The Sea-Story Megapack: 30 Classic Nautical Works

by Jack Williamson

  “The skipper didn’t answer that.

  “‘Come, cook,’ says I, ‘leave us get under way,’ for I couldn’t stand it no longer.

  “So the cook an’ me put out in the punt t’ land at Whoopin’ Harbor, with the crew wishin’ the poor cook well with their lips, but thinkin’, God knows what, in their hearts. An’ he was in a wonderful state o’ fright. I never seed a man so took by scare afore. For, look you, poor Moses thinks she might have un. ‘I never had half a chance afore,’ says he. ‘They’ve all declined in a wonderful regular way. But now,’ says he, ‘I ’low I’ll be took. I jus’ feels that way; an’, Tumm, I—I—I’m scared!’ I cheered un up so well as I could; an’ by-an’-by we was on the path t’ Liz Jones’s house, up on Gray Hill, where she lived alone, her mother bein’ dead an’ her father shipped on a bark from St. John’s t’ the West Indies. An’ we found Liz sittin’ on a rock at the turn o’ the road, lookin’ down from the hill at the Quick as Wink; all alone—sittin’ there in the moonlight, all alone—thinkin’ o’ God knows what!

  “‘Hello, Liz!’ says I.

  “‘Hello, Tumm!’ says she. ‘What vethel’th that?’

  “‘That’s the Quick as Wink, Liz,’ says I. ‘An’ here’s the cook o’ that there craft,’ says I, ‘come up the hill t’ speak t’ you.’

  “‘That’s right,’ says the cook. ‘Tumm, you’re right.’

  “‘T’ thpeak t’ me!’ says she.

  “I wisht she hadn’t spoke quite that way. Lord! It wasn’t nice. It makes a man feel bad t’ see a woman put her hand on her heart for a little thing like that.

  “‘Ay, Liz,’ says I, ‘t’ speak t’ you. An’ I’m thinkin’, Liz,’ says I, ‘he’ll say things no man ever said afore—t’ you.’

  “‘That’s right, Tumm,’ says the cook. ‘I wants t’ speak as man t’ man,’ says he, ‘t’ stand by what I says,’ says he, ‘accordin’ as mother would have me do!’

  “Liz got off the rock. Then she begun t’ kick at the path; an’ she was lookin’ down, but I ’lowed she had an eye on Moses all the time. ‘For,’ thinks I, ‘she’s sensed the thing out, like all the women.’

  “‘I’m thinkin’,’ says I, ‘I’ll go up the road a bit.’

  “‘Oh no, you won’t, Tumm,’ says she. ‘You thtay right here. Whath the cook wantin’ o’ me?’

  “‘Well,’ says the cook, ‘I ’low I wants t’ get married.’

  “‘T’ get married!’ says she.

  “‘T’ get married,’ says the cook, ‘accordin’ as mother would have me; an’ I ’low you’ll do.’

  “‘Me?’ says she.

  “‘Liz,’ says he, as solemn as church, ‘I means you.’

  “It come to her all of a suddent—an’ she begun t’ breathe hard, an’ pressed her hands against her breast an’ shivered. But she looked away t’ the moon, an’ somehow that righted her.

  “‘You better thee me in daylight,’ says she.

  “‘Don’t you mind about that,’ says he. ‘Mother always ’lowed that sort o’ thing didn’t matter: an’ she knowed.’

  “She put a finger under his chin an’ tipped his face t’ the light.

  “‘You ithn’t got all your thentheth, ith you?’ says she.

  “‘Well,’ says he, ‘bein’ born on Hollow-eve,’ says he, ‘I isn’t quite got all my wits. But,’ says he, ‘I wisht I had. An’ I can’t do no more.’

  “‘An’ you wanth t’ wed me?’ says she. ‘Ith you sure you doth?’

  “‘I got mother’s ring,’ says the cook, ‘t’ prove it.’

  “‘Tumm,’ says Liz t’ me, ‘you ithn’t wantin’ t’ get married, ith you?’

  “‘No, Liz,’ says I. ‘Not,’ says I, ‘t’ you.’

