The Cruise of the Shining Light
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“With gates!” he whispered.
’Twas the fancy of a fool; nay, ’twas the fancy (as chanced his need) of some strange wisdom.
“Dannie,” said he, “they’s times when I sees mother’s face peerin’ at me from them clouds–her own dear face as ’twas afore she died. She’s keepin’ watch from the windows o’ heaven–keepin’ watch, jus’ like she used t’ do. You’ll never tell, will you, lad? You’ll not shame me, will you? They’d laugh, out there on the grounds, an you told: for they’re so wonderful fond o’ laughter–out there on the grounds. I lives, somehow,” said he, brushing his hand in bewilderment over his eyes, “in the midst o’ laughter, but have no call t’ laugh. I wonder why, for mother didn’t laugh; an’ I wonder why they laughs so much. They’d laugh, Dannie, an you told un she was keepin’ watch; an’ so you will not: for I’ve growed, somehow, wonderful tired o’ laughter–since mother died. But ’tis so: I knows ’tis so! I sees her face in the light o’ sunsets–just as it used t’ be. She comes t’ the gate, when the black clouds arise t’ hide the mystery we’ve no call t’ know, an’ the dear Lord cares not what we fathom; an’ I sees her, Dannie, from my punt, still keepin’ watch upon me, just like she done from the window, afore she went an’ died. She was a wonderful hand, somehow, at keepin’ watch at the window. She’d watch me go an’ watch me come. I’ve often wondered why she done it. I’ve wondered, Dannie, an’ wondered, but never could tell why. Why, Dannie, I’ve knowed her t’ run out, by times, an’ say: ‘Come, dear, ’tis time you was within. Hush, lad, never care. They’ll never hurt you, dear,’ says she, ‘when you’re within–with me.’ An’, Dannie, t’ this day I’m feared t’ look into the sky, at evening, when I’ve been bad, lest I sees her saddened by my deeds; but when I’m good, I’m glad t’ see her face, for she smiles, lad, just like she used t’ do from the window–afore they buried her.”
“Ay,” said I; “I’ve no doubt, Moses–nar a doubt at all.”
The wind had risen; ’twas blowing from south by sou’east in meaning gusts: gusts intent upon riot, without compassion, loosed and conscious of release to work the will they had. The wind cares nothing for the needs of men; it has no other feeling than to vent its strength upon the strength of us–the lust (it seems to me) for a trial of passion, not knowing the enlistment of our hearts. ’Tis by the heart alone that we outlive the sea’s angry, crafty hate, for which there is no cause, since we would live at peace with it: for the heart remembers the kitchens of our land, and, defiant or not, evades the trial, repressed by love, as the sea knows no repression. ’Twas blowing smartly, with the promise of greater strength–’twas a time for reefs; ’twas a time for cautious folk, who loved their young, to walk warily upon the waters lest they be undone. The wind is a taunter; and the sea perversely incites in some folk–though ’tis hardly credible to such as follow her by day and night–strange desire to flaunt abroad, despite the bitter regard in which she holds the sons of men. I was glad that the folk of our harbor were within the tickle: for the sea of Ship’s Run, now turned black, was baring its white teeth. ’Twas an unkind place to be caught in a gale of wind; but our folk were wise–knowing in the wiles of the sea–and were not to be trapped in the danger fools despise.
“I’m on’y a fool,” said Moses Shoos; “but, Dannie, mother ’lowed, afore she died, that I was wonderful good t’ she. ‘Moses, lad,’ says mother, on that day, ‘fool or no fool, looks or not, you been wonderful good t’ me. I could never love you more; an’ I wouldn’t trade you, lad, for the brightest man o’ Twist Tickle. Does you hear me, dear?’ says she. ‘I wants you t’ remember. I loves you,’ says she; ‘an’ fool or no fool, I’d never trade you off, you’ve been so good t’ me.’”
“T’ be sure not!” cries I.
“Not mother,” said he; “not–my mother!”
I reminded him that ’twas time to be about his courtship, for the light was fading now, and ’twould soon be dark.
“Ay,” said he; “mother ’lowed ’twasn’t good for man t’ be alone. An’ I ’low she knowed.”
