Gulley’s Cove
OUR COUNTRY, MEANWHILE , had been ‘saving herself by her exertions and Europe by her example.’ Very proud of themselves were Miles and Pronto, whose exertions, described above, had been of the most heroic order. We daily defied the Corsican on terra firma, drinking many loyal toasts, while our brother Eustace defied him less comfortably upon the seas. And it was in this connection that one of those sudden divergences took place between us which are to supply the subject matter for this memoir. Were it not for these upheavals, these Declarations of Independence, upon the part of Miles, his story must have ended when Pronto’s began.
When not in town I spent a good deal of time at Ullacombe, both before and after Newsome’s marriage. It is by the sea and there is good fishing. I kept a small sailing-boat in which I roamed up and down the coast, sometimes with Newsome, sometimes alone. In the course of these explorations I made some new friends of the class which is generally called humble, though no man was ever less humble than William Hawker.
I had gone out one day alone in my boat and was caught in a sudden squall of great violence, which blew me on to some rocks near a sequestered cove some twelve miles from Ullacombe. There was no great danger, but I was obliged to swim for it. When I reached the cove I got such a pounding from the surf on the beach that I was pretty well exhausted. A man came running down from a solitary cottage above the cove. He brought me up to his house, gave me dry clothes and hot rum, and set me by his fire.
When I had a little recovered my senses, and begun to look about me, I had a curious sense of ease and pleasure for which I could not exactly account. I might still have been a little dazed by my buffeting. I was almost positive that I had seen this place before, or had known of it in some way. And then it would seem to me as though it might be some old picture into which I was got. It was a common enough room, – a clean sanded kitchen and a bright fire, the points of light winking in the pewter plates ranged along the dresser. The cottager’s wife rocked a heavy cradle with her foot as she sat gazing pensively into the fire. In her blue gown, checked handkerchief and round-eared cap, she was very neat and pretty; she reminded me of some old Flemish pictures that Ludovic has.
Every article in the room had a charm for me. I liked the side of bacon and the herbs that hung from the rafters, a heap of nets and lobster-pots in a dark corner, and an old dog snoring upon the hearth.
The storm without increased in violence. Presently my host returned. He had been seeing to his stock.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you should not attempt the walk to Ullacombe by night in this wind. The path goes by the cliffs and is dangerous unless you know it well. You had best remain with us till daylight, for there is not a house nearer than Gulley’s Cross, and none where you might get a bed.’
I assented readily enough, for I was in no hurry to change my quarters. I wondered, though, where my bed might be; the cottage had but one room and I could see no bed in it. The young woman rose to prepare supper and I was quite sorry that she did so. I would have liked to sit on for ever in this dreamy repose, contemplating my old picture. But I continued to watch all that they did with great satisfaction, – as though I had arrived at some long-desired bourn, and had come to stay there for ever, after a desperate and perilous voyage.
The man lighted a tallow dip and placed it upon a shelf in the corner by the fish-nets. Seating himself there he began some task of mending or fitting. The faint light falling on his face, the strong shadows, made a picture of another sort. I thought of Rembrandt, and wished Ludovic there to agree with me. He was a fine fellow; I judged him to be between thirty and forty years old. His features were strongly marked and of a thoughtful cast, though glowing with health. His eye was bright and his manner decisive. He was very much his own master. I had been aware of that from the first; even in the few sentences that had passed between us, I had been struck by something unusual in his air.
There is about most labouring people a kind of blankness of countenance, when addressing their betters, which is not natural. It is assumed in order to keep us at a distance. They will seldom volunteer an opinion and, if questioned, will give as indirect an answer as they can. They don’t wish us to know what they think.
I once rambled beside a lake with my father, and we watched some people in a boat a little distance away across the water. We could not imagine what they were about, for they rowed continually up and down over the same spot and a great discussion was carrying on amongst them. Only a word or two occasionally reached us. Presently my father remarked that the man in the stem must be a gentleman because he had just begun a sentence with the words: I think.
