The Cruise of the Shining Light

“Ye’ll laugh, sir,” my uncle replied, “when I tells you ’tis his love.”

The man did laugh.

“For shame!” cried my uncle.

He was taking off his wraps–this stranger. They were so many that I wondered. He was a man of quality, after all, it might be. “I tell you, Top,” said he, “that the boy may be damned for all I care. I said damned. I mean damned. There isn’t another form of words, with which I am acquainted, sufficient to express my lack of interest in this child’s welfare. Do you understand me, Top? And do you realize–you obstinate noddy!–that my heart’s in the word? You and I, Top, have business together. It’s a dirty business. It was in the beginning; it is now–a dirty business for us both. I admit it. But can’t we do it reasonably? Can’t we do it alone? Why introduce this ill-born whelp? He’s making trouble, Top; and he’ll make more with every year he lives. Let him shift for himself, man! I care nothing about him. What was his father to me? What was his mother? Make him a cook on a trader. Make him a hand on a Labradorman. Put him before the mast on a foreign craft. What do I care? Let him go! Give him a hook and line. A paddle-punt is patrimony enough for the like of him. Will you never listen to reason? What’s the lad to you? Damn him, say I! Let him–”

“For that,” my uncle interrupted, in a passion, “I’ll hurt ye! Come soon, come late, I’ll hurt ye! Hear me?” he continued, savagely. “I’ll hurt ye for them evil wishes!”

I had expected this outbreak. My uncle would not hear me damned in this cruel way without protest.

“Top,” says the stranger, with a little laugh of scorn, “when you hurt me– I’ll know that the chieftest knave of the St. John’s water-side has turned fool!”

“When I hurts ye, man,” my uncle answered, “I’ll hurt ye sore!”

Again the man laughed.

“Ah, man!” my uncle growled, “but ye’ll squirm for that when the time comes!”

“Come, come, Top!” says the stranger, in such a whine of terror, in such disgusting weakness and sudden withdrawal of high boasting, in such a failure of courage, that I could hardly credit the thing. “Come, come, Top!” he whined. “You’ll do nothing rash, will you? Not rash, Top–not rash!”

“I’ll make ye squirm, sir,” says my uncle, “for damnin’ Dannie.”

“But you’ll do nothing rash, man, will you?”

My uncle would not heed him.

“I’m a reasonable man, Top,” the stranger protested. “You know I’m not a hard man.”

They moved, now, into the dining-room, whence no word of what they said came to my ears. I listened, lying wide-eared in the dark, but heard only a rumble of voices. “And you, too–you hound!” the man had said; and ’twas spoken in the hate that forebodes murder. My uncle? what had that childlike, tenderhearted old rascal accomplished against this man to make the penalty of ungodly wrath a thing meet to the offence? “And you, too–you hound!” I lay in grave trouble and bewilderment, fearing that this strange guest might work his hate upon my uncle, in some explosion of resentment, before my arm could aid against the deed. There was no sound of laughter from below–no hint of conviviality in the intercourse. Voices and the clink of bottle and glass: nothing mellow in the voices, nothing genial in the clink of glass–nothing friendly or hospitable. ’Twas an uneasy occupation that engaged me; no good, as I knew, came from a surly bout with a bottle of rum. ’Twas still blowing high; the windows rattled, the sea broke in thunder and venomous hissing upon the rocks, the wind screamed its complaint of obstruction; ’twas a tumultuous night, wherein, it seems to me, the passions of men are not overawed by any display of inimical power, but break restraint in evil company with the weather. The voices below, as I hearkened, rose and fell, like the gusts of a gale, falling to quiet confidences, lost in the roar of the night, swiftly rising to threat and angry counter-threat.

It ended in a cry and a crash of glass…

I was by this brought out of bed and pattering down the stair to my uncle’s help. It seemed they did not hear me, or, having heard, were enraged past caring who saw them in this evil case. At the door I came to a stand. There was no encounter, no movement at all, within the room; ’twas very quiet and very still. There had fallen upon the world that pregnant silence, wherein men wait appalled, which follows upon the irrevocable act of a quarrel. A bottle of rum was overturned on the table, and a glass lay in splinters on the hearth at my uncle’s back, as though cast with poor aim. The place reeked with the stench of rum, which rose from a river of liquor, overflowing the table, dripping to the floor: a foul and sinister detail, I recall, of the tableau. My uncle and the gray little man from St. John’s, leaning upon their hands, the table between, faced each other all too close for peaceful issue of the broil. Beyond was my uncle’s hand-lamp, where I had set it, burning serenely in this tempest of passion. The faces were silhouetted in profile against its quiet yellow light. Monstrous shadows of the antagonists were cast upon the table and ceiling. For the first time in my life I clapped eyes on the man from St. John’s; but his face was in shadow–I saw dimly. ’Twas clean-shaven and gray: I could tell no more. But yet, I knew, the man was a man of some distinction–a gentleman. ’Twas a definite impression I had. There was that about him–clothes and carriage and shaven face and lean white hands–that fixed it in my memory.

