, Sir Baldwin, you are very good; so good, I shall never be able to repay you,” exclaimed Paul Petherwick, respectfully pressing the kind baronet’s hand.
“I am paid beforehand with all the blessings I enjoy,” answered Sir Baldwin. “They came to me without my having toiled for them, far less deserved them; I am bound to make the best use of them in my power, so say no more about the matter.”
A new cutter was found and purchased, and named the Lady Isabel, after Sir Baldwin’s wife; and for many a day, in summer and winter, Paul Petherwick sailed her in pursuit of his calling.