The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  “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 a cataract of liquor! Never such a draught had I known him dare—not in his most abandoned hours at the Anchor and Chain. ’Twas beyond him to down it at a gulp; ’twas in two gulps that he managed it, but with no breath between—and then pushed the glass away with a shudder of disgust. Presently—when the liquor had restored his courage and begun to fetch the color to his pallid face—he got his staff in his fist and stumbled off in a high bluster, muttering gross imprecations as he went. The door slammed behind him; we heard no more—never a sound of growl or laugh from the best room where he sat with the gray little man from St. John’s. ’Twas not a great while he stayed; and when he came again—the stranger having gone—he drew up to the board with all his good-humor and ease of mind regained. The rum had thickened his tongue and given a wilful turn to his wooden leg: no more. There was not a hint of discomposure anywhere about him to be descried; and I was glad of this, for I had supposed, being of an imaginative turn, that all the mystery of the luxury that was mine was at last come to its dreadful climax.

  “A ol’ shipmate, Dannie,” my uncle genially explained.

  ’Twas hard to believe.

  “Sailed along o’ that there ol’ bully t’ Brazilian ports,” says he, “thirty year ago.”

  I wondered why my uncle had not called for his bottle to be brought in haste to the best room.

  “Still storming,” the tutor ventured.

  “Blowin’ high,” I remarked.

  “I ’low I’ll stay ashore, the morrow,” says my uncle, “an’ have a spurt o’ yarnin’ along o’ that there ol’ bully.”

  But the gray little man from St. John’s—the gray little red-moled man—was no old shipmate (I knew), nor any friend at all, else my uncle would have had him hospitably housed for the night under our roof.

  XI

  THE GRAY STRANGER

  We sat late by the fire in the best room: into which I must fairly lug my perverse old uncle by the ears—for (says he) the wear an’ tear of a wooden leg was a harsh thing for a carpet to abide, an’ parlor chairs (says he) was never made for the hulks o’ seafarin’ folk. ’Twas late, indeed, when he sent young Cather off to bed, with a warning to be up betimes, or go hungry, and bade me into the dining-room, as was our custom, to set out his bottle and glass. I turned the lamp high, and threw birch on the fire, and lifted his gouty wooden leg to the stool, and got his bottle and little brown jug, wondering, all the while, that my uncle was downcast neither by the wind nor the singular intrusion of the gray stranger. ’Twas a new thing in my life—a grateful change, for heretofore, in black gales, blowing in the night, with the thunder of waters under the window, it had been my duty to stand by, giving the comfort of my presence to the old man’s melancholy and terror. ’Twas the company of the tutor, thinks I, and I was glad that the congenial fellow was come from a far place, escape cut off.

  “Wonderful late,” says my uncle.

  “No,” said I; “not late for windy nights.”

  “Too late for lads,” says he, uneasily.

  I poured his glass of rum.

  “Think you, Dannie,” my uncle inquired, “that he’ve the makin’s of a fair rascal?”

  “An’ who?” says I, the stranger in mind.

  “The tutor.”

  “I’m hopin’ not!” I cried.

  “Ay,” says my uncle, an eye half closed; “but think you he would make a rascal—with clever management?”

  “’Twould never come t’ pass, sir.”

  My uncle sipped his rum in a muse.

  “Uncle Nick,” I complained, “leave un be.”

  “’Tis a hard world, Dannie,” he replied.

  “Do you leave un be!” I expostulated.

  My uncle ignored me. “He’ve a eye, Dannie,” says he, immersed in villanous calculation; “he’ve a dark eye. I ’low it might be managed.”

  ’Twas an uncomfortable suspicion thus implanted; and ’twas an unhappy outlook disclosed—were my uncle to work his will upon the helpless fellow.

  “Uncle Nick, you’ll not mislead un?”

  “Bein’ under oath,” my uncle answered, with the accent and glance of tenderest affection, “I’ll keep on, Dannie, t’ the end.”

  I poured the second dram of rum and pushed it towards him. ’Twas all hopeless to protest or seek an understanding. I loved the old man, and forgave the paradox of his rascality and loyal affection. The young man from London must take his chance, as must we all, in the fashioning hands of circumstance. ’Twas not to be conceived that his ruin was here to be wrought. My uncle’s face had lost all appearance of repulsion: scar and color and swollen vein—the last mark of sin and the sea—had seemed to vanish from it; ’twas as though the finger of God had in passing touched it into such beauty as the love of children may create of the meanest features of our kind. His glass was in his marred, toil-distorted hand; but his eyes, grown clear and sparkling and crystal-pure—as high of purpose as the eyes of such as delight in sacrifice—were bent upon the lad he had fostered to my age. I dared not—not the lad that was I—I dared not accuse him! Let the young man from London, come for the wage he got, resist, if need were to resist. I could not credit his danger—not on that night. But I see better now than then I saw.

  “I ’low he’ll do,” said my uncle, presently, as he set down his glass. “Ay, lad; he’ll do, if I knows a eye from a eye.”

  “Do what?”

  “Yield,” he answered.

  “T’ what?”

