The Adventures of Dick Trevanion: A Story of Eighteen Hundred and Four

by Herbert Strang

Just before dawn next morning, Nathan Pendry, father of John Trevanion's portmanteau carrier, the most experienced fisher in the village, took his stand at the extremity of the Beal, carrying his bush. Seaward, the sky was gloomy; in the east a pale orange and pink glow on the horizon announced the rising sun. The air was very still, only the slow ripples washing the sand at the foot of the cliff breaking the silence. In the fairway lay three boats, the largest of them a smack of eight tons burden, manned by six oarsmen, together with Tonkin and a fisher nearly as large as he. These men and the occupants of the other boats sat without speaking, their eyes fixed on the huer above. He stood motionless, gazing intently on the surface of the sea. Beyond the promontory the village was as yet asleep; one man stood solitary at the end of the jetty.

Suddenly the huer bent forward, in an attitude of intense expectancy. A few minutes passed; then lifting himself he waved his bush aloft. His experienced eyes had detected a shadow in the water, moving across the bay in a direction parallel with the shore. Instantly the men in the first boat fell to their oars, and Tonkin, standing up in the stern, and making a trumpet of his hands, shouted, "Havar! havar!" towards the single figure on the jetty. This man repeated the cry; it was taken up in the village; and soon from every street and lane a crowd of men, women, and children poured up towards the cliffs, dressing themselves as they ran, and shouting, "Havar! havar! Yo-hoy, hoy, hoy!"

Meanwhile the rowers were tugging at their oars with all their might, Ike Pendry, who was rowing bow, having his eyes fixed on his father, and directing the steersman in accordance with the movements of the bush. The ground behind the huer was now thronged with spectators, no longer shouting, but watching Pendry and the boatmen in tense silence. All at once the huer dropped his bush; the rowers shipped oars; and Tonkin and his mate grasped a long net, which had lain folded ready to their hands, and with a few deft movements shot it overboard.

"Yo-hoy, yo-hoy!" broke from every throat. Then the crowd relapsed into silence, watching the further proceedings in the bay.

The "seine net," as it was called, was a quarter of a mile long and sixteen fathoms broad at the middle. It was fastened on each side to two stout double ropes, and at each corner to four strong warps about fifty fathoms long. Corks were fixed to the upper edge, and leaden weights to the lower. When it was "shot," the corks buoyed up one end to the surface of the water, the leads sank the other perpendicularly to the bottom. The boat meanwhile was rowed round the shoal, following the directions of the huer, until, the two extremities being made fast, the fish were imprisoned in an oblong barrier of network. As Tonkin straightened his back after completing his part of the work, another shout rent the air, and the huer, his task also accomplished, broke through the dignified calm which had hitherto distinguished him, and waved his cap triumphantly.

Now came the turn of the "tuck-boat," one of those that had remained as yet in the fairway. It was rowed within the area enclosed by the seine, and laid close to the seine-boat, to the bows of which one end of a smaller net, called the "tuck," was fastened by a rope. The boat then slowly made the inner circuit of the seine, the tuck being paid out and deftly hooked at intervals to the larger net. Meanwhile the men in the third boat beat the water with their oars, so as to scare the fish into the middle of the enclosure.

Now came the most exciting moment of the day. The cliff-top all round the bay was dark with spectators. Small boys, eager to get in front, dodged and shoved among the legs and skirts of their elders. The village blacksmith was there; cobblers with bent backs and leather aprons; tinkers, tailors, wheelwrights, carpenters, ploughmen, dairymaids, old men with sticks and crutches, old women who could scarcely totter, mothers with babies in their arms: all were agog with excitement to see the final act. Sam Pollex was there, and when he caught sight of the parlourmaid of the Dower House he sidled up to her elbow, listened with delight to her exclamations of "My gracious!" "Look 'ee see, now!" "Lawk-a-massy me!" and by-and-by ventured to instruct her ignorance of the movements passing below.

With the shouts of the boys were now mingled the deeper tones of the seiners as, ranged in a row in their boat, they began to haul on the tuck, calling "Yo, heave ho!" in time with their rhythmic movements. "Pull away, boys!" shouts the huer; "Yo-hoy!" scream the boys. "Up she comes! Look at 'em! Look at 'em!" The water eddies like a mill-race; in the midst is seen a heaving mass of gleaming scales; and from round the point come boats of all sizes, which range themselves in a circle about the shoal. Men lean over the sides, dip their baskets, lift them full of shining fish, empty them into the boats, and dip them again for more. Soon they stand ankle deep in pilchards, and when the boats sink to the gunwales, they are rowed away to the jetty, where men are waiting with shovels and barrows, ready to carry the fish to the salting-house.

Dick Trevanion was among the spectators. He never missed the first haul of the season. But to-day he was acutely conscious of a change. Last year the villagers had greeted him with smiles and cheery words; to-day they lowered their eyes, passed him in silence, and edged away from him as he moved from place to place. He could not but feel bitterly his isolation. Why did they so misjudge him? He had not changed: he knew well that, in any ordinary contest between the smugglers and the revenue officers, his sympathy would have been with the former; friendly as he was with Mr. Mildmay, he would enjoy nothing better than that gentleman's discomfiture, if it were due to fair means and the villagers' wits. Yet, because he had intervened to prevent harm to an old man, he was now regarded by the villagers as their enemy, one who would descend to play the mean part of spy and informer.

With gloomy face he turned away and walked back along the promontory. At the end he met Mr. Carlyon, who had just ridden up on his cob. The parson's ruddy face was suffused with cheerfulness; he knew by the jubilant shouts of the crowd that the catch was a good one, and rejoiced that his parishioners were winning from the deep their means of subsistence for the winter. He marked Dick's clouded face, and, guessing the occasion of it, he tried to cheer him.