XXIIIThe COURSE of TRUE LOVE
Symptoms of my dear sister’s previous disorder now again alarmingly developed—sighs and downcast glances, quick flushes, infinite tenderness to us all, flashes of high spirits, wet lashes, tumultuously beating heart; and there were long dreams in the twilight, wherein, when she thought herself alone, her sweet face was at times transfigured into some holy semblance. And perceiving these unhappy evidences, I was once more disquieted; and I said that I must seek the doctor’s aid, that she might be cured of the perplexing malady: though, to be sure, as then and there I impatiently observed, the doctor seemed himself in some strange way to have contracted it, and was doubtless quite incapable of prescribing.
My sister would not brook this interference. “I’m not sayin’,” she added, “that the doctor couldn’t cure me, an he had a mind to; for, Davy, dear,” with an earnest wag of her little head, “’twould not be the truth. I’m only sayin’ that I’ll not have un try it.”
“Sure, why, Bessie?”
Her glance fell. “I’ll not tell you why,” said she.
“But I’m wantin’ t’ know.”
She pursed her lips.
“Is you forgettin’,” I demanded, “that I’m your brother?”
“No,” she faltered.
“Then,” said I, roughly, “I’ll have the doctor cure you whether you will or not!”
She took my hand, and for a moment softly stroked it, looking away. “You’re much changed, dear,” she said, “since our mother died.”
“Oh, Bessie!”
“Ay,” she sighed.
I hung my head. ’Twas a familiar bitterness. I was, indeed, not the same as I had been. And it seems to me, now—even at this distant day—that this great loss works sad changes in us every one. Whether we be child or man, we are none of us the same, afterwards.
“Davy,” my sister pleaded, “were your poor sister now t’ ask you t’ say no word——”
“I would not say one word!” I broke in. “Oh, I would not!”
That was the end of it.
Next day the doctor bade me walk with him on the Watchman, so that, as he said, he might withoutinterruption speak a word with me: which I was loath to do; for he had pulled a long face of late, and had sighed and stared more than was good for our spirits, nor smiled at all, save in a way of the wryest, and was now so grave—nay, sunk deep in blear-eyed melancholy—that ’twas plain no happiness lay in prospect. ’Twas sad weather, too—cold fog in the air, the light drear, the land all wet and black, the sea swishing petulantly in the mist. I had no mind to climb the Watchman, but did, cheerily as I could, because he wished it, as was my habit.
When we got to Beacon Rock, there was no flush of red in the doctor’s cheeks, as ever there had been, no life in his voice, which not long since had been buoyant; and his hand, while for a moment it rested affectionately on my shoulder, shook in a way that frightened me.
“Leave us go back!” I begged. “I’m not wantin’ t’ talk.”
I wished I had not come: for there was in all this some foreboding of wretchedness. I was very much afraid.
“I have brought you here, Davy,” he began, with grim deliberation, “to tell you something about myself. I do not find it,” with a shrug and a wry mouth, “a pleasant——”
“Come, zur,” I broke in, this not at all to my liking, “leave us go t’ the Soldier’s Ear!”
“Not an agreeable duty,” he pursued, fixing me with dull eyes, “for me to speak; nor will it be, I fancy, for you to hear. But——”
This exceeded even my utmost fears. “I dare you, zur,” said I, desperate for a way of escape, “t’ dive from Nestin’ Ledge this cold day!”
He smiled—but ’twas half a sad frown; for at once he puckered his forehead.
“You’re scared!” I taunted.
He shook his head.
“Oh, do come, zur!”
“No, Davy,” said he.
I sighed.
“For,” he added, sighing, too, “I have something to tell you, which must now be told.”
Whatever it was—however much he wished it said and over with—he was in no haste to begin. While, for a long time, I kicked at the rock, in anxious expectation, he sat with his hands clasped over his knee, staring deep into the drear mist at sea—beyond the breakers, past the stretch of black and restless water, far, far into the gray spaces, which held God knows what changing visions for him! I stole glances at him—not many, for then I dared not, lest I cry; and I fancied that his disconsolate musings mustbe of London, a great city, which, as he had told me many times, lay infinitely far away in that direction.
“Well, Davy, old man,” he said, at last, with a quick little laugh, “hit or miss, here goes!”
“You been thinkin’ o’ London,” I ventured, hoping, if might be, for a moment longer to distract him.
“But not with longing,” he answered, quickly. “I left no one to wish me back. Not one heart to want me—not one to wait for me! And I do not wish myself back. I was a dissipated fellow there, and when I turned my back on that old life, when I set out to find a place where I might atone for those old sins, ’twas without regret, and ’twas for good and all. This,” he said, rising, “is my land. This,” he repeated, glancing north and south over the dripping coast, the while stretching wide his arms, “is now my land! I love it for the opportunity it gave me. I love it for the new man it has made me. I have forgotten the city. I lovethislife! And I love you, Davy,” he cried, clapping his arm around me, “and I love——”
He stopped.
“I knows, zur,” said I, in an awed whisper, “whom you love.”
“Bessie,” said he.
“Ay, Bessie.”
There was now no turning away. My recent fears had been realized. I must tell him what was in my heart.
“Mary Tot says, zur,” I gasped, “that love leads t’ hell.”
He started from me.
“I would not have my sister,” I continued, “go t’ hell. For, zur,” said I, “she’d be wonderful lonesome there.”
“To hell?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Oh, ay!” I groaned. “T’ the flames o’ hell!”
“’Tis not true!” he burst out, with a radiant smile. “I know it! Love—my love for her—has led me nearer heaven than ever I hoped to be!”
I troubled no more. Here was a holy passion. Child that I was—ignorant of love and knowing little enough of evil—I still perceived that this love was surely of the good God Himself. I feared no more for my dear sister. She would be safe with him.
“You may love my sister,” said I, “an you want to. You may have her.”
He frowned in a troubled way.
“Ay,” I repeated, convinced, “you may have my dear sister. I’m not afraid.”
“Davy,” he said, now so grave that my heart jumped, “you give her to the man I am.”
“I’m not carin’,” I replied, “what you was.”
“You do not know.”
Apprehension grappled with me. “I’m not wantin’ t’ know,” I protested. “Come, zur,” I pleaded, “leave us go home.”
“Once, Davy,” he said, “I told you that I had been wicked.”
“You’re not wicked now.”
“I was.”
“I’m not carin’ what you was. Oh, zur,” I cried, tugging at his hand, “leave us go home!”
“And,” said he, “a moment ago I told you that I had been a dissipated fellow. Do you know what that means?”
“I’m notwantin’ t’ know!”
“You must know.”
I saw the peril of it all. “Oh, tell me not!” I begged. “Leave us go home!”
