“An’ is this ol’ Nicholas Top a liar?” says my uncle.
“No, sir.”
“Is he a thief?”
“No, sir.”
“Smuggler?”
“No, sir.”
“Have he ever been mixed up in burglary, murder, arson, barratry, piracy, fish stealin’, or speckalation?”
“No, sir.”
To indicate his utter detachment from personal interest in the question to follow, my uncle would wave his dilapidated hand, as though leaving me free to answer as I would, which by no means was I.
“An’ of how much,” says he, “would he rob his neighbor that he might prosper?”
’Twas now time for me to turn loud and indignant, as I had been taught. Thus: my head must shoot out in truculent fashion, my brows bend, my lips curl away from my teeth like a snarling dog’s, my eyes glare; and I must let my small body shake with explosive rage, in imitation of my uncle, while I brought the table a thwack with all my force, shouting:
“Not a damn copper!”
“Good!” says my uncle, placidly. “You done that very well, Dannie, for a lad. You fetched out the damn quite noisy an’ agreeable. Now,” says he, “is Nicholas Top a rascal?”
’Twas here we had trouble; in the beginning, when this learning was undertaken, I must be whipped to answer as he would have me. Ay, and many a night have I gone sore to bed for my perversity, for in respect to obedience his severity was unmitigated, as with all seafaring men. But I might stand obstinate for a moment—a moment of grace. And upon the wall behind his chair, hanging in the dimmer light, was a colored print portraying a blue sea, spread with rank upon rank of accurately measured waves, each with its tiny cap of foam, stretching without diminution to the horizon, upon which was perched a full-rigged ship, a geometrical triumph; and from this vessel came by small-boat to the strand a company of accurately moulded, accurately featured, accurately tailored fellows, pulling with perfect accuracy in every respect. I shall never forget the geometrical gentleman upon that geometrically tempestuous sea, for as I stood sullen before my uncle they provided the only distraction at hand.
“Come, Daniel!” says he, in a little flare of wrath; “is he a rascal?”
“Well,” says I, defiantly, “I’ve heard un lied about.”
“Wrong!” roars my uncle. “Try again, sir! Is ol’ Nicholas Top a rascal?”
There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed for an obstinate whelp.
“A damned rascal, sir!” says I.
“Co’-rect!” cries my uncle, delighted.15
And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, “Well, Dannie, lad, you might ’s well measure out the other,” and when I had with care poured his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say my prayers at his knee—not often—most when high winds, without rain, shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was unnerved by the night. “The wind’s high the night,” says he, with an anxious frown; “an’ Dannie,” says he, laying a hand upon my head, “you might ’s well overhaul that there
“‘Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless Thy little lamb tonight,’
afore you turns in. ’Twill do you good, an’ ’twon’t manage t’ do me no harm.” And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair, than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face drawn and woful. I see him now—under the lamp—a gray, monstrous, despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh—as then, a child, bound up to a lonely chamber in the night, I sighed.
“Good-night, sir!”
There was no response; but he would look in upon me on the way to bed—into the little room where I lay luxuriously, in the midst of those extravagant comforts which so strangely came to me. And more often than not he would haul this way and that upon the covers until, as though by some unhappy accident, I was awakened.
“God bless you, Dannie,” says he.
“Good-night, sir.”
’Twas all he wanted—a good wish spoken in the night. To his own bare room he would then be off, a bit uncertain (I recall) in the management of his wooden leg.
Under my window, at the foot of a short cliff which fell roughly into the open cove, as shall be told, the sea broke. While sleep waited ’twas my habit to listen to the waves upon the rocks: in that brief and mystical interval when many truths take shape, definite and lovely, as in a mist, but are forgot before dawn stirs us, nor can be remembered. Of still moonlit nights; of windless dusks, with the swell of past storms sullenly remaining; in clammy, breathless weather; with fresh winds blowing our craft to and fro on their way in search of the fish; in blackest gales, when the men of Twist Tickle kept watch for wrecks upon the heads—forever I listened to the voice of the sea before I fell asleep. But the sea has no voice, but may only play upon the souls of men, which speak from the uttermost depths, each soul in its own way: so that the sea has a thousand voices, and listening men are tranquil or not, as may chance within them, without mystery. Never since those far-off days, when the sea took my unspoiled soul as a harp in its hands, have I been secure in the knowledge of truth, untroubled by bewilderment and anxious questions. Untroubled by love, by the fear of hell, ’twas good to be alive in a world where the sea spoke tenderly below the window of the room where sleep came bearing dreams.
