The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  I looked at the sward, soft and green with summer, and roundabout upon the compassionate shadows of evening.

  “‘Nick,’ says your father,” my uncle continued, “‘does ye hear them men?’

  “They was all gone down, poor souls! I knowed.

  “‘Nine men o’ the crew,’ says he, ‘drownin’ there t’ le’ward.’

  “’Twas o’ Mary Luff’s son I thought, that poor lad! For I’d fetched un on the v’y’ge.

  “‘I hear un callin’,’ says he.

  “’Twas but a fancy: they was no voices o’ them drowned men t’ le’ward.

  “‘Nick,’ says he, ‘I didn’t mean t’ wreck her here. I was ’lowin’ t’ strike the Long Cliff, where they’s a chance for a man’s life. Does ye hear me, Nick?’ says he. ‘I didn’t mean t’ do it here!’

  “‘Skipper,’ says I, ‘was ye meanin’ t’ wreck that there ship?’

  “‘Not here,’ says he.

  “‘Was ye meanin’ t’ do it?’ says I.”

  My uncle paused.

  “Go on, sir,” said I.

  “Dannie,” said he, “they come, then, three big seas, as seas will; an’ I ’low”—he touched the crescent scar—“I got this here about that time.”

  ’Twas quite enough for me.

  “‘Skipper,’ says I,” my uncle continued, “‘what did ye go an’ do it for?’

  “‘I got a young one t’ St. John’s,’ says he.

  “‘’Tis no excuse,’ says I.

  “‘Ay,’ says he, ‘but I was ’lowin’ t’ make a gentleman of un. He’s the on’y one I got,’ says he, ’an’ his mother’s dead.’

  “‘’Twas no way t’ go about it,’ says I.

  “‘Ye’ve no lad o’ your own,’ says he, ‘an’ ye don’t know. They was a pot o’ money in this, Top,’ says he. ‘I was ’lowin’ t’ make a gentleman o’ my young one an I lived through; but I got t’ go—I got t’ go t’ hell an’ leave un. They’s ice in these big seas,’ says he, ‘an I’ve broke my left arm, an’ can’t stand it much longer. But you’ll live it out, Top; you’ll live it out—I knows ye will. The wind’s gone t’ the nor’west, an’ the sea’s goin’ down; an’ they’ll be a fleet o’ Labrador craft up the morrow t’ pick you up. An’ I was ’lowin’, Top,’ says he, ‘that you’d take my kid an’ fetch un up as his mother would have un grow. They isn’t no one else t’ do it,’ says he, ‘an’ I was ’lowin’ you might try. I’ve broke my left arm,’ says he, ‘an’ got my fingers froze, or I’d live t’ do it myself. They’s a pot o’ money in this, Top,’ says he. ‘You tell the owner o’ this here ship,’ says he, ‘an’ he’ll pay—he’ve got t’ pay!’

  “I had no wish for the task, Dannie—not bein’ much on nursin’ in them days.

  “‘I got t’ go t’ hell for this, Top,’ says your father, ‘an’ I ’lowed ye’d ease the passage.’

  “‘Skipper, sir,’ says I, ‘is ye not got a scrap o’ writin’?’

  “He fetched out this here little Bible.

  “‘Top,’ says he, ‘I ’lowed I’d have a writin’ t’ make sure, the owner o’ this here ship bein’ on’y a fish speculator; an’ I got it in this Bible.’

  “‘Then,’ says I, ‘I’ll take that young one, Tom Callaway, if I weathers this here mess.’

  “‘Ay,’ says he, ‘but I’m not wishin’ t’ go t’ hell for that.’

  “’Twas come broad day now.

  “‘An I’m but able, Tom Callaway,’ says I, ‘I’ll make a gentleman of un t’ ease your pains.’

  “‘Would ye swear it?’ says he.

