‘I know only too well the force of what you are saying,’ said Christopher. ‘No one can say I have any affection for Uncle Philip. He drove my poor father mad. But he is a man of authority in Plyn and it would do no harm to turn to him now for help. After all, he can only refuse us.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Tom slowly, ‘he’s that peculiar with his grudge agen his own folk, ther’s no knowin’ what he might conceive to harm ’em.’
‘Come, but that’s nonsense, Tom. A man of seventy-two is past makin’ trouble for us or anybody else. Besides, for why?’
‘Sounds foolish, maybe, but I wouldn’t trust ’un now, no more than ever. I won’t trust Philip Coombe till he’s lyin’ in his coffin, an’ then I’ll cross my fingers an’ whisper a charm.’
‘Tom’s right,’ muttered James, ‘the fellow bain’t human, he’s an evil pisky what never did belong to Coombe blood - I’ll lay my oath to it.’
‘Yes - but listen here, something has got to be done and quickly - you know it both of you, sitting here and shaking our heads isn’t going to bring employment and save the Yard. I’m not afraid of Uncle Philip, he’s done me all the harm he can, in the past, and that’s over, thank God. I’m going down to the office this very day to speak my mind.’
‘You’re a good fellow, Chris, but no good’ll come of it - mark my words.’
Christopher would not listen to them, and that afternoon he made his way down the hill of Plyn to the office on the quay. He was admitted at once, and found his uncle standing on the hearth, warming his hands before a poor fire.
He showed no surprise at the appearance of his nephew. He rubbed his hands and smiled strangely.
‘Well, you’ve come at last to see what I can do for you. That’s it, is it not? I very rarely make a mistake, you know - very rarely.’
‘I take the responsibility of this visit upon myself,’ said Christopher steadily, ‘my cousins were against it, being proud, independent characters. I have no such qualities, as you probably know.’
‘So my brother Joseph’s son admits his defeat. This humble attitude is very pleasing. Different to the old days. It’s a sublime piece of irony that you should come to me in your trouble, after all that is past.’
‘Ironic to you, maybe, Uncle, painful and bitter to me, and I do it for my cousins’ sake alone.’
‘Well, what do you expect me to do? Order a hundred-ton yacht for the races at Cowes next year? I suppose you think I’m made of money. Or perhaps you are hoping to build a schooner on the same lines as the old Janet Coombe which I shall probably scrap in a year or two. Want me to throw my money about just to give employment to a crowd of incompetents. Is that it?’
Christopher turned to the door.
‘I see it is useless remaining any longer,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Uncle.’
‘Hold on - hold on,’ cried the man. ‘Not so fast, I never said I wasn’t going to help, did I? Not if the lot of you were starving would I give a penny to lift you out of it, unless it suited my purpose. Well, as it happens I have got work for you, and you may consider yourselves lucky. The whole business could probably be done much better and more thoroughly at Falmouth, but I am willing to risk it.You know the barque Hesta?’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘I’ve bought her, and want her re-classed. She’s to be refitted altogether, and re-rigged as a three-masted auxiliary schooner. With a powerful motor she ought to be useful in coastal trade, though in all probability I shall lose on her. Now are you prepared down at the Yard to take this on?’
‘Good heavens, Uncle, what do you suppose? This will be a godsend to us all.’
‘You can take the winter over it, but I shall expect her to be completed by March.’
‘Why, yes - of course, Uncle. How can I thank you? I was over-hasty just now I admit, and here’s my apology for it.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, fool,’ snapped Philip. ‘I’m giving you the work because I want it done, and that’s all there is to it. Now you can clear out of here, and carry your precious news to your thick-headed cousins. I want the work well done, mind, no niggling and poor material.’
‘No, Uncle. Good day, and good health.’
Christopher left his uncle’s office with something of the boyish spirits that had been his over twenty years before, when he had set forth to sail in the Janet Coombe with the false hope of London to fill his dreaming mind. He had not changed so greatly after all.