And my uncle? God knows! The harp was warped, and the strings of the harp were broken and out of tune.…
IV
ON SINISTER BUSINESS
Our pilgrimages to St. John’s, occurring twice a year, were of a singular description: not only in the manner of our progress, which was unexampled, in view of our relationship and condition, but in the impenetrable character of our mission and in the air of low rascality it unfailingly wore. For many days before our departure from Twist Tickle by the outside boat, my uncle would quit the Green Bull grounds, where he fished with hook and line, would moor his punt fore and aft, and take to the bleak hills of Twin Islands, there (it seemed) to nurse some questionable design: whence at dusk he would emerge, exhausted in leg and spirit, but yet with strength to mutter obscure imprecations as he came tapping up the gravelled walk from the gate, and with the will to manage a bottle and glass in the kitchen.
“The bottle!” cries he. “Ecod! The dog’ll never scare ol’ Nick Top. Dannie, the bottle!”
While I fled for this he would sit growling by the table; but before I was well returned the humor would be vanishing, so that sometimes I guessed (but might be mistaken) he practised this rage and profanity to play a part.
“Ol’ Nick Top,” says he, “is as saucy a dog as you’ll find in the pack!”
’Twas said with a snap.
“A saucy ol’ dog!” snarls he. “An’ Lord love ye! but he’s able t’—t’—t’ bite!”
“Uncle Nick,” says I, “you’re all wore out along o’ walkin’ them hills.”
“Wore out!” cries he, an angry flash in his wide little eyes. “Me wore out?… Pass the bottle.… Ye’d never think it, lad, an ye could see me t’ St. John’s,” says he, “at the—”
The revelation came to a full stop with the tipping of the square black bottle.
“Where’s that?” says I.
“’Tis a wee waterside place, lad,” says he, with a grave wink, “where ol’ Nick Top’s the sauciest dog in the pack!”
I would pass the water for his liquor.
“An’ here,” cries he, toasting with solemn enthusiasm, “is wishin’ all waterside rascals in”—’twas now a long pull at the glass—“jail!” says he. “’Twould go agin my conscience t’ wish un worse. I really isn’t able!”
By these wanderings on the hills the slow, suspicious wits of our folk of Twist Tickle were mystified and aroused to superstiti
ous imaginings. ’Twas inevitable that they should pry and surmise—surmising much more than they dared pry. They were never bold, however, in the presence of my uncle, whether because of their courteous ways or because of his quick temper and sulphurous tongue, in respect to meddling, I am not able to say; but no doubt they would have troubled us a deal had my uncle even so much as admitted by the set of his eyelid (which he never would do) that there was a mystery concerning us. The lads of the place lurked upon the hills when the business went forward, continuing in desperate terror of my uncle at such times. They learned, notwithstanding their fright, that he trudged far and hard, at first smiling with the day, then muttering darkly, at last wrathfully swishing the spruce with his staff; but not one of them could follow to the discovery of the secret, whatever it might be, so that, though ’twas known the old man exchanged a genial humor for an execrable one, the why and wherefore were never honestly fathomed.
Came, at last, the day before our departure, upon which my wardrobe for the journey must be chosen from the closets and chests, inspected, scrupulously packed—this for travel, that for afternoon, this, again, for dinner—tweed and serge and velvet: raiment for all occasions, for all weathers, as though, indeed, I were to spend time with the governor of the colony. Trinkets and cravats presented pretty questions for argument, in which my uncle delighted, and would sustain with spirit, watching rather wistfully, I recall, to see my interest wax; and my interest would sometimes wax too suddenly for belief, inspired by his melancholy disappointment, so that he would dig me in the ribs with his long forefinger and laugh at me because he had discovered my deception. My uncle was a nice observer (and diligent) of fashion, and a stickler for congruity of dress, save in the matter of rings and the like, with which, perhaps, he was in the way of too largely adorning me.
