Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“One more then. But let me take it standing – the tasse d’estrope, as you call it.”

Murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup. But only the Frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other, now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair.

“Bon soir, Monsieur!” says the priest, slipping out of the room, his host answering only by a snore.

For all, Father Rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously. In the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds waiting for him. As he joins her going out, she asks, sotto voce: —

“C’est arrangé?”

“Pas encore serait tout suite.” This the sole speech that passes between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband, would cause him to start from his chair – perhaps some little sober him.

Volume One – Chapter Sixteen

Coracle Dick

A traveller making the tour of the Wye will now and then see moving along its banks, or across the contiguous meadows, what he might take for a gigantic tortoise walking upon its tail! Mystified by a sight so abnormal, and drawing nigh to get an explanation of it, he will discover that the moving object is after all but a man, carrying a boat upon his back! Still the tourist will be astonished at a feat so herculean – rival to that of Atlas – and will only be altogether enlightened when the boat-bearer lays down his burden – which, if asked, he will obligingly do – and permits him, the stranger, to satisfy his curiosity by an inspection of it. Set square on the sward at his feet, he will look upon a craft quaint as was ever launched on lake, stream, or tidal wave. For he will be looking at a “coracle.”

Not only quaint in construction, but singularly ingenious in design, considering the ends to be accomplished. In addition, historically interesting; so much as to deserve more than passing notice, even in the pages of a novel. Nor will I dismiss it without a word, however it may seem out of place.

In shape the coracle bears resemblance to the half of a humming-top, or Swedish turnip cloven longitudinally, the cleft face scooped out leaving but the rind. The timbers consist of slender saplings – peeled and split to obtain lightness – disposed, some fore and aft, others athwart-ships, still others diagonally, as struts and ties, all having their ends in a band of wickerwork, which runs round the gunwale, holding them firmly in place, itself forming the rail. Over this framework is stretched a covering of tarred, and, of course, waterproof canvas, tight as a drum. In olden times it was the skin of ox or horse, but the modern material is better, because lighter, and less liable to decay, besides being cheaper. There is but one seat, or thwart, as the coracle is designed for only a single occupant, though in a pinch it can accommodate two. This is a thin board, placed nearly amidships, partly supported by the wicker rail, and in part by another piece of light scantling, set edgeways underneath.

In all things ponderosity is as much as possible avoided, since one of the essential purposes of the coracle is “portage;” and to facilitate this it is furnished with a leathern strap, the ends attached near each extremity of the thwart, to be passed across the breast when the boat is borne overland. The bearer then uses his oar – there is but one, a broad-bladed paddle – by way of walking-stick; and so proceeds, as already said, like a tortoise travelling on its tail!

In this convenience of carriage lies the ingenuity of the structure – unique and clever beyond anything in the way of water-craft I have observed elsewhere, either among savage or civilised nations. The only thing approaching it in this respect is the birch bark canoe of the Esquimaux and the Chippeway Indians. But, though more beautiful this, it is far behind our native craft in an economic sense – in cheapness and readiness. For while the Chippewayan would be stripping his bark from the tree, and re-arming it – to say nought of fitting to the frame timbers, stitching, and paying it – a subject of King Caradoc would have launched his coracle upon the Wye, and paddled it from Plinlimmon to Chepstow; as many a modern Welshman would the same.

Above all, is the coracle of rare historic interest – as the first venture upon water of a people – the ancestors of a nation that now rules the sea – their descendants proudly styling themselves its “Lords” – not without right and reason.

Why called “coracle” is a matter of doubt and dispute; by most admitted as a derivative from the Latin corum– a skin; this being its original covering. But certainly a misconception; since we have historic evidence of the basket and hide boat being in use around the shores of Albion hundreds of years before these ever saw Roman ship or standard. Besides, at the same early period, under the almost homonym of “corragh,” it floated – still floats – on the waters of the Lerne, far west of anywhere the Romans ever went. Among the common people on the Wye it bears a less ancient appellation – that of “truckle.”

From whatever source the craft derives its name, it has itself given a sobriquet to one of the characters of our tale – Richard Dempsey. Why the poacher is thus distinguished it is not easy to tell; possibly because he, more than any other in his neighbourhood, makes use of it, and is often seen trudging about the river bottoms with the huge carapace on his shoulders. It serves his purpose better than any other kind of boat, for Dick, though a snarer of hares and pheasants, is more of a salmon poacher, and for this – the water branch of his amphibious calling – the coracle has a special adaptation. It can be lifted out of the river, or launched upon it anywhere, without leaving trace; whereas with an ordinary skiff the moorings might be marked, the embarkation observed, and the night netter followed to his netting-place by the watchful water-bailiff.