“But Imusttell you, Davy,” said he, beginning, now in an agony of distress, to pace the hilltop. “It is not a matter of to-day. You are only a lad, now; but you will grow up—and learn—and know. Oh, God,” he whispered, looking up to the frowning sky, laying, the while, his hand upon my head, “if only we could continue like this child! If only weneednot know! I want you, Davy,” he continued, once more addressing me, “when you grow up, toknow, to recall, whatever happens, that I was fair, fair to you and fair to her, whom you love. You are not like other lads. It is yourplace, I think, in this little community, that makes you different.Youcan understand. Imusttell you.”
“I’m scared t’ know,” I gasped. “Take my sister, zur, an’ say no more.”
“Scared to know? And I to tell. But for your sister’s sake—for the sake of her happiness—I’ll tell you, Davy—let me put my arm around you—ay, I’ll tell you, lad, God help me! what it means to be a dissipated fellow. O Christ,” he sighed, “I pay for all I did! Merciful God, at this moment I pay the utmost price! Davy, lad,” drawing me closer, “you will not judge me harshly?”
“I’ll hearken,” I answered, hardening.
Then, frankly, he told me as much, I fancy, as a man may tell a lad of such things....
In horror—in shame—ay, in shame so deep I flushed and dared not look at him—I flung off his arms. And I sprang away—desperately fingering my collar: for it seemed I must choke, so was my throat filled with indignation. “You wicked man!” I cried. “You kissed my sister. You—you—kissed my sister!”
“Davy!”
“You wicked, wicked man!”
“Don’t, Davy!”
“Go ’way!” I screamed.
Rather, he came towards me, opening his arms, beseeching me. But I was hot-headed and willful, being only a lad, without knowledge of sin gained by sinning, and, therefore, having no compassion; and, still, I fell away from him, but he followed, continuing to beseech me, until, at last, I struck him on the breast: whereupon, he winced, and turned away. Then, in a flash—in the still, illuminating instant that follows a blow struck in blind rage—I was appalled by what I had done; and I stood stiff, my hands yet clinched, a storm of sobs on the point of breaking: hating him and myself and all the world, because of the wrong he had done us, and the wrong I had done him, and the wrong that life had worked us all.
I took to my heels.
“Davy!” he called.
The more he cried after me, the more beseechingly his voice rang in my ears, the more my heart urged me to return—the harder I ran.
I wish I had not struck him ... I wish, I say, I had not struck him ... I wish that when he came towards me, with his arms wide open, hisgrave, gray eyes pleading—wretched soul that he was—I wish that then I had let him enfold me. What poor cleverness, what a poor sacrifice, it would have been! ’Twas I—strange it may have been—but still ’twas I, Davy Roth, a child, Labrador born and bred, to whom he stretched out his hand. I should have blessed God that to this remote place a needful man had come. ’Twas my great moment of opportunity. I might—I might—have helped him. How rare the chance! And to a child! I might have taken his hand. I might have led him immediately into placid waters. But I was I—unfeeling, like all lads: blind, too, reprehensible, deserving of blame. In all my life—and, as it happens (of no merit of my own, but of his), it has thus far been spent seeking to give help and comfort to such as need it—never, never, in the diligent course of it, has an opportunity so momentous occurred. I wish—oh, I wish—he might once again need me! To lads—and to men—and to frivolous maids—and to beggars and babies and cripples and evil persons—and to all sorts and conditions of human kind! Who knows to whom the stricken soul—downcast whether of sin or sorrow—may appeal? Herein is justification—the very key to heaven, with which one may unlock the door and enter, claiming bliss by right, defiant of God Himself, if need were: “I have sinned, in common withall men, O God, but I have sought to help such as were in sorrow, whether of sin or the misfortunes incident to life in the pit below, which is the world. You dare not cast me out!” Oh, men and women, lads and maids, I speak because of the wretchedness of my dear folk, out of their sorrow, which is common to us all, but here, in this barren place, is unrelieved, not hidden. Take the hand stretched out! And watch: lest in the great confusion this hand appear—and disappear. If there be sin, here it is: that the hand wavered, beseeching, within reach of such as were on solid ground, and was not grasped.
Ah, well! to my sister I ran; and I found her placidly sewing in the broad window of our house, which now looked out upon a melancholy prospect of fog and black water and vague gray hills. Perceiving my distress, she took me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me, hushing me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose the cause of it.
“He’s a sinful man,” I sobbed, at last. “Oh, dear Bessie, care no more for him!”
She stopped rocking—and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom—so close that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when I looked up—when, taking courage, I looked into her face—I foundit fearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took her hand, I found it very cold.
“Not sinful,” she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. “Oh, not that!”
“A sinful, wicked person,” I repeated, “not fit t’ speak t’ such as you.”
“What have he done, Davy?”
“I’d shame t’ tell you.”
“Oh, what?”
“I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I’m in woeful want o’ love.”
She rocked me, then—smoothing my cheek—kissing me—hoping thus to still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might have done.
“Not sinful,” she said.
“Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o’ here, Bessie. He’ve no place here, no more. He’ve sinned.”
She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we sat—I in my sister’s arms—hopeless in the drear light of that day.
“I love him,” she said.
“Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he’ve sinned past all forgiving.”
Again—and now abruptly—she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her lap. I could not evade herglance—sweet-souled, confident, content, reflecting the bright light of heaven itself.
“There’s no sin, Davy,” she solemnly said, “that a woman can’t forgive.”
I passed that afternoon alone on the hills—the fog thickening, the wind blowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down—myself seeking, all the while, some reasonable way of return to the doctor’s dear friendship. I did not know—but now I know—that reason, sour and implacable, is sadly inadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretched staff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which is faith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for it is forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But, happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came often opportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy, now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of my distress—and because, God be thanked! he loved me.
“Go ’way!” I complained.
“Go ’way?” cried he, indignantly. “I’ll not go ’way. For shame! To send me from you!”
“I’m wantin’ t’ be alone.”
“Ay; but ’tis unhealthy for you.”
“I’m thrivin’ well enough.”
“Hut!” said he. “What’s this atween the doctor an’ you? You’d cast un off because he’ve sinned? Ecod! I’ve seldom heard the like. Who is you? Even the Lard God A’mighty wouldn’t do that. Sure,Heloves only such as have sinned. Lad,” he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of his rough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, “what’s past is done with. Isn’t you l’arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never had been. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o’ sin would sink us. ’Tis not the dear Lard’s way t’ deal so with men. To-day is not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what he was—he is what he is. But yet, lad—an’ ’tis wonderful queer—to-dayisyesterday. ’Tismadeby yesterday. The mistake—the sin—o’ yesterday is the straight course—the righteous deed—o’ to-day. ’Tis only out o’ sin that sweetness is born. That’s just what sin is for! The righteous, Davy, dear,” he said, in all sincerity, “are not lovable, not trustworthy. The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for’tissuch easy fishin’; but sinners—such as sin agin their will—the Lard loves an’ gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an’ only such as suffer canknowthe dear Lard’s love. God be thanked for sin,” he said, looking up, inspired. “Letthe righteous be damned—they deserve it. Givemethe company o’ sinners!”
