The Pastor seemed singularly well adapted to his strange life. Apart from worship on Sunday and his evening readings, he arranged that two nights a week we would take turns to tell a story. Not a true story, unless we chose to make it so, and we had the freedom to tell fairy stories or folk tales from home, or to embellish some tale we had lived through to make it more interesting. A good teller of tales is a blessing to any community, and with practice our accomplishments increased. I even found myself thinking up stories as I worked so that I might be ready for my next turn.
The Pastor had the strangest tales to tell, taken from his homeland, and this isolated country of snow and mountains became familiar to Isabel and me. It was now that I learnt the true story of his conflict with his brother over a girl that led to his leaving the family farm and travelling across the oceans.
After a lifetime of caring for souls, his interest in ours was a matter of course. He faced a young man steeped in the blackest of sins, and a young lady who had been brought up rather frivolously in a home where the limits of goodness were sometimes flexible. Without consulting our wishes, he embarked on a slow campaign of conversion.
We found him always ready to discuss God and the Scriptures, but he never initiated a discussion, presumably cautious not to frighten us away. However, once a discussion had started, he did not scruple to turn it in the direction he wished and to use it as a lesson for us. He encouraged us to lead his prayers, and I found myself giving the evening reading more and more frequently. That was to save his eyes, so he said.
I do not think he set out to break me, but he did intend that my stiff neck should be bowed and that I should recognise the worthless nature of my preceding life. To that end, he planted thoughts and asked questions that forced me to examine myself. For the first time I started to consider my soul, and to ask if God might indeed receive me at the end of my time.
We had been keeping a calendar so that we might follow the Sundays through the year, and now we began to look forward to the season of Christmas. It is strange to be hearing the Advent stories not huddled in a dark church with the cold wind whirling outside but sitting in the late afternoon sun, lightly dressed and enjoying the freshness of a sea breeze.
If our climate was different, the message remained the same and we resolved to make Christmas Day a special occasion. I spent two days with a musket under my arm, fruitlessly searching for a pig or goat for a table. I gave up the hunt eventually and decided to merely catch the biggest fish I could find. I walked towards the rocks at the end of the beach, where the largest and most cunning fish lived. With a great deal of luck I might succeed in bringing home a fish fit for Christmas dinner.
My path led through the long grass behind the sandy beach and as I walked around a large clump of grass, I surprised a wild sow with her litter. I was terrified because such a beast can be extremely dangerous when she has young to protect. I stood frozen as her black back and tail disappeared into the long grass followed by squealing piglets. I had dropped my rod and picked up a stone to protect myself but she must have been as frightened of me as I was of her, and I heard her crashing through the jungle with her litter following. I hurled my rock into the grass after them and had the good fortune to catch the last piglet just behind the ear. It fell unconscious and unable to cry out for help from its mother. I seized it and ran back the way I had come.
Pastor Bruno was full of admiration for my prowess as a hunter, but Isabel gave me a very strange look and disappeared behind the hut. I went to follow but the Pastor laid his hand on my arm to stay me. “I believe she has something to tell you,” he said knowingly, but would give me no more.
That evening Isabel finished her cooking early and came to nestle close to me as we were listening to the Christmas story and its good news. When the Pastor finished, he stopped and looked up at Isabel waiting for her to speak. She appeared surprised at his implied request, lost for words and blushing. “I’m going to have a baby,” was all she could manage to say.
I admit to being completely surprised, although there was no reason I should be so. Babies naturally follow marriage but in my youthful fecklessness I had given no thought to it. Now I would be a father and our little family would be increased. “Aren’t you happy?” she asked me. Of course I was happy. I was delighted that such a thing should happen, and inwardly convinced it must be the most important baby in the world.
I examine my memories, the places I have been and the people who have shared their lives with me. It is a pastime that becomes more and more indulged in as I get older. For all my searching, I think that Christmas Eve was the happiest time of my life. Pure, unalloyed joy filled me as I sat next to my wife, watching the fire and trying to remember the old Christmas hymns. As we pass through the brief flowering that is human existence, we are occasionally granted a glimpse of another world, perhaps a pale forecast of things to come. Treasure these times and keep them fresh in your mind; they cannot last for long on this earth.
We exchanged Christmas gifts the next day. I had worked long and quietly when I should have been fishing to make a necklace out of jungle seeds and polished discs of coconut shell. It was a primitive ornament but Isabel accepted it with wide eyes as if it had been made of diamonds and gold. It looked very beautiful about her slender brown neck.
She brought out her secrets too. From one of her petticoats she had fashioned a fine blouse for me, so fine I was only to wear it on Sundays and holidays. She had also made a canvas hat for the Pastor.
Our piglet made a very fine feast, garnished with a pumpkin from our vegetable garden. It made a Christmas dinner worthy of the finest house in England, lacking only the wine and brandy to finish it off. So we passed on to the New Year. Our remote situation had long since ceased to weigh on our minds. We kept busy keeping the house and garden in trim, and there were always new things to try. I had turned my hand to thatching (although nothing like what you see in England) and the roof could now shed the heaviest downpour. I had also constructed a chimney from wattle and clay that kept the cottage much cleaner. While I did this, Isabel resolved to try her hand at pottery, and after much experimentation and a great deal of burnt wood, she made jugs for water and bowls for our table. Pastor Bruno seemed to have little inclination to make things, but loved to work in the garden. Under his tender care both flowers and vegetable flourished, and he also managed to produce some comforting tobacco.