Despite his cunning and the handiness of his craft, Dick has not always come off scot-free. His name has several times figured in the reports of Quarter Sessions, and himself in the cells of the county gaol. This only for poaching; but he has also served a spell in prison for crime of a less venal kind – burglary. As the “job” was done in a distant shire, there has been nothing heard of it in that where he now resides. The worst known of him in the neighbourhood is his game and fish trespassing, though there is worse suspected. He whose suspicions are strongest being the waterman, Wingate.

But Jack may be wronging him, for a certain reason – the most powerful that ever swayed the passion or warped the judgment of man – rivalry for the affections of a woman.

No heart, however hardened, is proof against the shafts of Cupid; and one has penetrated the heart of Coracle Dick, as deeply as has another that of Jack Wingate. And both from the same how and quiver – the eyes of Mary Morgan.

She is the daughter of a small farmer who lives by the Wyeside; and being a farmer’s daughter, above both in social rank, still not so high but that Love’s ladder may reach her, and each lives in hope he may some day scale it. For Evan Morgan holds as a tenant, and his land is of limited acreage. Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are not the only ones who wish to have him for a father-in-law, but the two most earnest, and whose chances seem best. Not that these are at all equal; on the contrary, greatly disproportionate, Dick having the advantage. In his favour is the fact that Farmer Morgan is a Roman Catholic – his wife fanatically so – he, Dempsey, professing the same faith; while Wingate is a Protestant of pronounced type.

Under these circumstances Coracle has a friend at head-quarters, in Mrs Morgan, and an advocate who visits there, in the person of Father Rogier.

With this united influence in his favour, the odds against the young waterman are great, and his chances might appear slight – indeed would he, were it not for an influence to counteract. He, too, has a partisan inside the citadel, and a powerful one; since it is the girl herself. He knows – is sure of it, as man may be of any truth, communicated to him by loving lips amidst showers of kisses. For all this has passed between Mary Morgan and himself.

And nothing of it between her and Richard Dempsey. Instead, on her part, coldness and distant reserve. It would be disdain – ay, scorn – if she dare show it; for she hates the very sight of the man. But, controlled and close watched, she has learnt to smile when she would frown.

The world – or that narrow circle of it immediately surrounding and acquainted with the Morgan family – wonders at the favourable reception it vouchsafes to Richard Dempsey – a known and noted poacher.

But in justice to Mrs Morgan it should be said, she has but slight acquaintance with the character of the man – only knows it as represented by Rogier. Absorbed in her paternosters, she gives little heed to ought else; her thoughts, as her actions, being all of the dictation, and under the direction, of the priest. In her eyes Coracle Dick is as the latter has painted him, thus —

“A worthy fellow – poor it is true, but honest withal; a little addicted to fish and game taking, as many another good man. Who wouldn’t with such laws – unrighteous – oppressive to the poor? Were they otherwise, the poacher would be a patriot. As for Dempsey, they who speak ill of him are only the envious – envying his good looks, and fine mental qualities. For he’s clever, and they can’t say nay – energetic, and likely to make his way in the world. Yet, one thing he would make – that’s a good husband to your daughter Mary – one who has the strength and courage to take care of her.”

So counsels the priest; and as he can make Mrs Morgan believe black white, she is ready to comply with his counsel. If the result rested on her, Coracle Dick would have nothing to fear.

But it does not – he knows it does not – and is troubled. With all the influence in his favour, he fears that other influence against him – if against him, far more than a counterpoise to Mrs Morgan’s religious predilections, or the partisanship of his priest. Still he is not sure; one day the slave of sweet confidence, the next a prey to black bitter jealousy. And thus he goes on doting and doubting, as if he were never to know the truth.

A day comes when he is made acquainted with it, or, rather, a night; for it is after sundown the revelation reaches him – indeed, nigh on to midnight. His favoured, yet defeated, aspirations, are more than twelve months old. They have been active all through the preceding winter, spring, and summer. It is now autumn; the leaves are beginning to turn sere, and the last sheaves have been gathered to the stack.

No shire than that of Hereford more addicted to the joys of the Harvest Home; this often celebrated in a public and general way, instead of at the private and particular farm-house. One such is given upon the summit of Garran Hill – a grand gathering, to which all go of the class who attend such assemblages – small farmers with their families, their servants too, male and female. There is a cromlech on the hill’s top, around which they annually congregate, and beside this ancient relic are set up the symbols of a more modern time – the Maypole – though it is Autumn – with its strings and garlands; the show booths and the refreshment tents, with their display of cakes, fruits, perry, and cider. And there are sports of various kinds, pitching the stone, climbing the greased pole – that of May now so slippery – jumping, racing in sacks, dancing – among other dances the Morris – with a grand finale of fireworks.

