Polsinney Harbour: A heartwarming family saga set in Victorian era Cornwall

by Mary E. Pearce

  Rachel Tallack was also there, but kept herself aloof as always. She would not seek comfort from anyone nor, when Maggie spoke to her, had she any comfort to give.

  ‘Men talk about the harvest of the sea but the sea always takes more than it gives,’ she said with angry fatalism.

  Jim, at the outer end of the fish-quay, climbed into one of the look-out gaps in the ten foot thick wall and looked down onto Porthvole beach, at the tide surging in over sand and rocks. When he put his head right out, past the shelter of the recess, he felt the full force of the wind cutting along the wall like a knife and when a big sea came in, rushing all along its base, the spray came up off the rocks and stung his face with the sharpness of gravel.

  The strength of the wind took his breath away and the sharp spray hurt his eyes but he bore it all for a count of one hundred because of a superstitious feeling that by enduring these hardships he would bring the Bright Star in. At the end of the count he climbed down. There was still no sign of the Bright Star.

  A handful of watchers stood on the cliff above the beach, blurred figures in the grey wind, leaning against it to keep their balance. Jim had an itch to be up there too; to see out, beyond and beyond; but he wanted to be everywhere at once and it seemed more important to stay on the quay. For one thing, his mother was there somewhere, and he felt he must not stray too far from her; for another, he wanted to be near the seamen, to hear what they had to say to one another; and anyway, he very much doubted if the watchers on the cliff could see past Burra Head today, for the sea beyond it was storm-dark.

  He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground, and again began counting up to a hundred. If he did not look out to sea, the Bright Star would come, he told himself. And if he counted very slowly …

  But supposing the Bright Star came without Uncle Brice and the rest of the Emmet’s crew? His mind seemed to swing dangerously, refusing to fix itself on this thought; finding it impossible to understand how life could offer two such extreme alternatives: on the one hand a thing so miraculous; on the other a thing so unthinkable. Had he reached one hundred yet? He didn’t know. He had lost count. He would just have to start again.

  Restless, he turned and walked a few paces. Then back ‒ again, kicking the ground. An old man stopped him and spoke to him but the words were whipped away by the wind and before the old man had time to repeat them there was a stir among the crowd and a great throbbing cry went up from half a dozen throats at once:

  ‘Here she comes!’

  Jim spun round and stared out to sea. It took him a troubled moment or two before his eyes could focus again on that distant grey swirl of sea and wind so ferociously mixed together. But yes! Yes! There she was! The Bright Star was coming, sure enough, although scarcely more than a black speck out there in the turbulent greyness; a speck that appeared and disappeared, moment by moment, with the heave of the sea.

  ‘Here she comes! Here she comes!’

  The cry, taken up by all the watchers, became a roar like the roar of the wind. People hurried this way and that and some of them went to speak to those women whose menfolk made up the Bright Star’s crew. There were tears and a sort of hushed laughter among them. But there was awkward concern, too, because of that other group of women who stood in stillness and silence nearby, not yet knowing the fate of their own menfolk. Hoping. Praying. Yet fearing the worst.

  Jim sought his mother among the crowd.

  ‘Uncle Gus is coming! I knew he would!’

  ‘Yes, I knew it, too!’ she said, in a voice he had never heard before, and she caught hold of both his hands, squeezing them hard between her own.

  But what of the Bright Star’s mission? That was the question in every mind; the question that now brought a hush on the crowd; drew all eyes seaward again.

  Slowly the lugger was coming nearer, keeping well clear of Struan Point, one small jigger sail set on her foremast. But it was still impossible to see how many men were in her. William Nancarrow and Peter Perkin had their telescopes trained on the boat and a great many eyes were trained on them. Seven men had gone out, in search of six. How many were coming back?

  The boat rose on a great running wave; seemed to hang there, eternally; then sank and vanished into the trough. A heart-stopping moment that lasted for ever and then she rose again to the sea, lifting, climbing, humouring the wave, balancing on it and riding it down.

  ‘How many men?’ people asked. ‘William? Peter? Can you see?’

  ‘I think I can see …’ William Nancarrow said, and his deep voice had a quiver in it, ‘I think I can see … nine men.’

