CHAPTER III
_From John Grant's Diary_
In a few minutes the slight protection afforded us by Will's Island wasdenied us. I was anxious to ask further details about this injured man wewere hurrying to see, but the two fishermen had no leisure forconversation. A few necessary words had to be shrieked. Even before I hadfinished putting on my oilskins the water was dashing over us, and oldSammy, at the tiller, was jockeying his boat with an intensepreoccupation that could not be interfered with.
The smack was of a couple of tons' burden, undecked, with big fish-boxesbuilt astern and amidships. She carried two slender masts with nobowsprit to speak of, having no headsails, and her two tanned wingsbellied out while the whole of her fabric pitched and rolled over thewhite crested waves. The fog was growing denser around us, as if we hadbeen journeying through a swift-moving cloud. It was scudding in from theGrand Banks, pushed by a chill gale which might first have passed overthe icy plateaux of inner Greenland.
This lasted for a long time. We were all staring ahead and seeking topenetrate the blinding veil of vapor, and I felt more utterly strayed andlost than ever in my life before. Our faces were running with the saltspray that swished over the bows or flew over the quarters, to streamdown into the bilge at our feet, foul with fragments of squid and caplinlong dead. We were also beginning to listen eagerly for other sounds thanthe wind hissing in the cordage, the breaking of wave-tops and the hardthumping of the blunt bows upon the seas.
"Look out sharp, byes, I'm mistrusting'," roared old Sammy.
There were some long tense moments, ended by a shriek from Frenchy by theforemast.
"Hard a-lee!"
The sails shook in the wind and swung in-board, and out again, with arattling of the little blocks. The forefoot rose high, once or twice,with the lessened headway, and a great savage mass of rock passedalongside, stretching out jagged spurs, like some wild beast robbed ofits prey. Frenchy, ahead, crossed himself quietly, without excitement,and again peered into the fog.
"Close call!" I shouted to the skipper, after I had recovered my breath,since I am not yet entirely inured to the risks these men constantly run.
"We nigh got ketched," roared back Sammy Moore. "I were mistrustin' thetide wuz settin' inshore furder'n common. But I knows jist where I benow, anyways."
His grim wrinkled face was unmoved, for during all his life he had beenstaring death in the face and such happenings as these were but incidentsin the day's work.
"I doesn't often git mistook," he shouted, "but fer this once it lookslike the joke were on me."
The little smack continued to rise and fall over the surge. Yves, theFrenchman, remained at his post forward, holding on to the foremast andindifferent to the spray that was drenching him as he stared through thefog, keenly. My attention was becoming relaxed for, after all, I was buta passenger. Despite Sammy's close shave I maintained a well-groundedfaith in him. It was gorgeous to see him speed his boat over theturbulent waters with an inbred skill and ease which reminded one ofseagulls buffeting the wind or harbor seals playing in their element.Like these the man was adapted to his life, not because he possessedwonderful intelligence but owing to the brine which, since childhood, hadentered his blood. The vast ice-pans had revealed their secrets to himand the North Atlantic gales had become the breath of his nostrils.
I can remember a time when I had an idea that I could handle a boatfairly well, but now I was compelled to recognize my limitations, while Ireally enjoyed the exhibition of Sammy's skill.
"We'd ought ter be gettin' handy," roared the latter to Frenchy, whonodded back, turning towards us his dripping, bearded face, for aninstant.
Suddenly he extended his arm.
"Me see. To port!" he shouted.
Dimly, veiled by the fog curtain, of ghostly outline, a jutting cliffappeared and Sammy luffed slightly. On both sides of us the seas weredashing up some tremendous rocks, but directly ahead there was an openingbetween the combers that hurled themselves aloft, roaring and impotent,to fall back into seething masses of spume. There was a suggestion oftremendous walls over which voices were shrieking in the battle ofunending centuries between the moving turmoil and the stolid cliffs,defying the battering waves.
Our little boat flew on, and suddenly the rolling and pitching ceased asif some magic had oiled the waters. Within the land-locked cove the windno longer howled and the surface was smooth. It was like awaking from theunrest of a nightmare to the peace of one's bed. We glided on, losingheadway, for Frenchy had let the sheets run. With movements apparentlyslow, yet with the deftness which brings quick results, the sails weregathered about the masts and made fast, and presently we drifted againstthe small forest of poles supporting the flakes and fishhouses. Thesewere black and glistening with the rain and from them came an odor, acridand penetrating, of decaying fish in ill-emptied gurry-butts and ofputrefying livers oozing out a black oil in open casks.
