Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines Part 14

"But that night was well spent by the enraged townsmen. They organised themselves as well as they could in the circ.u.mstances, and, when day came, attacked the Spaniards with guns and bows, and that so effectively, that the Dons were glad to hoist their sails and run out of the bay.

"Well, you must know there was one of the Spaniards, who, it has been said, either from bravado, or vanity, or a desire to insult the English, or from all three motives together, brought a guitar on sh.o.r.e with him at Mousehole, and sang and played to his comrades while they were burning the houses. This man left his guitar with those who were left to guard the boats, and accompanied the others to Penzance. On his return he again took his guitar, and, going up to a high point of the cliff, so that he might be seen by his companions and heard by any of the English who chanced to be in hiding near the place, sang several songs of defiance at the top of his voice, and even went the length of performing a Spanish dance, to the great amus.e.m.e.nt of his comrades below, who were embarking in their boats.

"While the half-crazed Spaniard was going on thus he little knew that, not three yards distant from him, a gigantic Mousehole fisherman, who went by the name of Gurnet, lay concealed among some low bushes, watching his proceedings with an expression of anger on his big stern countenance. When the boats were nearly ready to start the Spaniard descended from the rocky ledge on which he had been performing, intending to rejoin his comrades. He had to pa.s.s round the bush where Gurnet lay concealed, and in doing so was for a few seconds hid from his comrades, who immediately forgot him in the bustle of departure, or, if they thought of him at all, each boat's crew imagined, no doubt, that he was with one of the others.

"But he never reached the boats. As he pa.s.sed the bush Gurnet sprang on him like a tiger and seized him round the throat with both hands, choking a shout that was coming up, and causing his eyes to start almost out of his head. Without uttering a word, and only giving now and then a terrible hiss through his clenched teeth, Gurnet pushed the Spaniard before him, keeping carefully out of sight of the beach, and holding him fast by the nape of the neck, so that when he perceived the slightest symptom of a tendency to cry out he had only to press his strong fingers and effectually nip it in the bud.

"He led him to a secluded place among the rocks, far beyond earshot of the sh.o.r.e, and there, setting him free, pointed to a flat rock and to his guitar, and hissed, rather than said, in tones that could neither be misunderstood nor gainsaid--

"`There, dance and sing, will 'ee, till 'ee bu'st!'

"Gurnet clenched his huge fist as he spoke, and, as the Spaniard grew pale, and hesitated, he shook it close to his face--so close that he tapped the prominent bridge of the man's nose, and hissed again, more fiercely than before--

"`Ye haaf saved bucca, ye mazed totle, that can only frighten women an'

child'n, an burn housen; thee'rt fond o' singin' an' dancin'--dance now, will 'ee, ye gurt bufflehead, or ef ye waant I'll scat thee head in jowds, an' send 'ee scrougin' over cliffs, I will.'"

In justice to the narrator it is right to say that these words are not so bad as they sound.

"The fisherman's look and action were so terrible whilst he poured forth his wrath, which was kept alive by the thought of the smouldering embers of his own cottage, that the Spaniard could not but obey. With a ludicrous compound of fun and terror he began to dance and sing, or rather to leap and wail, while Gurnet stood before him with a look of grim ferocity that never for a moment relaxed.

"Whenever the Spaniard stopped from exhaustion Gurnet shouted `Go on,'

in a voice of thunder, and the poor man, being thoroughly terrified, went on until he fell to the ground incapable of further exertion.

"Up to this point Gurnet had kept saying to himself, `He is fond o'

dancin' an' singin', let un have it, then,' but when the poor man fell his heart relented. He picked him up, threw him across his shoulder as if he had been a bolster, and bore him away. At first the men of the place wanted to hang him on the spot, but Gurnet claimed him as his prisoner, and would not allow this. He gave him his liberty, and the poor wretch maintained himself for many a day as a wandering minstrel.

At last he managed to get on board of a Spanish vessel, and was never more heard of, but he left his guitar behind him. It was picked up on the sh.o.r.e, where he left it, probably, in his haste to get away.