  “‘No,’ says she. ‘Not—t’ me.’ She took me round the turn in the road. ‘Tumm,’ says she, ‘I ’low I’ll wed that man. I wanth t’ get away from here,’ says she, lookin’ over the hills. ‘I wanth t’ get t’ the thouthern outporth, where there’th life. They ithn’t no life here. An’ I’m tho wonderful tired o’ all thith! Tumm,’ says she, ‘no man ever afore athked me t’ marry un, an’ I ’low I better take thith one. He’th on’y a fool,’ says she, ‘but not even a fool ever come courtin’ me, an’ I ’low nobody but a fool would. On’y a fool, Tumm!’ says she. ‘But I ithn’t got nothin’ t’ boatht of. God made me,’ says she, ‘an’ I ithn’t mad that He done it. I ’low He meant me t’ take the firth man that come, an’ be content. I ’low I ithn’t got no right t’ thtick up my nothe at a fool. For, Tumm,’ says she, ‘God made that fool, too. An’, Tumm,’ says she, ‘I wanth thomethin’ elthe. Oh, I wanth thomethin’ elthe! I hateth t’ tell you, Tumm,’ says she, ‘what it ith. But all the other maidth hath un, Tumm, an’ I wanth one, too. I ’low they ithn’t no woman happy without one, Tumm. An’ I ithn’t never had no chanth afore. No chanth, Tumm, though God knowth they ithn’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do,’ says she, ‘t’ get what I wanth! I’ll wed the fool,’ says she. ‘It ithn’t a man I wanth tho much; no, it ithn’t a man. Ith—’

  “‘What you wantin’, Liz?’ says I.

  “‘It ithn’t a man, Tumm,’ says she.

  “‘No?’ says I. ‘What is it, Liz?’

  “‘Ith a baby,’ says she.

  “God! I felt bad when she told me that.…”

  * * * *

  Tumm stopped, sighed, picked at a knot in the table. There was silence in the cabin. The Quick as Wink was still nodding to the swell—lying safe at anchor in a cove of Twist Tickle. We heard the gusts scamper over the deck and shake the rigging; we caught, in the intervals, the deep-throated roar of breakers, far off—all the noises of the gale. And Tumm picked at the knot with his clasp-knife; and we sat watching, silent, all. And I felt bad, too, because of the maid at Whooping Harbor—a rolling waste of rock, with the moonlight lying on it, stretching from the whispering mystery of the sea to the greater desolation beyond; and an uncomely maid, alone and wistful, wishing, without hope, for that which the hearts of women must ever desire.…

  * * * *

  “Ay,” Tumm drawled, “it made me feel bad t’ think o’ what she’d been wantin’ all them years; an’ then I wished I’d been kinder t’ Liz.… An’, ‘Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘you went an’ come ashore t’ stop this here thing; but you better let the skipper have his little joke, for ’twill on’y s’prise him, an’ it won’t do nobody else no hurt. Here’s this fool,’ thinks I, ‘wantin’ a wife; an’ he won’t never have another chance. An’ here’s this maid,’ thinks I, ‘wantin’ a baby; an’ she won’t never have another chance. ’Tis plain t’ see,’ thinks I, ‘that God A’mighty, who made un, crossed their courses; an’ I ’low, ecod!’ thinks I, ‘that ’twasn’t a bad idea He had. If He’s got to get out of it somehow,’ thinks I, ‘why, I don’t know no better way. Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘you sheer off. Let Nature,’ thinks I, ‘have course an’ be glorified.’ So I looks Liz in the eye—an’ says nothin’.

  “‘Tumm,’ says she, ‘doth you think he—’

  “‘Don’t you be scared o’ nothin’,’ says I. ‘He’s a lad o’ good feelin’s,’ says I, ‘an’ he’ll treat you the best he knows how. Is you goin’ t’ take un?’

  “‘I wathn’t thinkin’ o’ that,’ says she. ‘I wathn’t thinkin’ o’ not. I wath jutht,’ says she, ‘wonderin’.’

  “‘They isn’t no sense in that, Liz,’ says I. ‘You just wait an’ find out.’

  “‘What’th hith name?’ says she.

  “‘Shoos,’ says I. ‘Moses Shoos.’

  “With that she up with her pinny an’ begun t’ cry like a young swile.

  “‘What you cryin’ for, Liz?’ says I.

  “I ’low I couldn’t tell what ’twas all about. But she was like all the women. Lord! ’tis the little things that makes un weep when it comes t’ the weddin’.

  “‘Come, Liz,’ says I, ‘what you cryin’ about?’

  “‘I lithp,’ says she.

  “‘I
knows you does, Liz,’ says I; ‘but it ain’t nothin’ t’ cry about.’

  “‘I can’t say Joneth,’ says she.

  “‘No,’ says I; ‘but you’ll be changin’ your name,’ says I, ‘an’ it won’t matter no more.’

  “‘An’ if I can’t say Joneth,’ says she, ‘I can’t thay—’

  “‘Can’t say what?’ says I.

