Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch - Dead Man\'s Rock
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Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch >> Dead Man\'s Rock
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20 DEAD MAN'S ROCK.
A Romance.
by
Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (Q).
1887
[This e-text prepared from an edition published in 1894]
To the Memory of My Father I dedicate this book.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.--THE QUEST OF THE GREAT RUBY.
Chapter.
I. TELLS OF THE STRANGE WILL OF MY GRANDFATHER, AMOS TRENOWETH.
II. TELLS HOW MY FATHER WENT TO SEEK THE TREASURE; AND HOW MY
MOTHER HEARD A CRY IN THE NIGHT.
III. TELLS OF TWO STRANGE MEN THAT WATCHED THE SEA UPON POLKIMBRA
BEACH.
IV. TELLS HOW A SONG WAS SUNG AND A KNIFE DRAWN UPON DEAD MAN'S
ROCK.
V. TELLS HOW THE SAILOR GEORGIO RHODOJANI GAVE EVIDENCE AT THE
"LUGGER INN"
VI. TELLS HOW A FACE LOOKED IN AT THE WINDOW OF LANTRIG; AND IN
WHAT MANNER MY FATHER CAME HOME TO US.
VII. TELLS HOW UNCLE LOVEDAY MADE A DISCOVERY; AND WHAT THE TIN
BOX CONTAINED.
VIII. CONTAINS THE FIRST PART OF MY FATHER'S JOURNAL: SETTING FORTH
HIS MEETING WITH MR. ELIHU SANDERSON, OF BOMBAY; AND MY
GRANDFATHER'S MANUSCRIPT.
IX. CONTAINS THE SECOND PART OF MY FATHER'S JOURNAL: SETTING
FORTH HIS ADVENTURES IN THE ISLAND OF CELON.
X. CONTAINS THE THIRD AND LAST PART OF MY FATHER'S JOURNAL:
SETTING FORTH THE MUTINY ON BOARD THE _BELLE FORTUNE_
XI. TELLS OF THE WRITING UPON THE GOLDEN CLASP; AND HOW I TOOK
DOWN THE GREAT KEY.
BOOK II--THE FINDING OF THE GREAT RUBY.
Chapter.
I. TELLS HOW THOMAS LOVEDAY AND I WENT IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE.
II. TELLS OF THE LUCK OF THE GOLDEN CLASP.
III. TELLS AN OLD STORY IN A TRADITIONAL MANNER.
IV. TELLS HOW I SAW THE SHADOW OF THE ROCK; AND HOW I TOLD AND
HEARD NEWS.
V. TELLS HOW THE CURTAIN ROSE UPON "FRANCESCA: A TRAGEDY"
VI. TELLS HOW THE BLACK AND YELLOW FAN SENT A MESSAGE; AND HOW I
SAW A FACE IN THE FOG.
VII. TELLS HOW CLAIRE WENT TO THE PLAY; AND HOW SHE SAW THE
GOLDEN CLASP.
VIII. TELLS HOW THE CURTAIN FELL UPON "FRANCESCA: A TRAGEDY"
IX. TELLS HOW TWO VOICES LED ME TO BOARD A SCHOONER; AND WHAT
BEFELL THERE.
X. TELLS IN WHAT MANNER I LEARNT THE SECRET OF THE GREAT KEY.
XI. TELLS HOW AT LAST I FOUND MY REVENGE AND THE GREAT RUBY.
DEAD MAN'S ROCK.
BOOK I.
THE QUEST OF THE GREAT RUBY.
CHAPTER I.
TELLS OF THE STRANGE WILL OF MY GRANDFATHER, AMOS TRENOWETH.
Whatever claims this story may have upon the notice of the world,
they will rest on no niceties of style or aptness of illustration.
It is a plain tale, plainly told: nor, as I conceive, does its native
horror need any ingenious embellishment. There are many books that
I, though a man of no great erudition, can remember, which gain much
of interest from the pertinent and appropriate comments with which
the writer has seen fit to illustrate any striking situation.
