The Loving Spirit (16 page)

And Janet lay in Lanoc churchyard. She could not see, she could not touch, she could not feel; all her promises had vanished in the air.

‘I will never forsake you.’ Had she said those words? If there was any truth in beauty, any power in love, should she not be there at his side, whispering in his ear, holding his hands with ghostly fingers? He was alone, save for the watch, and the man at the helm.

So Janet had been wrong; there was no force stronger than death; and survival was but another falsity in the general scheme of things, a fairy tale for frightened children who had never learnt to walk in the dark. He was alone then, but for his ship which had come to him like a legacy from her. For the sake of her blessed memory the ship should not be unworthy of her.

Joseph glanced around him, up at the wide sky with the grave placid stars; beside him at the dark swift water; and then with a word to the helmsman he went below to the cabin, where his supper was spread on the narrow table, and the lamp swung in its gimbals above his head. He was joined by the first mate, and after a little while, when they had eaten and drunk, Joseph turned in. All was silent. The watch on deck, busy with their own thoughts, spoke not to one another. The helmsman watched his compass, while the mate paced up and down beside him, the sparks from his pipe brushing away into the air.

And unknown to all save the wind and the sea, with the spray leaping to kiss her eyes and the breeze alighting on her hair, the figurehead of Janet Coombe smiled to herself in the darkness.

2

 

 

T
he maiden voyage of the
Janet Coombe
lasted some months. She sailed first to St John’s, Newfoundland, laden with china clay from Plyn, and from thence she proceeded with fish down to the Mediterranean, a very important freight at that time of the year, when the Catholic inhabitants of these southern ports were fasting for Lent.Then she filled with fruit, and there was a gallant race to London of schooners, barquentines, and brigantines, all eager to be the first to deliver their perishable cargo. The first home was
Janet Coombe
, who signalled for a pilot two miles before Gravesend, with her rivals still half a day astern of her down Channel.

From London she ran up to Newcastle in ballast, and there loaded with coals for Madeira; from thence to St Michaels for fruit and back to London, from whence she crossed the North Sea to Hamburg. Nearly a year had passed since she sailed from Plyn harbour, but time meant little to Joseph now.

There was no peace to him save on the decks of his own ship, of whose capabilities and speed he was justly proud, and he journeyed from one port to another with but one desire in his mind, to escape somehow from the spectre of loneliness that haunted his still moments.

While he was at Hull he received the following letter from Samuel:

Joseph smiled as he folded the letter, and put it away. He pictured them all at Plyn, solemn and unchanged, going about their work from day to day with few cares and worries, knowing nothing of the misery that gripped him always, nor of the dogged wish which swept upon him at times, to lose himself in adventure.

They would all forgather at Ivy House on Sunday evenings, with Mary seated at the harmonium, and offer up their voices to a God that did not exist. He did not know in his mind whether he pitied them or envied them.

There was a security in their life, a steadfastness of purpose which he would never know. But they knew nothing of the lifting power of a ship, of the scream of a gale in torn rigging, of the force of a tempest-swept sea which could fling humanity to destruction.

So Joseph pocketed his letter, and made sail for Hamburg, to whose port come men from every corner of the globe, where the richest merchants rub shoulders with the poorest sewer rat, where adventure beckons over the tall masts of crowded ships and loses itself in the sinister dock-side houses.

He knew no thrill like the entering of a strange harbour. First the dawning of an unfamiliar coast-line, then the hail of the pilot who came to take charge, the entering of a wide river which led to the port beyond.

If it was dark there would be the dim outlines of other ships at anchor, the rough voices of men, calling one another in a foreign tongue; and then suddenly the glare of lights, the throb of humanity, the shape of tall buildings outlined against the sky. There would be a scurry of feet in the darkness, a sharp cry from the pilot and the rattle of the heavy clanking chain.
Janet Coombe
was anchored in unknown waters.

Then, when all was safe and snug, Joseph would look about him, and let his eyes travel towards those challenging lights, which called to him to forsake the deck of his ship. Amidst those lights moved danger and romance, beneath those dark buildings dwelt poverty and suffering, love and death.

Joseph threw back his head and breathed the air which was a mixture of ships and tar and water, together with the smell of food and drink and tobacco, of people touching one another, and the disturbing scent of women. So Joseph looked upon Hamburg for the first time, and the figurehead of the
Janet Coombe
gazed proudly across the still waters to the city beyond.

Joseph was a month in Hamburg. He explored what he could of it, between visits to his broker and seeing to the general business of arranging a freight, and it was always the docks that interested him most. Joseph liked to lose himself amongst this crowd, pick up a few scattered words of their language, and drink with them in the thick atmosphere of the overheated cafés.

There was no need to speak sentences and search for phrases; a common understanding united every man there, for there was but one topic of conversation, one search which brought them here together. Women, always women.

A smile, a nod, a gesture, the chinking of money, this was the bond between them, while their restless eyes searched through the crowded room, and their restless feet beat time to the tune played by the scraping fiddler. On his last night in Hamburg, for they were to sail next morning for Dublin, Joseph left the broker’s office and made his way down to that part of the docks where lay the
Janet Coombe
. The pilot was coming aboard at six o’clock, and long hours at sea stretched once more before him. The reasonable thing to do would be to go to the ship right away, and turn in, snatching a few last precious moments of sleep.

But Joseph found little rest in sleep, and small comfort in reason. Here in Hamburg the lights glittered through the open doors of the cafés, the dark figures of men lurked in the corners of the street, and next to him on the pavement a woman murmured something, brushing against him with her skirt. Below him lay the docks, and the silent ships at their moorings. Tonight perhaps there would be something in the air, and an answer to a closed secret. So Joseph smiled, and bade reason fly to the winds, and he disappeared along the lighted streets in search of adventure, the inevitable adventure which means one breathless, intoxicating moment of intolerable pleasure - but so unchanging - so always the same.