“Is you sure?” I asked, confounded by this strange doctrine.
“I thank God,” he answered, composedly, “thatIhave sinned—and suffered.”
“Sure,” said I, “youought t’ know, for you’ve lived so awful long.”
“They’s nothin’ like sin,” said he, with a sure smack of the lips, “t’ make good men. I knows it.”
“An’ Bessie?”
“Oh, Davy, lad,she’llbe safe with him!”
Then I, too, knew it—knew that sin had been beneficently decreed by God, whose wisdom seems so all-wise, once our perverse hearts are opened to perceive—knew that my dear sister would, indeed, be safe with this sinner, who sorrowed, also. And I was ashamed that I had ever doubted it.
“Look!” Skipper Tommy whispered.
Far off—across the harbour—near lost in the mist—I saw my sister and the doctor walking together.
My sister was waiting for me. “Davy,” she asked, anxiously, “where have you been?”
“On the hills,” I answered.
For a moment she was silent, fingering her apron;and then, looking fearlessly into my eyes—“I love him,” she said.
“I’m glad.”
“I cannot help it,” she continued, clasping her hands, her breast heaving. “I love him—sohard—I cannot tell it.”
“I’m glad.”
“An’ he loves me. He loves me! I’m not doubtin’ that. Helovesme,” she whispered, that holy light once more breaking about her, in which she seemed transfigured. “Oh,” she sighed, beyond expression, “he loves me!”
“I’m glad.”
“An’ I’m content t’ know it—just t’ know that he loves me—just t’ know that I love him. His hands and eyes and arms! I ask no more—but just t’ know it. Just once to have—to have had him—kiss me. Just once to have lain in his arms, where, forever, I would lie. Oh, I’m glad,” she cried, joyously, “that the good Lord made me! I’m glad—just for that. Just because he kissed me—just because I love him, who loves me. I’m glad I was made for him to love. ’Tis quite enough for me. I want—only this I want—that he may have me—that, body and soul, I may satisfy his love—so much I love him. Davy,” she faltered, putting her hands to her eyes, “I love—Ilove—I love him!”
Ecod! ’Twas too much for me. Half scandalized, I ran away, leaving her weeping in my dear mother’s rocking-chair.
My sister and I were alone at table that evening. The doctor was gone in the punt to Jolly Harbour, the maids said; but why, they did not know, for he had not told them—nor could we guess: for ’twas a vexatious distance, wind and tide what they were, nor would a wise man undertake it, save in case of dire need, which did not then exist, the folk of Jolly Harbour, as everybody knows, being incorruptibly healthy. But I would not go to sleep that night until my peace was made; and though, to deceive my sister, I went to bed, I kept my eyes wide open, waiting for the doctor’s step on the walk and on the stair: a slow, hopeless footfall, when, late in the night, I heard it.
I followed him to his room—with much contrite pleading on the tip of my tongue. And I knocked timidly on the door.
“Come in, Davy,” said he.
My heart was swelling so—my tongue so sadly unmanageable—that I could do nothing but whimper. But——
“I’m wonderful sad, zur,” I began, after a time, “t’ think that I——”
“Hush!” said he.
’Twas all I said—not for lack of will or words, but for lack of breath and opportunity; because all at once (and ’twas amazingly sudden) I found myself caught off my feet, and so closely, so carelessly, embraced, that I thought I should then and there be smothered: a death which, as I had been led to believe, my dear sister might have envied me, but was not at all to my liking. And when I got my breath ’twas but to waste it in bawling. But never had I bawled to such good purpose: for every muffled howl and gasp brought me nearer to that state of serenity from which I had that day cast myself by harsh and willful conduct.
Then—and ’twas not hard to do—I offered my supreme propitiation: which was now no more a sacrifice, but, rather, a high delight.
“You may have my sister, zur,” I sobbed.
He laughed a little—laughed an odd little laugh, the like of which I had never heard.
“You may have her,” I repeated, somewhat impatiently. “Isn’t you hearin’ me? Igiveher to you.”
“This is very kind,” he said. “But——”
“You’rewantin’her, isn’t you?” I demanded, fearing for the moment that he had meantime changed his mind.
“Yes,” he drawled; “but——”
“But what?”
“She’ll not have me.”
“Not have you!” I cried.
“No,” said he.
At that moment I learned much wisdom concerning the mysterious ways of women.
XXIVThe BEGINNING of The END
From this sad tangle we were next morning extricated by news from the south ports of our coast—news so ill that sentimental tears and wishes were of a sudden forgot; being this: that the smallpox had come to Poor Luck Harbour and was there virulently raging. By noon of that day the doctor’s sloop was underway with a fair wind, bound south in desperate haste: a man’s heart beating glad aboard, that there might come a tragic solution of his life’s entanglement. My sister and I, sitting together on the heads of Good Promise, high in the sunlight, with the sea spread blue and rippling below—we two, alone, with hands clasped—watched the little patch of sail flutter on its way—silently watched until it vanished in the mist.
“I’m not knowin’,” my sister sighed, still staring out to sea, “what’s beyond the mist.”
“Nor I.”
’Twas like a curtain, veiling some dread mystery, as an ancient tragedy—but new to us, who sat waiting: and far past our guessing.
“I wonder what we’ll see, dear,” she whispered, “when the mist lifts.”
“’Tis some woeful thing.”
She leaned forward, staring, breathing deep, seeking with the strange gift of women to foresee the event; but she sighed, at last, and gave it up.
“I’m not knowin’,” she said.
We turned homeward; and thereafter—through the months of that summer—we were diligent in business: but with small success, for Jagger of Wayfarer’s Tickle, seizing the poor advantage with great glee, now foully slandered and oppressed us.
Near midsummer our coast was mightily outraged by the sailings of theSink or Swim, Jim Tall, master—Jagger’s new schooner, trading our ports and the harbours of the Newfoundland French Shore, with a case of smallpox in the forecastle. We were all agog over it, bitterly angered, every one of us; and by day we kept watch from the heads to warn her off, and by night we saw to our guns, that we might instantly deal with her, should she so much as poke her prow into the waters of our harbour. Once, being on the Watchman with my father’s glass, I fancied I sighted her, far off shore, beating up to Wayfarer’s Tickle in the dusk: but could not make sure, for there was a haze abroad, and her cut wasnot yet well known to us. Then we heard no more of her, until, by and by, the skipper of theHuskie Dog, bound north, left news that she was still at large to the south, and sang us a rousing song, which, he said, had been made by young Dannie Crew of Ragged Harbour, and was then vastly popular with the folk of the places below.
