The Cruise of the Shining Light by Norman Duncan (the best ebook reader for android txt) 📕

according to my experience, was sufficient to my uncle and such rough folk as dined with him. 'Twas no cause for surprise to me, to whom the enigma had been familiar from the beginning; but my tutor, come suddenly against the puzzle, was nonplussed, small blame to him.

"Parson," says my uncle, "_you_--goes steerage!"

My tutor started, regarded my uncle with a little jerk of astonishment; and his eyebrows went high--but still conveyed no more than polite inquiry. "I beg your pardon?" he apologized.

"Steerage, parson!" my uncle repeated. "Steerage passage, sir, the night!"

"Really!"

"'Tis the same as sayin'," I made haste to explain, "that you dines along o' Uncle Nick at _his_ end."

The tutor was faintly amused.

"Steerage the night, parson; cabin the morrow," said my uncle. "Ye'll live high, lad, when ye're put in the cabin. Lord love ye, parson! but the feedin' there is fair scandalous. 'Twould never do t' have the news of it go abroad. An' as for the liquor! why, parson," he proceeded, tapping my tutor on the breast, to impress the amazing disclosure, while we stood awkwardly, "Dannie haves a locker o' wine as old as your grandmother, in this here very room, waitin' for un t' grow up; an' he'll broach it, parson, like a gentleman--he'll broach it for you, when you're moved aft. But bein' shipped from the morrow, accordin' t' articles, signed, sealed, an' delivered," he added, gravely, "'twouldn't be just quite right, accordin' t' the lay o' fac's you're not in the way o' knowin', t' have ye feed along o' Dannie the night. 'Twouldn't be right, 'twouldn't be honest, as I sees it in the light o' them fac's; _not_," he repeated, in a whisper, ghostly with the awe and mystery of it, so that the tutor stared alarmed, "accordin' t' them damned remarkable fac's, as I _sees_ un! But I've took ye in, parson--_I've_ took ye in!" he cried, with a beaming welcome, to which my tutor instantly responded. "Ye'll find it snug an' plenty in the steerage, an' no questions asked. No questions," he repeated, with a wink of obscure meaning, "asked. They's junk an' cabbage, lad, with plum-duff t' top off with, for a bit of a treat, an' rum--why parson! as for the rum, 'tis as free as water! Sit ye," says he, "an' fall to!" his face all broken into smiles. "Fall to, parson, an' spare nothin'. Better the salt-junk o' toil," he improvised, in bold imitation of the Scripture, to my tutor's further astonishment, "than the ice-cream o' crime!"

My tutor helplessly nodded.

"Ol' Nick Top," says my uncle, "is on'y a hook-an'-line man, an' fares hard, as fishermen must; but little ol' Dannie Callaway, sittin' there in that little cabin o' his, is a damn little gentleman, sir, an' feeds off the best, as them big-bugs will."

We fell to.

"Wild night," my tutor remarked.

'Twas blowing wildly, indeed: the wind come to the east--sweeping in from the vast gray sea, with black rain to fling at the world. The windows rattled as the gusts went crying past the cottage. But a warm glow, falling from the lamp above the table, and the fire, crackling and snorting in the grate, put the power of the gale to shame. 'Twas cosey where we sat: warm, light, dry, with hunger driven off--a cosey place on a bitter night: a peace and comfort to thank the good God for, with many a schooner off our coast, from Chidley to the Baccalieu light, riding out the gale, in a smother of broken water, with a rocky shore and a flash of breakers to leeward. Born as I am--Newfoundlander to the marrow of my body and the innermost parts of my soul--my heart puts to sea, unfailingly, whatever the ease and security of my place, when the wind blows high in the night and the great sea rages. 'Tis a fine heritage we have, we outport Newfoundlanders--this feeling for the toss and tumult and dripping cold of the sea: this sympathy, born of self-same experience. I'd not exchange it, with the riches of cities to boot, for the thin-lipped, gray, cold-eyed astuteness, the pomp and splendid masks, of the marts and avenues I have seen in my time. I'd be a Newfoundlander, outport born, outport bred, of outport strength and tenderness of heart, of outport sincerity, had I my birth to choose....

* * * * *


"Dannie," says my uncle, peering inquisitively into the cabin, "how d'ye like that there fresh beef?"

'Twas good.

"He likes it!" cries my uncle, delighted. "Parson, he likes it. Hear un? He likes it. An' 'tis paid for, parson--paid for! Dannie," says he, again leaning forward, eyes bent upon my plates, "how d'ye like them there fresh greens? Eh, lad?"

They were very good.

"An' paid for, parson--all paid for!"