From such books an observing man may often draw the exactest rules
for the regulation of life and conduct, and their authors may
therefore be esteemed public benefactors. Among these I, Jasper
Trenoweth, can claim no place; yet I venture to think my history will
not altogether lack interest--and this for two reasons. It deals
with the last chapter (I pray Heaven it be the last) in the
adventures of a very remarkable gem--none other, in fact, than the
Great Ruby of Ceylon; and it lifts, at least in part, the veil which
for some years has hidden a certain mystery of the sea. For the
moral, it must be sought by the reader himself in the following
pages.
To make all clear, I must go back half a century, and begin with the
strange and unaccountable Will made in the year of Grace 1837 by my
grandfather, Amos Trenoweth, of Lantrig in the County of Cornwall.
The old farm-house of Lantrig, heritage and home of the Trenoweths as
far as tradition can reach, and Heaven knows how much longer, stands
some few miles N.W. of the Lizard, facing the Atlantic gales from
behind a scanty veil of tamarisks, on Pedn-glas, the northern point
of a small sandy cove, much haunted of old by smugglers, but now left
to the peaceful boats of the Polkimbra fishermen. In my
grandfather's time however, if tales be true, Ready-Money Cove saw
many a midnight cargo run, and many a prize of cognac and lace found
its way to the cellars and store-room of Lantrig. Nay, there is a
story (but for its truth I will not vouch) of a struggle between my
grandfather's lugger, the _Pride of Heart_, and a certain Revenue
cutter, and of an unowned shot that found a Preventive Officer's
heart. But the whole tale remains to this day full of mystery, nor
would I mention it save that it may be held to throw some light on my
grandfather's sudden disappearance no long time after. Whither he
went, none clearly knew. Folks said, to fight the French; but when
he returned suddenly some twenty years later, he said little about
sea-fights, or indeed on any other subject; nor did many care to
question him, for he came back a stern, taciturn man, apparently with
no great wealth, but also without seeming to want for much, and at
any rate indisposed to take the world into his confidence.
His father had died meanwhile, so he quietly assumed the mastership
at Lantrig, nursed his failing mother tenderly until her death, and
then married one of the Triggs of Mullyon, of whom was born my
father, Ezekiel Trenoweth.
I have hinted, what I fear is but the truth, that my grandfather had
led a hot and riotous youth, fearing neither God, man, nor devil.
Before his return, however, he had "got religion" from some quarter,
and was confirmed in it by the preaching of one Jonathan Wilkins, as
I have heard, a Methodist from "up the country," and a powerful mover
of souls. As might have been expected in such a man as my
grandfather, this religion was of a joyless and gloomy order, full of
anticipations of hell-fire and conviction of the sinfulness of
ordinary folk. But it undoubtedly was sincere, for his wife Philippa
believed in it, and the master and mistress of Lantrig were alike the
glory and strong support of the meeting-house at Polkimbra until her
death. After this event, her husband shut himself up with the
tortures of his own stern conscience, and was seen by few. In this
dismal self-communing he died on the 27th of October, 1837, leaving
behind him one mourner, his son Ezekiel, then a strong and comely
youth of twenty-two.
This brings me to my grandfather's Will, discovered amongst his
papers after his death; and surely no stranger or more perplexing
document was ever penned, especially as in this case any will was
unnecessary, seeing that only one son was left to claim the
inheritance. Men guessed that those dark years of seclusion and
self-repression had been spent in wrestling with memories of a sinful
and perhaps a criminal past, and predicted that Amos Trenoweth could
not die without confession. They were partly right, from knowledge
of human nature; and partly wrong, from ignorance of my grandfather's
character.
