Harbor Tales Down North by Norman Duncan (best books to read for self improvement TXT) 📕

my flute?"

"There'll come a time afore long when he'll find out all of a sudden about his pa. Whew!"

I found my flute an' stretched myself out on the counter t' draw comfort from tootin' it.

"Somebody'll blunder," says the skipper. "Some poor damn' fool."

"Is I ever played you Nellie was a Lady?"

"'Tis awful!"

"'Tis not," says I. "'Tis a popular ballad an' has many good points."

"I don't mean the ballad, Tumm," says he. "Play it an you wants to. Don't sing it, though, I'm too bothered t' tolerate more confusion this night. The more I thinks o' the mess that that poor lad's in the worse I grieves. Man alive, 'tis a terrible business altogether! If they hadn't praised his father so high--if they hadn't teached the lad t' think that he'd write a letter or come home again--if the lad wasn't jus' the loyal little nipper that he is! I tell you, Tumm, that lad's sheer daft with admiration of his pa. He've lifted his pa above God Almighty. When he finds out the truth, he'll fall down and scream in agony, an' he'll die squirmin', too. I can fair hear un now--an' see un writhe in pain."

All this while I was whisperin' in my flute. 'Twas a comfort t' ease my mood in that way.

"I can't bear t' think of it, Tumm," says the skipper. "'Tis the saddest thing ever I heared of. I wish we'd never dropped anchor in Hide-an'-Seek Harbor."

"I don't," says I.

"Then you've a heart harder than rock," says he.

"Come, now," says I; "have done with the matter. 'Tis no affair o' yours, is it?"

"The lad mustn't find out the truth."

"Can you stop the mouth o' the whole wide world?"

"You knows very well that I can't."

"I'm not so sure that 'twould be wise t' withhold the truth," says I. "'Tis a mystery t' me--wisdom an' folly in a case like this. Anyhow," says I, givin' free course, in the melancholy that possessed me, to an impulse o' piety, "God Almighty knows how t' manage His world. An' as I looks at your face, an' as I listens t' your complaint," says I, "I'm willin' t' wager that He've got His plan worked near t' the point o' perfection at this very minute."

"Tell me how, Tumm."

"I'll leave you to brood on it," says I, "whilst I plays my flute."

Skipper Harry brooded whilst I tooted Toby Farr's woeful song called The Last Man o' the _Fore-an'-After_:


When the schooner struck the rock,
She was splintered by the shock;
An' the breakers didn't ask for leave or token.
No! They hove un, man an' kid,
Slap ag'in the cliff, they did,
An' kep' heavin' 'til the bones of all was broken!


"Skipper Harry," says I, then, puttin' aside my ol' flute, "doesn't you know what you can do t' help that lad out o' trouble for good an 'all?"

"I wish I did, Tumm."

"Is you as stupid as all that?"

"I isn't stupid as a usual thing," says he. "My wits is all scattered with rage an' sadness. That's the only trouble."

"Well," says I, "all you got t' do----"

Skipper Harry warned me.

"Hist!"

The lad was half way down the companion. I mind, as a man will recall, sometimes, harkin' back t' the crest an' close of a livin' tale like this poor yarn o' the little mystery o' Hide-an'-Seek Harbor, that there was wind in the riggin' an' black rain on the roof o 'the cabin. An' when I thinks of it all, as think of it I does, meanderin' along with my friendly ol' flute, of an evenin' in the fall o' the year, when trade's done an' the shelves is all put t' rights, I hears that undertone o' patter an' splash an' sigh. There was that in the lad's face t' stir an ache in the heart of a sentimental ol' codger like me; an' when I seed the grim lines an' gray color of it, an' when I caught the sorrow an' pride it uttered, as the lad halted, in doubt, peerin' at Skipper Harry in the hope of a welcome below, I knowed that my surmise was true. 'Twas a vision I had, I fancy--a flash o' revelation, such as may come, as some part o' the fortune they inherit, to habitual tellers o' tales o' the old an' young like me. A wee lad, true--Hide-an'-Seek born, an' fated the worst; yet I apprehended, all at once, the confusion he dwelt alone in, an' felt the weight o' the burden he carried alone; an' I must honor the courage an' good pride of his quality. Ay, I knows he was young! I knows that well enough! Nay, my sirs an' gentlefolk--I'm not makin' too much of it!

"Ah-ha!" says the skipper. "Here you is, eh? Come below, sir, an' feel welcome aboard."

Well, the lad come down with slow feet; an' then he stood before Skipper Harry like a culprit.

"Is you had your cup o' tea?" says the skipper.

"Yes, sir. I thanks you, sir, for my cup o' tea."

"Sugar in it?"

"Yes, sir."

"All you wanted?"

"As much as my need, sir, an' more than my deserts."

Skipper Harry clapped un on the back.

"All nonsense!" says he. "You're no judge o' your deserts. They're a good round measure, I'll be bound!"

"They isn't, sir."

"No more o' that! You is jus' as worthy----"

"No, I isn't!"

