Whaling, page 12
Ruth, the Boudicca the Reverend disliked, is disobeying Timothy and the other men. He was kind to her, but she’s not accustomed to taking orders. She never married the man her father intended her to marry, and she certainly wasn’t going to follow the crowd to the beach. Having lodged with the Folgers, she’s enjoyed luxury in the last weeks. That’s gone. She knows there’s no future for her in such a place.
“Where are you going, child?” Abial Folger, Timothy’s wife, urges her to: “come with us. We’re regrouping on the beach and heading up the coast. They’re saying Greville will come and help us. They’ll bring the militia. I’m sure of it.”
“I don’t believe it, Aunt Abial. I reckon they’ve tied us with those French Revolutionaries already. We’ll be arrested or worse.”
“But we’re pacifists, child. They know that! Come now.”
“No, no. I’ll be leaving another way.”
“How? You’re a woman. Ain’t safe, my dear!”
“The way we came, Aunt. I’ll be taking one of the jollies out to sea.”
“And go where, child?”
“London. Ireland. I know not.”
“But the seas hereabouts Ruth. Please, you’ll be swept away.”
“I’ll take my chances Abial! Thank you so much.” Embracing.
“God speed child.”
The Whale beached between Scheveningen and Katwijk, with elegant sightseers, by Esaias van de Velde c. (1617)
They came with hounds, those pale riders.
Greyed except for chilblained cheeks.
The hunt was over, yet their dogs stood guard.
A scintillating flash of the eye was too human for comfort.
It demanded measurement, shelter, troops, and banners…
The Whale beached near Katwijk faced the sea
and they camped at its portcullis.
Holding breaths, laying siege,
Listening for syllables postmortem.
Leyshon’s inn is brimming again. Benjamin and company enter Maccabeus-like, full of conquest, bravado and thine be the glory. Cheeses adorn the tables. Breads. Ales. And fingers, manly fingers, caressing the lot.
The Reverend no longer wears a cassock but lets his hair down, literally. His feet crossed on the table. Leyshon is evidently turned. His initial scepticism and suspicion dowsed in a goodly amount of fear and the promise of wealth. Tomos, that bardic smithy, is a lost cause. The Reverend tells a tall man to
“Watch the fellow Glyn, ma’ fe’n rhy emosiynol. Too emotional and unbalanced for the cause.”
“Iawn, syr.”
Glyn, a local farmer, leaves with a gun straddling over his shoulder. The table glitters with metallic death — predators spread out on a market table. Big ones, small ones; sharp tails, and blunt ends. Blunderbuss, muskets, pistol sword, nock guns, and an array of ironwork.
“Have they left yet, Leyshon?”
“Not yet Dafydd. Looks like they’re planning some sort of retreat. They’ve been gathering by the burning meeting house, poor people. You’re aware we’ve committed arson. Promise me that you’ll spare them Dafydd.”
“Nay. ’Tis not arson we’ve committed but this is evidence of the revolutionary behaviour instigated by the radical Quakers. We had nothing to do with it.” The men laugh.
“Poor people.” Leyshon sighs quietly retreating to his cheeses.
“They had it coming! Poor people,” turning to the others, “that’s what we’ll be, brothers, if we don’t deal with this unwholesome company. As my grandfather used to say, easier to drag a man off a table than pull him up with you.”
“Aye, aye!”
“Remember brothers what the Good Book says. They cast the sinners into the sea and the Lord sent a great fish. Remember that. This is a holy affair.”
“What about the women and…” Leyshon asks from the back.
“We’re not monsters, Leyshon.”
“Then, what do we do?”
“The Lord will see to it. We’ll think of an outcome by his grace.” The men nod at their leader. “Right… Glyn is watching Tomos. You, and you, mark the north road. Benjamin, you, and I will lead the rest of the men to the beach. They’ll be angry and tired. Even Quakers fight when cornered. Like rats. I know they’ll head for the whale. The poor beggars can’t resist the shoreline.”
“What of their leaders?” The one-eyed nemo asks.