The Will was dated "June 15th, 1837," and ran as follows:--
"I, Amos Trenoweth, of Lantrig, in the Parish of Polkimbra and
County of Cornwall, feeling, in this year of Grace Eighteen
hundred and thirty-seven, that my Bodily Powers are failing and
the Hour drawing near when I shall be called to account for my
Many and Grievous Sins, do hereby make Provision for my Death
and also for my son Ezekiel, together with such Descendants as
may hereafter be born to him. To this my son Ezekiel I give and
bequeath the Farm and House of Lantrig, with all my Worldly
Goods, and add my earnest hope that this may suffice to support
both him and his Descendants in Godliness and Contentment,
knowing how greatly these excell the Wealth of this World and
the Lusts of the Flesh. But, knowing also the mutability of
earthly things, I do hereby command and enjoin that, if at any
time He or his Descendants be in stress and tribulation of
poverty, the Head of our Family of Trenoweth shall strictly and
faithfully obey these my Latest Directions. He shall take ship
and go unto Bombay in India, to the house of Elihu Sanderson,
Esquire, or his Heirs, and there, presenting in person this my
last Will and Testament, together with the Holy Bible now lying
in the third drawer of my Writing Desk, shall duly and
scrupulously execute such instructions as the said Elihu
Sanderson or his Heirs shall lay upon him.
"Also I command and enjoin, under pain of my Dying Curse, that
the Iron Key now hanging from the Middle Beam in the Front
Parlour be not touched or moved, until he who undertakes this
Task shall have returned and have crossed the threshold of
Lantrig, having duly performed all the said Instructions.
And furthermore that the said Task be not undertaken lightly or
except in direst Need, under pain of Grievous and Sore
Affliction. This I say, knowing well the Spiritual and worldly
Perils that shall beset such an one, and having myself been
brought near to Destruction of Body and Soul, which latter may
Christ in His Mercy avert.
"Thus, having eased my mind of great and pressing Anguish, I
commend my soul to God, before Whose Judgment Bar I shall be
presently summoned to stand, the greatest of sinners, yet not
without hope of Everlasting Redemption, for Christ's sake.
Amen.
"AMOS TRENOWETH."
Such was the Will, written on stiff parchment in crabbed and
unscholarly characters, without legal forms or witnesses; but all
such were needless, as I have pointed out. And, indeed, my father
was wise, as I think, to show it to nobody, but go his way quietly as
before, managing the farm as he had managed it during the old man's
last years. Only by degrees he broke from the seclusion which had
been natural to him during his parents' lifetime, so far as to look
about for a wife--shyly enough at first--until he caught the dark
eyes of Margery Freethy one Sunday morning in Polkimbra Church,
whither he had gone of late for freedom, to the no small tribulation
of the meeting-house. Now, whether this tribulation arose from the
backsliding of a promising member, or the loss of the owner of
Lantrig (who was at the same time unmarried), I need not pause here
to discuss. Nor is it necessary to tell how regularly Margery and
Ezekiel found themselves in church, nor how often they caught each
other's eyes straying from the prayer-book. It is enough that at the
year's end Margery answered Ezekiel's question, and shortly after
came to Lantrig "for good."
The first years of their married life must have been very happy, as I
gather from the hushed joy with which my mother always spoke of them.
I gather also that my first appearance in this world caused more
delight than I have ever given since--God forgive me for it!
But shortly after I was four years old everything began to go wrong.
First of all, two ships in which my father had many shares were lost
at sea; then the cattle were seized with plague, and the stock
gradually dwindled away to nothing. Finally, my father's bank
broke--or, as we say in the West, "went scat!"--and we were left all
but penniless, with the prospect of having to sell Lantrig, being
without stock and lacking means to replenish it. It was at this
time, I have since learnt from my mother, that Amos Trenoweth's Will
was first thought about. She, poor soul! had never heard of the
parchment before, and her heart misgave her as she read of peril to
soul and body sternly hinted at therein. Also, her best-beloved
brother had gone down in a squall off the Cape of Good Hope, so that
she always looked upon the sea as a cruel and treacherous foe, and
shuddered to think of it as lying in wait for her Ezekiel's life.