“Oh,haveyou seed the skipper o’ the schoonerSink or Swim?We’ll use a rope what’s long an’ strong, when we cotches him.He’ve a case o’ smallpox for’ard,An’ we’ll hang un, by the Lord!For he’ve traded every fishin’ port from Conch t’ Harbour Rim.”T’ save the folk that dreads it,We’ll hang the man that spreads it,They’s lakes o’ fire in hell t’ sail for such as Skipper Jim!“
My sister, sweet maid! being then in failing health and spirits, I secretly took ship with the skipper of theBonnie Betsy Buttercup, bound south with the first load of that season: this that I might surely fetch the doctor to my sister’s help, who sorely needed cheer and healing, lest she die like a thirsty flower, as my heart told me. And I found the doctor busy with the plague at Bay Saint Billy, himself quartered aboard theGreased Lightning, a fore-and-after which he had chartered for the season: to whom I lied diligently and without shame concerning my sister’s condition, and with such happy effect that we put to sea in the brewing of the great gale of thatyear, with our topsail and tommy-dancer spread to a sousing breeze. But so evil a turn did the weather take—so thick and wild—that we were thrice near driven on a lee shore, and, in the end, were glad enough to take chance shelter behind Saul’s Island, which lies close to the mainland near the Harbourless Shore. There we lay three days, with all anchors over the side, waiting in comfortable security for the gale to blow out; and ’twas at dusk of the third day that we were hailed from the coast rocks by that ill-starred young castaway of the name of Docks whose tale precipitated the final catastrophe in the life of Jagger of Wayfarer’s Tickle.
He was only a lad, but, doubtless, rated a man; and he was now sadly woebegone—starved, shivering, bruised by the rocks and breaking water from which he had escaped. We got him into the cozy forecastle, clapped him on the back, put him in dry duds; and, then, “Come, now, lads!” cried Billy Lisson, the hearty skipper of theGreased Lightning, “don’t you go sayin’ a word ’til I brew you a cup o’ tea. On the Harbourless Shore, says you? An’ all hands lost? Don’t you say a word. Not one!”
The castaway turned a ghastly face towards the skipper. “No,” he whispered, in a gasp, “not one.”
“Not you!” Skipper Billy rattled. “You keepmum. Don’t you so much asmutter’til I melts that iceberg in your belly.”
“No, sir.”
Perchance to forestall some perverse attempt at loquacity, Skipper Billy lifted his voice in song—a large, rasping voice, little enough acquainted with melody, but expressing the worst of the rage of those days: being thus quite sufficient to the occasion.
“Oh,haveyou seed the skipper o’ the schoonerSink or Swim?We’ll use a rope what’s long an’ strong, when we cotches him.He’ve a case o’ smallpox for’ard,An’ we’ll hang un, by the Lord!For he’ve traded every fishin’ port from Conch t’ Harbour Rim.”T’ save the folk that dreads it,We’llhangthe man that spreads it,They’s lakes o’ fire in hell t’ sail for such as Skipper Jim!“
“Skipper Billy, sir,” said Docks, hoarsely, leaning into the light of the forecastle lamp, “does you sayhang? Was they goin’ t’ hang Skipper Jim if they cotched him?”
“Waswe?” asked Skipper Billy. “By God,” he roared, “weis!”
“My God!” Docks whispered, staring deep into the skipper’s eyes, “they was goin’ t’ hang the skipper!”
There was not so much as the drawing of a breath then to be heard in the forecastle of theGreased Lightning. Only the wind, blowing in the night—andthe water lapping at the prow—broke the silence.
“Skipper Billy, sir,” said Docks, his voice breaking to a whimper, “was they goin’ t’ hang the crew? They wasn’t, was they? Not goin’ t’hangun?”
“Skipper t’ cook, lad,” Skipper Billy answered, the words prompt and sure. “Hang un by the neck ’til they was dead.”
“My God!” Docks whined. “They was goin’ t’ hang the crew!”
“But we isn’t cotched un yet.”
“No,” said the boy, vacantly. “Nor you never will.”
The skipper hitched close to the table. “Lookee, lad,” said he, leaning over until his face was close to the face of Docks, “wasyouever aboard theSink or Swim?”
“Ay, sir,” Docks replied, at last, brushing his hair from his brow. “I was clerk aboard theSink or Swimtwo days ago.”
For a time Skipper Billy quietly regarded the lad—the while scratching his beard with a shaking hand.
“Clerk,” Docks sighed, “two days ago.”
“Oh,wasyou?” the skipper asked. “Well, well!” His lower jaw dropped. “An’ would mind tellin’ us,” he continued, his voice now touched with passion, “what’scomeo’ that damned craft?”
“She was lost on the Harbourless Shore, sir, with all hands—but me.”
“Thank God for that!”
“Ay, thank God!”
Whereupon the doctor vaccinated Docks.
XXVA CAPITAL CRIME
“You never set eyes on old Skipper Jim, did you, Skipper Billy?” Docks began, later, that night. “No? Well, he was a wonderful hard man. They says the devil was abroad the night of his bornin’; but I’m thinkin’ that Jagger o’ Wayfarer’s Tickle had more t’ do with the life he lived than ever the devil could manage. ’Twas Jagger that owned theSink or Swim; ’twas he that laid the courses—ay, that laid this last one, too. Believe me, sir,” now turning to Doctor Luke, who had uttered a sharp exclamation, “for IknowedJagger, an’ Isailedalong o’ Skipper Jim. ‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, when the trick we played was scurvy, ‘this here ain’t right.’ ‘Right?’ says he. ‘Jagger’s gone an’ laidthatword by an’ forgot where he put it.’ ‘But you, Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘you; whatyoudoin’ this here for?’ ‘Well, Docks,’ says he, ‘Jagger,’ says he, ‘says ’tis a clever thing t’ do, an’ I’m thinkin’,’ says he, ‘that Jagger’s near right. Anyhow,’ says he, ‘Jagger’s my owner.’”
Doctor Luke put his elbows on the forecastle table, his chin on his hands—and thus gazed, immovable, at young Docks.
“Skipper Jim,” the lad went on, “was a lank old man, with a beard that used t’ put me in mind of a dead shrub on a cliff. Old, an’ tall, an’ skinny he was; an’ the flesh of his face was sort o’ wet an’ whitish, as if it had no feelin’. They wasn’t a thing in the way o’ wind or sea that Skipper Jim was afeard of. I like a brave man so well as anybody does, but I haven’t no love for a fool; an’ I’ve seedhimbeat out o’ safe harbour, with all canvas set, when other schooners was reefed down an’ runnin’ for shelter. Many a time I’ve took my trick at the wheel when the most I hoped for was three minutes t’ say my prayers.
