The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  I was glad to know that my mother had been both sweet and lovely. ’Twas a conception I had long cherished. ’Twas what Judith was—both sweet and lovely.

  “You will accuse him, I warn you!” he repeated.

  Still gray weather, I observed through the grimy panes: fog sweeping by with a northeast wind. For a moment I watched the dripping passengers on the opposite pavement.

  “Well,” says the gray stranger, with a harsh little laugh, “God help Top when the tale is told!”

  I should never, of course, treat my uncle with unkindness.

  “My boy,” he most earnestly besought me, “will you not heed me?”

  “I’ll hear you, sir,” I answered.

  “Attend, then,” says he. “I have brought you here to warn you, and my warning is but half spoken. Frankly, in this I have no concern for your happiness, with which I have nothing to do: I have been moved to this ungrateful and most dangerous interview by a purely selfish regard for my own career. Do you know the word? A political career of some slight importance,” he added, with a toss of the head, “which is now menaced, at a most critical moment, by that merciless, wicked old pirate whom you have shamelessly been deceived into calling your uncle Nicholas. To be frank with you, you are, and have been for several years, an obstacle. My warning, however, as you will believe, is advanced upon grounds advantageous to yourself. Put the illusions of this designing old bay-noddie away from you,” says he, now accentuating his earnestness with a lean, white forefinger. “Rid yourself of these rings and unsuitable garments: they disgrace you. When the means of their possession is disclosed to you—when the wretched crime of it is made known—you will suffer such humiliation as you did not dream a man could feel. Put ’em away. Put ’em out of sight and mind. Send that young man from London back to the business he came from. A tutor! Your tutor! Tom Callaway’s son with an English tutor! You are being made a ghastly fool of; and I warn you that you will pay for every moment of the illusion. Poor lad!” cries he, in genuine distress. “Poor lad!”

  It might be: I had long thought so.

  “And as for this grand tour abroad,” he began, with an insolently curling lip, “why, for God’s sake! Don’t be a—”

  “Sir!” I interrupted, in a rage.

  There had been talk of a trip abroad: it seemed I was bound upon it, by advice of Sir Harry, to further my education and to cure my foot of its twist.

  “Well,” the gray personage laughed, “being what you are, remembering what I have with candor and exact honesty told you, if you can permit this old pirate—”

  I stopped him. I would have no more of it—not I, by Heaven!

  “This extortionate old—”

  “I’ll not hear it!” I roared.

  “In this fine faith,” sneers he, “I find at least the gratifying prospect of being some day privileged to observe Top broil as on a griddle in hell.”

  ’Twas most obscure.

  “I refer,” says he, “to the moment of grand climax when this pirate tells you where your diamonds came from. Your diamonds?” he flashed. “You may get quit of your diamonds; but the fine gentleman this low villain has fashioned of a fishing-skipper’s whelp will all your days keep company at your elbow. And you won’t love Top for this,” says he, with malevolent satisfaction; “you won’t love Top!”

  I walked to the window for relief from him. ’Twas all very well that he should discredit and damn my uncle in this way; ’twas all very well that he should raise spectres of unhappiness before me: but there, on the opposite pavement, abroad in the foggy wind, jostled by ill-tempered passengers, was this selfsame old foster-father of mine, industriously tap-tapping the pavement with his staff, as he had periodically done, whatever the weather, since I could remember the years of my life. I listened to the angry tapping, watched the urchins and curious folk gather for the show; and I was moved to regard the mystifying spectacle with an indulgent grin. The gray stranger, however, at that instant got ear of the patter of the staff and the clamor of derision. He cried upon me sharply to stand from the window; but I misliked this harsh manner of authority, and would not budge: whereupon he sprang upon me, caught me about the middle, and violently flung me back. ’Twas too late to avert the catastrophe: my uncle had observed me, and was even then bound across the street, flying all sail, to the terrified confusion of the exalted political personage whose career he menaced. ’Twas a pitiable spectacle of fright and helpless uncertainty the man furnished, seeming at one moment bent on keeping my uncle out, whom he feared to admit, at another to wish him well in, whom he dared not exclude.

  “The man’s stark mad!” he would repeat, in his panic of gesture and pacing. “The man’s stark mad to risk this!”