“Ye’ll be wearin’ the new Turkish outfit aboard ship, Dannie?” says he.
I would not.
“Lon’on Haberdasher come out strong,” says he, at a coax, “on Turkish outfits for seven-year-olds.”
’Twas not persuasive.
“Wonderful pop’lar across the water.”
“But,” I would protest, “I’m not likin’ the queer red cap.”
“Ah, Dannie,” says he, “I fears ye’ll never be much of a gentleman if ye’re careless o’ the fashion. Not in the fashion, out o’ the world! What have ol’ Skipper Chesterfield t’ say on that p’int? Eh, lad? What have the bully ol’ skipper t’ say—underlined by Sir Harry? A list o’ the ornamental accomplishments, volume II., page 24. ‘T’ be extremely clean in your person,’ says he, ‘an’ perfeckly well dressed, accordin’ t’ the fashion, be that what it will.’ There you haves it, lad, underlined by Sir Harry! ‘Be that what it will.’ But ye’re not likin’ the queer red cap, eh? Ah, well! I ’low, then, ye’ll be havin’ t’ don the kilt.”
This I would hear with relief.
“But I ’low,” growls he, “that Sir Harry an’ Skipper Chesterfield haves the right of it: for they’re both strong on manners—if weak on morals.”
Aboard ship I was put in the cabin and commanded to bear myself like a gentleman: whereupon I was abandoned, my uncle retreating in haste and purple confusion from the plush and polish and glitter of the stateroom. But he would never fail to turn at the door (or come stumping back through the passage); and now heavily oppressed by my helplessness and miserable loneliness and the regrettable circumstances of my life—feeling, it may be, some fear for me and doubt of his own wisdom—he would regard me anxiously. To this day he lingers thus in my memory: leaning forward upon his short staff, half within the bright light, half lost in shadow, upon his poor, fantastic, strangely gentle countenance an expression of tenderest solicitude, which still would break, against his will, in ripples of the liveliest admiration at my appearance and luxurious situation, but would quickly recover its quality of concern and sympathy.
“Dannie, lad,” he would prescribe, “you better overhaul the twenty-third psa’m afore turnin’ in.”
To this I would promise.
“‘The Lard is my shepherd,’” says he. “‘I shall not want.’ Say it twice,” says he, as if two doses were more salutary than one, “an’ you’ll feel better in the mornin’.”
To this a doleful assent.
“An’ ye’ll make good use o’ your time with the gentlefolk, Dannie?” says he. “Keep watch on ’em, lad, an’ ye’ll l’arn a wonderful lot about manners. ‘List o’ the necessary ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin’ can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye want,’” quotes he, most glibly, “‘an’ which only require your care an’ attention t’ possess.’ Volume II., page 24. ‘A distinguished politeness o’ manners an’ address, which common-sense, observation, good company, an’ imitation will give ye if ye will accept it.’ There you haves it, Dannie—underlined by Sir Harry! Ye got the sense, ye got the eye, an’ here’s the company. Lord love ye, Dannie, the Commissioner o’ Lands is aboard with his lady! No less! An’ I’ve heared tell of a Yankee millionaire cruisin’ these parts. They’ll be wonderful handy for practice. Lay alongside, Dannie—an’ imitate the distinguished politeness: for ol’ Skipper Chesterfield cracks up imitation an’ practice most wonderful high!”
The jangle of the bell in the engine-room would now interrupt him. The mail was aboard: the ship bound out.
“An’ Dannie,” says my uncle, feeling in haste for the great handkerchief (to blow his nose, you may be sure), “I’m not able t’ think o’ you bein’ lonely. I’m for’ard in the steerage, lad—just call that t’ mind. An’ if ye find no cure in that, why, lad”—in a squall of affectionate feeling, his regard for gentility quite vanished—“sink me an’ that damn ol’ Chesterfield overside, an’ overhaul the twenty-third psa’m!”