“‘Skipper, sir,’ we used t’ say, when ’twas lookin’ black an’ nasty t’ win’ard an’ we was wantin’ t’ run for the handiest harbour, ‘’tis like you’ll be holdin’ on for Rocky Cove. Sure, you’ve no call t’ run for harbour fromthis hereblow!’
“‘Stand by that mainsheet there!’ he’d yell. ‘Let her off out o’ the wind. We’ll be makin’ for Harbour Round for shelter. Holdin’ on, did you say? My dear man, they’s a whirlwind brewin’!’
“But if ’twas blowin’ hard—a nor’east snorter, with the gale raisin’ a wind-lop on the swell, an’ thenight comin’ down—if ’twas blowin’ barb’rous hard, sometimes we’d get scared.
“‘Skipper,’ we couldn’t help sayin’, ‘’tis time t’ get out o’ this. Leave us run for shelter, man, for our lives!’
“‘Steady, there, at the wheel!’ he’d sing out. ‘Keep her on her course. ’Tis no more than a clever sailin’ breeze.’
“Believeme, sir,” Docks sighed, “they wasn’t a port Skipper Jim wouldn’t make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or a Bible or a what-not for a quintal o’ fish. ‘Docks,’ says he, ‘Jagger,’ says he, ‘wants fish, an’Igot t’ get un.’ So it wasn’t pleasant sailin’ along o’ him in the fall o’ the year, when the wind was all in the nor’east, an’ the shore was a lee shore every night o’ the week. No, sir! ’twasn’t pleasant sailin’ along o’ Skipper Jim in theSink or Swim. On no account, ’twasn’t pleasant! Believeme, sir, when I lets my heart feel again the fears o’ last fall, I haven’t no love left for Jim. No, sir! doin’ what he done this summer, I haven’t no love left for Jim.
“‘It’s fish me an’ Jagger wants, b‘y,’ says he t’ me, ‘an’ they’s no one’ll keep un from us.’
“‘Dear man!’ says I, pointin’ t’ the scales, ‘haven’t you got no conscience?’
“‘Conscience!’ says he. ‘What’s that? Sure,’ says he, ‘Jagger neverhearedthat word!’
“Well, sir, as you knows, there’s been a wonderful cotch o’ fish on the Labrador side o’ the Straits this summer. An’ when Skipper Jim hears a Frenchman has brought the smallpox t’ Poor Luck Harbour, we was tradin’ the French shore o’ Newfoundland. Then he up an’ cusses the smallpox, an’ says he’ll make a v‘y’ge of it, no matter what. I’m thinkin’ ’twas all the fault o’ the cook, the skipper bein’ the contrary man he was; for the cook he says he’ve signed t’ cook the grub, an’ he’ll cook ’til he drops in his tracks, but hehaven’tsigned t’ take the smallpox, an’ he’ll be jiggered for a squid afore he’ll sail t’ the Labrador. ‘Smallpox!’ says the skipper. ‘Who says ’tis the smallpox? Me an’ Jagger says ’tis the chicken-pox.’ So the cook—the skipper havin’ the eyes he had—says he’ll sail t’ the Labrador all right, but he’ll see himself hanged for a mutineer afore he’ll enter Poor Luck Harbour. ‘Poor Luck Harbour, is it?’ says the skipper. ‘An’ is that where they’ve the—the—smallpox?’ says he. ‘We’ll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbour the morrow. I’ll prove ’tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.’ So the cook—the skipper havin’ the eyes he had—saysheain’t afraid o’ no smallpox, but he knows what’ll come of it if the crew gets ashore.
“‘Ho, ho! cook,’ says the skipper. ‘You’llgo ashore along o’me, me boy.’
“The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind; an’ we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin’, sure enough, the skipper took the cook an’ the first hand ashore t’ show un a man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep’ aboard takin’ in fish, for such was the evil name the place had along o’ the smallpox that we was the only trader in the harbour, an’ had all the fish we could handle.
“‘Skipper,’ says I, when they come aboard, ‘isit the smallpox?’
“‘Docks, b‘y,’ says he, lookin’ me square in the eye, ‘you never yet heard me take back my words. IsaidI’d eat the man that had it. But I tells you what, b’y, I ain’t hankerin’ after a bite o’ what I seed!’
“‘We’ll be liftin’ anchor an’ gettin’ t’ sea, then,’ says I; for it made me shiver t’ hear the skipper talk that way.
“‘Docks, b‘y,’ says he, ‘we’ll be liftin’ anchor when we gets all the fish they is. Jagger,’ says he, ‘wants fish, an’ I’m the boy t’ get un. When the last one’s weighed an’ stowed, we’ll lift anchor an’ out; but not afore.’
“We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour,tradin’ Kiddle Tickle, when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. ‘Tommy, b‘y,’ says the cook, ‘you cotched cold stowin’ the jib in the squall day afore yesterday. I’ll be givin’youa dose o’ pain-killer an’ pepper.’ So the cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o’ pain-killer an’ pepper an’ put un t’ bed. But ’twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an’ a burnin’ headache. ‘Tommy, b‘y,’ says the cook, ‘you’ll be gettin’ the inflammation, I’m thinkin’. I’ll have t’ put a plaster o’ mustard an’ red pepper onyourchest.’ So the cook put a wonderful large plaster o’ mustard an’ red pepper on poor Tommy’s chest, an’ told un t’ lie quiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick—believeme, sir, wonderful sick! An’ the cook could do no more, good cook though he was.
“‘Tommy,’ says he, ‘you got something I don’t know nothin’ about.’
“’Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an’ run t’ Hollow Cove, where we heard they was a grand cotch o’ fish, all dry an’ waitin’ for the first trader t’ pick it up. They’d the smallpox there, sir, accordin’ t’ rumour; but we wasn’t afeard o’ cotchin’ it—thinkin’ we’d not cotched it at Poor Luck Harbour—an’ sailed right in t’ do the tradin’. We had the last quintal aboard at noon o’ the next day; an’ we shook out the canvas an’ laid a courset’ the nor’ard, with a fair, light wind. We was well out from shore when the skipper an’ me went down t’ the forecastle t’ have a cup o’ tea with the cook; an’ we was hard at it when Tommy Mib hung his head out of his bunk.
“‘Skipper,’ says he, in a sick sort o’ whisper, ‘I’m took.’
“‘What’s took you?’ says the skipper.
“‘Skipper,’ says he, ‘I—I’m—took.’
“‘What’s took you, you fool?’ says the skipper.
“Poor Tommy fell back in his bunk. ‘Skipper,’ he whines, ‘I’ve cotched it!’
“‘’Tis the smallpox, sir,’ says I. ‘I seed the spots.’
“‘No such nonsense!’ says the skipper. ‘’Tis the measles. That’s whathe’vegot. Jagger an’ me says so.’
“‘But Jagger ain’t here,’ says I.