“They should be made an example of. We’ll deal with them tonight.”
Down by the jetty, Ruth Bunker is discreet and squirrely, gathering quickly, jumping from cobble to cobble. She’s free of ‘do this’ and ‘do that’ even though she fears for her people and their tied destiny to the whale. Dew-haze spreads towards her, suggesting a different tomorrow and a crescent shoreline is broken by a small boat.
She descends towards it.
Like a goddess, her hair sneaks past her humanising scarf. A rebellion in the making. Smoke hangs on the houses, anticipating her next move but an impasse is evident. The great, spectral mass broods in her mind, keeping her thoughts on the beach and her stranded people.
Is this her time to let the old ways die?
Can she leave the whale on that beach? Let it sink away and drop into oblivion. Can she escape it and the hold that it has upon her? On the mainland, they’d never have stood for such a scene — a dead whale determining futures. If her folk were Bostonian or New Yorker, they would have demanded that the carcass be burnt and taken care of. Had they been English, they would have stormed the tavern and arrested the Reverend.
Ah, Nantucket. Nantucket. Nantucket.
She’s never seen the passing moment of a whale but has witnessed many funerals. Tales of icebergs — massing in her mind from a childhood of eavesdropping — block her escape, demanding that she muse on the misery that her people caused. Tales of blood, springing from the sea like geysers as humans disturb the harmony of creation. Landscapes where floors ascended towards the clouds, unhindered, and where clouds whispered to the ground. Such freedom changed into claustrophobia when the natives were taken by surprise. Narwhal guards lifted their feeble pikes, outdone by bowsprits and harpoons. Seals clubbed in; birds scattered like hurried omens; bowheads hiding; and a walrus watched his world disappear. Then, through the clouds like the emperor of the kingdom, she imagines the horror of the machine, sailing towards her, accompanied by the smell of boiling blubber. Three hundred tonnes of destruction. Masts decorated with the scalps of yesterday, two pairs of jaw bones agape, crying to their maker.
A noise breaks through her reverie and a presence disturbs the jetty:
“Excuse me!”
“Who goes there?”
“A friend.”
William John Huggins, `Harmony’ (1829)
Out of the darkness, like a grandmother you’ve never met, a face presents itself with hands uplifted, signifying peace and safety. Her eyes, a pair of mice, waiting for a reaction.
“You’re one of them?”
“Most certainly not, child.”
“Then who are you?”
“A friend seeking good on behalf of ’er people.”
“You’re a cockle woman. You’re the folks who spread this cursing nonsense around.”
“I am a cockle woman but I’m not one of those you mention. Our islands are not as welcoming as they once were. Well, this place isn’t anyway. Can’t say I’ve visited England or Scotland. We should be ashamed of ourselves for treating you like this… I see you’re leaving us then?”
“That I am, yes.”
“And where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet,” strapping the bags down, “nowhere in particular springs to mind. I want to be safe, that’s for sure.”
Ruth continues her preparations. She checks the boat’s health, examining its body like a physician. Water shines in its base but not a bath’s worth. The old woman kneels and sits on the jetty, crossing her legs like a child. Ruth looks up at her.
“You called this place an island.”
“I did.”
“Then, perhaps all islanders are cursed then.”
“What do you mean, girl?”
“In my childhood,” pausing her preparations for the moment, “I imagined an islander holding on to the land with an open hand, listening to the sea scape, welcoming new arrivals. But, when people stay-put for too long, I think pride settles like dust on a mantelpiece. You need water. Having been apart from the mainland for so long, we forget the privilege of peace as if we inherit a degree of confidence that all will, and should, stay the same. As if it’s our right. Aren’t we stewards after all? In my mind, there’s a healthier glow to the voyager, the pilgrim figure. Like our forefathers. Never settling in one place for too long.”
“Aye, Pererin wyf, a pilgrim in a desert land.”
“You speak Welsh?”
“Yes. An old language which we hold on to.”
“Is Milford the real name then? In America, we have the old name and the new name. What’s the old name here?”