  My uncle softly closed the door behind him. “Ah, Dannie!” says he. “You here?” He was breathless, and gone a ghastly color; there was that about his scars and eyes, too, to make me wonder whether ’twas rage or fear had mastered him: I could not tell, but mightily wished to determine, since it seemed that some encounter impended. “Ye’re an unkind man,” says he, in a passionless way, to the gray stranger, who was now once more seated at his desk, fingering the litter of documents. “Ye’ve broke your word t’ me. I must punish ye for the evil ye’ve done this lad. I’ll not ask ye what ye’ve told un till I haves my way with ye; but then,” he declared, his voice betraying a tremor of indignation, “I’ll have the talk out o’ ye, word for word!” The gray stranger was agitated, but would not look up from his aimlessly wandering hand to meet my uncle’s lowering, reproachful eyes. “Dannie,” says my uncle, continuing in gentle speech, “pass the cushion from the big chair. Thank ’e, lad. I’m not wantin’ the man t’ hurt his head.” He cast the cushion to the floor. “Now, sir,” says he, gently, “an ye’ll be good enough t’ step within five-foot-ten o’ that there red cushion, I’ll knock ye down an’ have it over with.”

  The man looked sullenly out of the window.

  “Five-foot-ten, sir,” my uncle repeated, with some cheerfulness.

  “Top,” was the vicious response, “you invite assassination.”

  My uncle put his hand on my shoulder. “’Tis not fit for ye t’ see, lad,” says he. “Ye’d best be off t’ the fresh air. ’Tis so wonderful stuffy here that ye’ll be growin’ pale an ye don’t look out. An’ I’m not wantin’ ye t’ see me knock a man down,” he repeated, with feeling. “I’m not wantin’ ye even t’ think that I’d do an unkind thing like that.”

  I moved to go.

  “Now, sir!” cries my uncle to the stranger.

  As I closed the door behind me the man was passing with snarling lips to the precise spot my uncle had indicated.…

  XX

  NO APOLOGY

  My uncle knocked on my door at the hotel and, without waiting to be bidden, thrust in his great, red, bristling, monstrously scarred head. ’Twas an intrusion most diffident and fearful: he was like a mischievous boy come for chastisement.

  “You here, Dannie?” he gently inquired.

  “Come in, sir,” says I.

  ’Twas awkwardly—with a bashful grin and halting, doubtful step—that he stumped in.

  “Comfortable?” he asked, looking about. “No complaint t’ make ag’in this here hotel?”

  I had no complaint.

  “Not troubled, is you?”

  I was not troubled.

  “Isn’t bothered, is you?” he pursued, with an inviting wink. “Not bothered about nothin’, lad, is you?”

  Nor bothered.

  “Come now!” cries he, dissembling great candor and heartiness, “is you got any questions t’ ask ol’ Nick Top?”

  “No, sir,” I answered, quite confidently.

  “Dannie, lad,” says my uncle, unable to contain his delight, with which, indeed, his little eyes brimmed over, “an ye’d jus’ be so damned good as t’ tweak that there—”

  I pulled the bell-cord.

  “A nip o’ the best Jamaica,” says he.

  Old Elihu W
all fetched the red dram.

  “Lad,” says my uncle, his glass aloft, his eyes resting upon me in pride, his voice athrill with passionate conviction, “here’s t’ you! That’s good o’ you,” says he. “That’s very good. I ’low I’ve fetched ye up very well. Ecod!” he swore, with most reverent and gentle intention, “ye’ll be a gentleman afore ye knows it!”

  He downed the liquor with a grin that came over his lurid countenance like a burst of low sunshine.

  “A gentleman,” he repeated, “in spite o’ Chesterfield!”

  When my uncle was gone, I commanded my reflections elsewhere, prohibited by honor from dwelling upon the wretched mystery in which I was enmeshed. They ran with me to the fool of Twist Tickle. The weather had turned foul: ’twas blowing up from the north in a way to make housed folk shiver for their fellows at sea. Evil sailing on the Labrador! I wondered how the gentle weakling fared as cook of the Quick as Wink. I wondered in what harbor he lay, in the blustering night, or off what coast he tossed. I wondered what trouble he had within his heart. I wished him home again: but yet remembered, with some rising of hope, that his amazing legacy of wisdom had in all things been sufficient to his need. Had he not in peace and usefulness walked the paths of the world where wiser folk had gone with bleeding feet? ’Twas dwelling gratefully upon this miracle of wisdom and love, a fool’s inheritance, that I, who had no riches of that kind, fell asleep, without envy or perturbation, that night.