  ‘I make it ten,’ Peter Perkin said.

  The boat disappeared. Reappeared. William Nancarrow spoke again.

  ‘I can see eleven … Wait … Twelve!’

  ‘I can see thirteen!’ Peter Perkin roared. ‘Thirteen men! They’ve found them all! The Emmet’s crew ‒ they’re all alive!’

  This time the roar from the crowd was louder even than sea and wind. The two groups of women most closely concerned moved together and became one, wives of the rescuers and the rescued all weeping and laughing together, touching one another with eloquent hands. And part of the crowd surged about them, jostling them, sharing their joy.

  Maggie still had hold of one of Jim’s hands. She was squeezing it to the very bone. She turned to him with radiant face and gave a little broken laugh.

  ‘Oh, Jim, they’re coming! They’re all alive! Was there ever anything so wonderful?’

  They looked out again at this miracle, the Bright Star, with her one brave sail, coming to them out of the storm. William Nancarrow and Peter Perkin were letting their telescopes pass among the crowd, but those with keen eyes could now count for themselves the figures, seen each as head and shoulders, sitting tight in the boat as she rose and fell.

  ‘Thirteen men, sure nuff. No doubt of that. I can see them plain.’

  ‘Thirteen men ‒ that’s unlucky,’ a voice said behind Jim and he turned with hatred in his heart for the man, Skiff Annear, who could say such a thing at such a time.

  For Jim knew, quite as well as anyone there, that the danger was by no means past. That in fact the worst was yet to come. The gale was blowing as hard as ever and huge seas were breaking on the harbour walls; and the Bright Star faced the one task more dreaded than any other: that of coming in on a lee shore, driven before a living gale.

  Rachel Tallack knew the dangers too. That was why she did not rejoice but stepped aside and stood alone as the crowd thronged round the waiting wives. Someone came up to her. It was the vicar, Mr Rowe.

  ‘Well, Mrs Tallack! Our brave men are coming and your son among them. We must thank God, all of us, for showing his goodness and mercy to them.’

  ‘I shall only thank God,’ Rachel said, ‘when I’ve seen our brave men come safe ashore.’

  Jim had moved away from his mother and was once again drawing close to William Nancarrow and the other seamen as, with the first excitement over, they talked in grave, quiet voices, all watching the boat as she came, all speculating on the helmsman’s intention. It would be madness, the watchers agreed, for her to attempt to come in at the narrow harbour entrance, with such seas breaking there. Her best chance ‒ indeed her only chance ‒ would be to come in on Porthvole beach.

  Even that would be fraught with danger because of the many sharp-ridged rocks, some now covered and hidden by the tide. It would take skilled seamanship to bring her in, avoiding those rocks, and to beach her successfully on the shelving sand, and although no one said it in so many words, there were serious doubts in many minds as to whether Ralph Ellis was seaman enough.

  ‘He’ll need to keep a cool head,’ ‒ not something Ralph was noted for ‒ ‘and he’ll need the judgment of Solomon,’ said William Nancarrow soberly. ‘But I will say this for him ‒ he’s doing very well so far. He’s riding those big seas like a cormorant riding a bit of a lop.’

  William Nancarrow’s telescope was now in the hands of A
lbert Grose and he was narrowly watching the boat.

  ‘Ess, he’s doing a brave handsome job, but tedn Ralph at the helm,’ he said.

  ‘Who is it, then? Brice Tallack, I suppose. Well, of course, that explains it, and thank God Ralph’s got more sense than conceit, to hand over to the better man.’

  ‘No, tedn Brice, neither, cos I can see him in the bows and seemingly he’ve hurt himself, cos his right arm is hanging down at his side.’

  ‘Who is it, then?’ Peter Perkin asked.

  ‘Just a minute. She’ve gone again.’

  The boat disappeared; reappeared; and Albert made a strange sound in his throat.

  ‘God in heaven, tes Gus Tallack!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Here, see for yourself.’

  ‘Damme, you’re right!’ Peter Perkin exclaimed and he in turn passed the telescope on. ‘Tes Gus Tallack at the helm or I’m a Dutchman and can’t say fish!’