It came to pass, therefore, that for two years the young wife's tears
and entreaties prevailed; but at the end of this time, matters
growing worse and worse, and also because it seemed hard that Lantrig
should pass away from the Trenoweths while, for aught we knew,
treasure was to be had for the looking, poverty and my father's wish
prevailed, and it was determined, with the tearful assent of my
mother, that he should start to seek this Elihu Sanderson, of Bombay,
and, with good fortune, save the failing house of the Trenoweths.
Only he waited until the worst of the winter was over, and then,
having commended us both to the care of his aunt, Elizabeth Loveday,
of Lizard Town, and provided us with the largest sum he could scrape
together (and small indeed it was), he started for the port of
Plymouth one woeful morning in February, and thence sailed away in
the good ship _Golden Wave_ to win his inheritance.
CHAPTER II.
TELLS HOW MY FATHER WENT TO SEEK THE TREASURE; AND HOW MY MOTHER
HEARD A CRY IN THE NIGHT.
So my father sailed away, carrying with him--sewn for safety in his
jersey's side--the Will and the small clasped Bible; nor can I think
of stranger equipment for the hunting of earthly treasure. And the
great iron key hung untouched from the beam, while the spiders
outvied one another in wreathing it with their webs, knowing it to be
the only spot in Lantrig where they were safe from my mother's broom.
It is with these spiders that my recollections begin, for of my
father, before he sailed away, remembrance is dim and scanty, being
confined to the picture of a tall fair man, with huge shoulders and
wonderful grey eyes, that changed in a moment from the stern look he
must have inherited from Amos to an extraordinary depth of love and
sympathy. Also I have some faint memories of a pig, named Eleazar
(for no well-explained reason), which fell over the cliff one night
and awoke the household with its cries. But this I mention only
because it happened, as I learn, before my father's going, and not
for any connection with my story. We must have lived a very quiet
life at Lantrig, even as lives go on our Western coast. I remember
my mother now as she went softly about the house contriving and
scheming to make the two ends of our small possessions meet. She was
a woman who always walked softly, and, indeed, talked so, with a low
musical voice such as I shall never hear again, nor can ever hope to.
But I remember her best in church, as she knelt and prayed for her
absent husband, and also in the meeting-house, which she sometimes
attended, more to please Aunt Elizabeth than for any good it did her.
For the religion there was too sombre for her quiet sorrow; and often
I have seen a look of awful terror possess her eyes when the young
minister gave out the hymn and the fervid congregation wailed forth--
"In midst of life we are in death.
Oh! stretch Thine arm to save.
Amid the storm's tumultuous breath
And roaring of the wave."
Which, among a fishing population, was considered a particularly
appropriate hymn; and, truly, to hear the unction with which the word
"tu-mult-u-ous" was rendered, with all strength of lung and rolling
of syllables, was moving enough. But my mother would grow all white
and trembling, and clutch my hand sometimes, as though to save
herself from shipwreck; whilst I too often would be taken with the
passion of the chant, and join lustily in the shouting, only half
comprehending her mortal anguish. It was this, perhaps, and many
another such scene, which drew upon me her gentle reproof for
pointing one day to the text above the pulpit and repeating,
"How dreadful is this place!" But that was after I had learned to
spell.
It had always been my father's wish that I should grow up
"a scholar," which, in those days, meant amongst us one who could
read and write with no more than ordinary difficulty. So one of my
mother's chief cares was to teach me my letters, which I learnt from
big A to "Ampusand" in the old hornbook at Lantrig. I have that
hornbook still:--
"Covered with pellucid horn,
To save from fingers wet the letters fair."