  “Temptation.”

  “Uncle Nick,” I besought, “leave the man be!”

  “What odds?” he answered, the shadow of gloom come upon his face. “I’m cleared for hell, anyhow.”

  ’Twas a thing beyond me, as many a word and wicked deed had been before. I was used to the wretched puzzle—calloused and uncaring, since through all my life I still loved the man w
ho fostered me, and held him in esteem. We fell silent together, as often happened when my uncle tippled himself drunk at night; and my mind coursed in free flight past the seeming peril in which my tutor slept, past the roar of wind and the clamor of the sea, beyond the woes of the fool who would be married, to the cabin of the Shining Light, where Judith sat serene in the midst of the order she had accomplished. I remembered the sunlight and the freshening breeze upon the hills, the chirp and gentle stirring of the day, the azure sea and the far-off, tender mist, the playful breakers, flinging spray into the yellow sunshine. I remembered the companionable presence of the maid, her slender hands, her tawny hair, her sun-browned cheeks and the creamy curve of her brow, the blue and flash and fathomless depths of her eyes. I remembered the sweet, moist touch of her lips: I remembered—in that period of musing, when my uncle, fallen disconsolate in his chair, sipped his rum—the kiss that she gave me in the cabin of the Shining Light.

  “Dannie,” says my uncle, “what you thinkin’ about?”

  I would not tell.

  “’Tis some good thing,” says he. “I’d like wonderful well t’ know.”

  I could but sigh.

  “Dannie,” says he, in his wisdom, “you’ve growed wonderful fond o’ Judy, isn’t you?”

  “I’m t’ wed Judy,” I answered.

  ’Twas with no unkindness—but with a sly twinkle of understanding—that he looked upon me.

  “When I grows up,” I added, for his comfort.

  “No, no!” says he. “You’ll never wed Judith. A gentleman? ’Twould scandalize Chesterfield.”

  “I will,” said I.

  “You’ll not!” cries he, in earnest.

  “But I will!”

  The defiance still left him smiling. “Not accordin’ t’ Chesterfield,” says he. “You’ll be a gentleman, Dannie, when you grows up, an’ you’ll not be wantin’ t’ wed Judy.”

  “Not wantin’ to?”

  “No, no; you’ll not be wantin’ to.”

  “Still,” says I, “will I wed Judy.”

  “An’ why?”

  “Because,” said I, “I’ve kissed her!”

  My uncle would have his last glass alone (he said); and I must be off to bed and to sleep; ’twas grown late for me (said he) beyond the stretch of his conscience to endure. Lord love us! (said he) would I never be t’ bed in season? Off with me—an’ t’ sleep with me! ’Twould be the worse for me (said he) an he caught me wakeful when he turned in. The thing had an odd look—an odd look, to be sure—for never before had the old man’s conscience pricked him to such fatherly consideration upon a night when the wind blew high. I extinguished the hanging lamp, smothered the smouldering coals, set his night-lamp at hand, and drowsily climbed the stairs, having given him good-night, with a hearty “Thank ’e, sir, for that there tutor!” He bawled after me an injunction against lying awake; and I should presently have gone sound asleep, worn with the excitements of the day, had I not caught ear of him on the move. ’Twas the wary tap and thump of his staff and wooden leg that instantly enlisted my attention; then a cautious fumbling at the latch of the door, a draught of night air, a thin-voiced, garrulous complaint of the weather and long waiting.

  “Hist, ye fool!” says my uncle. “Ye’ll wake the lad.”

  “Damn the lad!” was the prompt response. “I wish he were dead.”

  My uncle laughed.

  “Dead!” the stranger repeated. “Dead, Top! And you, too—you hound!”

  ’Twas an anathema spoken in wrath and hatred.

  “I’m thinkin’,” says my uncle, “that ye’re an unkind man.”

  The stranger growled.

  “Save your temper, man,” my uncle admonished. “Ye’ll need the last rag of it afore the night’s by.”

  The man cried out against the threat.

  “I’m tellin’ ye,” says my uncle—and I heard his broad hand come with a meaning clap on the stranger’s shoulder—“that ye’ll be wakin’ the lad.”

  “The lad! The lad!” the stranger whined. “Is there nothing in the world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?”

  I heard it! I heard the words! My door was ajar—my room at the head of the stair—my ears wide and anxious. I heard the words! There was no mistaking what this intruder said. “The club-footed young whelp!” says he. “Is there nothing in the world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?” He said it—I remember that he said it—and to this day, when I am grown beyond the years of childish sensitiveness, I resent the jibe.

  “Nothing,” my uncle answered. “Nothing in the world, sir,” he repeated, lovingly, as I thought, “but only that poor club-footed child!”

  Sir? ’Twas a queer way to address, thinks I, this man of doubtful quality. Sir? I could not make it out.

  “You sentimental fool!”

  “Nay, sir,” my uncle rejoined, with spirit. “An they’s a fool in the company, ’tis yourself. I’ve that from the lad, sir, that you goes lacking—ay, an’ will go, t’ the grave!”

  “And what, Top,” the stranger sneered, “may this thing be?”