  “I put my hand on the Book; an’ I knowed, Dannie, when I made ready t’ take that oath, out there on the Devil’s Teeth, that I’d give my soul t’ hell for the wickedness I must do. I done it with my eyes wide open t’ the burden o’ evil I must take up; an’ ’twas sort o’ hard t’ do, for I was by times a Christian man, Dannie, in them ol’ days, much sot on church an’ prayer an’ the like o’ that. But I seed that your poor father was bent on makin’ a gentleman out o’ you t’ please your dead mother’s wishes, an’ I ’lowed, havin’ no young un o’ my own, that I didn’t know much about the rights of it; an’ I knowed he’d suffer forever the pains o’ hell for what he done, whatever come of it, an’ I ’lowed ’twould be a pity t’ have the murder o’ seven poor men go t’ waste for want o’ one brave soul t’ face the devil. ‘Nick,’ thinks I, while your father, poor, doomed man, watched me—I can see here in the dusk the blood an’ water on his white face—‘Nick,’ thinks I, ‘an you was one o’ them seven poor, murdered men, ye’d want the price o’ your life paid t’ that wee young one. From heaven or hell, Nick, accordin’ t’ which place ye harbored in,’ thinks I, ‘ye’d want t’ watch that little life grow, an’ ye’d like t’ say t’ yourself, when things went ill with ye,’ thinks I, ‘that the little feller ye died for was thrivin’, anyhow, out there on earth.’ An’ I ’lowed, for your wee sake, Dannie, an’ for the sake o’ the seven poor, murdered men, whose wishes I read in the dead eyes that looked into mine, an’ for the sake o’ your poor, fond father, bound soon for hell, that I’d never let the comfort o’ my mean soul stand in the way o’ fetchin’ good t’ your little life out o’ all this woe an’ wickedness. I ’lowed, Dannie, then an’ there, on the Devil’s Teeth, that could I but manage to endure, I’d stand by your little body an’ soul t’ the end, whatever become o’ me.”

  ’Twas but a tale my uncle told: ’twas not an extenuation—not a plea.

  “‘Tide’s risin’, Nick,’ says your father. ‘I can’t stand it much longer with my broken arm an’ froze fingers. Nick,’ says he, ‘will ye swear?’

  “I was afraid, Dannie, t’ swear it.

  “‘Won’t ye?’ says he. ‘He’ve his mother’s eyes—an’ he’ll be a wonderful good lad t’ you.’

  “I couldn’t, Dannie.

  “‘For God’s sake, Nick!’ says he, ‘swear it, an’ ease my way t’ hell.’

  “‘I swear!’ says I.

  “‘Then,’ says he, ‘you turn the screws on the owner o’ that there ship. The writin’ is all you needs. You make a gentleman o’ my lad, God bless un! accordin’ t’ the wishes of his mother. Give un the best they is in Newf’un’land. Nothin’ too good in all the world for Dannie. You bear in mind, Nick,’ says he, ‘that I’m roastin’ in hell,’ says he, ‘payin’ for his education!’”

  My uncle’s hand approached the low table, but was in impatience withdrawn; and the old man looked away—northward: to the place, far distant, where the sea still washed the Devil’s Teeth.

  “I’ve bore it in mind,” he muttered.

  Ay! And much more than that: the wreck of his own great soul upon my need had clouded twenty years of life with blackest terror of the unending pains of perdition.

  “’Tis a lovely evening, Dannie,” he sighed. “’Tis so still an’ kind an’ beautiful. I’ve often ’lowed, in weather like this, with the sea at peace an’ a red sky givin’ promise o’ mercy for yet one day,” said he, “that I’d like t’ live forever—jus’ live t’ fish an’ be an’ hope.”

  “I wisht ye might!” I cried.

  “An’ t’ watch ye grow, Dannie,” said he, turning suddenly upon me, his voice fallen low and tremulous with affectionate feeling and pride. “Life,” says he, so earnestly that I was made meek by the confession, “held nothin’ at all for me but the Christian hope o’ heaven until ye came; an’ then, when I got ye, ’twas filled full o’ mortal, unselfish, better aims. I’ve loved ye well, lad, in my own delight,” says he. “I’ve loved ye in a wishful way,” he repeated, “quite well.”