‘Your labourer,’ said my father, ‘would never do so. He may state a fact, but he will never express an opinion without some preface such as: “They do say …” or “I’ve heard tell …” This is not, I believe, because he does not and cannot think; it is because nobody ever asks him what he thinks. Since Adam was driven from Paradise, to earn his living in the sweat of his brow, nobody has enquired what he thinks.’
I remembered this as I contemplated my Rembrandt, and it occurred to me that he had told me what he thought as coolly as though he owned half a county.
The woman meanwhile had put plates, knives and mugs upon the table. She brought ale, bread and cheese, and took a mess of beans and bacon from the pot over the fire. A little shyly she asked if I would be pleased to take supper with them.
We talked of the crops and of the weather. I learnt that he was both farmer and fisherman in a small way. He had a little plot of land above the cove, – a field or so in plough and some pasture; he kept cows, fowls, pigs and bees, and in addition caught lobsters. These last he kept alive in a salt-water tank that he had made, until he could take them, with his wife’s butter, cheeses, eggs and so forth, to Torhaven, a sizeable market town some way farther up the coast. He made this trip once a week, taking his boat in fine weather, and his pack-horse when it was stormy.
‘I wish,’ I said, ‘that you would go to Ullacombe, for we cannot get good lobsters there.’
He said briefly that he never did, which astonished me, because it was so much nearer than Torhaven. But a faint sigh from his wife restrained me from further questions; it struck me that he might have some particular reason for avoiding the place. I could not quite make him out. His accent, though pleasant, was unfamiliar to me. He pronounced his words very clearly; he did not slur them as country people usually do. I understood him to say that he came from Lincolnshire, but this was not so. I was a little tired and sleepy and I could not have been fully attending to what he said. I had taken notice of a pewter spoon that was set for me; it was of a very graceful design, – much less clumsy than cottage spoons usually are. He said that it had been his mother’s spoon and that it was made in Boston, where the pewter smiths are the finest in the world. I asked if he came from Boston and he replied that he was born not far from it, in Marblehead, a little town upon the coast, some way to the north of it. I had never heard of it, and never surmised that such a town is nowhere to be found in this island.
From my place at the table I could see rather more of the room, and my eye was now struck by some forty or fifty books, arranged upon deal shelves behind the settle where I had been sitting beside the fire. This was so unusual a sight, in a house of that kind, that my surprise burst out at the expense of my manners.
‘I see,’ said I, ‘that you have a very pretty little library! I suppose that you are fond of reading?’
His smiling assent left me with the impression that he thought my remark too foolish for any lengthy reply. And I felt it so myself, but knew not how to talk to him. But these books filled me with curiosity and when the meal was over I took a rush-light to that corner, in order to examine them. They were old and shabby but their titles startled me. He had a good collection of poetry and essays, some novels, and Shakespeare’s plays. The chief of his library, however, was of a philosophical or political nature. He had, among others, Hu
me, Locke, Berkeley, More’s Utopia, Smith’s Theory of the Moral Sentiments and The Wealth of Nations, Rousseau’s Social Contract, Hobbes’ Leviathan, all the works of Thomas Paine, and a small pamphlet, – A Summary View of the Rights of America, edited by Burke and written, I believe, by Jefferson.
I regarded them silently, not venturing upon any comment. Presently he joined me and asked if I was fond of reading aloud. I said that I was. He then asked if I would be so good as to read to them a little.
‘Mary,’ he said, ‘cannot read, though I am teaching her. I generally read aloud to her in the evenings.’
‘What?’ cried I. ‘The Age of Reason?’
He laughed and said that he had not, as yet, tried her with that.
‘She likes a feeling story and we are half through Pamela. But we will leave that this evening, since we have you with us. It was in my mind to ask you to read us some poetry, for that is work at which I make but a poor hand. I should like Mary to hear a gentleman read poetry.’
‘With all the pleasure in the world,’ said I, ‘if you will tell me what poetry you prefer.’