“‘Never you mind about that,’ says he. ‘I knows what Jagger thinks.’
“When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn’t no measles. When we dropped anchor there, sir,we knowed what ’twas. Believeme, sir, weknowedwhat ’twas. The cook he up an’ says he ain’t afraid o’ no smallpox, but he’ll be sunk for a coward afore he’ll go down the forecastle ladder agin. An’ the second hand he says he likes a bunk in theforecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he’ve no objection t’ the holdat times. ‘Then, lads,’ says the skipper, ‘you’ll not be meanin’ t’ look that way agin,’ says he, with a snaky little glitter in his eye. ‘An’ if you do, you’ll find a fist about the heft o’that,’ says he, shakin’ his hand, ‘t’ kiss you at the foot o’ the ladder.’ After that the cook an’ the second hand slep’ in the hold, an’ them an’ me had a snack o’ grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammock slung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. ’Twas the skipper that looked after Tommy Mib. ’Twas the skipper that sailed the ship, too,—drove her like he’d always done: all the time eatin’ an’ sleepin’ in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o’ the smallpox. But we o’ the crew kep’ our distance when the ol’ man was on deck; an’ they was no rush for’ard t’ tend the jib an’ stays’l when it was ‘Hard a-lee!’ in a beat t’ win’ard—no rush at all. Believeme, sir, they was no rush for’ard—with Tommy Mib below.
“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, one day, ‘whatisyou goin’ t’ do?’
“‘Well, Docks,’ says he, ‘I’m thinkin’ I’ll go see Jagger.’
“So we beat up t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle—makin’ port in the dusk. Skipper Jim went ashore, but took nar a one of us with un. He was there a wonderfullong time; an’ when he come aboard, he orders the anchor up an’ all sail made.
“‘Where you goin’?’ says I.
“‘Tradin’,’ says he.
“‘Is you?’ says I.
“‘Ay,’ says he. ‘Jagger says ’tis a wonderful season for fish.’”
Docks paused. “Skipper Billy,” he said, breaking off the narrative and fixing the impassive skipper of theGreased Lightningwith an anxious eye, “did they have the smallpox at Tops’l Cove? Come now; did they?”
“Ay, sir,” Skipper Billy replied; “they had the smallpox at Tops’l Cove.”
“Dear man!” Docks repeated, “they had the smallpox at Tops’l Cove! We was three days at Tops’l Cove, with folk aboard every day, tradin’ fish. An’ Tommy Mib below! We touched Smith’s Arm next, sir. Come now, speak fair; did they have it there?”
“They’re not rid of it yet,” said Doctor Luke.
“Smith’s Arm too!” Docks groaned.
“An’ Harbour Rim,” the skipper added.
“Noon t’ noon at Harbour Rim,” said Docks.
“And Highwater Cove,” the doctor put in.
“Twenty quintal come aboard at Highwater Cove. I mind it well.”
“They been dyin’ like flies at Seldom Cove.”
“Like flies?” Docks repeated, in a hoarse whisper. “Skipper Billy, sir, who—who died—like that?”
Skipper Billy drew his hand over his mouth. “One was a kid,” he said, tugging at his moustache.
“My God!” Docks muttered. “One was a kid!”
In the pause—in the silence into which the far-off, wailing chorus of wind and sea crept unnoticed—Skipper Billy and Docks stared into each other’s eyes.
“An’ a kid died, too,” said the skipper.
Again the low, wailing chorus of wind and sea, creeping into the silence. I saw the light in Skipper Billy’s eyes sink from a flare to a glow; and I was glad of that.
“’Twas a cold, wet day, with the wind blowin’ in from the sea, when we dropped anchor at Little Harbour Deep,” Docks continued. “We always kep’ the forecastle closed tight an’ set a watch when we was in port; an’ the forecastle was tight enough that day, but the second hand, whose watch it was, had t’ help with the fish, for ’tis a poor harbour there, an’ we was in haste t’ get out. The folk was loafin’ about the deck, fore an’ aft, waitin’ turns t’ weigh fish or be served in the cabin. An’ does you know what happened?” Docks asked, tensely. “Can’tyou see how ’twas? Believeme, sir, ’twas a cold, wet day, a bitter day; an’ ’tis no wonder that one o’ they folk went below t’ warm hisself at the forecastle stove—went below, where poor Tommy Mib was lyin’ sick. Skipper, sir,” said Docks, with wide eyes, leaning over the table and letting his voice drop, “I seed that man come up—come tumblin’ up like mad, sir, his face so white as paint. He’d seed Tommy Mib! An’ he yelled, sir; an’ Skipper Jim whirled about when he heard that word, an’ I seed his lips draw away from his teeth.
“‘Over the side, every man o’ you!’ sings he.
“But ’twas not the skipper’s order—’twas that man’s horrid cry that sent un over the side. They tumbled into the punts and pushed off. It made me shiver, sir, t’ see the fright they was in.
“‘Stand by t’ get out o’ this!’ says the skipper.
“’Twas haul on this an’ haul on that, an’ ’twas heave away with the anchor, ’til we was well under weigh with all canvas spread. We beat out, takin’ wonderful chances in the tickle, an’ stood off t’ the sou’east. That night, when we was well off, the cook says t’ me that hethinkshe’ve nerve enough t’ be boiled in his own pot in a good cause, but he’ve no mind t’ make a Fox’s martyr of hisself for the likes o’ Skipper Jim.
“‘Cook,’ says I, ‘we’ll leave this here ship at the next port.’
“‘Docks,’ says he, ‘’tis a clever thought.’
“’Twas Skipper Jim’s trick at the wheel, an’ I loafed aft t’ have a word with un—keepin’ well t’ win’ward all the time; for he’d just come up from the forecastle.
“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘we’re found out.’
“‘What’s found out?’ says he.
“‘The case o’ smallpox for’ard,’ says I. ‘What you goin’ t’ do about it?’
“‘Do!’ says he. ‘What’ll I do? Is it you, Docks, that’s askin’ me that? Well,’ says he, ‘Jagger an’ me fixedthatall up when I seed him there t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle. They’s three ports above Harbour Deep, an’ I’m goin’ t’ trade un all. ’Twill be a v‘y’ge by that time. Then I’m goin’ t’ run theSink or Swimback o’ the islands in Seal Run. Which done, I’ll wait for Tommy Mib t’ make up his mind, one way or t’ other. If he casts loose, I’ll wait, decent as you like, ’til he’s well under weigh, when I’ll ballast un well an’ heave un over. If he’s goin’ t’ bide a spell longer in this world, I’ll wait ’til he’s steady on his pins. But, whatever, go or stay, I’ll fit the schooner with a foretopmast, bark her canvas, paint her black, call her theProdigal Son, an’ lay a course for St. Johns. They’s not a man on thedocks will take theProdigal Son, black hull, with topmast fore an’ aft an’ barked sails, inbound from the West Coast with a cargo o’ fish—not a man, sir, will take theProdigal Sonfor the white, single-topmast schoonerSink or Swim, up from the Labrador, reported with a case o’ smallpox for’ard. For, look you, b‘y,’ says he, ‘nobody knowsmet’ St. Johns.’
