The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  Derry sat down and laid the paper on the table before him. Then the two were for a moment silent. Blair and his “friend” formed a strange contrast to each other.

  The slender stripling, tall for his years, was yet in the blossom of his youth. His face, which was so like his loving mother’s, would have been effeminate, but for the savor of old Joe Robertson the pilot, which told in the marked nose and strong chin of the boy, but had no part in his great, clear, soul-lit eyes, or the flexible lines of his changing mouth. That mouth was now parted as if he would say more, but waited for some word or sign from his companion.

  Deny Duck was a very bundle of time-worn, storm-tried muscles and sinews. The knots on his bare arms were like knobs of oak; and his great brawny hand that lay there on the white paper, looked like a powerful living thing, having almost an identity and will of its own.

  Derry’s body and whole development to his thighs were those of a tall, stalwart man; but his lower limbs were short and sturdy, ending in great flat feet which were as much at home in the water as on the rolling deck, or amid the dizzy rigging. These peculiarities had given him the name by which he was known—originally “Daring Duck,” but by degrees contracted into the “Derry Duck” which Blair had caught from the sailors.

  It was hard to realize that the mate of the Molly had ever been an infant, whose tender cheek had been pressed to that of a loving mother. And yet it was true that a Christian mother had once hailed that hardened man as a gift from God to nurse for him. His lips had been taught to pray, and his young footsteps guided to the house of God.

  Time had made sad changes in him since then. His skin was now as tough and well-tanned as his leathern belt, in which hung many a curious implement of war and peace, a perfect tool-shop for the boarder’s wild work, or the seaman’s craft. In that strong, hard face there was a tale of a life of exposure, a lawless life, which had well-nigh given over to the evil one the soul which God meant for himself.

  “I want you to write a letter for me,” said Derry, looking cautiously about him and then going on, “a letter to my little daughter. Hush; not a word of this to any of the men. When it is done, you must put it inside of one of your love-letters to your mother. They mustn’t get wind of it. They are not fit even to know I have such a child, much less to see her. Be secret! Can I trust you, my boy?”

  “I’ll write for you with all my heart,” said Blair in astonishment; “and of course I wont name it if you don’t wish me to; no, not to a soul on board. But I shall have to tell my mother, or she wont know what to do with the letter.”

  “Just ask her to mail it for one of your shipmates. That will be enough,” said Derry quickly. “‘Least said, soonest mended.’ I have my reasons. I know which way the wind blows, and how to ward off a sou’-wester.”

  “What shall I say?” said Blair, taking up the pen, and reaching for the paper. Derry’s hand lay on it, a “paperweight” that did not move itself off at Blair’s motion.