  “‘Can’t thay Thooth!’ says she.

  “Lord! No more she could. An’ t’ say Moses Shoos! An’ t’ say Mrs. Moses Shoos! Lord! It give me a pain in the tongue t’ think of it.

  “‘Jutht my luck,’ says she; ‘but I’ll do my betht.’

  “So we went back an’ told poor Moses Shoos that he didn’t have t’ worry no more about gettin’ a wife; an’ he said he was more glad than sorry, an’, says he, she’d better get her bonnet, t’ go aboard an’ get married right away. An’ she ’lowed she didn’t want no bonnet, but would like to change her pinny. So we said we’d as lief wait a spell, though a clean pinny wasn’t needed. An’ when she got back, the cook said he ’lowed the skipper could marry un well enough ’til we overhauled a real parson; an’ she thought so, too, for, says she, ’twouldn’t be longer than a fortnight, an’ any sort of a weddin’, says she, would do ’til then. An’ aboard we went, the cook an’ me pullin’ the punt, an’ she steerin’; an’ the cook he crowed an’ cackled all the way, like a half-witted rooster; but the maid didn’t even cluck, for she was too wonderful solemn t’ do anything but look at the moon.

  “‘Skipper,’ said the cook, when we got in the fo’c’s’le, ‘here she is. I isn’t afeared,’ says he, ‘an’ she isn’t afeared; an’ now I ’lows we’ll have you marry us.’

  “Up jumps the skipper; but he was too much s’prised t’ say a word.

  “‘An’ I’m thinkin’,’ says the cook, with a nasty little wink, such as never I seed afore get into the eyes o’ Moses Shoos, ‘that they isn’t a man in this here fo’c’s’le,’ says he, ‘will say I’m afeared.’

  “‘Cook,’ says the skipper, takin’ the cook’s hand, ‘shake! I never knowed a man like you afore,’ says he. ‘T’ my knowledge, you’re the on’y man in the Labrador fleet would do it. I’m proud,’ says he, ‘t’ take the hand o’ the man with nerve enough t’ marry Walrus Liz o’ Whoopin’ Harbor.’

  “But ’twas a new Moses he had t’ deal with. The devil got in the fool’s eyes—a jumpin’ little brimstone devil, ecod! I never knowed the man could look that way.

  “‘Ay, lad,’ says the skipper, ‘I’m proud t’ know the man that isn’t afeared o’ Walrus—’

  “‘Don’t you call her that!’ says the cook. ‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’

  “I was lookin’ at Liz. She was grinnin’ in a holy sort o’ way. Never seed nothin’ like that afore—no, lads, not in all my life.

  “‘An’ why not, cook?’ says the skipper.

  “‘It ain’t her name,’ says the cook.

  “‘It ain’t?’ says the skipper. ‘But I been sailin’ the Labrador for twenty year,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’ain’t never heared her called nothin’ but Walrus—’

  “‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’

  “The devil got into the cook’s hands then. I seed his fingers clawin’ the air in a hungry sort o’ way. An’ it looked t’ me like squally weather for the skipper.

  “‘Don’t you do it no more, skipper,’ says the cook. ‘I isn’t got no wits,’ says he, an’ I’m feelin’ wonderful queer!’

  “The skipper took a look ahead into the cook’s eyes. ‘Well, cook,’ says he, ‘I ’low,’ says he, ‘I won’t.’

  “Liz laughed—an’ got close t’ the fool from Twist Tickle. An’ I seed her touch his coat-tail, like as if she loved it, but didn’t dast do no more.

  “‘What you two goin’ t’ do?’ says the skipper.

  “‘We ’lowed you’d marry us,’ says the cook, ‘’til we come across a parson.’

  “‘I will,’ says the skipper. ‘Stand up here,’ says he. ‘All hands stand up!’ says he. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘get me the first Book you comes across.’

  “I got un a Book.

  “‘Now, Liz,’ says he, ‘can you cook?’

  “‘Fair t’ middlin’,’ says she. ‘I won’t lie.’

  “’Twill do,’ says he. ‘An’ does you want t’ get married t’ this here dam’ fool?’

  “‘An it pleathe you,’ says she.

  “‘Shoos,’ says the skipper, ‘will you let this woman do the cookin’?’

  “‘Well, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘I will; for I don’t want nobody t’ die o’ my cookin’ on this here v’y’ge, an’ I knows that mother wouldn’t mind.’

  “‘An’ will you keep out o’ the galley?’