“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘sure you isn’t goin’ t’ put this fish on the market!’
“‘Hut!’ says he. ‘Jagger an’ me is worryin’ about the price o’ fish already.’
“We beat about offshore for three days, with the skipper laid up in the forecastle. Now what do you make o’ that? The skipper laid up in the forecastle along o’ Tommy Mib—an’ Tommy took the way he was! Come, now, what do you make o’ that?” We shook our heads, one and all; it was plain that the skipper, too, had been stricken. “Well, sir,” Docks went on, “when Skipper Jim come up t’ give the word for Rocky Harbour, he looked like a man risin’ from the dead. ‘Take her there,’ says he, ‘an’ sing out t’ me when you’re runnin’ in.’ Then down he went agin; but, whatever, me an’ the cook an’ the second hand was willin’ enough t’ sail her t’ Rocky Harbour without un, for ’twas in our minds t’ cut an’ run in the punt when the anchor was down. ‘A scurvy trick,’ says you, ‘t’ leave old Skipper Jiman’ Tommy Mib in the forecastle, all alone—an’ Tommy took that way?’ A scurvy trick!” cried Docks, his voice aquiver. “Ay, maybe! But you ain’t been aboard no smallpox-ship. You ain’t never knowed what ’tis t’ lie in your bunk in the dark o’ long nights shiverin’ for fear you’ll be took afore mornin’. An’ maybe you hasn’t seed a man took the way Tommy Mib was took—not tookquitethat way.”
“Yes, I has, b’y,” said Skipper Billy, quietly. “’Twas a kid that I seed.”
“Was it, now?” Docks whispered, vacantly.
“A kid o’ ten years,” Skipper Billy replied.
“Ah, well,” said Docks, “kids dies young. Whatever,” he went on, hurriedly, “the old man come on deck when he was slippin’ up the narrows t’ the basin at Rocky Harbour.
“‘’Tis the last port I’ll trade,’ says he, ‘for I’m sick, an’ wantin’ t’ get home.’
“We was well up, with the canvas half off her, sailin’ easy, on the lookout for a berth, when a punt put out from a stage up alongshore, an’ come down with the water curlin’ from her bows.
“‘What’s the meanin’ o’ that, Docks?’ sings the skipper, pointin’ t’ the punt. ‘They’re goin’ out o’ the course t’ keep t’ win’ard.’
“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘they knows us.’
“‘Sink us,’ says he, ‘they does! They knows what we is an’ what we got for’ard. Bring her to!’ he sings out t’ the man at the wheel.
“When we had the schooner up in the wind, the punt was bobbin’ in the lop off the quarter.
“‘What ship’s that?’ says the man in the bow.
“‘Sink or Swim,’ says the skipper.
“‘You get out o’ here, curse you!’ says the man. ‘We don’t want you here. They’s news o’ you in every port o’ the coast.’
“‘I’ll bide here ’til I’m ready t’ go, sink you!’ says the skipper.
“‘Oh, no, you won’t!’ says the man. ‘I’ve a gun or two that says you’ll be t’ sea agin in half an hour if the wind holds.’
“So when we was well out t’ sea agin, the cook he says t’ me that he’ve a wonderful fondness for a run ashore in a friendly port, but he’ve no mind t’ be shot for a mad dog. ‘An’ we better bide aboard,’ says the second hand; ‘for ’tis like we’ll be took for mad dogs wherever we tries t’ land.’ Down went the skipper, staggerin’ sick; an’ they wasn’t a man among us would put a head in the forecastle t’ ask for orders. So we beat about for a day or two in a foolish way; for, look you! havin’ in mind them Rocky Harbour rifles, we didn’t well know what t’do. Three days ago it blew up black an’ frothy—a nor’east switcher, with a rippin’ wind an’ a sea o’ mountains. ’Twas no place for a short-handed schooner. Believeme, sir, ’twas no place at all! ’Twas time t’ run for harbour, come what might; so we asked the cook t’ take charge. The cook says t’ me that he’d rather be a cook than a skipper, an’ a skipper than a ship’s undertaker, but he’ve no objection t’ turn his hand t’ anything t’ ’blige a party o’ friends: which he’ll do, says he, by takin’ the schooner t’ Broad Cove o’ the Harbourless Shore, which is a bad shelter in a nor’east gale, says he, but the best he can manage.
“So we up an’ laid a course for Broad Cove; an’ they was three schooners harboured there when we run in. We anchored well outside o’ them; an’, sure, we thought the schooner was safe, for we knowed she’d ride out what was blowin’, if it took so much as a week t’ blow out. But it blowed harder—harder yet: a thick wind, squally, too, blowin’ dead on shore, where the breakers was leapin’ half-way up the cliff. By midnight the seas was smotherin’ her, fore an’ aft, an’ she was tuggin’ at her bow anchor chain like a fish at the line. Lord! many a time I thought she’d rip her nose off when a hill o’ suddy water come atop of her with a thud an’ a hiss.
“‘She’ll go ashore on them boilin’ rocks,’ says the cook.
“We was sittin’ in the cabin—the cook an’ the second hand an’ me.
“‘’Tis wonderful cold,’ says the second hand.
“‘I’m chillin’, meself,’ says the cook.
“‘Chillin’!’ thinks I, havin’ in mind the way poor Tommy Mib was took. ‘Has you a pain in your back?’ says I.
“They was shiverin’ a wonderful lot, an’ the cook was holdin’ his head in his hands, just like Tommy Mib used t’ do.
“‘Ay, b‘y,’ says he.
“‘Ay, b‘y,’ says the second hand.
“‘Been drilled too hard o’ late,’ says the cook. ‘We’re all wore out along o’ work an’ worry.’
“I didn’t wait for no more. ‘H-m-m!’ says I, ‘I thinks I’ll take a look outside.’