11
Once again the hammers sounded in Coombe’s Yard, the slip was busy with workmen, and on the beach beside the old wall stood a big vessel, stripped bare of all her gear, looking, with her plain hull and dismasted deck, for all the world like a ship newly launched.
Tom Coombe and his Cousin James worked with straightened shoulders and an air of authority, they could lift their heads once more in Plyn and feel they were doing real business at last, after so many idle months, and wasting their skill on little pulling boats and prams.
Christopher, as business manager, left the actual manual part of the labour to his cousins and their workmen, while he busied himself with the ordering of materials and all necessary articles, interviewing firms, writing letters to places upcountry, and taking a great deal of trouble and interest in the whole concern. Uncle Philip had said he wanted the work well done, and so it should be, the Coombes would not spare themselves in their undertaking.
It was a custom in Plyn, and generally in the west country, to have terms of long credit. Folk trusted one another, and did not bother to send their account at quarterly dates, but waited until they had a need for their money, knowing that the necessary sum would be immediately forthcoming. The Coombes for generations had followed this old-standing custom, and had never found it at fault. They had always known with whom they were dealing, and orders went by word of mouth and never by written contract.
The winter months passed, and the days began to brighten. Soon the work at the Yard would be finished, and the ship ready for sea. She looked a fine, smart vessel now, and the Coombes were proud of her. The first week in March, Christopher had a nasty attack of influenza, and was laid up in bed. Just before he was taken ill he sent the Hesta’s account up to the office, as the firms in Plymouth and elsewhere had begun to write for their money.Then when the influenza came upon him he left word with Tom to attend to the business.
A week after this when he was able to move downstairs, and was sitting before the fire in the parlour, Bertha came in with a worried face and said that both cousins Tom and James were outside and wished to see him on a matter of grave importance.
‘Let them come in, by all means,’ said Christopher in some surprise. ‘I hope nothing upsetting has occurred.’
The two men entered the room, and Christopher saw at once by their faces that something of great urgency had brought them there.
‘I wouldn’t have disturbed you seein’ as you’m poorly,’ began Tom, ‘but for a terrible thing that has happened. See here, this letter came for us this mornin’.’
Christopher took it from him and read the following:To Thos Coombe and Sons
Dear Sirs,
With regard to your account for the re-conditioning of the barque Hesta we find you have grossly overcharged and far exceeded the limits intended by this firm. As you produced no estimate at the outset, and appear to have acted entirely on your own responsibility without once consulting us, we do refuse here and now to pay such a sum, and you must make the necessary reductions or forfeit the entire proceeding.
Yours faithfully,
Hogg and Williams
Christopher turned the letter over in his hands and gazed blankly at his cousins.
‘What does it mean?’ he said stupidly. ‘I don’t follow at all.’
‘It means one thing, Chris,’ replied Tom slowly. ‘It means that we’re ruined.’ He rose and paced up and down the room while James said not a word.
‘But look here, cousins,’ cried Christopher
wildly, ‘there must be some mistake. He can’t refuse to pay, it’s impossible, it’s inhuman. Have you been down to the office?’
‘I went direckly the letter was read by us,’ answered Tom, ‘straight down and demanded an interview. He didn’t keep me long. He said as we’d been tryin’ to rob his firm, that we’d deliberately gone about the work in an unbusinesslike fashion without estimates nor nothin’, that he’d given no orders for such and such to be done, an’ it was our own fault to ha’ landed ourself in such a mess. He was’n goin’ to pay, an’ he’d have the law on his side if we wanted to fight. That’s about the sum of it all, Chris.’
‘So we came right along up to you to see as what you suggest,’ broke in James.
Christopher looked from one to the other in bewilderment and horror.
‘But we’ve only acted as Coombes has always done,’ he said, ‘we trusted people and people trusted us. This sort of thing hasn’t ever occurred before. Ask anyone in Plyn, they’d say the same. Hogg and Williams can’t do us like this - I say they can’t, why . . .’