As the new life grew within her, Isabel also bloomed and we all gave much thought to the approaching event. I began to be consumed by a deep-seated worry. After many years of blind compliance, my conscience began to demand restitution. It seemed to me that the Good Lord had blessed me richly, and in truth I feared that the good things might be taken away again. In my distress I turned to the Pastor.
One afternoon as we stood fishing I managed to broach the keg of worry that was burdening me, and the Pastor saw that the opportunity he had awaited had now arrived. Time and his gentle approach had indeed brought me to my knees and he was there to raise me up again.
Many people brought up in the bosom of the Church stray no more than a little in their lives, and so never have to confront the evil that can grow in a human soul. They are born in the Faith and live with it throughout their lives. My case was different, for I had clutched the Devil’s hoof and been led by him.
This is not the place to list the profound changes the Pastor brought to my life, but let it suffice that I became a student of his and resolved to spend a little of every day learning all he could teach me.
Endings and Beginnings
You first joined our little family about a year and a half after we first came to the Island. Your mother was very brave and managed to bring you into the world almost single-handed, both the Pastor and I being totally incapable of helping. You were born, just as I have told you, under a tropical sun and you were baptised from water held in half a coconut. The Pastor was your godfather. You were a delight to us all and gave us something to live for.
> Life went on. We saw no ships and needed no company, although we often spoke of what we would do when we were eventually rescued. Most of our daydreams revolved around food, different foods like cheese or beef, and hearty wine. The longer we stayed there the more illusory became the flavours and smells of our imagined meals, but we still associated them with home and family.
I was becoming quite lettered under the Pastor’s tuition. He had the happy facility of turning study into a pastime and we not only discussed English but also made a start on Latin. (As you know, my Latin is a burden to me but an educated man should have at least an acquaintance with the language.) The Pastor had also contrived to recover my soul, and I resolved to spend the rest of my life working for the benefit of my family and any other person who might have need of me, much as the Pastor had spent his.
Our mode of living settled into a routine of reasonable comfort, and I found I had enough work to keep me occupied but not so much as to burden me. We increased in material wealth as I turned my hand to making our house bigger and more homely. I added two more rooms, one for the Pastor and one for us. Isabel now had a kitchen table to help in the preparation of our meals, which we ate from plates she had made. To make fishing easier, I constructed a small canoe in the native manner, by carving out of a tree trunk. Using this we could fish in the deeper waters of the lagoon, and so catch bigger fish. The Pastor’s garden yielded prodigiously, and the gentle climate meant that we did not have the problem of storing food to support us over a long winter. Taken as a whole, life felt very agreeable and we had few cares to worry us.
I will gloss over what happened to us next because the pain is still with me, even across all these years. One day your mother went fishing in our canoe and was taken by the sea. We found the canoe washed up but we never found her. God grant that I will see her again. I shall not write any more of it.
You were only fourteen months old and thrown onto the care of two men, one of whom was heartbroken and the other becoming very old and frail. However, you were far from being a burden to me. Rather you were my reason to carry on when my heart felt like wasting away. In time the pain of our loss became less sharp and our lives regained something of the pattern they had lost.
The Pastor did not seem discontented with his existence, simply his body had become very old and tired. His mind remained alert and his spirit was still strong in his intention of finishing my education as well as he could. I found myself gradually taking over the work in the garden, under his direction. Along with the cooking and fishing I was busy for much of the day, but he did not allow me to miss lessons for six days of the week. He wanted, he said, to make me into a useful help for a friend of his who would know what to do with me and my daughter.
Spirit alone cannot keep old age at bay forever and over a period of several weeks he declined dreadfully. He knew, of course, that his time was coming and he faced it without regret. He taught me right up to his last days, when he set about preparing to depart.
The first thing he did was to change his will, which he carried with him, to leave all he had to you. There, that has surprised you, I am sure. He was not a rich man and your inheritance consisted only of banker’s notes. (If you wish to know exactly what they amount to you will have to ask your trustees, but I will tell you about that at another time.) His legacy to me was a letter of introduction and a chance to serve. Writing on the back of an old letter, he commended me to his friend Dr Pulsey, the Bishop of Bath and Wells. He wrote honestly about my accomplishments, generous about my future prospects, and left my past waiting for my own explanation. I treasured the letter.
The morning came when he did not rise from his pallet and I found he had left us. He was a godly man and it is a shame you were too young to remember him. I believe you were not yet two years old.
So, our family of three had grown to four and now we were reduced to two. I do not know if you were affected. You seemed as cheerful as ever while I had to fight my way out of despond. Without your help I doubt if I would have found the will to survive, so low had I been brought.