  ’Twas not long I had to wait to discover the fortune of the fool upon that voyage. We were not three days returned from the city when the Quick as Wink slipped into our harbor. She had been beating up all afternoon; ’twas late of a dark night when she dropped anchor. John Cather was turned in, Judith long ago whisked off to bed by our maid-servant; my uncle and I sat alone together when the rattle of the chain apprised us that the schooner was in the shelter of the Lost Soul.

  By-and-by Moses came.

  “You’ve been long on the road,” says I.

  “Well, Dannie,” he explained, looking at his cap, which he was awkwardly twirling, “I sort o’ fell in with Parson Stump by the way, an’ stopped for a bit of a gossip.”

  I begged him to sit with us.

  “No,” says he; “but I’m ’bliged t’ you. Fac’ is, Dannie,” says he, gravely, “I isn’t got time.”

  My uncle was amazed.

  “I’ve quit the ship,” Moses went on, “not bein’ much of a hand at cookin’. I’ll be t’ home now,” says he, “an’ I’d be glad t’ have you an’ Skipper Nicholas drop in, some day soon, when you’re passin’ Whisper Cove.”

  We watched him twirl his cap.

  “You’d find a wonderful warm welcome,” says he, “from Mrs. Moses Shoos!”

  With that he was gone.

  XXI

  FOOL’S FORTUNE

  “Close the door, Dannie,” says Tumm, in the little cabin of the Quick as Wink, late that night, when the goods were put to rights, and the bottle was on the counter, and the schooner was nodding sleepily in the spent waves from the open sea. “This here yarn o’ the weddin’ o’ Moses Shoos is not good for everybody t’ hear.” He filled the glasses—chuckling all the time deep in his chest. “We was reachin’ up t’ Whoopin’ Harbor,” he began, being a great hand at a story, “t’ give the Quick as Wink a night’s lodgin’, it bein’ a wonderful windish night; clear enough, the moon sailin’ a cloudy sky, but with a bank o’ fog sneakin’ round Cape Muggy like a fish-thief. An’ we wasn’t in no haste, anyhow, t’ make Sinners’ Tickle, for we was the first trader down this season, an’ ’twas pick an’ choose for we, with a clean bill t’ every harbor from Starvation Cove t’ the Settin’ Hen. So the skipper he says we’ll hang the ol’ girl up t’ Whoopin’ Harbor ’til dawn; an’ we’ll all have a watch below, says he, with a cup o’ tea, says he, if the cook can bile the water ’ithout burnin’ it. Now, look you! Saucy Bill North is wonderful fond of his little joke; an’ ’twas this here habit o’ burnin’ the water he’d pitched on t’ plague the poor cook with, since we put out o’ Twist Tickle on the v’y’ge down.

  “‘Cook, you dunderhead!’ says the skipper, with a wink t’ the crew, which I was sorry t’ see, ‘you been an’ scarched the water agin.’

  “Shoos he looked like he’d give up for good on the spot—just like he knowed he was a fool, an’ had knowed it for a long, long time—sort o’ like he was sorry for we an’ sick of hisself.

  “‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘you went an’ done it agin. Yes, you did! Don’t you go denyin’ of it. You’ll kill us, cook,’ says he, ‘if you goes on like this. They isn’t nothin’ worse for the system,’ says he, ‘than this here burned water. The almanacs,’ says he, shakin’ his finger at the poor cook, ‘’ll tell you that!’

  “‘I ’low I did burn that water, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘if you says so. But I isn’t got all my wits,’ says he; ’an’ God knows I’m doin’ my best!’

  “‘I always did allow, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘that God knowed more’n I ever thunk.’

  “‘An’ I never did burn no water,’ says the cook, ‘afore I shipped along o’ you in this here ol’ flour-sieve of a Quick as Wink.’

  “‘This here what?’ snaps the skipper.

  “‘This here ol’ basket,’ says the cook.

  “‘Basket!’ says the skipper. Then he hummed a bit o’ ‘Fishin’ for the Maid I Loves,’ ’ithout thinkin’ much about the toon. ‘Cook,’ says he ‘I loves you. You is on’y a half-witted chance-child,’ says he, ‘but I loves you like a brother.’