We made our way over the precarious footing of unstable planks and shookourselves like wet dogs, while Sammy stopped for a moment to hunt beneathhis oilskins for a sodden plug of tobacco, from which he managed to gnawoff a satisfactory portion.
"Well, we's here, anyways," he observed, quietly.
"Sammy, you're a wonderful man!" I exclaimed, earnestly.
The old fellow looked at me, but his seamed face appeared devoid ofunderstanding. Slowly there seemed to dawn upon his mind the idea thatthis might be some sort of jest on my part, and the tanned leather of hiscountenance wrinkled further into a near approach to a smile, as westarted up the steep path leading up to the village.
Yet I had meant no pleasantry whatever, for really I was awed by themystery of it all. In the fog that rolled in with the north-east gale wehad left Will's Island, ten miles away, and skirted, without ever seeingthem, some miles of cliffs. We had avoided scores of rocks over which theseas broke fiercely, and had finally dashed through a narrow opening inthe appalling face of the huge ledge, unerringly. To me it seemed like agigantic deed, beyond the powers of man.
The path began to widen, and Sammy again vouchsafed some information,taking up his slender thread of narrative as if it had never beeninterrupted.
"So they carries him up to th' house, on a fishbarrow, an' they sends forme, an' wuz all talkin' to onst, sayin' I must git you quick an' nevermind what it costs. Them people don't mind what-nothin' costs, 'pears tome."
By this time we had risen well above the waters of Sweetapple Cove. Thefew scattered small houses appeared through the mist, their eavesdripping in unclean puddles. The most pretentious dwelling in the placeis deserted. It boasts a small veranda and a fairly large front windowover which boards have been nailed. In very halt and ill-formed letters asign announces "The Royal Shop," a title certainly savoring of affluence.But it is a sad commentary upon the prosperity of the Cove that even aSyrian trader has tried the place and failed to eke out a living there.
Some dispirited goats forlornly watched our little procession for amoment, and resumed their mournful hunt outside the palings of tinyenclosures jealously protected against their incursions among a fewanemic cabbages.
A little farther on the only cow in the place, who is descended from thescriptural lean ones, was munching the discarded tail of a large codfishwhich probably still held a faint flavor of the salt with which it hadbeen preserved. Nondescript dogs, bearing very little resemblance to theoriginal well-known breed, wandered aimlessly under the pelting rain.
Frenchy reached his dilapidated shack, and was the first to stop.
"Vell, so long," he said.
"_Au revoir a demain_!" I answered, as well as I could.
His somber, swarthy face brightened at the sound of words of his owntongue. I believe that to him they were a tiny glimpse of somethingwell-beloved and of memories that refused to grow dim. For a moment hestood at the door, beaming upon me. A small boy came out, very grimy offace and hands and with a head covered with yellow curls. He was chieflyclad in an old woollen jersey repaired with yar
n of many hues, thatnearly reached his toes.
"_Papa Yves_!" he cried, leaping up joyfully, quite heedless of Frenchy'sdripping oilskins.
The sailor lifted up the child and kissed him, whereupon he grasped theman's flaring ears as they projected from the huge tangled beard, andwith a burst of happy laughter kissed him on both cheeks, under the eyes,in the only bare places.
We hurried on and soon reached one of the few houses distinguished fromothers by a coat of paint. By this time the evening was near at hand, yetthe darkness would not have justified as yet a thrifty Newfoundlandhousewife in burning valuable kerosene. But from the windows of thisplace poured forth abundant light showing recklessness as to expense.Upon the porch were a few feeble geraniums, and some nasturtiums andbachelor's buttons twined themselves hopefully on strings disposed forthem.
At the sound of our footsteps the door was quickly opened. A young womanappeared but the light was behind her and her features were not verydistinct.
"Couldn't you get him?" she cried, in sore disappointment.
"Yes, ma'am. That's what I went for," said Sammy. "I telled yer I'd surebring him, and here he be."
I had come nearer, and then, I am afraid, I somewhat forgot my mannersand stared at her.
Sweetapple Cove Page 3