I was not observed.

“Out there on the Devil’s Teeth,” my uncle impassively began, “when I laid hold–”

“But,” the stranger protested, “I have nothing to do with that!”

“Out there on the Devil’s Teeth, that night,” my uncle repeated, “when the seas was breakin’ over, an’ the ice begin t’ come, an’ I laid hold o’ that there Book–”

“Hear me, Top! Will you not hear me?”

“Out there on the Devil’s Teeth,” my uncle patiently reiterated, “when the crew was drownin’ t’ le’ward, an’ ’twas every man for his own life, an’ the ice begin t’ come, an’ I laid hold o’ that there–”

The stranger struck the table with his palm. “Hear me!” he implored. “I have nothing–nothing–to do with the Devil’s Teeth!”

“Out there on the Devil’s Teeth, when I took the oath–”

“You stupid fool!”

“When I took the oath,” my uncle resumed, “I knowed ’twould be hard t’ stand by. I knowed that, sir. I done the thing with open eyes. I’ll never plead ignorance afore the Lord God A’mighty, sir, for the words I spoke that night. I’ve stood by, as best I could; an’ I’ll keep on standin’ by, sir, t’ the end, as best I’m able. God help me, sir!” he groaned, leaning still closer to the gray face of his enemy. “Ye think ye’re in hard case, yourself, sir, don’t ye? Do ye never give a thought t’ me? Dirty business, says you, betwixt you an’ me! Ay; dirty business for Nick Top. But he’ll stand by; he’ll stand by, sir, come what may–t’ the end! I’m not complainin’, mark ye! not complainin’ at all. The lad’s a good lad. I’m not complainin’. He’ve the makin’s of a better man than you. Oh no! I’m not complainin’. Out there on the Devil’s Teeth, that night, when the souls o’ them men was goin’ Aloft an’ Below, accordin’ t’ their deserts, does ye think I was a fool? Fool! I tells ye, sir, I knowed full well I give my soul t’ hell, that night, when I laid my hand on the Book an’ swore that I’d stand by. An’ I will stand by–stand by the lad, sir, t’ the end! He’s a good lad–he’ll make a better man than you–an’ I’ve no word o’ complaint t’ say.”

“The lad, the lad! Do I care for the lad?”

“No, God forgive ye!” my uncle cried, “not you that ought.”

“That ought, you fool?”

“Ay; that ought.”

The man laughed.

“I’ll not have ye laugh,” said my uncle, “at Dannie. Ye’ve tried my patience enough with scorn o’ that child.” He tapped the table imperatively, continuing with rising anger, and scowled in a way I had learned to take warning from. “No more o’ that!” says he. “Ye’ve no call t’ laugh at the lad.”

The laughter ceased–failed ridiculously. It proved my uncle’s mastery of the situation. The man might bluster, but was in a moment reduced.

“Top,” said the stranger, leaning forward a little, “I have asked you a simple question: Will you or won’t you?”

“I will not!”

In exasperation the man struck my uncle on the cheek.

“I’ll not hurt ye for that!” said my uncle, gently. “I’ll not hurt ye, man, for that!”

He was struck again. “There will come an extremity,” the stranger calmly added, “when I shall find it expedient to have you assassinated.”

“I’ll not hurt ye for the threat,” said my uncle. “But man,” he cried, in savage anger, “an you keeps me from workin’ my will with the lad–”

“The lad, the lad!”

“An you keeps me from workin’ my will with that good lad–”

“I say to you frankly: Damn the lad!”

My uncle struck the stranger. “Ye’ll mend your manners!” cried he. “Ye’ve forgot your obligations, but ye’ll mend your manners!”

I marvelled that these men should strike each other with impunity. The like was never known before. That each should patiently bear the insult of the other! I could not make it out. ’Twas strange beyond experience. A blow–and the other cheek turned! Well enough for Christians–but my vicious uncle and this evil stranger! That night, while I watched and listened unperceived from the hall, I could not understand; but now I know that a fellowship of wickedness was signified.

“I’ll not hurt you, Top,” the stranger mocked, “for the blow.”

My uncle laughed.

“Are you laughing, Top?” the stranger sneered. “You are, aren’t you? Well,” says he, “who laughs last laughs best. And I tell you, Top, though you may seem to have the best laugh now, I’ll have the last. And you won’t like it, Top–you won’t be happy when you hear me.”

My uncle laughed again. I wish he had not laughed–not in that unkind way.