“Ay, sir.”
“You is safe enough, lad; for, Dannie—”
’Twas in the imperative tone, and I must instantly and sharply attend.
—“I’m for’ard, standin’ by!”
He would then take himself off to the steerage for good; and ’twas desperately lonely for me, aboard the big ship, tossing by night and day through the rough waters of our coast.
V
TAP-TAP ON THE PAVEMENT
My uncle would not have speech with me again, lest his rough look and ways endanger the social advantages he conceived me to enjoy in the cabin, but from the lower deck would keep sly watch upon me, and, unobserved of others, would with the red bandanna handkerchief flash me messages of affection and encouragement, to which I must not for the life of me respond. Soon, however, ’twas my turn to peer and wish; for, perceiving at last that I was not ill (the weather being fair), and that I had engaged the companionship of gentlefolk—they were quick enough, indeed, these St. John’s folk and spying wanderers, to attach themselves to the mystery of old Nick Top’s child—my uncle would devote himself to his own concerns with unhappy result.
The manner of his days of preparation upon the hills of Twin Islands would return: the ill temper and cunning and evil secretiveness, joined now with the hang-dog air he habitually wore in the city. And these distressful appearances would by day and night increase, as we passed the Funks, came to Bonavist’ Bay, left the Bacalieu light behind and rounded the Brandy Rocks, until, instead of a rotund, twinkling old sea-dog, with a gargoylish countenance, with which the spirit had nothing to do, there landed on the wharf at the city a swaggering, wrathy pirate, of devilish cast and temper, quick to flush and bluster, mighty in profanity, far gone in drink.
Thence to the hotel, in this wise: my uncle, being clever with his staff and wooden leg and vastly strong, would shoulder my box, make way through the gangplank idlers and porters with great words, put me grandly in the lead, come gasping at a respectful distance behind, modelling his behavior (as he thought) after that of some flunky of nobility he had once clapped eyes on; and as we thus proceeded up the hill—a dandy in tartan kilt and velvet and a gray ape in slops—he would ha
ve a quick word of wrath for any passenger that might chance to jostle me. ’Twas a conspicuous progress, craftily designed, as, long afterwards, I learned; we were not long landed, you may be sure, before the town was aware that the mystery of Twist Tickle was once more come in by the Lake: old Skipper Nicholas Top and the lad with the rings, as they called me!
Having come now to the hotel (this by night), where would be a cheerful fire awaiting us in my comfortable quarters, my uncle would unstrap my box and dispose its contents in clean and handy places, urging me the while, like a mother, to make good use of my opportunity to observe the ways of gentlefolk, especially as practised in the dining-room of the hotel, that I might expeditiously master polite manners, which was a thing Skipper Chesterfield held most seriously in high opinion. I must thus conduct myself (he said), rather than idly brood, wishing for his company: for a silk purse was never yet made of a sow’s ear but with pain to all concerned. “An’ Dannie,” says he, jovially, when he had clapped the last drawer shut and put my nightclothes to warm at the fire, “if you was t’ tweak that there bell-pull—”
I would gladly tweak it.
“Thank ’e, Dannie,” says my uncle, gently. “It’ll be the best Jamaica—a nip afore I goes.”
In response to this would come old Elihu Wall, whom in private I loved, exaggerating every obsequious trick known to his kind to humor my uncle. I must then act my part, as I had been taught, thus: must stride to the fire, turn, spread my legs, scowl, meditatively ply a tooth-pick (alas! my groping uncle), become aware of old Elihu Wall, become haughtily conscious of my uncle, now in respectful attitude upon his foot and wooden leg; and I must scowl again, in a heavier way, as though angered by this interruption, and rub my small quarters, now heated near beyond endurance, and stare at the ceiling, and, dropping my eyes sharply upon Elihu Wall, say with a haughty sniff, a haughty curl of the lip:
“Elihu”—with a superior jerk towards my uncle—“fetch this man a dram o’ your best Jamaica!”
The Sea-Story Megapack Page 86
