Chapter Fourteen. My Patients the Fishermen
I used to meet a good many of the fishermen down about the little pier, and after a little bit of a case that I managed with one poor fellow who had been for years leading a weary existence, I found that I might have commanded the services of every fisherman there and had their boats at pleasure. There was always a pleasant smile for me when I went down, and whenever a boat came in if I was seen upon the pier there was sure to be a rough sunburnt face looking into mine as a great string of fish was offered to me.
Theyre fresh as daisies, doctor, the giver would say: a man, perhaps, that I had hardly seen before, while the slightest hint at payment was looked upon as an offence.
And theres no knowing, doctor, said one man who presented me with a delicious hake, I may be down at any time and want your help and advice. Didnt you cure Sam Treporta? Lookye here doctor, dont you go away again, you stop and practice down here. Well be ill as often as we can, and you shant never want for a bit of fish so long as the weather keeps fine.
It was one afternoon down on the little rugged granite pier that I heard the story of Tom Trecarn and the bailiffs, and being rather a peculiar adventure I give it as it was told to me.
Is that you, Tom?
Iss, my son, replied Tom, a great swarthy, black-whiskered, fierce-looking, copper-coloured Cornish giant, in tarry canvas trousers, and a blue worsted guernsey shirt a tremendous fellow in his way but with a heart as soft and tender as that of his wife, whom he had just addressed in the popular fashion of his part as my son. Tom had just come home from mackerel fishing off the Scilly Isles. The take had only been poor, for the wind had been unfavourable; but the few hundred fish his lugger had brought in were sold, and with a few hake in his hand for private consumption, Tom Trecarn had come home for a good nights rest.
Oh, Tom, burst out his wife, throwing down that popular wind instrument without which upon a grand scale no fishermans granite cottage is complete Oh, Tom, said Mrs Trecarn, throwing down the bellows, there known as the Cornish organ Oh, Tom, youre a ruined man.
Not yet, my son, replied Tom, stoically; but if things dont mend, fishing wont be worth the salt
for a score of pilchards.
But Dan Pengellys broken, Tom, sobbed Mrs Trecarn.
Then well get him mended, my son, said Tom, kissing her.
How many fish had ye? sang a voice outside the cottage, in the peculiar pleasant intonation common amongst the Cornish peasantry.
Thousand an half, sang back Tom to the inquiring neighbour.
Where did you shoot, lad? sang the voice again.
West of Scilly, Eddard. Bad times: wind heavy, and theres four boats fish.
Pengellys got the bailiffs in, Thomas, sang the neighbour, now thrusting his head in at the door.
Sorry for him, sang Tom, preparing for a wash.
And Im sorry for you, Thomas, sang the neighbour.
What for? said Tom, stoically.
Why, aint all your craft in his store, Tom? inquired the neighbour.
Oh, yes every net, sobbed Mrs Trecarn; and were ruined. Eighty-four pounds fifteen and seven-pence, too, those nets cost.
Butt aint nothing to us, said Tom, turning a different colour, as an ordinary man would have turned pale.
Why, your crafts seized too, lad; and yell lose it all, cried the neighbour, singing it right into the great fellows ear.
Down went the pitcher of water upon the stone floor in a wreck of potsherds and splash, and crash went the staggering neighbour against the side table set out with Mrs Trecarns ornaments, as Tom rushed out of the house, and up the street to Daniel Pengellys store.
Dan Pengellys store was a well-known building in Carolyn, being a long, low, granite-built and shale-roofed shed, where many of the fishermen warehoused their herring and pilchard nets during the mackerel season the mackerel nets taking their turn to rest when dried, on account of the pilchards making their appearance off the shores of Mounts Bay. For, as in patriarchal days mens wealth was in flocks and herds, so here in these primitive Cornish fishing villages it is the ambition of most men to become the owner of the red-sailed, fast-tacking luggers which, from some hitherto unexplained phenomenon, sail like the boats of every other fishing station faster than any vessel that ploughs the waves. Failing to become the owner of a boat, the next point is to be able to boast of having so many nets, many a rough-looking, hard-handed fisherman being perhaps possessor of a couple or three hundred pounds worth, bought or bred (netted) by his wife and daughters.
To Dan Pengellys store went Tom Trecarn, to find there a short, fresh-coloured, pudgy man leaning against one of the doorposts, holding the long clay pipe he smoked with one hand, and rubbing his nose with the key he held in the other.
I want my nets out, said Tom, coming up furious as a bull. Ive got eighty pound worth of craft in here as dont belong to the Pengellys.