  “‘I ’low I’ll have to.’

  “‘An’ look you! Cook, is you sure—is you sure,’ says the skipper, with a shudder, lookin’ at the roof, ‘that you wants t’ marry this here—’

  “‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’ says the cook. ‘Don’t you say that no more! By the Lord!’ says he, ‘I’ll kill you if you does!’

  “‘Is you sure,’ says the skipper, ‘that you wants t’ marry this here—woman?’

  “‘I will.’

  “‘Well,’ says the skipper, kissin’ the Book, ‘I ’low me an’ the crew don’t care; an’ we can’t help it, anyhow.’

  “‘What about mother’s ring?’ says the cook. ‘She might’s well have that,’ says he, ‘if she’s careful about the wear an’ tear. For joolery,’ says he t’ Liz, ‘don’t stand it.’

  “‘It can’t do no harm,’ says the skipper.

  “‘Ith we married, thkipper?’ says Liz, when she got the ring on.

  “‘Well,’ says the skipper, ‘I ’low that knot’ll hold ’til we puts into Twist Tickle, where Parson Stump can mend it, right under my eye. For,’ says he, ‘I got a rope’s-end an’ a belayin’-pin t’ make it hold,’ says he, ‘’til we gets ’longside o’ some parson that knows more about matrimonial knots ’n me. We’ll pick up your goods, Liz,’ says he, ‘on the s’uthard v’y’ge. An’ I hopes, ol’ girl,’ says he, ‘that you’ll be able t’ boil the water ’ithout burnin’ it.’

  “‘Ay, Liz,’ says the cook, ‘I been makin’ a awful fist o’ b’ilin’ the water o’ late.’

  “She give him one look—an’ put her clean pinny to her eyes.

  “‘What you cryin’ about?’ says the cook.

  “‘I don’t know,’ says she; ‘but I ’low ’tith becauthe now I knowth you ith a fool!’

  “‘She’s right, Tumm,’ says the cook. ‘She’s got it right! Bein’ born on Hollow-eve,’ says he, ‘I couldn’t be nothin’ else. But, Liz,’ says he, ‘I’m glad I got you, fool or no fool.’

  “So she wiped her eyes, an’ blowed her nose, an’ give a little sniff, an’ looked up an’ smiled.

  “‘I isn’t good enough for you,’ says the poor cook. ‘But, Liz,’ says he, ‘if you kissed me,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit. An’ they isn’t a man in this here fo’c’s’le,’ says he, lookin’ round, ‘that’ll say I’d mind. Not one,’ says he, with the little devil jumpin’ in his eyes.

  “Then she stopped cryin’ for good.

  “‘Go ahead, Liz!’ says he. ‘I ain’t afeared. Come on!’ says he. ‘Give us a kiss!’

  “‘Motheth Thooth,’ says she, ‘you’re the firtht man ever athked me t’ give un a kith!’

  “She kissed un. ’Twas like a pistol-shot. An’, Lord! Her poor face was shinin’.…”

  * * * *

  In the cabin of the Quick as Wink we listened to the wind as it scampered over the deck; and my uncle and I watched Tumm pick at the knot in the table.

  “He don’t need no sense,” said Tumm, looking up, at last; “for he’ve had a mother, an’ he’ve got a memory.”

  ’Twas very true, I thought.

  XXII

  GATHERING WINDS

  ’Twas by advice of Sir Harry, with meet attention to the
philosophy of Lord Chesterfield in respect to the particular accomplishments essential to one who would both please and rise in the world, that my uncle commanded the grand tour to further my education and to cure my twisted foot. “’Tis the last leg o’ the beat, lad;” he pleaded; “ye’ll be a gentleman, made t’ order, accordin’ t’ specifications, when ’tis over with; an’ I’ll be wonderful glad,” says he, wearily, “when ’tis done, for I’ll miss ye sore, lad—ecod! But I’ll miss ye sore.” Abroad, then, despite the gray warning, went John Cather and I, tutor and young gentleman, the twain not to be distinguished from a company of high birth. ’Twas a ghastly thing: ’twas a thing so unfit and grotesque that I flush to think of it—a thing, of all my uncle’s benefits, I wish undone and cannot to this day condone. But that implacable, most tender old ape, when he bade us God-speed on the wharf, standing with legs and staff triangularly disposed to steady him, rippled with pride and admiration to observe the genteel performance of our departure, and in the intervals of mopping his red, sweaty, tearful countenance, exhibited, in unwitting caricature, the defiant consciousness of station he had with infinite pains sought to have me master.