However, it is a long road that has no turning and our lonely route finally turned one morning when we went to the beach to catch supper. You were a little over three years old and able to walk and talk, and our passage through the dark trees to the beach was made hand-in-hand at your pace. You saw the ship first, shrieking and pointing your little hand at the black and cream sloop of war moored just off the point. I picked you up and ran frantically towards her, shouting and waving.
What a blessed vessel the Sophie was, and what kind men took us on board. You remember a little about her, of course, but you do not remember what a fuss all those sailors made of you. Nothing was too much trouble for them and you were nursed by those tough old sailors for every waking minute. They spoilt you dreadfully and met your every whim. The bo’sun, a tattooed block of a man with no front teeth and a gold earring, begged a linen shirt from the purser and made you a petticoat, the first garment you had been given since your mother left us. Because of you the Captain (do you remember Captain Holsworthy?) gave us a little cabin and we were often invited to dine with him.
The Sophie was bound for England and had only come to the island to repair some storm damage and pick coconuts. She would touch at Plymouth to deliver the mails before heading up the Channel, and I begged to be set ashore there. It was a glorious feeling to make the Lizard and then to see the Devon coast again.
We had come ashore in the bustle of Plymouth and, after being so long away, I felt a foreigner. We owned very little, no more than the chest that I had brought from the Island. We had some ready silver and, of course, the very valuable papers from Long John that represented my share of the treasure and your mother’s dowry. The most important thing I possessed was the Pastor’s letter to Dr Pulsey, and so we set off to deliver it.
We made our journey early in September, and as the fruitful fields passed by I resolved to put the sea behind me and grow roots, if God allowed it. Fate had dealt us a blow by taking your mother, but we had been fortunate in meeting the Pastor. He had shown what might be done with our lives and I determined to do my best to follow his teaching. We clattered into Wells and a sudden worry enveloped me. The frailty of human life had been deeply impressed on me in the past two years. What would we do if Dr Pulsey were no longer the Bishop?
I took it as a personal blessing that he was still in his place, though growing old, and waited with some hope after my letter had been passed into him. He sent word to our inn that I should attend him the following afternoon.
I do not believe I have ever been so anxious as on that afternoon when I waited for him. I know you remember Dr Pulsey, but I did not know then what a saint he was and I trembled as I waited. However, he was kind to me. He asked a little after Pastor Bruno and enquired after the manner of his dying. He asked me to evensong with his chaplain so that we might pray for his soul’s rest. He then sent me to the bursar with a commission as a clerk. He had made a place for us, all in the course of an afternoon. The way that he accepted us without question seemed remarkable to me, but I later learnt that this was his way. Blessings from God and misfortunes he accepted equally calmly, and made the best use of them.
I was at a loss as to what I should tell him of my past. It took some time before I could lay the burden of the treasure at his feet. By that time we were living within the precinct and life had begun to take on a recognisable rhythm. Although my work with the bursar was completely new to me, my time in Bewley’s chandlery helped considerably and I quickly learnt the rote. Long John’s papers grew to worry me considerably however, and it was the bursar who sent me back to Dr Pulsey.
My conscience troubled me, for I knew I should have told him everything at our first meeting, and I felt sick as I waited for him. He sat me in his study, closed the door and listened silently through my confession. I had told no one of the treasure or of my previous calling. I had just called myself a chandler’s clerk, blessing the little ex
perience I had got of that work. Dr Pulsey heard me without comment and seemed to believe all he was told. He sat for a while deep in thought.
“What are we to do with you, young man? Are you ready to be turned over as a pirate? Hmm, so you say. Even if you are, I doubt if little Rose would want to see her father hung up. And what about the money? To whom does that belong?”
There could be, of course, no answer to that question. The money was stolen and tainted with blood, that much was clear. However, the money that Long John had settled on us was not quite so obviously bad. Some of it had presumably been obtained by legitimate trading, all be it after the initial seed had been stolen. Dr Pulsey applied the practical Christianity for which he was famous.
“Young man,” he said, after taking a long time in deliberation, “you cannot keep that money. It would be wrong for you to benefit from it. However, some of the money should rightly attach to your daughter. She had no part in your sins. So what I will arrange is this. Give your papers to me and I will send them to be converted by the bursar. Half of what there is I will place with trustees for your daughter on her majority. The rest we should send somewhere, perhaps to one of the poorer churches out where it came from, to help them turn pagans into Christians. What do you say to that?”
I bowed my head. At least you would be cared for and that was all that concerned me. What was to become of me? “My Lord, may I continue to work here?”
“Of course! You must earn your bread in some calling. Attend to your duties, study hard and if Pastor Bruno’s opinion is to be believed, the Church will find a place to use you. Go now.”
How grateful I am to Dr Pulsey for taking us in. I am sure we could have survived in some fashion without him, but look where he has led us. It was entirely due to his support that I was allowed to attend the University at Oxford and later, again under his guidance, enter Holy Orders. It was he who helped me to this Parish and gave me real work to do. We must always be grateful to his memory. This reminds me that it is time you were introduced to the trustees of your money. It will not be long now before it will be handed back to you, and I hope you will be pleased with your good fortune.
Where Gold Lies Page 20