‘No, sir. If you please, you will read what you prefer yourself, for you will read that best.’
I accordingly found a volume of Milton and read Comus to them. This poem has always been a favourite with me, but Milton is quite out, just now, and Pronto is seldom invited to read him. I think that I acquitted myself well. My hosts listened with close attention and he seemed to take great pleasure in the entertainment. As for Mary, half the words must have been unintelligible to her, but she liked it in her way, for her greatest pleasure was ever to see her husband happy. When I had done she thanked me very prettily, declaring that it was a sweet piece and that she was ‘sure the poor Lady would get off at the last.’
‘I told you,’ said he, with a laugh, ‘that she is all for a pathetic story.’
The hour was now advanced, for people of their habits. He asked me if I would choose to go to bed. When I assented he drew back some check curtains, revealing a box bed set in the wall. I had thought it a window.
‘If you will take the place over against the wall,’ said he, ‘I think you will be comfortable enough, for it is a large bed.’
I now understood that I was to share it with them. Hastily following his example I stripped to my shirt and got into the bed, whilst Mary sat with her back to us, in the chimney-corner, suckling her child. A moment later he joined me, talking of poetry with an enthusiasm almost equal to anything Ludovic can do in that line. The reading of Comus had quite thawed any natural taciturnity in his manner.
‘It is a kind of language,’ said he, ‘which is not the worse for being hard to understand. There is always meaning of a sort, and fancy feeds upon the sound of it. I may not always comprehend what your poet means, but that does not extinguish my pleasure in what he says. Whereas, in all other books, there is no enjoyment save in following the argument.’
I asked him how he got his books. He explained that he bought them of a pedlar who travelled the country and to whom he had given a list of the works which he most desired to possess. This man was able to get them cheap, at sales or at houses where a removal was expected. When he came to Gulley’s Cove he always brought one or two volumes in his pack. He had got the Human Understanding from a dairy-maid in exchange for a cap ribbon. She had been using it as a scale-weight for cheeses.
He in turn asked me if I could recommend any new works, lately out; he said that he had little opportunity to learn of new books. I mentioned some of Ludovic’s dotes, and quoted some lines from Wordsworth which struck him very much. He asked me to repeat them and had almost got them by heart when Mary clambered in beside us and blew out the rush-light. But he would not sleep until he was sure of these lines and kept mumbling: Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns … until I burst out laughing. I could not help it. Our situation, – the three of us laid there in a row, – was too much for me.
My guffaw was echoed, a moment later, by a smothered giggle from Mary.
‘And at what,’ asks he severely, ‘might you two be laughing?’
‘At you, to be sure!’ says Mary.
In a little while he began to laugh himself, though protesting that he could see nothing ridiculous in his proceedings. The bed shook with our laughter. For some time afterwards one or other of us would give a drowsy chuckle.
For my part, I half believed that I was dreaming. My heart was so light. I could not remember when it had last been as light as this. I wished that I should not have to go away in the morning. I wished that this had been in truth my bed, and that I might sleep in it for ever.
The American
I WAS UP, however, in the dawn, and off to Ullacombe, for I knew that Newsome would be alarmed at my absence. My new friends bade me a kind farewell. I felt that it would be indelicate to offer payment, but I promised myself that I would return to Gulley’s Cove very soon, with books for him and ribbons for Mary.
Newsome (he was still a bachelor at this time) was much relieved to see me. As I ate my breakfast I related my adventures.
‘What?’ cried he. ‘You have been staying with the American?’
‘Is that what he is?’
‘That is the name they have for him round here. I hardly know him by sight. I believe that his name is William Hawker. He came here some ten years ago with his father, and they bought the little farm at Gulley’s Cove. But the old man is dead, is not he?’
‘There was no old man to be seen,’ I agreed. ‘Only a pretty wife, whose bed I shared last night.’
‘Good God!’
‘The American between us, as chaperon,’ continued I, ignoring his start. ‘But tell me about him, for he is a queer fellow. Why does he never come to Ullacombe?’