“Aberdaugleddau.”
“Wow, it’s beautiful. I’ll remember that one…What does it mean, Aberdau…?”
“Aberdaugleddau? Mouth of the two rivers: Cleddau Wen and Cleddau Du.”
Ruth trusts the woman’s body; the movements of her figure doesn’t startle. Her face is dirty, and she looks hurt.
“What’s your name ma’am?”
“Mary. Mary Griffiths. I’m a Methodist – you may have ’eard ’em mocking me – my ’usband, whom I do not love, follows the Reverend fervently. My brothers and sisters are also banished from this purgatory.”
“The ones under the tree. Yes, I remember. Your songs were so good.”
“And yours? I mean your name?”
“My name’s Ruth. Ruth Bunker.”
“Good to meet you Ruth and, alas, to say farewell. I’ll let you go dear. Stay close to the coast and watch the rocks. Can’t you stay in the haven tonight and wait till first light?”
“No. No. I cannot. I feel I need to go. Something pulls me away. I’ll bear that in mind Mrs Griffiths,” the old woman grimaces. “You’re hurt Mrs Griffiths?”
“My ’usband, as you may ’ave guessed, is not a kind man, Ruth. I’ve been different for a long time — long before you arrived.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I won’t be going back to ’im. Something’s rotten in this place. Not just my ’usband. Like you said, I feel pilgriming is far more appealing at this moment.”
“Well, why don’t you come with me?”
A noise pours out of the inn. Lamplight and Judas steps. Both women remember that they too will die one day but decide that that day will not be today. Ruth hears a distant gull and the humming of a mother cradling in a window she cannot see.
“I’d slow you down, girl. I’m an old crone as the Reverend calls me.”
“Yeh. I mean, no. What I mean is yes, you are older, but you know these waters well, like the back of your hand. I dare say that I can pass as your daughter, right enough. I can even row for you while I’ve strength. Have you grandchildren, or any kinder family that you care for?”
“No child. I wasn’t blessed in that way.”
“Then you should certainly come.”
“You’re kind, Ruth. Truth is, I doubt I could ever go ’ome to a murderer and I fear their actions, especially tonight.”
Ruth enters the jolly and helps the grandmother in with her hand.
“It’s a fair-sized jolly. You may need to man the other oar.”
“I’ll try good girl. I’ll try.”
The boat rocks as they find the right position.
“I know of somewhere,” Mrs Griffiths states once settled. “South along the coast. We could walk there but we’d have to find a crossing, and it would take a good day, even two, depending on the weather. With this boat, I believe we’d make it. Now, the sea can be treacherous and there’s rocks but if we get there, we could ’ide there for a while. The weather looks reasonable, but it could change later. I don’t like the look of those clouds over there.”
“Very well.”
“Anyway, they’d never think of looking there.”
“What kind of place is it?”
“An old chapel, ’ardly a chapel, hewn from the rock it is. Built in similar times when the locals were unwelcoming. A hermit lived there, centuries ago. A faithful man mind, more Christ-like than these. He ’id from the locals beyond the clifftop — they were still Pagans back then, I believe — and the pirates waiting for ’im in the surrounding seas. So, he built the chapel by ’and, and celebrated communion with the gulls and the seals.”
They smile at one another.
“Sounds perfect, Mary.”
“There’s only one way in from the land. A narrow stair descends and is easily defended. Give me a rock and I’ll lob it at any man. It’s well ’idden and almost impossible to spot from the clifftop.”
“And the sea?”
“It’s difficult Ruth. That’ll be ’arder. But God willing we’ll be protected like Govan was before us. That was ’is name, Saint Govan. If he did it in ’is coracle, then I’m sure we can make it as well.”
The boat is easily untied. The big moon, Hecate sky and silver strings cross the sound as if God himself is combing the sea with an invisible rake.
“I never thought the Reverend would go this far Ruth. His mind is stewed methinks. Either that or he’s simply wicked.”
“I never liked him from the start.”
“You met him?”