"The truth of this story, of course, I cannot vouch for," concluded Mr Donnithorne, with a smile, "but I have told it to you as nearly as possible in the words in which I have often heard my grandfather give it--and as for the guitar, why, here it is, having been sold to me by a descendant of the man who found it on the seash.o.r.e."

"A wonderful story indeed," said Oliver--"_if true_."

"The guitar you must admit is at least a fact," said the old gentleman.

Oliver not only admitted this, but said it was a sweet-sounding fact, and was proceeding to comment further on the subject when Mr Donnithorne interrupted him--

"By the way, talking of sweet sounds, have you heard what that gruff-voiced scoundrel Maggot--that roaring bull of Bashan--has been about lately?"

"No, I have not," said Oliver, who saw that the old gentleman's ire was rising.

"Ha! lad, that man ought to be hanged. He is an arrant knave, a smuggler--a--an ungrateful rascal. Why, sir, you'll scarcely believe it: he has come to me and demanded more money for the jewels which he and his comrade sold me in fair and open bargain, and because I refused, and called him a few well-merited names, he has actually gone and given information against me as possessor of treasure, which of right, so they say, belongs to Government, and last night I had a letter which tells me that the treasure, as they call it, must be delivered up without delay, on pain of I don't know what penalties. Penalties, forsooth! as if I hadn't been punished enough already by the hara.s.sing curtain-lectures of my over-scrupulous wife, ever since the unlucky day when the baubles were found, not to mention the uneasy probings of my own conscience, which, to say truth, I had feared was dead altogether owing to the villainous moral atmosphere of this smuggling place, but which I find quite lively and strong yet--a matter of some consolation too, for although I do have a weakness for cheap 'baccy and brandy, being of an economical turn of mind, I don't like the notion of getting rid of my conscience altogether. But, man, 'tis hard to bear!"

Poor Mr Donnithorne stopped here, partly owing to shortness of breath, and partly because he had excited himself to a pitch that rendered coherent speech difficult.

"Would it not be well at once to relieve your conscience, sir,"

suggested Oliver respectfully, "by giving up the things that cause it pain? In my profession we always try to get at the root of a disease, and apply our remedies there."

"Ha!" exclaimed the old gentleman, wiping his heated brow, "and lose twenty pounds as a sort of fee to Doctor Maggot, who, like other doctors I wot of, created the disease himself, and who will certainly never attempt to alleviate it by returning the fee."

"Still, the disease may be cured by the remedy I recommend," said Oliver.

"No, man, it can't," cried the old gentleman with a perplexed expression, "because the dirty things are already sold and the money is invested in Botallack shares, to sell which and pay back the cash in the present depressed state of things would be utter madness. But hus.h.!.+

here comes my better half, and although she _is_ a dear good soul, with an unusual amount of wisdom for her size, it would be injudicious to prolong the lectures of the night into the early hours of morning."

As he spoke little Mrs Donnithorne's round good-looking face appeared like the rising sun in the doorway, and her cheery voice welcomed Oliver to breakfast.

"Thank you, aunt," said Oliver, "but I have already breakfasted more than an hour ago, and am on my way to visit my patients. Indeed, I have to blame myself for calling at so early an hour, and would not have done so but for the irresistible attraction of a newly discovered voice, which--"

"Come, come, youngster," interrupted Mr Donnithorne, "be pleased to bear in remembrance that the voice is connected with a pair of capital ears, remarkable for their sharpness, if not their length, and at no great distance off, I warrant."

"You do Rose injustice," observed Mrs Donnithorne, as the voice at that moment broke out into a lively carol in the region of the kitchen, whither its owner had gone to superintend culinary matters. "But tell me, Oliver, have you heard of the accident to poor Batten?"

"Yes, I saw him yesterday," replied the doctor, "just after the accident happened, and I am anxious about him. I fear, though I am not quite certain, that his eyesight is destroyed."