  “Ye’ll laugh, sir,” my uncle replied, “when I tells you ’tis his love.”

  The man did laugh.

  “For shame!” cried my uncle.

  He was taking off his wraps—this stranger. They were so many that I wondered. He was a man of quality, after all, it might be. “I tell you, Top,” said he, “that the boy may be damned for all I care. I said damned. I mean damned. There isn’t another form of words, with which I am acquainted, sufficient to express my lack of interest in this child’s welfare. Do you understand me, Top? And do you realize—you obstinate noddy!—that my heart’s in the word? You and I, Top, have business together. It’s a dirty business. It was in the beginning; it is now—a dirty business for us both. I admit it. But can’t we do it reasonably? Can’t we do it alone? Why introduce this ill-born whelp? He’s making trouble, Top; and he’ll make more with every year he lives. Let him shift for himself, man! I care nothing about him. What was his father to me? What was his mother? Make him a cook on a trader. Make him a hand on a Labradorman. Put him before the mast on a foreign craft. What do I care? Let him go! Give him a hook and line. A paddle-punt is patrimony enough for the like of him. Will you never listen to reason? What’s the lad to you? Damn him, say I! Let him—”

  “For that,” my uncle interrupted, in a passion, “I’ll hurt ye! Come soon, come late, I’ll hurt ye! Hear me?” he continued, savagely. “I’ll hurt ye for them evil wishes!”

  I had expected this outbreak. My uncle would not hear me damned in this cruel way without protest.

  “Top,” says the stranger, with a little laugh of scorn, “when you hurt me—I’ll know that the chieftest knave of the St. John’s waterside has turned fool!”

  “When I hurts ye, man,” my uncle answered, “I’ll hurt ye sore!”

  Again the man laughed.

  “Ah, man!” my uncle growled, “but ye’ll squirm for that when the time comes!”

  “Come, come, Top!” says the stranger, in such a whine of terror, in such disgusting weakness and sudden withdrawal of high boasting, in such a failure of courage, that I could hardly credit the thing. “Come, come, Top!” he whined. “You’ll do nothing rash, will you? Not rash, Top—not rash!”

  “I’ll make ye squirm, sir,” says my uncle, “for damnin’ Dannie.”

  “But you’ll do nothing rash, man, will you?”

  My uncle would not heed him.

  “I’m a reasonable man, Top,” the stranger protested. “You know I’m not a hard man.”

  They moved, now, into the dining-room, whence no word of what they said came to my ears. I listened, lying wide-eared in the dark, but heard only a rumble of voices. “And you, too—you hound!” the man had said; and ’twas spoken in the hate that forebodes murder. My uncle? what had that childlike, tenderhearted old rascal accomplished against this man to make the penalty of ungodly wrath a thing meet to the offence
? “And you, too—you hound!” I lay in grave trouble and bewilderment, fearing that this strange guest might work his hate upon my uncle, in some explosion of resentment, before my arm could aid against the deed. There was no sound of laughter from below—no hint of conviviality in the intercourse. Voices and the clink of bottle and glass: nothing mellow in the voices, nothing genial in the clink of glass—nothing friendly or hospitable. ’Twas an uneasy occupation that engaged me; no good, as I knew, came from a surly bout with a bottle of rum. ’Twas still blowing high; the windows rattled, the sea broke in thunder and venomous hissing upon the rocks, the wind screamed its complaint of obstruction; ’twas a tumultuous night, wherein, it seems to me, the passions of men are not overawed by any display of inimical power, but break restraint in evil company with the weather. The voices below, as I hearkened, rose and fell, like the gusts of a gale, falling to quiet confidences, lost in the roar of the night, swiftly rising to threat and angry counter-threat.

  It ended in a cry and a crash of glass.…

  I was by this brought out of bed and pattering down the stair to my uncle’s help. It seemed they did not hear me, or, having heard, were enraged past caring who saw them in this evil case. At the door I came to a stand. There was no encounter, no movement at all, within the room; ’twas very quiet and very still. There had fallen upon the world that pregnant silence, wherein men wait appalled, which follows upon the irrevocable act of a quarrel. A bottle of rum was overturned on the table, and a glass lay in splinters on the hearth at my uncle’s back, as though cast with poor aim. The place reeked with the stench of rum, which rose from a river of liquor, overflowing the table, dripping to the floor: a foul and sinister detail, I recall, of the tableau. My uncle and the gray little man from St. John’s, leaning upon their hands, the table between, faced each other all too close for peaceful issue of the broil. Beyond was my uncle’s hand-lamp, where I had set it, burning serenely in this tempest of passion. The faces were silhouetted in profile against its quiet yellow light. Monstrous shadows of the antagonists were cast upon the table and ceiling. For the first time in my life I clapped eyes on the man from St. John’s; but his face was in shadow—I saw dimly. ’Twas clean-shaven and gray: I could tell no more. But yet, I knew, the man was a man of some distinction—a gentleman. ’Twas a definite impression I had. There was that about him—clothes and carriage and shaven face and lean white hands—that fixed it in my memory.