  “‘Does you, skipper?’ says the cook, with a nice, soft little smile, like the poor fool he was. ‘I isn’t by no means hatin’ you, skipper,’ says he. ‘But I can’t help burnin’ the water,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low it fair hurts me t’ get blame for it. I’m sorry for you an’ the crew,’ says he, ‘an’ I wisht I hadn’t took the berth. But when I shipped along o’ you,’ says he, ‘I ’lowed I could cook, for mother always told me so, an’ I ’lowed she knowed. I’m doin’ my best, anyhow, accordin’ t’ how she’d have me do, an’ I ’low if the water gets scarched,’ says he, ‘the galley fire’s bewitched.’

  “‘Basket!’ says the skipper. ‘Ay, ay, cook,’ says he. ‘I just loves you.’

  “They wasn’t a man o’ the crew liked t’ hear the skipper say that; for, look you, the skipper doesn’t know nothin’ about feelin’s, an’ the cook has more feelin’s ’n a fool can make handy use of aboard a tradin’ craft. There sits the ol’ man, smoothin’ his big, red beard, singin’ ‘I’m Fishin’ for the Maid I Loves,’ while he looks at poor Moses Shoos, which was washin’ up the dishes, for we was through with the mug-up. An’ the devil was in his eyes—the devil was fair grinnin’ in them little blue eyes. Lord! It made me sad t’ see it, for I knowed the cook was in for bad weather, an’ he isn’t no sort o’ craft t’ be out o’ harbor in a gale o’ wind like that.

  “‘Cook,’ says the skipper.

  “‘Ay, sir?’ says the cook.

  “‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘you ought t’ get married.’

  “‘I on’y wisht I could,’ says the cook.

  “‘You ought t’ try, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘for the sake o’ the crew. We’ll all die,’ says he, ‘afore we sights ol’ Bully Dick agin,’ says he, ‘if you keeps on burnin’ the water. You got t’ get married, cook, t’ the first likely maid you sees on the Labrador,’ says he, ‘t’ save the crew. She’d do the cookin’ for you. It’ll be the loss o’ all hands,’ says he, ‘an you don’t. This here burned water,’ says he, ‘will be the end of us, cook, an you keeps it up.’

  “‘I’d be wonderful glad t’ ’blige you, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘an’ I’d like t’ ’blige all hands. ’Twon’t be by my wish,’ says he, ‘that anybody’ll die o’ the grub they gets, for mother wouldn’t like it.’

  “‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘shake! I knows a man,’ says he, ‘when I sees one. Any man,’ says he, ‘that would put on the irons
o’ matrimony,’ says he, ‘t’ ’blige a shipmate,’ says he, ‘is a better man ’n me, an’ I loves un like a brother.’

  “The cook was cheered up considerable.

  “‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘I ’pologize. Yes, I do, cook,’ says he, ‘I ’pologize.’

  “‘I isn’t got no feelin’ ag’in’ matrimony,’ says the cook. ‘But I isn’t able t’ get took. I been tryin’ every maid t’ Twist Tickle,’ says he, ‘an’ they isn’t one,’ says he, ‘will wed a fool.’

  “‘Not one maid t’ wed a fool!’ says the skipper.

  “‘Nar a one,’ says the cook.

  “‘I’m s’prised,’ says the skipper.

  “‘Nar a maid t’ Twist Tickle,’ says the cook, ‘will wed a fool, an’ I ’low they isn’t one,’ says he, ‘on the Labrador.’

  “‘It’s been done afore, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘an’ I ’low ’twill be done agin, if the world don’t come to an end t’ oncet. Cook,’ says he, ‘I knows the maid t’ do it.’

  “‘I’d be wonderful glad t’ find she,’ says the cook. ‘Mother,’ says he, ‘always ’lowed a man didn’t ought t’ live alone.’

  “‘Ay, b’y,’ says the skipper, ‘I got the girl for you. An’ she isn’t a thousand miles,’ says he, ‘from where that ol’ basket of a Quick as Wink lies at anchor,’ says he, ‘in Whoopin’ Harbor. She isn’t what you’d call handsome an’ tell no lie,’ says he, ‘but—’