"Dear! dear!--oh, poor man," said Mrs Donnithorne, whose sympathetic heart swelled, while her blue eyes instantly filled with tears. "It is so very sad, Oliver, for his delicate wife and four young children are entirely dependent upon him and his two sons--and they found it difficult enough to make the two ends meet, even when they were all in health; for it is hard times among the miners at present, as you know, Oliver; and now--dear, dear, it is very, _very_ sad."

Little Mrs Donnithorne said nothing more at that time, but her mind instantly reverted to a portly basket which she was much in the habit of carrying with her on her frequent visits to the poor and the sick--for the good lady was one of those whose inclinations as well as principles lead them to "consider the poor."

It must not be imagined, however, that the poor formed a large cla.s.s of the community in St. Just. The miners of that district, and indeed all over Cornwall, were, and still are, a self-reliant, independent, hard-working race, and as long as tough thews and sinews, and stout and willing hearts, could accomplish anything, they never failed to wrench a subsistence out of the stubborn rocks which contain the wealth of the land. Begging goes very much against the grain of a Cornishman, and the lowest depth to which he can sink socially, in his own esteem, is that of being dependent on charity.

In some cases this sentiment is carried too far, and has degenerated into pride; for, when G.o.d in His wisdom sees fit, by means of disabling accident or declining health, to incapacitate a man from labour, it is as honourable in him to receive charity as it is (although not always sufficiently esteemed so) a high privilege and luxury of the more fortunate to give.

Worthy Mrs Donnithorne's charities were always bestowed with such delicacy that she managed, in some mysterious way, to make the recipients feel as though they had done her a favour in accepting them.

And yet she was not a soft piece of indiscriminating amiability, whose chief delight in giving lay in the sensations which the act created within her own breast. By no means. None knew better than she when and where to give money, and when to give blankets, bread, or tea. She was equally sharp to perceive the spirit that rendered it advisable for her to say, "I want you to do me a favour--there's a good woman now, you won't refuse me, etcetera," and to detect the spirit that called forth the sharp remark, accompanied with a dubious smile and a shake of her fat forefinger, "There now, see that you make better use of it _this_ time, else I shall have to scold you."

Having received a message for poor Mrs Batten, the miner's wife, the doctor left the cottage, and proceeded to pay his visits. Let us accompany him.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

IN WHICH OLIVER GETS "A FALL," AND SEES SOME OF THE SHADOWS OF THE MINER'S LIFE.

In crossing a hayfield, Oliver Trembath encountered the tall, bluff figure, and the grave, sedate smile of Mr Cornish, the manager.

"Good-morning, doctor," said the old gentleman, extending his hand and giving the youth a grasp worthy of one of the old Cornish giants; "do you know I was thinking, as I saw you leap over the stile, that you would make a pretty fair miner?"

"Thanks, sir, for your good opinion of me," said Oliver, with a smile, "but I would rather work above than below ground. Living the half of one's life beyond the reach of sunlight is not conducive to health."

"Nevertheless, the miners keep their health pretty well, considering the nature of their work," replied Mr Cornish; "and you must admit that many of them are stout fellows. You would find them so if you got one of their Cornish hugs."

"Perhaps," said Oliver, with a modest look, for he had been a noted wrestler at school, "I might give them a pretty fair hug in return, for Cornish blood flows in my veins."

"A fig for blood, doctor; it is of no avail without knowledge and practice, as well as muscle. _With_ these, however, I do acknowledge that it makes weight--if by `blood' you mean high spirit."

"By the way, how comes it, sir," said Oliver, "that Cornishmen are so much more addicted to wrestling than other Englishmen?"

"It were hard to tell, doctor, unless it be that they feel themselves stronger than other Englishmen, and being accustomed to violent exertion more than others, they take greater pleasure in it. Undoubtedly the Greeks introduced it among us, but whether they practised it as we now do cannot be certainly ascertained."

Here Mr Cornish entered into an enthusiastic account of the art of wrestling; related many anecdotes of his own prowess in days gone by, and explained the peculiar method of performing the throw by the heel, the toe, and the hip; the heave forward, the back-heave, and the Cornish hug, to all of which the youth listened with deep interest.