My father, Howard Trevena, is a typical Cornishman. Tall, broad-shouldered, and possessing an unusual amount of strength, he has a reputation in this part of the Duchy for manliness, good nature, and a love of outdoor recreation, his skill as a yachtsman being well known all along this dangerous coast betwixt the Lizard and Portland Bill.
To me he appeared more in the light of a companion than that of a parent, for, from my earliest recollections, I invariably accompanied him, whether it were, as frequently happened, on a cruise in our ten-ton cutter "Spray." or on a camping tour along the rock-bound coast of North Cornwall, or a cycling tour through other counties of our own country, or even on a ramble afoot amongst the magnificent hills surrounding our home. Although I fully recognize the respect due to my father, I am proud of the complete confidence that exists between us, for he has often expressed the opinion that a parent can make no greater mistake than to treat his sons as children when they are fast verging upon manhood.
My mother died when I was but an infant, so that event, in a measure, accounts for the close companionship between my father and me. And with us, till within a few months ago, lived my Uncle Herbert. He resembled my father in several ways; the swarthy complexion, the close-cut crisp hair, the firm jaw, almost approaching what might be described as "heavy," the steel-blue eyes—all denoted the strain of the Trevenas.
Our house, the ancestral home for centuries past, stands a short distance from the road from Polruan to Lanteglos, on a lofty hill overlooking Fowey Harbour. It is a long rambling building of Cornish granite, with the usual stone roof, the mullioned windows being almost hidden in summer by a wealth of crimson roses. The garden, of considerable extent, terminates at the edge of a steep declivity, the foot of which is washed by the tidal waters of the harbour. In one corner of the garden stood a wooden summer-house, built, so the tale goes, from the timbers of an old Dutch frigate, which was captured and brought into Fowey Harbour during the sanguinary sea-fights of Cromwellian times. In front of this summer-house was erected a white flag-staff; with crosstrees, gaff, topmast, shrouds, and halliards complete, from which flew the burgee and blue ensign of the yacht club to which my father belonged.
You will notice that I used the word "stood" when describing the summer-house, for it was owing to the fact that the structure ceased to be that we came into possession of the log, of the illfated "Anne."
It happened thus: Six months previously, (it was the 5th of November, as a matter of fact) there was a bonfire and fireworks display in our village, and, alarmed by the noise, an enormous black cat took refuge in its terror in our summerhouse. The animal's owner, Mrs. Penibar, a portly old dame, enlisted our services in its recapture, and, armed with lanterns, my father, Uncle Herbert, and I made for its hiding-place.
Right across the summer-house, on a level with the eaves, ran a massive beam, seemingly out of all proportion to the rest of the woodwork, and resting on this beam were several short spars, coils of rope, and other gear belonging to our boat.
Here the cat had taken up its position, and, with arched back and bristling fur, defied all attempts at pacification, spitting and growling in its fright. Neither my father nor my uncle had the inclination to tackle the brute, so the owner, using extraordinary and ridiculous terms of endearment, placed a short ladder, against the beam, and ponderously began the ascent.
Even its mistress's blandishments were futile, for the cat, backing along the beam, still growled defiance. So Mrs. Penibar, mounting to the fourth rung from the top, leaned sideways along the beam and attempted to seize her pet.
Suddenly there was an appalling crash, a shriek, and, amid a shower of dust and plaster, the old lady fell heavily to the ground, and by the feeble glimmer of our lantern we saw that the massive beam had broken as cleanly as if shorn by an axe.