  I was humble in this presence.…

  “Your father,” my uncle resumed, “couldn’t stand the big seas. I cotched un by the jacket, an’ held un with me, so long as I was able, though he ’lowed I might as well let un go t’ hell, without drawin’ out the fear o’ gettin there. ‘On’y a minute or two, Nick,’ says he. ‘Ye might as well let me get there. I’
m cold, froze up, an’ they’s more ice comin’ with this sea,’ says he; ‘they was a field o’ small ice up along about the Sissors,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low it haves come down with the nor’east wind. The sea,’ says he, ‘will be full of it afore long. Ye better let me go,’ says he. ‘’Tisn’t by any means pleasant here, an’ the on’y thing I wants, now that ye’ve took the oath,’ says he, ‘is t’ get warm. Ye better let me go. I got t’ go, anyhow,’ says he, ‘an’ a hour or two don’t make no difference.’ An’ so, with the babe that was you in mind, an’ with my life t’ save for your sake, I let un go t’ le’ward, where the seven murdered men had gone down drowned. ’Twas awful lonesome without un, when the tide got high an’ the seas was mean with chunks o’ ice. Afore that,” my uncle intensely declared, “I was admired o’ waterside widows, on account o’ looks; but,” says he, touching his various disfigurements, “I was broke open here, an’ I was broke open there, by bein’ rubbed on the rocks an’ clubbed by the ice at high-tide. When I was picked up by Tumm, o’ the Quick as Wink (bein’ bound up in fish), I ’lowed I might as well leave the cook, which is now dead, have his way with the butcher-knife an’ sail-needle; an’ so I come t’ St. John’s as ye sees me now, not a wonderful sight for looks, with my leg an’ fingers gone, but ready, God knows, t’ stand by the young un I was livin’ t’ take an’ rear. Ye had been, all through it, Dannie,” he added, simply, “the thing that made me hold on; for when your father was gone t’ le’ward, an’ I begun t’ think o’ ye, a wee babe t’ St. John’s, I got t’ love ye, lad, as I’ve loved ye ever since.

  “’Tis a lovely evening,” he added; “’tis a wonderful civil and beautiful time, with all them clouds, like coals o’ fire, in the west.”

  ’Twas that: an evening without guile or menace—an hour most compassionate.

  “The owner o’ the Will-o’-the-Wisp,” says my uncle, “wasn’t no Honorable in them days; he was but a St. John’s fish speculator with a taste for low politics. But he’ve become a Honorable since, on the fortune he’ve builded from that wreck, an’ he’s like t’ end a knight o’ the realm, if he’ve money enough t’ carry on an’ marry the widow he’s after. ’Twas not hard t’ deal with un—leastways, ’twas not hard when I loaded with rum, which I was used t’ doin’, Dannie, as ye know, afore I laid ’longside of un in the wee waterside place he’d fetch the money to. No, no! ’Twas not easy: I’d not have ye think it—’twas hard, ’twas bitter hard, Dannie, t’ be engaged in that dirty business. I’d not have ye black your soul with it; an’ I was ’lowin, Dannie, afore the parson left us, t’ teach un how t’ manage the Honorable, t’ tell un about the liquor an’ the bluster, t’ show un how t’ scare the Honorable on the Water Street pavement, t’ teach un t’ threaten an’ swear the coward’s money from his pocket, for I wasn’t wantin’ you, Dannie, t’ know the trial an’ wickedness o’ the foul deed, bein’ in love with ye too much t’ have ye spoiled by sin. I ’low I had that there young black-an’-white parson near corrupted: I ’low I had un worked up t’ yieldin’ t’ temptation, lad, when he up an’ left us, along o’ Judy. An’ there’s the black-an’-white parson, gone God knows where! An’ here’s ol’ Nick Top, sittin’ on the grass at evenin’, laid by the heels all along o’ two days o’ wind on the ice!”

  “And so you brought me up?” says I.

  “Ay, Dannie,” he answered, uneasily; “by blackmail o’ the Honorable. I got t’ go t’ hell for it, but I’ve no regrets on that account,” says he, in a muse, “for I’ve loved ye well, lad; an’ as I sit here now, lookin’ back, I knows that God was kind t’ give me you t’ work an’ sin for. I’ll go t’ hell—ay, I’ll go t’ hell! Ye must never think, lad, when I gets down there, that I’m sorry for what I done. I’ll not be sorry—not even in hell—for I’ll think o’ the years when you was a wee little lad, an’ I’ll be content t’ remember. An’ do you go away, now, lad,” he added, “an’ think it over. Ye’ll not judge me now; ye’ll come back, afore long, an’ then judge me.”

  I moved to go.

  “Dannie!” he called.

  I turned.

  “I’ve gone an’ tol’ Judy,” says he, “lest she learn t’ love ye for what ye was not.”