‘Hold on, Chris,’ cried James, ‘’tain’t no mortal use in appealin’ to folk. It’s Philip Coombe an’ the law we’ve got to fight now. It’s a fight, or ruin as Tom says.’
‘Aye, an’ look at this, an’ this,’ said Tom fiercely, and he drew from his pocket bills from Plyn, Plymouth, London, and elsewhere. ‘These are all floodin’ in by every post, an’ more to come. Goods and materials ordered in our name, for which we expected payment from Hogg and Williams to be able to meet ’em. He won’t pay, an’ we can’t. It’s ruin, I tell ye - ruin an’ the finish to Coombes.’
He buried his head in his hands.
‘It’s not true,’ murmured Christopher, ‘it’s not true, there must be a way out, I swear there must.’
The room was silent, and no man spoke. Tom took his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. James whistled slowly between his teeth and gazed stubbornly into the fire. From the kitchen came the sound of Bertha laying the plates for lunch. Jennifer ran past the window calling to her mother. The three men in the parlour made no move. Then Christopher moved unsteadily from his chair and held out his hands to his cousins.
‘We’re all in this equally,’ he said, ‘and we’ll fight or fall together. Uncle Philip may have the law, but we’ve got the truth. I’m not afraid.’
Then James shrugged his shoulders and laughed harshly.
‘Who’s ever got the better o’ Philip Coombe yet?’ he asked. ‘Truth b’ain’t no weapon for me, it’s cunning an’ sly dealin’s that brings a man to prosperity these days. He knows what he’s about, I tell ye - an’ he’s got us beat right from the start.’
The three cousins gazed at one another like dumb things, lost and helpless.
12
The next weeks were fraught with anxiety and distress. Christopher lay awake at nights, tossing by his wife’s side, praying for some ray of light to show itself in the maze which had grown up about him and his cousins, and which threatened to entangle them for ever.
By day he worked with the lawyer, laying before the man every atom of evidence he could obtain to show that the Coombes had acted justly and within reason, and that the fault lay with the firm of Hogg and Williams.
The solicitor, familiar with all the machinery and quackery of the law, did his best to assemble a strong case from this scattered heap of muddled facts and material, but he warned his clients that his hope of success was small, that however sincerely and honestly they had gone about their business, legally they had acted wrongly.
On the fifth of April the case came up before the court at Sudmin.The cousins set off by car, hired from the Plyn Garage, along the same winding road that Joseph had taken, over twenty years before, in the little trap, beside the keeper from the asylum. The day was wild and stormy, and rain fell in torrents, the wind reaching gale force at times. The memory of the father was much in the mind of the son this day. The same man who had sent Joseph to desolation was sending Christopher to ruin.
At the end of the day Christopher learned that the action had failed. Hogg and Williams had triumphed, and Coombes must go into liquidation to absolve their debts.
Coombes ruined, Coombes in liquidation. The old sign would be torn down, and the yard sold. The slip, where so many brave and lovely ships had been built and launched, would fall into decay. One of the greatest traditions of Plyn would be no more.
It was a sad homecoming for Christopher that night. Half stunned by his misfortune and the ruin that had come to his cousins, he let himself into the house, scarce noticing the howling gale that tore at his clothes, nor heeding the angry sea that spent its fury on the rocks below.
Bertha came to meet him, and one glance at her husband’s face told her the worst had befallen them.
He wandered hopelessly into the parlour, his streaming coat still on his back, and stood before the fireplace gazing before him.
Supper time came, and he had not moved. Harold was returned from his work and a late class, he had heard in the town the result of the case, and he went at once to his father and laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ he said gently, ‘we’ll pull through all right. Everyone is on your side. It won’t be as hard as you think.’
Christopher raised his head and looked at his son. He tried to smile but the effort was pitiful. He could not respond to their sympathy, and his heart felt frozen. It seemed to him that he would never be able to feel again, that the shock had in some sort paralysed his nerves and left him without the sensation of emotion. He was beaten, finished. He could fight no more, feel no more.