Joseph stood by the crowd at the door of a café watching the people inside. There was a little stage at the corner of the room, where a Negro girl was dancing, and heaped against the walls were tables where the men were seated. The floor space in the middle was intended for dancing, but at the moment it was filled with women, parading up and down, like animals at a show. Joseph pushed his way round the room and sat at a table, while a hustled waiter stood at his elbow for orders. Joseph drank his beer thoughtfully, his eyes searching the crowd of women on the middle of the floor. Two Portuguese were settled at the next table. One had a white, pasty face, with protruding eyes and a dirty tuft of beard. He muttered excitedly to his companion, and clutched his glass with puffy, trembling hands. Joseph watched him as he drank his beer, and disliked him.

The Negro girl had finished her performance. There were a few shouts and some half-hearted clapping, then the men rose from their tables and fought to get to the women in the centre of the room. Music struck up from the band in the corner, and dancing began. Couples pressed against each other, unaware of their ugliness, their greasy faces, their fixed, meaningless smiles. The men knew only that beneath the tangled petticoats and the trailing skirts was a woman. Nothing mattered but that.

Joseph pushed his glass away. The face of a girl stared up at him over the shoulder of a man. A girl with dark hair and eyes, and a provocative tilted nose. She moved well, and Joseph could picture the lines of her body. Suddenly she shook her shoulders and laughed, calling out something in German to a woman who passed. Just for a fraction of a second she reminded him of someone - of something; she was like a clue to an invisible secret, and then it was gone again. He noticed the tight bodice drawn across her full breasts.

Then Joseph knew that he wanted this girl. She moved with her companion to the table by his side, and he saw that the man was the Portuguese.

Joseph rose, and laid his hand upon the girl. No matter if the lights rocked a little above him, or the floor sloped like a deck beneath his feet. The Portuguese shouted an oath and seized a knife. Joseph swung his fist into the man’s face, laughing as he did so. The Portuguese crumpled at his feet, his face smeared with blood. ‘Come on,’ roared Joseph, ‘have ye had enough?’ He wanted to fight, to seize the tables and chairs and swing them across the room, to break the limbs of other men and trample their skulls beneath his feet. Then the girl laid a hand on his arm, she laughed up at him. People crowded round him threateningly. Joseph shook himself free, and pushed his way out into the street with the girl hanging at his heels like a dog. He stood unsteadily on the pavement and looked into the girl’s face.

 

 

Five o’clock in the morning.The girl lit a gas jet, which spluttered feebly and cast a sickly yellow glow about the dark room. This was reflected on the carpet, on the smeared window pane, on the face of the girl, as she moved about the floor treading heavily. She poured some water into a basin. Joseph sat on the edge of a chair, his head in his hands. He reached for his coat and fumbled in the pocket, from whence he took his pipe and pouch of tobacco, and a handful of change. He laid the money in a heap beside a photograph of a child on the mantelpiece. The girl’s back was turned to him, he saw nothing but a bent figure encased in ugly stiff corsets, drawing on a pair of long black stockings. Joseph lit his pipe and moved towards the door.

Groping his way down a dingy staircase he opened the outer door, and let himself into the street.

Joseph felt the longing rise in his heart for Plyn. He wanted to look upon the quiet waters of the harbour, and the little cottages clustered about the hill, with the blue smoke curling from their crooked chimneys. He wanted to feel the cobbled stones of the old slip beneath his feet, where the nets were spread to dry in the sun, and where the blue-jerseyed fishermen leaned against the harbour wall. He wanted to hear the sound of the waves, splashing against the rocks below the Castle ruins, and the rustle of the trees in Truan woods, the movement of sheep and cattle in the hushed fields, the stirring of a rabbit in the high hedges that bordered the twisting lanes. He longed once more for the faces of simple folk, for the white wings of the crying gulls, and the call of the bells from Lanoc Church. Joseph stood on the side of the dock and saw the sharp outline of his ship, her two masts pointing to the sky. He raised his lantern and flashed it on the figurehead in the bows. The light fell upon her face. Her white dress was in shadow, and her two small hands folded upon her breast.

And as he watched, it seemed to Joseph that she smiled upon him and whispered in the air, ‘Did you think that I’d forsaken you. Did you think I was crumblin’ to dust in the churchyard? My son, my beloved, I’ve been at your side always, always - here, part of the ship, part of yourself, and you didn’t understand. Open your heart, Joseph, an’ come to me. There is no fear, no ugliness, no death - only the white light of courage and beauty and truth. I’m alive an’ free, an’ lovin’ you as of old - Joseph - Joseph.’

He felt warmth steal into his cold heart and strength return to his spirit. The grim spectre of loneliness faded away.

For a moment Joseph was drawn into the light, beyond good and evil, beyond the flesh to the high places - and he opened his blinded eyes and looked upon the living Janet.

A passing sailor saw a man, with a lantern raised, scanning the empty face of a weather-beaten figurehead.

3

 

 

‘W
ell, Joe, you’re not greatly changed for all your travels, an’ we’re right pleased to see you back amongst us again.’ Samuel smiled at his brother, while Mary poked the parlour fire into a warm blaze.Thomas Coombe sat in his usual place in the armchair, with the inevitable Bible on his knee. The other brothers and their wives had joined the circle, and were looking proudly at their sailor relative.

The curtains were drawn, the supper was cleared away, the hymns had been sung, and the clock ticked as slowly as ever on the wall.