Wandering Heath | Page 3

to force her nose to the sea with the help of her small bower anchor and
the scrap or two of canvas that hadn't yet been blown out of her. But
while he looked, she fell off, giving her broadside to it foot by foot, and
drifting back on the breakers around Carn du and the Varses. The rocks
lie so thick thereabouts, that 'twas a toss up which she struck first; at
any rate, my father couldn't tell at the time, for just then the flare died
down and went out.
"Well, sir, he turned then in the dark and started back for Coverack to
cry the dismal tidings--though well knowing ship and crew to be past
any hope; and as he turned, the wind lifted him and tossed him forward
'like a ball,' as he'd been saying, and homeward along the foreshore. As
you know, 'tis ugly work, even by daylight, picking your way among
the stones there, and my father was prettily knocked about at first in the
dark. But by this 'twas nearer seven than six o'clock, and the day
spreading. By the time he reached North Corner, a man could see to
read print; hows'ever, he looked neither out to sea nor towards
Coverack, but headed straight for the first cottage-- the same that stands
above North Corner to-day. A man named Billy Ede lived there then,
and when my father burst into the kitchen bawling, 'Wreck! wreck!' he
saw Billy Ede's wife, Ann, standing there in her clogs, with a shawl
over her head, and her clothes wringing wet.

"'Save the chap!' says Billy Ede's wife, Ann. 'What d' 'ee mean by
crying stale fish at that rate?'
"'But 'tis a wreck, I tell 'ee. I've a-zeed 'n!'
"'Why, so 'tis,' says she, 'and I've a-zeed 'n too; and so has everyone
with an eye in his head.'
"And with that she pointed straight over my father's shoulder, and he
turned; and there, close under Dolor Point, at the end of Coverack town,
he saw another wreck washing, and the point black with people, like
emmets, running to and fro in the morning light. While he stood staring
at her, he heard a trumpet sounded on board, the notes coming in little
jerks, like a bird rising against the wind; but faintly, of course, because
of the distance and the gale blowing--though this had dropped a little.
"'She's a transport,' said Billy Ede's wife, Ann, 'and full of horse
soldiers, fine long men. When she struck they must ha' pitched the
hosses over first to lighten the ship, for a score of dead hosses had
washed in afore I left, half an hour back. An' three or four soldiers,
too--fine long corpses in white breeches and jackets of blue and gold. I
held the lantern to one. Such a straight young man!'
"My father asked her about the trumpeting.
"'That's the queerest bit of all. She was burnin' a light when me an' my
man joined the crowd down there. All her masts had gone; whether
they carried away, or were cut away to ease her, I don't rightly know.
Anyway, there she lay 'pon the rocks with her decks bare. Her keelson
was broke under her and her bottom sagged and stove, and she had just
settled down like a sitting hen--just the leastest list to starboard; but a
man could stand there easy. They had rigged up ropes across her, from
bulwark to bulwark, an' beside these the men were mustered, holding
on like grim death whenever the sea made a clean breach over them, an'
standing up like heroes as soon as it passed. The captain an' the officers
were clinging to the rail of the quarter-deck, all in their golden
uniforms, waiting for the end as if 'twas King George they expected.
There was no way to help, for she lay right beyond cast of line, though

our folk tried it fifty times. And beside them clung a trumpeter, a
whacking big man, an' between the heavy seas he would lift his trumpet
with one hand, and blow a call; and every time he blew, the men gave a
cheer. There' (she says)'--hark 'ee now--there he goes agen! But you
won't hear no cheering any more, for few are left to cheer, and their
voices weak. Bitter cold the wind is, and I reckon it numbs their grip o'
the ropes, for they were dropping off fast with every sea when my man
sent me home to get his breakfast. Another wreck, you say? Well,
there's no hope for the tender dears, if 'tis the Manacles. You'd better
run down and help yonder; though 'tis little help that any man can give.
Not one came in alive while I was there. The