“How could you not meet him. He’s like the all-seeing eye!”
Both row their one, two, three and then a break. For a moment they think they see the outline of boats slowly sliding through the haven.
“Did you see that?”
“What?”
“Boats, big boats and a small one, and…on the beach there. Two figures straddling from the sea. Don’t you see them, Mary?”
“I’m afraid these old eyes aren’t as sharp as they once were girl. ’Tis a busy channel. Could be fishers from Pembroke.”
“I could have sworn… never mind.”
Ruth stands and sits, forgetting the instability of the smaller boat. She drapes one of Mr Folger’s coats over Mrs Griffiths noticing her shivering.
“Thank you, dear. I should ’ave brought one.”
“You’ve had a rough day.”
“You’re a long way from ’ome yourself Ruth. And yet, you’re well prepared. If the sea rocks us, make sure to tie your saddlebags to your body. You won’t lose ’em that way.”
“Good point. I am a long way from home. I thought that this place would give us a new beginning.” Seagulls squawk, flying low. “We heard stories about the old world. The islands that were once so unwelcoming to our creed had improved and reopened. I suppose that was before the war and all the suspicion.”
“Wars and rumours of war. Why can’t these people just fish and stay at ’ome!”
“Nobody seemed to trust us except when our boats came into harbour laden with oil. But this whale… this whale caused us nothing but misery. I’ve never seen or heard the likes of it before. Makes you wonder.”
“’Tis nothing to do with the whale, Ruth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rotten before that corpse arrived, they were. This talking of signs, there be nothing in it. It’s an excuse for prejudice.”
“Well, whatever it is, I sure know things have worsened since its arrival, and ours.”
“They’ve never liked newcomers Ruth. The Reverend has a darkness about ’im. True enough. But the others aren’t innocent either. Just like Pontius Pilate can’t take all the blame for our Lord. Everyone was involved — Jew and Gentile alike.”
“True, true.”
A half-deserted scene shimmers like golowillons — the shining herring scales left on our clothing. Tiredness transforms their wings into air-beaters. Rowing is soon a memory as they ease themselves into the sea’s vespers.
Newman & co. Engraver, ‘South view of Milford’, National Library of Wales. Later tales insert a man into the boat. However, family members swear that Ruth and Mary were alone.
A crowded beach mirrors a penguin colony huddling by the waves. The children look seaward, waiting for God to part their vista. Which elder will be their Moses? They conjure columns of water in their minds, sky-high, and the dry corridor creating a pathway between Gellisweek and the land opposite. It’s not that far.
Torches flicker. Sobs. The Quakers veering on the edge of moral conundrum. Do they fight? Do we run? The whale, in all its mass, haunts the beach in its usual fashion — blot-like and final.
“Come now Timothy, your time here has come to an end! Surrender yourselves and we can reason together.” The Reverend has no weapon. Boot buckles gleam in the sand and a Bible is conveniently presented like a talisman from his pocket, all ark of the covenant like. He holds the book in front of his men as if it guarantees their spiritual safety. Behind him, the fiend-like frowning of the mass. Sharp jawlines and eyebrows poised like gothic structures. Benjamin gobs on the floor before mustering enough and spitting on his right hand, the left bearing a weapon. Better grip. The others wolf-gnarl waiting for the calves at the edge of a herd. Jo is on the right flank with his harpoon readied.
“We’re here legally Reverend, and by invitation of Sir Greville himself! We will leave now and bid thee farewell,” Timothy croaks from the rear like a beaten admiral, resilient and sore.
“No, no. I will not let you go like that. You are revolutionaries whose sinful habits have stained our peaceful community. This whale was a sign — a warning given to us. We cannot ignore it — look at it — and allow you to return with vengeance at a later date.”
“Funny that you mention our habits. And reason! The Lord hasn’t told anyone else about our sinful habits and he sure hasn’t bestowed upon thee the gift of reason. He has blessed our ventures here. We’ve practically built this town for you. Oh, he may have told the whale of course, except the whale is dead, is it not?”