I watched him down the hill…
I was but a motherless lad–not yet grown wise, but old enough, indeed, to want a mother–in some dim way (which even yet is not clear to my heart’s ignorance, nor ever will be, since I am born as I am) sensitive to feel the fathomless, boundless lack, poignantly conscious that my poor vision, at its clearest, was but a flash of insight. I used to try, I know, as a child, lying alone in the dark, when my uncle was gone to bed, to conjure from the shadows some yearning face, to feel a soft hand come gratefully from the hidden places of my room to smooth the couch and touch me with a healing touch, in cure of my uneasy tossing, to hear a voice crooning to my woe and restlessness; but never, ache and wish as I would, did there come from the dark a face, a hand, a voice which was my mother’s; nay, I must lie alone, a child forsaken in the night, wanting that brooding presence, in pain for which there was no ease at all in all the world. I watched the fool of Twist Tickle go gravely in at the kitchen door, upon his business, led by the memory of a wisdom greater than his own, beneficent, continuing, but not known to me, who was no fool; and I envied him–spite of his burden of folly–his legacy of love. ’Twas fallen into dusk: the hills were turning shapeless in the night, the glow all fled from the sky, the sea gone black. But still I waited–apart from the rock and shadows and great waters of the world God made–a child yearning for the face and hand and tender guidance of the woman who was his own, but yet had wandered away into the shades from which no need could summon her. It seemed to me, then, that the mothers who died, leaving sons, were unhappy in their death, nor ever could be content in their new state. I wanted mine–I wanted her!–wanted her as only a child can crave, but could not have her–not though I sorely wanted her…
He came at last–and came in habitual dignity–punctiliously closing the door behind him and continuing on with grave steps.
“You here, Dannie?” he asked.
“Ay, Moses; still waitin’.”
“’Tis kind, lad.”
“I ’lowed I’d wait, Moses,” I ventured, “t’ find out.”
“’Tis grown thick,” said he. “’Twill blow from the east with fog an’ rain. You’re bound home, Dannie?”
“Ay,” said I; “’tis far past tea-time.”
We got under way.
“’Twill blow an uncivil sort o’ gale from the east,” he remarked, in a casual way. “We’ll have Sunk Rock breakin’ the morrow. ’Twill not be fit for fishin’ on the Off-an’-On grounds. But I ’low I’ll go out, anyhow. Nothin’ like a spurt o’ labor,” said he, “t’ distract the mind. Mother always said so; an’ she knowed.”
“The maid would not have you, Moses?”
“Mother always ’lowed,” he answered, “that ’twas wise t’ distract the mind in case o’ disappointment. I ’low I’ll overhaul the splittin’-table when I gets t’ home. She needs a scrubbin’.”
We came to the rise in the road.
“Mother,” said he, “’lowed that if ever I come in from Whisper Cove t’ build at Twist Tickle, she’d have the house sot here. I ’low I’ll put one up, some time, t’ have it ready ag’in’ the time I’m married. Mother ’lowed ’twas a good thing t’ be forehanded with they little things.” The note of melancholy, always present, but often subdued, so that it sounded below the music of his voice, was now obtrusive: a monotonous repetition, compelling attention, insistent, an unvarying note of sadness. “Ay,” he continued; “mother ’lowed ’twas a good thing t’ have a view. She’d have it sot here, says she, facin’ the west, if ever I got enough ahead with the fish t’ think o’ buildin’. She’d have it sot, says she, so she could watch the sunset an’ keep a eye on the tickle t’ see my punt come in. She was wonderful on sunsets, was mother; an’ she was sort o’ sot, somehow, on keepin’ watch on me. Wonderful good o’ she, wasn’t it, Dannie, t’ want t’ keep watch–on me?” Again the note of melancholy, throbbing above the drawl–rising, indeed, into a wail. “So,” said he, “I ’low I’ll just put up a house, by-an’-by, for the wife I’m t’ have; an’ I’ll have it here, I’m thinkin’, for mother ’lowed my wife would want it with a view o’ the tickle, t’ watch my punt come in. Think she will, Dannie? Think she will?”
The mail-boat blew in the narrows.
“I must haste!” said I.
“An you must haste, Dannie,” said he, “run on. I’ll not make haste, for I’m ’lowin’ that a little spell o’ thinkin’ about mother will sort o’ do me good.”