  ’Twas no matter to me.…

  This, then, was the heart of my mystery! I had been fed and adorned and taught and reared in luxury by the murder of seven men and the merciless blackmail of an ambitious villain. What had fed me, warmed me, clothed me had been the product of this horrible rascality. And my father was the murderer, whom I had dreamed a hero, and my foster-father was the persecutor, whom I had loved for his kindly virtue. And paid for!—all paid for in my father’s crime and damnation. This—all this—to make a gentleman of the ill-born, club-footed young whelp of a fishing skipper! I laughed as I walked away from this old Nick Top: laughed to recall my progress through these nineteen years—the proud, self-righteous stalking of my way.

  ’Twas a pretty figure I had cut, thinks I, with my rings and London clothes, in the presence of the Honorable, with whom I had dealt in pride and anger! ’Twas a pretty figure I had cut, all my life—the whelp of a ruined, prostituted skipper: the issue of a murderous barratry! What protection had the defenceless child that had been I against these machinations? What protest the boy, growing in guarded ignorance? What appeal the man in love, confronted by his origin and shameful fostering? Enraged by this, what I thought of my uncle’s misguided object and care I may not here set down, because of the bitterness and injustice of the reflections; nay, but I dare not recall the mood and wicked resentment of that time.

  And presently I came to the shore of the sea, where I sat down on the rock, staring out upon the waters. ’Twas grown dark then, of a still, religious night, with the black sea lapping the rocks, infinitely continuing in restlessness, and a multitude of stars serenely twinkling in the uttermost depths of the great sky. ’Twas of this I thought, I recall, but cannot tell why: that the sea was forever young, unchanging in all the passions of youth, from the beginning of time to the end of it; that the mountains were lifted high, of old, passionless, inscrutable, of unfeeling snow and rock, dwelling above the wish of the world; that the sweep of prairie, knowing no resentment, was fruitful to the weakest touch; that the forests fell without complaint; that the desert, hopeless, aged, contemptuous of the aspirations of this day, was of immutable bitterness, seeking some love long lost to it nor ever to be found again; but that the sea was as it had been when God poured it forth—young and lusty and passionate—the only thing in all the fleeting world immune from age and death and desuetude.

  ’Twas strange enough; but I knew, thank God, when the rocking, crooning sea took my heart as a harp in its hands, that all the sins and errors of earth were of creative intention and most beautiful, as are all the works of the God of us all. Nay, but, thinks I, the sins of life are more lovely than the righteous accomplishments. Removed by the starlit sky, wherein He dwells—removed because of its tender distance and beauty and placidity, because of its compassion and returning gift of faith, removed by the vast, feeling territory of sensate waters, whereupon He walks, because they express, eternally, His wrath and loving kindness—carried far away, in the quiet night, I looked back, and I understood, as never before—nor can I ever hope to know again—that God, being artist as we cannot be, had with the life of the world woven threads of sin and error to make it a pattern of supernal beauty, that His purpose might be fulfilled, His eyes delighted.

  And ’twas with the healing of night and starry sky and the soft lullaby of the sea upon my spirit—’twas with this wide, clear vision of life, the gift of understanding, as concerned its exigencies—that I arose and went to my uncle.…

  I met Judith on the way: the maid was hid, waiting for me, in the deep shadow of the lilacs and the perfume of them, which I shall never forget, that bordered the gravelled path of our garden.

  “You’ve come at last,” says she. “He’ve been waiting for you—out there in the dark.”
/>   “Judith!” says I.

  She came confidingly close to me.

  “I’ve a word to say to you, maid,” says I.

  “An’ you’re a true man?” she demanded.

  “’Tis a word,” says I, “that’s between a man an’ a maid. ’Tis nothing more.”

  She held me off. “An’ you’re true,” she demanded, “to them that have loved you?”

  “As may or may not appear,” I answered.

  “Ah, Dannie,” she whispered, “I cannot doubt you!”

  I remember the scent of the lilacs—I remember the dusk—the starlit sky.

  “I have a word,” I repeated, “to say to you.”

  “An’ what’s that?” says she.

  “’Tis that I wish a kiss,” says I.

  She put up her dear red lips.

  “Ay,” says I, “but ’tis a case of no God between us. You know what I am and have been. I ask a kiss.”

  Her lips still invited me.

  “I love you, Judith,” says I, “and always have.”

  Her lips came closer.

  “I would be your husband,” I declared.