  “You see,” began the sailor, “you see I’ve got a little daughter, not so old as you are by a year or two. I dare say you think she’s made of coarse stuff like me, fit for the rough and tumble of life. No such thing. Her hand is white as a sail on a summer sea, and her little round cheek is so soft, Oh, so soft, that when it snugs up to mine it seems as if an angel was touching me, and I feel as if I wasn’t fit for such as her to love and fondle. Yet she loves me; she loves her old dad. She don’t call me Derry Duck, not she. She don’t know any thing about Derry Duck, and what he does when he’s off on the sea. I don’t mean she ever shall. I’d rather die first, gnawed to pieces by a hungry shark. Her mother left her to me, a little two-year-old thing, a clinging little creature that would snug in my arms and go to sleep, whether I was drunk or sober. I killed her mother—sent her to the better country before her time. I didn’t lay my hand to her; I wasn’t bad enough for that. But my ways took the pink out of her cheeks, and made her pine away and just go out of my sight like the wake of a passing ship. Where she had been, there she was not. I loved her, boy, and these eyes cried; these great hands would have willingly been worn to the bone with hard work, if that could have restored her life. I don’t drink any more. I’ve quit that. I haven’t touched a drop since she died. I took to the sea. I made up my mind I wouldn’t kill the little tender thing she left me. She should never die for knowing how bad her father was. I took the little money I had, and bought a real gentleman’s suit of clothes. Then I went to a minister I knew about, in a far away town, where my—never mind where the child’s mother came from—and I asked him and his wife to take care of the little thing, for a sorrowful man that was going off on the sea, and would pay well for what they did. I knew it wasn’t the money that would make them lay their hand to the work; but they had nothing to spare, and I didn’t mean to leave her to charity. I wanted her brought up to be like her mother, in ways that wouldn’t end where I’m going. They took her, and there she is. Nobody can see her without loving her, such a little, dainty, winning, clinging, pretty thing, nine years have made out of the toddlin’ creature I put out of my arms, that ached after her till I was clear out of sight of land. Don’t think I miss seeing her when I’m ashore. Don’t I leave Derry Duck aboard ship, and put on my landsman’s clothes, and ride up to the door where she is, with my pocket full of money. She don’t lack for any thing, I warrant you. She’s dressed like a rose, all in pink and green, with little ribbons fluttering like her little heart when she sees me coming. She’s learning too. Why, she knows most enough to teach the queen, the child does. And then she’s so modest and asks me questions, as if I could tell her every thing. I always have a cold or a headache or something, and can’t say much when I’m there. I keep still, and take my fill of looking at her, and hugging her close to this old tough heart. I wouldn’t let out an oath before her. I’d rather see the Molly go to the bottom in fair weather. I’m scant of my talk, lest I should let out that my way of thinking is different from hers. I wouldn’t have her pretty blue eyes turn away from me, so sorrowful, yet so loving, just as her mother’s used to. I couldn’t bear that. She loves me, that little pure thing, that says its prayers night and morning, and asks God to bless its father on the sea. She’s my angel. Mayhap those little prayers will get heard some day, and a blessing will come to me and make me a different man. Only the Almighty could turn Derry Duck into a father fit for that child’s eyes to look on. My heart yearns after her when I’m far away, but I don’t let her write to me. I wouldn’t have such men as I live with know where my flower hides its little head. I wouldn’t have her run a chance of seeing any body who knows Derry Duck, and might tell her of his wild ways. It would break her little heart, it would. I can’t write to her; not but what I was scholard somewhat, long ago; but these hands have had other work to do than holding a pen and making letters that a wise little girl like her would think all right. I couldn’t either put into words just what I want to say. It a’n’t much that I would say, neither, but a kind of letting out how I set all the world by her, and want her to be just so much better than other folks as I am worse. Something would slip in that shouldn’t, if I was to try; I know there would. But you can write for me. You would know just how to put it. She says she yearns after me when I’m gone, and would be so full of joy if she could once have a letter from me, all her own, to read over and over when she can’t throw her arms round my neck and put her little loving face close up to mine. Will you write for me, boy, something for the dear girl to read over, and think the right kind of a father is talking to her, a man she wouldn’t be ashamed of before the company her mother keeps up there?”

  The last words were spoken reverently, and formed a strange contrast to much that had gone before. We have omitted the oaths and rough expletives with which Derry interlarded his speech. There is the taint of sin even in the repetition of such language.

  Blair Robertson had listened with a throbbing heart and tearful eye to the sailor’s story. It seemed to him that God had not quite c
ast off one who had such a tender care for the happiness and purity of his child. Blair gently laid his slender hand on Derry’s brawny fingers, and looked up earnestly into his face as he said, “Why can’t you be just such a father, Derry?”

  Derry laughed a sorrowful, derisive laugh, and then said almost fiercely, “You don’t know me, lad. It would chill your very blood to know what I’ve done, and where I’ve been. There are spots on me that nothing can wash out. I’ve grown into it, boy. It’s my life. I’m hard and tough, soul and body. There’s no making me over. I’m spoiled in the grain. I tell you it’s too late. I a’n’t a father for her to know. I can’t be made into one. That a’n’t what I came here to talk about. Will you write my letter, that’s the question?”