The horn, alas! is no longer pellucid, but dim, as if with the
tears of the many generations that have struggled through the
alphabet and the first ten numerals and reached in due course the
haven of the Lord's Prayer and Doxology. I had passed the Doxology,
and was already deep in the "Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Holy War"
(which latter book, with the rude taste of childhood, I greatly
preferred, so that I quickly knew the mottoes and standards of its
bewildering hosts by heart), when my father's first letter came home.
In those days, before the great canal was cut, a voyage to the East
Indies was no light matter, lying as it did around the treacherous
Cape and through seas where a ship may lie becalmed for weeks.
So it was little wonder that my father's letter, written from Bombay,
was some time on its way. Still, when the news came it was good.
He had seen Mr. Elihu Sanderson, son of the Elihu mentioned in my
grandfather's Will, had presented his parchment and Testament, and
received some notes (most of which he sent home), together with a
sealed packet, directed in Amos Trenoweth's handwriting: "To the Son
of my House, who, having Counted all the Perils, is Resolute."
This packet, my father went on to say, contained much mysterious
matter, which would keep until he and his dear wife met. He added
that, for himself, he could divine no peril, nor any cause for his
dear wife to trouble, seeing that he had but to go to the island of
Ceylon, whence, having accomplished the commands contained in the
packet, he purposed to take ship and return with all speed to
England. This was the substance of the letter, wrapped around with
many endearing words, and much tender solicitude for Margery and the
little one, as that he hoped Jasper was tackling his letters like a
real scholar, and comforting his mother's heart, with more to this
effect; which made us weep very sorrowfully when the letter was read,
although we could not well have told why. As to the sealed packet,
my father would have been doubtless more explicit had he been without
a certain distrust of letters and letter-carriers, which, amid much
faith in the miraculous powers of the Post Office, I have known to
exist among us even in these later days.
Than this blessed letter surely no written sheet was ever more read
and re-read; read to me every night before prayers were said, read to
Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Loveday, read (in extracts) to all the
neighbours of Polkimbra, for none knew certainly why Ezekiel had gone
to India except that, somewhat vaguely, it was to "better hisself."
How many times my mother read it, and kissed it, and cried over it,
God alone knows; I only know that her step, which had been failing of
late, grew firmer, and she went about the house with a light in her
face like "the face of an angel," as the vicar said. It may have
been: I have never since seen its like upon earth.
After this came the great joy of sending an answer, which I wrote
(with infinite pains as to the capital letters) at my mother's
dictation. And then it was read over and corrected, and added to,
and finally directed, as my father had instructed us, to "Mr. Ezekiel
Trenoweth; care of John P. Eversleigh, Esq., of the East India
Company's Service, Colombo, Ceylon." I remember that my mother
sealed it with the red cornelian Ezekiel had given her when he asked
her to be his wife, and took it with her own hands to Penzance to
post, having, for the occasion, harnessed old Pleasure in the cart
for the first time since we had been alone.
Then we had to wait again, and the little store of money grew small
indeed. But Aunt Elizabeth was a wonderful contriver, and tender of
heart besides, although in most things to be called a "hard" woman.
She had married, during my grandfather's long absence, Dr. Loveday,
of Lizard Town--a mild little man with a prodigious vanity in brass
buttons, and the most terrific religious beliefs, which did not in
the least alter his natural sweetness of temper. My aunt and uncle
(it was impossible to think of them except in this order) would often
drive or walk over to Lantrig, seldom without some little present,
which, together with my aunt's cap-box, would emerge from the back
seat, amid a _duetto_ something after this fashion:--
_My Aunt_. "So, my dear, we thought as we were driving in this
direction we would see how you were getting on; and
by great good fortune, or rather as I should say
(Jasper, do not hang your head so; it looks so
deceitful) by the will of Heaven (and Heaven's will
be done, you know, my dear, which must be a great
comfort to you in your sore affliction), as Cyrus was
driving into Cadgwith yesterday--were you not,
Cyrus?"
_My Uncle_. "To be sure, my dear."