I ran on, fast as my legs would carry me (which was not very fast). ’Twas the departing whistle; the mail-boat had come and gone–I saw her lights, shining warmly in the dark, grow small as she fared out through the narrows to the sea. It began to rain in great drops; overhead ’twas all black–roundabout a world of looming shadows, having lights, like stars, where the cottages were set on the hills. I made haste on my way; and as I pattered on over the uneven road to the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I blamed myself right heartily, regretting my uncle’s disappointment, in that the expected guest would already have arrived, landed by way of my uncle’s punt. And, indeed, the man was there, as I learned: for my uncle met me on the gravelled path of our garden, to bid me, but not with ill-temper, begone up-stairs and into clean linen and fitting garments, which were laid out and waiting (he said) on my bed. And when, descending in clean and proper array, bejewelled to suit the occasion, by my uncle’s command, I came to the best room, I found there a young man in black, scarce older, it seemed, than myself.
“This here young man, Dannie,” says my uncle, with a flourish, “is your tutor.”
I bowed.
“Imported direck,” adds my uncle, “from Lon’on.”
My tooter? It sounded musical: I wondered what the young man blew–but shook hands, in the Chesterfieldian manner (as best I had mastered it), and expressed myself (in such Chesterfieldian language as I could recall in that emergency) as being delighted to form an acquaintance so distinguished.
“Well done!” cries my uncle, past containing his pride in the Chesterfieldian achievement. “Sir Harry hisself couldn’t beat it!”
The young man laughed pleasantly.
X
IMPORTED DIRECT
I laughed, too, unable to help it, and my uncle guffawed, in his large way; and then we all laughed like tried friends together: so that ’twas plain, being thus at once set upon agreeable terms, with no shyness or threat of antipathy to give ill ease, that we three strange folk were well-met in the wide world. ’Twas cosey in the best room: a lively blaze in the fireplace, the room bright with lamplight, warm with the color of carpet and tapestried mahogany, spotless and grand, as I thought, in every part; ay, cosey enough, with good company well-met within, the risen wind clamoring through the night, the rain lashing the black panes, the sea rumbling upon the rocks below, and, withal, a savory smell abroad in goodly promise. My uncle, grown fat as a gnome in these days, grotesquely fashioned, miscellaneously clothed as ever, stood with legs wide upon the black wolf’s-skin, his back to the fire, his great hands clasped over his paunch, lying as upon a shelf; regarding the direct importation and myself, the rise of my admiration, the room, the whole world, indeed, visible and invisible, with delight so boyish that ’twas good to watch the play of satisfaction upon his fantastic countenance, which now rippled and twinkled from his black cravat to his topmost scars and bristles. Well-met were we three folk; ay, no doubt: I was in a glow of content with this new fortune.
’Tis strange how the affections fall…
My tutor, John Cather, as his name turned out to be, was older than I, after all–my elder by five years, I fancied, with age-wise ways and a proud glance to overawe my youth, were need of it to come: a slight, dark-skinned man, clean-featured, lean-cheeked, full-lipped, with restless dark eyes, thin, olive-tinted hands, black hair, worn overlong, parted in the manner of a maid and falling upon his brow in glossy waves, which he would ruffle into disorder, with the air of knowing what he was about. He was clad all in black, for the reason, he said, that he aspired to holy orders: well-kept black, edged with linen of the whitest, and not ill cut, according to my uncle’s fashion-plates, but sadly worn at the seams and everywhere brushed near threadbare. Now sprawled, hands pocketed, in a great-chair under the lamp, indolent with accomplished grace (it seemed), one long leg thrown languidly over the other, the slender foot never at rest, he was postured with that perfection of ease and gentility into which my uncle, watchful observer of the manners of the world he walked in, had many a time endeavored to command me, but with the most indifferent success. I listened to my tutor’s airy, rambling chit-chat of the day’s adventures, captivated by the readiness and wit and genial outlook; the manner of it being new to my experience, the accompaniment of easy laughter a grateful enlightenment in a land where folk went soberly. And then and there–I remember, as ’twere an hour gone, the gale and the lamplight and the laughter of that time–I conceived for him an enduring admiration.
Taken by an anxious thought I whispered in my uncle’s ear, having him bend his monstrous head close for secrecy.
“Eh?” says he.
I repeated the question.
“Steerage, lad,” he answered. “Tut!” he growled, “none o’ that, now! ’Twill be steerage.”
It grieved me to know it.
“An’ now, Dannie, lad,” quoth my uncle, aloud, with a thirsty rubbing of the hands and a grin to match, “fetch the bottle. The bottle, b’y! ’Tis time for growed men t’ pledge the v’y’ge. A bit nippy, parson man? The bottle, Dannie!”
“Bottle?” cries my tutor. “Why, really, you know, Skipper Nicholas, I–”
“Is you much give t’ the use o’ fo’c’s’les, parson?” my uncle interrupted.