My tutor, poor man! stared agape, his knife and fork laid by; for my uncle, become now excited and most indiscreet, was in a manner the most perplexing--and in some mysterious indication--pointing, thumb down, towards the oil-cloth that floored the room, or to the rocks beneath, which the wind ran over, the house being set on spiles, or to the bowels of the earth, as you may choose. 'Twas a familiar thing to me--the mystery of the turned thumb and spasmodic indication, the appearance, too, at such times, of my uncle's eyes: round, protruding, alight with wicked admiration, starting from the scars and bristles and disfigurements of his face, but yet reflecting awe, as of some unholy daring, to be mightily suffered for in due time. But 'twas not familiar to my tutor, nor, doubtless, had ever occurred to his imagination, sophisticated as he may have thought it; he could do nothing but withstand the amazement as best he might, and that in a mean, poor way, as he gazed alternately upon my uncle's flushed and deeply stirred countenance and upon my own saddened, aged face, speaking its ancient bewilderment. I pitied his disquietude, rather: for he was come from abroad to our coast--and could not understand.

"Dannie, lad," my uncle anxiously inquired, "_can_ it be that you likes them there fresh carrots?"

It could easily be.

"An' paid for!" my uncle ejaculated, with no abatement of delight. "Parson," he proceeded, proudly, "good feed that there young gentleman has in the cabin, eh?"

My tutor agreed.

"None better in the world, eh?" the old man went on. "_You_ couldn't do no better, could you?"

My tutor said that no man could.

"An' paid for," says my uncle, thumbing down. "Paid for, every bite!" He turned to me. "Dannie," says he, "how d'ye like them there new potatoes?"

They were more than palatable.

"Hear that, parson!" cries my uncle. "He likes un! Imported direck, sir, from Bermuda," says he, with all the vanity of riches. "Ever feed so high yourself, parson? Consignment arrived," says he, "per S.S. _Silvia_. You'll see it in the _Herald_ an you looks."

"Really!" my tutor exclaimed, for lack of something better.

"Fac'," says my uncle; "an' paid for--skin an' eye!"

My tutor gave it up--permitted himself no longer to be troublesomely mystified; but after a quick glance from steerage to cabin, flashed with amused comprehension of the contrast, threw back his head with a little laugh quite detached from our concerns, and presently, innured to the grotesquery, busied himself with relish upon his salt-junk. Thereafter, the rum buzzing in his head, he ran on in a vivacious way upon all things under the sun, save himself, so that the windy night seemed very far away, indeed, and the lamplight and fire to lend an inspiration to his nimble tongue, until, in a lull of the engaging discourse, he caught my uncle peering greedily into the cabin, all but licking his lips, his nostrils distended to the savor, his flooded eyes fixed upon the fresh beef and vegetables in manifest longing, every wrinkle and muscle of his broad face off guard. My tutor--somewhat affected, I fancy, by this display--turned to me with a little frown of curiosity, an intrusive regard, it seemed to me, which I might in all courtesy fend off for the future. 'Twas now time, thinks I, to enlighten him with the knowledge I had: a task I had no liking for, since in its accomplishment I must stir my uncle unduly.

"Uncle Nick," says I, "'tis like Mr. Cather will be havin' a cut off my roast."

"The parson?" my uncle demanded.

"Ay," says I, disregarding his scowl; "a bit o' roast beef."

"Not he!" snaps my uncle. "Not a bite!"

I nerved myself--with a view wholly to Cather's information. "Uncle Nick," I proceeded, my heart thumping, such was the temerity of the thing, "'tis a dirty night without, an' here's Mr. Cather just joined the ship, an' I 'low, now, the night, Uncle Nick, that maybe you--"

"Me?" roars my uncle, in a flare of rage and horror. "_Me_ touch it? ME!"

The vehemence of this amazed my tutor, who could supply no cause for the outburst; but 'twas no more than I had expected in the beginning.

"Me!" my uncle gasped.

There was a knock at the door....

* * * * *


Ay, a knock at the door! 'Twas a thing most unexpected. That there should come a knock at the door! 'Twas past believing. 'Twas no timid tapping; 'twas a clamor--without humility or politeness. Who should knock? There had been no outcry; 'twas then no wreck or sudden peril of our people. Again it rang loud and authoritative--as though one came by right of law or in vindictive anger. My uncle, shocked all at once out of a wide-eyed daze of astonishment, pushed back from the board, in a terrified flurry, his face purpled and swollen, and blundered about for his staff; but before he had got to his feet, our maid-servant, on a fluttering run from the kitchen, was come to the door. The gale broke in--rushing noises and a swirl of wet wind. We listened; there was a voice, not the maid-servant's--thin, high-tempered, lifted in irascible demand--but never a word to be distinguished in that obscurity of wind and rain. 'Twas cold, and the lamp was flaring: I closed the door against this inrush of weather.

My wretched uncle beckoned the tutor close, a finger lifted in caution; but still kept looking at me--and all the while stared at me with eyes of frightened width--in a way that saw me not at all. "Parson," he whispered, "they wasn't ar another man landed by the mail-boat the day, was they?"

The tutor nodded.

"Ye wouldn't say, would ye," my uncle diffidently inquired, "that he'd be from St. John's by the cut of um?"

"A gray little man from St. John's."

"I 'low then," says my uncle, "that he talked a wonderful spell about a lad, didn't um?"

My tutor shook his head.

"Nar a word--about _any_ lad?"

"I'm sure not."

My uncle tapped the tip of his nose.

"A red mole," said my tutor.

And now my uncle poured himself a great dram of rum. 'Twas