"Well, then, have it your own way," says the skipper. "Is you comin' back for breakfast in the mornin'? That's what I wants t' know."

"No, sir."

Skipper Harry jumped.

"What's that?" says he. "Why not?"

"I've shamed your goodness, sir."

"Bosh!" says the skipper.

The lad's lips was dry. He licked 'em. An' his throat was dry. He gulped. An' his voice was hoarse.

"I been lyin' t' you," says he.

"You been----"

All at once the lad's voice went shrill as a maid's. 'Twas distressful t' hear.

"Lyin' t' you, sir!" says he. "I been lyin' t' you jus' like mad! An' now you'll not forgive me!"

"Tumm," says the skipper, "this is a very queer thing. I can't make it out."

I could.

"No harm in easin' the conscience freely," says I t' the lad. "What you been lyin' about?"

"Heed me well, sir!" This t' the skipper.

"Ay, my son?"

"I isn't got no pa! My pa's dead! My pa was hanged by the neck until he was dead for the murder o' Mean Michael Mitchell o' Topsail Run!"

Well, that was true. Skipper Harry an' me knowed that. Everybody in Newf'un'land knowed it. Seven years afore--the hangin' was done. Sammy Scull was a baby o' three at the time. 'Twas a man's crime, whatever, if a man an' a crime can be linked with satisfaction. Still an' all, 'twas a murder, an' a foul, foul deed for that reason. We've few murders in Newf'un'land. They shock us. They're never forgotten. An' there was a deal made o' that one, an' 'twas still the latest murder--news o' the trial at St. John's spread broadcast over the three coasts; an' talk o' the black cap an' the black flag, an' gruesome tales o' the gallows an' the last prayer, an' whispers o' the quicklime that ended it all. Sammy Scull could go nowhere in Newf'un'land an' escape the shadow an' shame o' that rope. Let the lad grow t' manhood? No matter. Let un live it down? He could not. The tongues o' the gossips would wag in his wake wheresoever he went. Son of John Scull o' Hide-an'-Seek Harbor! Why, sir, the man's father was hanged by the neck at St. John's for the murder o' Mean Michael Mitchell o' Topsail Run!

Skipper Harry put a hand on Sammy Scull's head.

"My son," says he, "is you quite sure about what you've jus' told us?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long is you knowed it?"

"Oh, a long, long time, sir! I learned it of a dirty day in the fall o' last year. Isn't it--isn't it true, sir?"

Skipper Harry nodded.

"Ay, my son," says he; "'tis quite true."

"Oh, my poor pa!"

Skipper Harry put a finger under the lad's chin an' tipped up his face.

"Who tol' you?" says he.

"I found a ol' newspaper, sir, in Sandy Spot's bureau, sir, where I was forbid t' pry, sir, an' I read all about it. My pa left one child named Samuel when he was hanged by the neck--an' that's me."

"You've told nobody what you learned?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"I'd liefer pretend not t' know, sir, when they baited me, an' so save myself shame."

"Jus' so, my son."

"An' I jus' lied an' lied an' lied!"

"Mm-m."

Skipper Harry lifted the lad t' the counter, then, an' bent to a level with his eyes.

"Look me in the eye, son," says he. "I've a grave word t' say t' you. Will you listen well an' ponder?"

"I'll ponder, sir, an you'll jus' forgive my fault."

"Sammy, my son," says the skipper, "I forgives it freely. Now, listen t' me. Is you listenin'? Well, now, I knows a snug harbor t' the south o' this. Tis called Yesterday Cove. An' in the harbor is a cottage, an' in the cottage is a woman; an' the woman is ample an' kind. She've no lad of her own--that kind, ample woman. She've only a husband. That's me. An' I been thinkin'----"

I stirred myself.

"I 'low I'll meander for'ard," says I, "an' have a cup o' tea with the hands."

"Do, Tumm," says the skipper.

* * * * *


Well, now, I went for'ard t' have my cup o' tea an' brood on this sorry matter. 'Twas plain, however, what was in the wind; an' when I went aft again, an' begun t' meander along, breathin' the sad strains o' Toby Farr's songs on my flute, the thing had come t' pass, though no word was said about it. There was the skipper an' wee Sammy Scull, yarnin' t'gether like ol' cronies--the lad with his ears an' eyes wide t' the tale that Hard Harry was tellin'. I jus' wet my whistle with a drop o' water, t' limber my lips for the music, an' whispered away on my flute; but as I played I must listen, an' as I listened I was astonished, an' presently I give over my tootin' altogether, the better t' hearken t' the wild yarn that Hard Harry was spinnin'. 'Twas a yarn that was well knowed t' me. Man alive! Whew! 'Twas a tax on the belief--that yarn! Ay, I had heared it afore--the yarn o' how Hard Harry had chopped a way t' the crest of an iceberg in foul weather t' spy out a course above the fog, an' o' how he had split the berg in two with the last blow of his ax, an' falled safe between the halves, an' swimmed aboard his schooner in a