My tutor was not.
“Then,” says my uncle, grimly, “you’ll be wantin’ a drap.”
’Twas true enough, by my uncle’s mysterious perversity: a drop would be wanted, indeed.
“Dannie, lad,” he commanded, “fetch that there bottle!”
Cather tossed his head, with a brief little laugh, and then, resigned to my uncle’s idiosyncrasy–divining the importance of it–gave me a quick nod of permission: the which I was glad to get, aware, as I was, of the hospitable meaning of my uncle’s invitation and his sensitiveness in respect to its reception. So I got the ill-seeming black bottle from the locker, the tray and glasses and little brown jug from the pantry, the napkin from Agatha, in a flutter in the kitchen, and having returned to the best room, where the tutor awaited the event in some apparent trepidation, I poured my uncle’s dram, and measured an hospitable glass for Cather, but with less generous hand, not knowing his capacity, but shrewdly suspecting its inferiority. The glasses glittered invitingly in the light of the fire and lamp, and the red liquor lay glowing within: an attractive draught, no doubt–to warm, upon that windy night, and to appetize for the belated meat.
“T’ you, parson!” says my uncle.
I touched the tutor’s elbow.
“Water?” says he, in doubt. “Is it the custom?”
“Leave un be, Dannie.”
“Whatever the custom,” my tutor began, “of course–”
“’Tis wise,” I ventured; minded to this by the man’s awkward handling of the glass.
“For shame, Dannie!” cries my uncle. “Leave the parson take his liquor as he will. ’Tis easy t’ see he likes it neat.”
Cather was amused.
“T’ you, parson!” says my uncle.
The tutor laughed as he raised the glass of clear rum. I watched him with misgiving, alive to all the signs of raw procedure–the crook of his elbow, the tilt of the glass, the lift of his head. “To you, sir!” said he: and resolutely downed it. ’Twas impressive then, I recall, to observe his face–the spasm of shock and surprise, the touch of incredulity, of reproachful complaint, as that hard liquor coursed into his belly. ’Twas over in a moment–the wry mouth of it, the shudder–’twas all over in a flash. My tutor commanded his features, as rarely a man may, into stoical disregard of his internal sensations, and stood rigid, but calm, gripping the back of his chair, his teeth set, his lips congealed in an unmeaning grin, his eyes, which ran water against his will, fixed in mild reproach upon my beaming uncle, turning but once, I recall, to my solicitous self. With no unseemly outbreak–with but an inconsequent ahem and a flirt of his handkerchief over his lips–he returned to his composure. He would never again drink rum with my uncle, nor any other liquor, through all the years of our intimate connection; but this mattered not at all, since he had in the beginning pledged the old man’s health with honor to himself. I was glad, however, that on the windy night of our meeting he was no more put out; for I wished him safe within my uncle’s regard, and knew, as I knew my uncle and the standards of our land, that he had by this gallant conduct achieved the exalted station. ’Twas a test of adaptability (as my uncle held), and of manhood, too, of which, as a tenet, taught me by that primitive philosopher, I am not able, bred as I am, to rid myself to this very day.
“Parson,” said my uncle, solemnly, advancing upon the tutor, “ye done it, and ye done it well! Shake, shipmate–shake!”
The bell tinkled.
“Is that dinner?” cries my tutor. “Jove! but I am on edge.”
We moved into the dining-room, myself pitying the man in a heartfelt way for his stomach’s sake. ’Twas unkind in my uncle to sharpen his appetite with red rum.
My uncle stumped ahead, his wooden leg as blithe as the sound one, and was waiting in his humble quarters, with a gnome-like leer of expectation, when we entered. Neither my watch, set with its shy jewels, nor my sparkling fingers, nor the cut and quality and fit of my London-made clothes, which came close to perfection, nor anything concerning me, had caused my tutor even so much as to lift an eyebrow of surprise; but the appearance of the table, laid in the usual way, gave him an indubitable fit of amazement: for, as was our custom on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, at the one end, where sat the luxurious Dannie Callaway, by no will of his own, was the glitter of silver, the flash and glow of delicate china, a flower or more from our garden, exquisite napery, the bounties of the kindly earth, whatever the cost; but at the other (the napery abruptly ceasing at the centre of the table because of the wear and tear that might chance) was set out, upon coarse ware, even to tin, fare of common description, forecastle fare, fisherman fare, unrelieved by any grace of flower or linen or glitter of glass, by any grace at all, save the grace of a black bottle, which, 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.