‘It may be because he has quarrelled with Lockesley.’
This was a man who owned most of the land in that part of the country. He was a Justice of the Peace and a notable tyrant.
‘Don’t tell me,’ cried I, ‘that my friend Hawker is afraid of Lockesley! I should be sorry to think it.’
‘He may not be, but others are. Since their quarrel, nobody in Ullacombe dare buy Hawker’s lobsters for fear of offending Lockesley. If Gulley’s Cove Farm were not a freehold, Lockesley would have sent him packing; it enrages the old man to have a cottager, like Hawker, defying him with impunity.’
The fact was that Hawker had voted against Lockesley’s man in an election. Lockesley had gone himself down to the hustings to see that all his people were voting as they ought, and was outraged to perceive Hawker, from whom he had bought lobsters, in the hostile enclosure. He immediately withdrew his custom from the rebel and let all his people know that they must do likewise, on pain of his severe displeasure. This was why Hawker was obliged to take his wares to Torhaven.
‘And you,’ said I to Newsome, ‘do you tolerate this? Do you buy lobsters as Lockesley bids you?’
‘Why no,’ said Newsome. ‘I am fortunately independent of Lockesley, and not, as you know, upon very good terms with him, though I do my best to avoid an absolute breach. I would buy Hawker’s lobsters, if he came this way. But it is not worth his while to come for one customer.’
All this increased my liking for Hawker. I lost no time in obtaining several new books, and within ten days I took them over with me to Gulley’s Cove. It was the first of many visits, during which I gradually learnt much of Hawker’s history.
His father had been a Devonshire man and came from Exeter. He had gone to the American Colonies in consequence of some trouble known to the Hawker family as the riot. What riot it could have been William did not know. As a child he had supposed it to be some immense, historic upheaval, comparable to the Porteous Riots. But it would seem to have been one of those little commotions which history ignores. Some injustice, real or fancied, led to violence in the streets of Exeter. Some heads were broken, some ringleaders jailed, and Richard Hawker decided to get out of the country. I do not know whether this was from fe
ar of the law or fear of his neighbours, but I should guess the latter, for he would appear to have been the kind of man who inevitably runs counter to popular sentiment.
He settled in Massachusetts, married, and did well in the trade of a cordwainer. He had several children but none, save William, survived infancy. When the American revolt broke out, this same contrary strain drove him to assert his loyalty to a German king whom he had never seen. He would not become an American citizen and removed with his family to Canada.
My friend William deplored this decision. He could remember very little of Marblehead, where he was born, but he would speak of it with such enthusiasm that I asked him once why he did not return to it.
‘I should,’ said he, ‘if I were not happy here. I always intended to go, but could not while my father was alive. And then I married. So I said to myself that I am perfectly contented here and want for nothing. I have had enough of travelling. This is a sweet place. I don’t care to leave it.’
The Hawkers remained in Canada until William was about fifteen years of age. The mother then died, and the father took to a roving life. He seems to have been the kind of man who never settles. William roved with him; some unexplained tie kept them together, for he grew very tired of it, yet would not leave the old man. They were in the West Indies for some time. Word at length reached them of the death of a relative in Exeter and a small inheritance. They returned to England, claimed the money, and ended their wanderings by purchasing the farm at Gulley’s Cove.
In William Hawker these circumstances had combined to produce a striking character. He had his father’s independence of temper, but was a good deal more rational. Though a Briton there was little about him that might be described as English. He was, as near as may be, a man with no country at all, living on his little plot at Gulley’s Cove like Alexander Selkirk upon his desert island. His neighbours called him the American, and I fancy that there was some justice in this, – that in spirit he belonged to that country rather than to any other. He should have returned to Marblehead. Had he done so he might have got the better of a certain melancholy which was not, I think, natural to him, but which sprung from too much solitude. He had seen too much of the world. Travel is a fine thing only when we can call some place home, and think it superior to any other.
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