The meal passed in silence. Little Jennifer was aware of the atmosphere; when she began a sentence in a loud voice about something she had seen during the day her mother bade her sharply to be quiet, and her brother frowned. She started and turned crimson, unused to a scolding for no reason, and lowered her head over her plate. She felt her lip tremble and her heart swell, the corners of her mouth turned down for all her efforts to prevent them. The tears welled up into her eyes. She tried to force her milk pudding down her tightened throat, but it would not go. She did not understand why they were cross with her. She choked suddenly and the spoon dropped on her plate. When Christopher saw her tears something seemed to move inside his heart; he rose from the table and left the room. He drew on his oilskins and his boots and let himself out into the blinding storm. Jennifer had cried. Everything else had failed to rouse him, the broken expressions on the faces of his cousins, his wife’s sympathy, his son’s helpful words, they all had failed to stir him from his lethargy of despair. But the tears in Jennifer’s eyes - these had brought him to his senses once again: more than this, they had brought him to a cold, unwavering decision that was leading him from the house, down the hill, through the streets, up the road to his uncle’s house.
Philip Coombe must die, and Christopher would kill him with his own hands. No turning back now, no softening of his heart. Through the streets of Plyn went Christopher, while the wild winds shook the buildings, and the lashing broke against the quays. There stood the bleak house at the end of the terrace, there was the light in the upper window.
Christopher cared not that he would swing for his deed. Tomorrow he would give himself up willingly to the hands of the law.
Uncle Philip must die. Christopher climbed the steps of the silent house, he clutched at the iron railing, and beat with his fist against the door. The wind shouted in his ear and the rain blinded him. Murder was in his heart, murder gleamed in his stricken eyes, love and compassion were dead intangible things, no longer possessed, no longer part of him. By killing Uncle Philip he would destroy himself. He knew this, he believed this, but he did not care.
‘There’s no salvation,’ he thought, ‘we’re doomed both of us, Philip Coombe and I, but I’ll suffer in eternity to have him suffer now. There’s nothing can save him.’
For a moment he paused, preparing for one tremendous blow that
should summon his uncle from the room above. As he waited a sudden startling crash sounded in his ears, followed by another and then another. Three reports flung into this night of hell and chaos. Three rockets rose into the air, borne by the sobbing wind—
It was the Lifeboat Call.
In less than five minutes the crew was assembled on the quay, some half-clad, buttoning their oilskins, some fumbling with the strings of their sou’westers. Last of all came Christopher Coombe, staggering, breathless from his mad run down the hill. He took his place in line with the others, he jumped with them into the waiting boat, and pulled towards the lifeboat moored some fifty yards away. It was not long before the coverings were ripped aside, the moorings cast, and the men at their places on the thwarts.
Beyond the point a ship was speeding to destruction, there were live men on board who must be saved. This was the one thought in the mind of each member of the lifeboat’s crew, the only thought. Christopher bent to his oar, the sweat pouring into his eyes, his arms nearly wrenched from their sockets. Gone was the lust for murder. He was filled with exultation. He had been born for this moment that was lifting him from desolation to the heights of splendour. Over the sweeping seas at the harbour mouth, beyond the bar, beyond the rocks, away to the helpless ship that should not call in vain.
He had no fear of the breaking sea. The knowledge of this was a triumph to him, something overwhelming and strange, he knew that in all his life he had never experienced the feeling of courage and strength that he now possessed. The forty-six years he had lived counted as nothing compared to this moment. The lifeboat call had come to him as a summons, a demand into the depths of his being, bidding him rise and enter the light, enter into promise and fulfilment. It seemed to him that the courage of his father Joseph had become part of him, that in some great and incomprehensible way they were together now, and fighting hand in hand. Someone had called to him out of the blackness of the night, someone had cried that his time was come.
The Loving Spirit Page 28