At this year’s fête Farmer Morgan is present, accompanied by his wife and daughter. It need not be said that Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are there too. They are, and have been all the afternoon – ever since the gathering began. But during the hours of daylight neither approaches the fair creature to which his thoughts tend, and on which his eyes are almost constantly turning. The poacher is restrained by a sense of his own unworthiness – a knowledge that there is not the place to make show of his aspirations to one all believe so much above him; while the waterman is kept back and aloof by the presence of the watchful mother.

With all her watchfulness he finds opportunity to exchange speech with the daughter – only a few words, but enough to make hell in the heart of Dick Dempsey, who overhears them.

It is at the closing scene of the spectacle, when the pyrotechnists are about to send up their final feu de joie, Mrs Morgan, treated by numerous acquaintances to aniseed and other toothsome drinks, has grown less thoughtful of her charge, which gives Jack Wingate the opportunity he has all along been looking for. Sidling up to the girl, he asks in a tone which tells of lovers en rapport, mutually, unmistakably —

“When, Mary?”

“Saturday night next. The priest’s coming to supper. I’ll make an errand to the shop, soon as it gets dark.”

“Where?”

“The old place under the big elm.”

“You’re sure you’ll be able?”

“Sure, never fear, I’ll find a way.”

“God bless you, dear girl. I’ll be there, if anywhere on earth.”

This is all that passes between them. But enough – more than enough – for Richard Dempsey. As a rocket, just then going up, throws its glare over his face, as also the others, no greater contrast could be seen or imagined. On the countenances of the lovers an expression of contentment, sweet and serene; on his a look such as Mephistopheles gave to Gretchen escaping from his toils.

The curse in Coracle’s heart is but hindered from rising to his lips by a fear of its foiling the vengeance he there and then determines on.

Volume One – Chapter Seventeen

The “Corpse-Candle.”

Jack Wingate lives in a little cottage whose bit of garden ground “brinks” the country road where the latter trends close to the Wye at one of its sharpest sinuosities. The cottage is on the convex side of the bend, having the river at back, with a deep drain, or wash, running up almost to its walls, and forming a fence to one side of the garden. This gives the waterman another and more needed advantage – a convenient docking place for his boat. There the Mary, moored, swings to her painter in safety; and when a rise in the river threatens he is at hand to see she be not swept off. To guard against such catastrophe he will start up from his bed at any hour of the night, having more than one reason to be careful of the boat; for, besides being his gagne-pain, it hears the name, by himself given, of her the thought of whom sweetens his toil and makes his labour light. For her he bends industriously to his oar, as though he believed every stroke made and every boat’s length gained was bringing him nearer to Mary Morgan. And in a sense so is it, whichever way the boat’s head may be turned; the farther he rows her the grander grows that heap of gold he is hoarding up against the day when he hopes to become a Benedict. He has a belief that if he could but display before the eyes of Farmer Morgan sufficient money to take a little farm for himself and stock it, he might then remove all obstacles between him and Mary – mother’s objections and sinister and sacerdotal influence included.

He is aware of the difference of rank – that social chasm between – being oft bitterly reminded of it; but, emboldened by Mary’s smiles, he has little fear but that he will yet be able to bridge it.

Favouring the programme thus traced out, there is, fortunately, no great strain on his resources by way of drawback; only the maintaining of his own mother, a frugal dame – thrifty besides – who, instead of adding to the current expenses, rather curtails them by the adroit handling of her needle. It would have been a distaff in the olden days.

Thus helped in his housekeeping, the young waterman is enabled to put away almost every shilling he earns by his oar, and this same summer all through till autumn, which it now is, has been more than usually profitable to him, by reason of his so often having Captain Ryecroft as his fare; for although the Hussar officer no longer goes salmon fishing – he has somehow been spoilt for that – there are other excursions upon which he requires the boat, and as ever generously, even lavishly, pays for it.

From one of these the young waterman has but returned; and, after carefully bestowing the Mary at her moorings, stepped inside the cottage. It is Saturday – within one hour of sundown – that same Saturday spoken of “at the Harvest Home.” But though Jack is just home, he shows no sign of an intention to stay there; instead, behaves as if he intended going out again, though not in his boat.

And he does so intend, for a purpose unsuspected by his mother, to keep that appointment, made hurriedly, and in a half whisper, amid the fracas of the fireworks.