  There was a ripple among the crowd as this fresh piece of intelligence was passed along and William Nancarrow, in his deep voice, said:‘Well, if anyone can bring her in safely, Gus Tallack is that man.’

  Jim felt that his heart would burst. His uncle Gus was at the helm and was bringing the Bright Star in, which meant that twelve men, including Ralph Ellis, had chosen to put their trust in him. And soon Jim could see for himself the thick, squat figure in white oilskin smock, sitting hunched in the stern like a graven image, one arm lying along the tiller, bearded face stolidly set under the peak of his seaman’s cap, and with eyes staring steadily straight ahead.

  The Bright Star was coming nearer. She was almost abeam of Craa Point. Would she make for the harbour mouth? Or would she make for Porthvole? Which, from out there, seemed most perilous? The boat rose and fell; her nose seemed to point; and soon the helmsman’s intention was plain.

  ‘He’s putting her in onto the beach!’

  Most of the crowd turned at once and surged back along the quay, round past the coopers’ huts on the wharf, and down the slipway onto the beach. For, however skilful the seamanship that was bringing the Bright Star in, she would nevertheless need help as she made her way into shoalwater and came cutting through the boiling surf. And already, at the water’s edge, many of the younger fishermen were tying ropes round their waists, ready to act as the moment required. Women and children were also there, willing and eager to play their part, and William Nancarrow directed them all, bellowing to make himself heard above the great noise of wind and sea.

  The tide now reached that part of the beach where shingle gave way to sand, and as the pounding waves receded, shingle and sand were sucked down together in an almighty rushing roar. Here, too, were the first of those rocks that made the beach dangerous at high tide.

  Some of the flatter rocks were covered already with water deep enough to hide them while other, taller, more jagged rocks were only partially surrounded, and on these the great waves broke, sometimes rising in spirals of spume twenty or thirty feet high. As these waves sank down again, the water swirled around the rocks and flung itself out shallowly, further and further up the beach, to lick with a kind of angry snarl at the feet of the people gathered there.

  The Bright Star was coming in fast, with plenty of way on her, and she would certainly need it to carry her safely past the rocks and up onto the shelving sand far enough to prevent her, steep-sided boat as she was, from toppling over and broaching-to.

  ‘She’s coming! She’s coming!’ William Nancarrow said. ‘Stand by, boys! Any minute now!’

  The lugger came in at a place nicely judged, midway between two reefs of rock, where the water shoaled innocently over clean shingle and sand. The men could be seen crouching in her, bracing themselves against the shock, alert for all the possible dangers that would threaten them as the boat grounded. Ralph Ellis crouched in the bows with a rope, one end of which was fastened to the stemhead, the rest coiled in his right hand, ready to fling to the men ashore.

  On the boat came, a big wave running behind her, and as she was now well into the shallows, the wave broke completely over her, running full length from stern to stem like a moving escarpment of water which, as it spread and flattened out, seethed over her decks in a mass of white foam. Out of this welter of broken water Ralph Ellis stood up in the bows and the rope, uncoiling, went snaking shorewards. There was a scramble on the sand and the rope was seized by many hands.

  But the weight of the sea swamping the boat had caused her to lose way and as the underwave receded, so the boat receded too, sucked back with the yielding shingle and sand. The men on the rope were dragged down the beach, some into the water itself, and before they could regain their footing, the boat, caught by a smashing cross-sea rebounding from the harbour wall, had tilted sharply over to starboard, flinging all thirteen men headlong into the boiling surf.

  The hawsemen dug in their heels. More men had come to help them now. And before the boat could broach-to completely, she had been hauled far enough up the beach for her keel to cut a path in the sand, making a bed into which she sank, still tilting at an ungainly angle, but resting unharmed on her starboard bilge. The end of the rope was passed through a ringbolt in a rock above the high water mark and a number of men stayed there to maintain their pull on the boat as the tide came further in around her.

  Meantime those men who had stood by with ropes round their waists were already going forward, breast-high into the surf, where thirteen of their brotherhood were fighting desperately for their lives.