  “Certainly I will write for you in the way that seems to me the best. But, Derry, ‘there is a fountain opened for sin and all uncleanness.’ ‘The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.’ ‘If any man be in Christ Jesus, he is a new creature; old things have passed away.’ ‘With God all things are possible.’ ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’ ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’”

  As Blair spoke these words, he fixed his earnest eyes on the sailor’s face, and seemed pleading for his very soul.

  “There is a look about you like her, like her up there,” said Derry, almost trembling. “I see her face in the dark night when I’m on the watch, and her eyes speak to me just as yours do—Oh, so pleading. Hush! There’s some one coming. Write the letter as if it was one of your own. They wont hector you now. I’ve taught ’em better manners. Let me see ’em touch a hair of your head, and I’ll finish ’em quick.”

  As Derry spoke, he gave a thrust with his clenched fist as at an imaginary enemy. The eyes that had lately been softened into tenderness had their old fierce twinkle, and his hard features settled into their fixed expression of determined daring.

  The men gave place as he forced his way up the hatchway. On he went, stamping along the deck as if he ground an enemy beneath his heel at every step.

  CHAPTER XV

  A Letter

  Blair would gladly have chosen another time and place for the composition of the difficult letter he was called on to write, but he felt compelled to fulfil his promise at once. The men passed by him in silence, save the single remark of Brimstone, “Give my love to your sweet mother,” delivered in an insulting tone, and with a laugh more repulsive than the hiss of a snake.

  Blair glanced anxiously in the direction where Derry had disappeared, almost fearing to see that clenched hand coming forth to do its threatened work of vengeance. But Derry was already far away, and Brimstone joined his mess-mates without receiving a word or sign of rebuke.

  Blair took up his pen with a silent prayer that it might be guided by Him without whose aid vain are the most eloquent words of the wisest counsellor. His letter was as follows:

  “Dear —— I don’t know your name, but your father is my friend, and of course I feel interested in you for his sake. He has been very kind to me, and it is a great pleasure to me to do any thing for him. He has been talking to me of you, and while he has gone on deck he wants me to write to you. How he loves you. You are the bright spot to him in life, his oasis in the desert of this weary world. When he is far out on the wide sea, your face comes up before him, and makes the loneliest place a home. He loves to think that you pray for him. He feels that he needs your prayers. Happy are the fathers who, plunged in earthly cares on sea and land, have children to fold their hands and lift their hearts in prayer for them. This is all you can do for your absent father. Though you could give him crowns and kingdoms, wealth and honor, they would not be worth as much as one earnest, faithful, importunate prayer in Jesus’ name. That name is all-powerful, and must prevail. Your father calls you his ‘little flower.’ He wants his little flower to be pure and modest and simple, like the lily, which all may consider and see in it the handiwork of God. Only God, who made this beautiful world, can purify and cleanse our souls and help us to walk in his holy ways. I know that you have been taught all this by the kind friends who have watched over you from infancy. Your father wants you to give good heed to their counsel, and ever watch and pray and struggle against temptation. No blow could fall on him so sore as to know his little darling was walking in the wrong path. May you never so grieve his fond heart. Again I must tell you, though you have read it in his repeated caresses, how your father loves you. May you be to him that best of treasures, a prayerful, pious daughter, is the sincere wish of

  “Your father’s friend,

  “BLAIR ROBERTSON.”

  Blair folded his letter, and then addressing a few lines to his mother, he inclosed the two in a single envelope, and sought out Derry for further directions. Derry was pacing up and down the deck, making the boards ring with his heavy tread.

  “Shall I read you what I have written?” said Blair, laying his hand on Derry’s shoulder.

  Derry started as if in a dream; but recollecting himself, he said quickly, “Yes, yes. Here, here in the moonlight. No one will listen here.”

  The light of the full moon fell on the open letter, and Blair read it without difficulty.

  “That’s it, that’s it. Every word of it true,” said Derry in a voice trembling with feeling. “It would kill me to think of her going wrong. But she wont. Her way is up, and mine is down, down, down. Give me the letter; I’ll put the right name on it. You don’t mind my seeing what goes to your mother. That’s no more than fair. I tell you I don’t like folks to know where my flower hides. I’ll see it into the bag, and mind you don’t breathe a word of this. Mind!”