_My Aunt_. "Well, as I was saying, as Cyrus was driving into
Cadgwith yesterday to see Martha George's husband,
who was run over by the Helston coach, and she such a
regular attendant at the Prayer-meeting, but in the
midst of life (Jasper, don't fidget)--well, whom
should he see but Jane Ann Collins, with the finest
pair of ducks, too, and costing a mere nothing.
Cyrus will bear me out."
_My Uncle_. "Nothing at all, my dear. Jasper, come here and talk
to me. Do you know, Jasper, what happens to little
boys that tell lies? You do? Something terrible,
eh? Soul's perdition, my boy; soul's ev-er-last-ing
perdition. There, come and show me the pig."
What agonies of conscience it must have cost these two good souls
thus to conspire together for benevolence, none ever knew. Nor was
it less pathetic that the fraud was so hollow and transparent.
I doubt not that the sin of it was washed out with self-reproving
tears, and cannot think that they were shed in vain.
So the seasons passed, and we waited, till in the late summer of 1849
(my father having been away nineteen months) there came another
letter to say that he was about to start for home. He had found what
he sought, so he said, but could not rightly understand its value,
or, indeed, make head or tail of it by himself, and dared not ask
strangers to help him. Perhaps, however, when he came home, Jasper
(who was such a scholar) would help him; and maybe the key would be
some aid. For the rest, he had been stricken with a fever--a malady
common enough in those parts--but was better, and would start in
something over a week, in the _Belle Fortune_, a barque of some 650
tons register, homeward bound with a cargo of sugar, spices, and
coffee, and having a crew of about eighteen hands, with, he thought,
one or two passengers. The letter was full of strong hope and love,
so that my mother, who trembled a little when she read about the
fever, plucked up courage to smile again towards the close. The ship
would be due about October, or perhaps November. So once more we had
to resume our weary waiting, but this time with glad hearts, for we
knew that before Christmas the days of anxiety and yearning would be
over.
The long summer drew to a glorious and golden September, and so
faded away in a veil of grey sky; and the time of watching was nearly
done. Through September the skies had been without cloud, and the
sea almost breathless, but with the coming of October came dirty
weather and a strong sou'-westerly wind, that gathered day by day,
until at last, upon the evening of October 11th, it broke into a
gale. My mother for days had been growing more restless and anxious
with the growing wind, and this evening had much ado to sit quietly
and endure. I remembered that as the storm raged without and tore at
the door-hinges, while the rain lashed and smote the tamarisk
branches against the panes, I sat by her knee before the kitchen fire
and read bits from my favourite "Holy War," which, in the pauses of
the storm, she would explain to me.
I was much put to it that night, I recollect, by the questionable
morality at one point of Captain Credence, who in general was my
favourite hero, dividing that honour with General Boanerges for
the most part, but exciting more sympathy by reason of his wound--so
grievously I misread the allegory, or rather saw no allegory at
all. So my mother explained it to me, though all the while, poor
creature, her heart was racked with terror for _her_ Mansoul, beaten,
perhaps, at that moment from its body by the fury of that awful
night. Then when the fable's meaning was explained, and my
difficulty smoothed away, we fell to talking of father's home-coming,
in vain endeavours to cheat ourselves of the fears that rose again
with every angry bellow of the tempest, and agreed that his ship
could not possibly be due yet (rejoicing at this for the first time),
but must, we feigned, be lying in a dead calm off the West Coast of
Africa; until we almost laughed--God pardon us!--at the picture of
his anxiety to be home while such a storm was raging at the doors of
Lantrig. And then I listened to wonderful stories of the East Indies
and the marvels that men found there, and wondered whether father
would bring home a parrot, and if it would be as like Aunt Loveday as
the parrot down at the "Lugger Inn," at Polkimbra, and so crept
upstairs to bed to dream of Captain Credence and parrots, and the
"Lugger Inn" in the city of Mansoul, as though no fiends were
shouting without and whirling sea and sky together in one devil's
cauldron.
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