“It was dawn then. Lord! what a sulky dawn it was! All gray, an’ drivin’ like mad. The seas was rollin’ in, with a frothy wind-lop atop o’ them. They’d lift us, smother us, drop us, toss the schooners ridin’ in our lee, an’ go t’ smash on the big, black rocks ashore. Lord! how they pulled at the oldSink or Swim! ’Twas like as if they wanted her bad for what she done. Seems t’ me the Lord God A’mighty must ‘a’ knowed what He was about.Seems to me the Lord God A’mighty said t’ Hisself: ‘Skipper Jim,’ says He, ‘I’m through usin’you. I’ve done all the damage I want done along o’ you. I’ve sent some o’ the wicked t’ beds they chose t’ lie on; an’ the good folk—all the good folk an’ little kids I couldn’t wait no longer for, I loved un so—I’ve took up here. Ay, Jim,’ says the Lord God A’mighty, ‘I’m through usin’ you; an’ I got t’ get rid o’ the oldSink or Swim. I’m sorry for the cook an’ the second hand an’ poor Tommy Mib,’ says He, ‘wonderful sorry; but I can’t run My world no other way. An’ when you comes t’ think it over,’ says He, ‘you’ll find ’tis the best thing that could happen t’ they, for they’re took most wonderful bad.’ Oh ay,” said Docks, with a gentle smile, “the Lord God A’mighty knowed what He was about.
“I went for’ard t’ have a look at the chain. Skipper Jim hisself was there, watchin’ it close.
“‘She’s draggin’,’ says he. But I wouldn’t ‘a’ knowed that voice for Skipper Jim’s—’twas so hollow and breathless. ‘She’s draggin’,’ says he. ‘Let her drag. They’s a better anchorage in there a bit. She’ll take the bottom agin afore she strikes them craft.’
“We was draggin’ fast—bearin’ straight down on the craft inside. They was a trader an’ two Labrador fishin’-craft. The handiest was a fishin’ boat, boundhome with the summer’s cotch, an’ crowded with men, women, an’ kids. We took the bottom an’ held fast within thirty fathom of her bow. I could see the folk on deck—see un plain as I sees you—hands an’ lips an’ eyes. They was swarmin’ fore an’ aft like a lot o’ scared seal—wavin’ their arms, shakin’ their fists, jabberin’, leapin’ about in the wash o’ the seas that broke over the bows.
“‘Docks,’ says the skipper, ‘what’s the matter with they folk, anyhow? We isn’t draggin’, is we?’ says he, half cryin’. ‘We isn’t hurtin’they, is we?’
“An old man—’tis like he was skipper o’ the craft—come runnin’ for’ard, with half a dozen young fellows in his wake. ‘Sheer off!’ sings the old one. He jabbered a bit more, all the while wavin’ us off, but a squall o’ wind carried it all away. ‘We’ll shoot you like dogs an you don’t!’ says one o’ the young ones; an’ at that I felt wonderful mean an’ wicked an’ sorry. Back aft they went. There they talked an’ talked; an’ as they talked they pointed—pointed t’ the breakers that was boilin’ over the black rocks; pointed t’ the spumey sea an’ t’ the low, ragged clouds drivin’ across it; pointed t’ theSink or Swim. Then the skipper took the wheel, an’ the crew run for’ard t’ the windlass an’ jib sheets.
“‘Skipper, sir,’ says I, ‘they’re goin’ t’ slip anchor an’ run!’
“‘Ay,’ says Skipper Jim, ‘they knows us, b’y! They knows theSink or Swim. We lies t’ win’ard, an’ they’re feared o’ the smallpox. They’ll risk that craft—women an’ kids an’ all—t’ get away. They isn’t a craft afloat can beat t’ sea in this here gale. They’ll founder, lad, or they’ll drive on the rocks an’ loss themselves, all hands. ’Tis an evil day for this poor old schooner, Docks,’ says he, with a sob, ‘that men’ll risk the lives o’ kids an’ women t’ get away from her; an’ ’tis an evil day for my crew.’ With that he climbed on the rail, cotched the foremast shrouds with one hand, put the other to his mouth, an’ sung out: ‘Ahoy, you! Bide where you is! Bide where you is!’ Then he jumped down; an’ he says t’ me, ’tween gasps, for the leap an’ shout had taken all the breath out of un, ‘Docks,’ says he, ‘they’s only one thing for a man t’ do in a case like this. Get the jib up, b’y. I’m goin’ aft t’ the wheel. Let the anchor chain run out when you sees me wave my hand. See, lad,’ says he, pointin’ t’ leeward, ‘they’re waitin’, aboard that fishin’ craft, t’ see what we’ll do. We’ll show un that we’re men! Jagger be damned,’ says he; ‘we’ll show un that we’re men! Call the hands,’ says he; ‘but leave Tommy Mib lie quiet in his bunk,’ says he, ‘for he’s dead.’
“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, lookin’ in his blood-red eyes, an’ then t’ the breakers, ‘what you goin’ t’ do?’
“‘Beach her,’ says he.
“‘Is you gone an’ forgot,’ says I, ‘about Jagger?’
“‘Never you mind about Jagger, Docks,’ says he. ‘I’ll seehim,’ says he, ‘later. Call the hands,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll wreck her like men!’”
Docks covered his face with his hands. Place was once more given to the noises of the gale. He looked up—broken, listless; possessed again by the mood of that time.
“An’ what didyousay, lad?” Skipper Billy whispered.
“I hadn’t no objection,” sighed the lad.
The answer was sufficient.
“So I called the hands,” Docks went on. “An’ when the second hand cotched sight o’ the rocks we was bound for, he went mad, an’ tumbled over the taffrail; an’ the cook was so weak a lurch o’ the ship flung him after the second hand afore we reached the breakers. I never seed Skipper Jim no more; nor the cook, nor the second hand, nor poor Tommy Mib. But I’m glad the Lord God A’mighty give Jim the chance t’ die right, though he’d lived wrong. Oh, ay! I’m fair glad the good Lord done that. The Labradormen give us a cheer when the chain went rattlin’ over an’ theSink or Swimgathered way—a cheer, sir, that beat its way agin the wind—Godbless them!—an’ made me feel that in the end I was a man agin. She went t’ pieces when she struck,” he added, as if in afterthought; “but I’m something of a hand at swimmin’, an’ I got ashore on a bit o’ spar. An’ then I come down the coast ’til I found you lyin’ here in the lee o’ Saul’s Island.” After a pause, he said hoarsely, to Skipper Billy: “They had the smallpox at Tops’l Cove, says you? They got it yet at Smith’s Arm? At Harbour Rim an’ Highwater Cove they been dyin’? How did they die at Seldom Cove? Like flies, says you? An’ one was a kid?”
“Mykid,” said Skipper Billy, quietly still.
“My God!” cried Docks. “Hiskid! How does that there song go? What about they lakes o’ fire? Wasn’t it,
“‘They’s lakes o’ fire in hell t’ sail for such as Skipper Jim!’
you sung? Lord! sir, I’m thinkin’ I’ll have t’ ship along o’ Skipper Jim once more!“
“No, no, lad!” cried Skipper Billy, speaking from the heart. “For you was willin’ t’ die right. But God help Jagger on the mornin’ o’ the Judgment Day! I’ll be waitin’ at the foot o’ the throne o’ God t’ charge un with the death o’ my wee kid!”
Doctor Luke sat there frowning.