  Derry’s finger was raised in a threatening attitude as he spoke, and he stopped after he had moved some steps away to give again to Blair this sign of silence and secrecy.

  Blair lingered on deck, not to enjoy the calm moonlight which so lovingly crowned and silvered the crests of the waves. His eyes were lifted upward, but not to gaze on the deep blue of the moonlit sky. To the great Creator, without whom was not any thing made that was made, Blair was pouring out the earnest petitions of his loving heart. For Derry and his little daughter prayed the young Christian, as they only can pray who believe the blessed words, “If ye shall ask any thing in my name, I will do it.”

  CHAPTER XVI.

  A MARVEL.

  Weeks flew by while the Molly was cruising about, waiting and watching for the expected East Indiaman. The privateer, meanwhile, was not losing time. Several small merchant vessels came in her way, and submitted without a blow to the argument of her compelling pair of guns. These vessels were either stripped of their cargo and then burnt, or else sent with a few sailors as their prize crew to some American port. The capture of the British merchant ships kept the Molly supplied with the necessaries for her continued cruise, and served besides to calm the impatience of the men, who were beginning to complain of their captain’s pertinacious clinging to the hope of taking the East Indiaman, which might already be safely harbored in English waters. There had been dark nights and foggy days in which she might well have passed them, so they reasoned. But Derry Duck said there was no moving the captain, and grumblers would do best to “keep their tongues between their teeth.” The mail-bag of the Molly had gone home on board one of the captured vessels, and it was a pleasant thought to Blair that his dear mother would soon feel almost as if she heard the voice of her son at her side. Derry’s little daughter too would receive her letter, and Blair tried to picture her joy as she held this treasure in her hands.

  Derry moved about in his usual way, but was inclined to avoid Blair since the night when he had given the boy his confidence. Blair often found it hard to believe that those gentle, tender tones had come from Derry’s great closely shut mouth, and that those snapping eyes had softened almost to tears as he spoke of his darling child.

  Sunday on board the Molly was precisely like other days, as far a
s the movements and occupations of the men were concerned. To Blair there was ever a more solemn stillness over the sea, and a more imposing grandeur in the wide canopy of the overhanging sky. One great temple it seemed to him, the sunlit waves its shining floor, the firmament its arching roof, and the unseen angels the countless worshippers, singing, “Praise and glory and honor be unto the name of God most high.” In this adoring song Blair heartily joined, and he longed and prayed for the time to come when on every white-winged ship there should be gathered the servants of the Lord of sabaoth, rejoicing to call upon his holy name and give him glory for all his wondrous works.

  Absorbed in such thoughts as these, Blair was leaning over the side of the ship one Sunday morning. Suddenly a strong voice close at his side spoke with deep earnestness the words, “Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name.”

  Blair turned in astonishment, and saw Derry Duck close at his side. Tears were coursing down those rough cheeks, and the almost blinded eyes were lifted reverently upward, and silently spoke the same language as the song of praise.

  Blair’s heart bounded. He could not be deceived. One of God’s great miracles of grace had been wrought. The devil had been cast out, and the ransomed was giving God the glory. It must be so.

  Blair seized the hand of his companion, and looking into his face, said quickly, “Oh, Derry, are you really in earnest?”

  “Bless the Lord, my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies,’” continued Derry with deep feeling. “He found me dead in trespasses and sins; he has given me new life in Christ Jesus. Praise and honor unto his holy name.”

  Tears rushed to the eyes of Blair Robertson. A fervent “Thank God!” was all he could utter. Blair’s whole being did indeed “magnify the Lord” at this wonderful evidence of his power. Curses had been changed to praises. The blaspheming lips had been touched by the Saviour’s hand, and taught the language of the children of God. His young servant could not but “stand in awe,” and own the might and the wonderful mercy of the King of kings.