  Brice, tossed about in the turbulent waters, with only his left arm to help him, was thrown onto his left side against a partly submerged rock. He tried to grip it with his hand but the sea was too strong for him and a fresh wave tore him away. Feeling the rock under his feet, he kicked himself vigorously up from it and rose, head and shoulders, above the sea. It was only two or three seconds before another wave engulfed him, but in those brief seconds he had seen his uncle Gus’s white oilskins in the water ten or twelve yards away.

  Again his feet touched rock and again he kicked himself up from it, striking out towards his uncle who, having no power in his legs, was unable to swim. The sea, however, was too much for him; he was soon overwhelmed; but this time, when a fresh wave caught him, it took him and carried him up the beach, where three or four rescuers quickly reached him and hauled him to safety.

  One by one, all thirteen men were pulled from the sea and carried up to the top of the beach, where there were plenty of helpers willing and able to minister to them. Dr Sam Carveth was there and to those who were tending Brice he said:

  ‘He’ll be all right, but he’s got a dislocated shoulder. I’ll come back to him when I’ve seen the rest.’

  Maggie and Jim had got separated but both, from different parts of the beach, saw Gus taken from the sea and laid upon the dry sand well above high water mark.

  By the time they reached the place, his rescuers had removed his smock and were giving him artificial respiration. He lay on his stomach on the sand and Matt Crowle, crouching astride him, was strenuously squeezing his sides. His bearded mouth was open and water was trickling out of it but in a while the trickling stopped and with a terrible heaving shudder Gus’s lungs filled with air.

  Matt Crowle and Scrouler Tonkin turned him over onto his back. Matt thrust a folded jacket underneath his shoulder blades, so that his head lay well back, and Scrouler worked his arms up and down. Soon Gus gave another heave; his eyes flickered open; his lips moved.

  Scrouler now made him more comfortable by removing the folded jacket and placing it under his head. Matt said something under his breath and the two men stood up. They turned towards Maggie, who stood nearby, and she came and dropped on her knees beside Gus, stifling a quick indrawn cry as she saw the deep wound in his temple, from which the blood ran streaming down, reddening his wet grey hair and beard.

  ‘Gus, don’t try to speak. Dr Sam is coming.’

  If Gus heard, he did not obey. His dark gaze was on her. His l
ips moved again.

  ‘Others?’ he said. ‘Are they all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie said, ‘they’re all safe now.’

  ‘Boy Brice?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie said. ‘You don’t have to worry. He’s alive and safe. I saw him myself just a moment ago ‒’

  ‘I told you,’ Gus said, in a hoarse whisper and gave a short, exhausted cough. ‘I told you I’d bring him back to you.’ Somebody touched Maggie’s shoulder. She rose and gave way to Dr Sam. But Dr Sam could do nothing for Gus, and Maggie knew it. She saw the dark eyes close, the wet bearded lips part slightly, and the shaggy grey head fall sideways as though he had turned to kiss the sand.

  Jim, beside her, saw it too. His young face was white with the knowledge of death. She reached out to him with enfolding arms and he hid his grief against her breast.

  Chapter Ten

  On a hot sunny morning in July, Maggie and Jim rode in the cart with Isaac Kiddy to Martin Laycock’s boatyard, situated on ‘the bank’ up behind the fish-cellars. In the cart, neatly rolled, lay the new suit of sails that Isaac and Percy Tremearne had made for Brice’s new boat which, caulked, tarred, and painted, stood on the stocks in the boatyard. When the cart drew up, Martin Laycock and two of his men came at once to help Isaac unload the sails, so well barked by Eugene that even now, after six days’ drying, the cutch came off brown on the men’s hands.

  ‘Ess,’ Isaac said, complacently, ‘they’ve been barked to within an inch of their lives.’

  As soon as the sails had been unloaded, Isaac drove off in the empty cart, leaving Maggie and Jim behind. Jim had brought her to see the boat and now, in a great state of excitement, he escorted her across the yard, between the piles of pitchpine planking, past the sawpit and sheds and a halfbuilt gig, to where his uncle Brice’s new lugger stood ready for launching the following day. It was the first time Maggie had seen the new boat and as she stood under the big black hull her gaze instinctively went to the bows and dwelt on the boat’s name and number painted boldly and clearly in white: Gus Tallack, PY 41.