The Cruise of the Shining Light

I went then to the little bed where as a child I lay waiting for sleep to come bearing fairy dreams. ’Twas still and dusky in the room: the window, looking out upon the wide, untroubled waters, was a square of glory; and the sea whispered melodiously below, as it had done long, long ago, when my uncle fended my childish heart from all the fears of night and day. I looked out upon the waste of sea and sky and rock, where the sombre wonder of the dusk was working, clouds in embers, cliffs and water turning to shadows; and I was comforted by this returning beauty. I repeated the twenty-third psalm, according to my teaching, reverently kneeling, as I was bid; and my heart responded, as it has never failed to do. I remembered: I remembered the windless dusks and fresh winds and black gales through which as a child I had here serenely gone to sleep because my uncle sat awake and watchful below. I remembered his concern and diffident caresses in the night when I had called to him to come: I remembered all that he had borne and done to provide the happiness and welfare he sought in loving patience to give the child he had. Once again, as when I was a child, the sea and sunset took my soul as a harp to stir with harmonious chords of faith; and I was not disquieted any more–nor in any way troubled concerning the disclosure of that black mystery in which I had thrived to this age of understanding. And ’twas in this mood–this grateful recollection of the multitudinous kindnesses of other years–that I got up from my knees to return to my uncle.

“Dannie,” says he, having been waiting, it seemed, to tell me this, first of all, “ye’ll remember–will ye not?–for your guidance an’ comfort, that ’tis not a tie o’ blood betwixt you an’ ol’ Nick Top. He’s no kin t’ shame ye: he’s on’y a chance acquaintance.”

The tale began at the waning of the evening glory…

“Your father an’ me, lad,” said my uncle, “was shipmates aboard the Will-o’-the-Wisp when she was cast away in a nor’east gale on the Devil’s Teeth, near twenty year ago: him bein’ the master an’ me but a hand aboard. How old is you now, Dannie? Nineteen? Well, well! You was but six months come from above, lad, when that big wind blowed your father’s soul t’ hell; an’ your poor mother was but six months laid away. We was bound up from the Labrador that night, with a cargo o’ dry fish, picked up ’long shore in haste, t’ fill out a foreign bark at Twillingate. ’Twas late in the fall o’ the year, snow in the wind, the sea heapin’ up in mountains, an’ the night as black as a wolf’s throat. Your father was crowdin’ on, Dannie, in the way he had, bein’ a wonderful driver, an’ I ’lowed he was fetchin’ too close t’ the Harborless Shore for safety; but I wouldn’t tell un so, lad, for I didn’t know un so well as I knows you, bein’ on’y a hand aboard, ye see, with a word or two t’ le’ward of what ye might call a speakin’ acquaintance with the skipper. I ’lowed he’d strike the Rattler; but he cleared the Rattler, by good luck, an’ fetched up at dawn on the Devil’s Teeth, a mean, low reef o’ them parts, where the poor Will-o’-the-Wisp broke her back an’ went on in splinters with the sea an’ wind. ’Twas over soon, Dannie; ’twas all over soon, by kindness o’ Providence: the ol’ craft went t’ pieces an’ was swep’ on t’ le’ward by the big black waves.”

In the pause my uncle’s hand again searched the low table for the glass that was not there.

“I’m not wantin’ t’ tell ye,” he muttered.

I would not beg him to stop.

“Me an’ your father, Dannie,” he continued, presently, dwelling upon the quiet sunset, now flaring with the last of its fire, “somehow cotched a grip o’ the rock. ’Twas a mean reef t’ be cast away on, with no dry part upon it: ’twas near flush with the sea, an’ flat an’ broad an’ jagged, slimy with sea-weed; an’ ’twas washed over by the big seas, an’ swam in the low roll o’ the black ones. I ’low, Dannie, that I was never afore cotched in such a swirl an’ noise o’ waters. ’Twas wonderful–the thunder an’ spume an’ whiteness o’ them big waves in the dawn! An’ ’twas wonderful–the power o’ them–the wolfish way they’d clutch an’ worry an’ drag! ’Twas a mean, hard thing t’ keep a grip on that smoothed rock; but I got my fingers in a crack o’ the reef, an’ managed t’ hold on, bein’ stout an’ able, an’ sort of savage for life–in them old days. Afore long, your poor father crep’ close, lad, an’ got his fingers in the same crack. ’Twas all done for you, Dannie, an’ ye’ll be sure t’ bear it in mind–will ye not?–when ye thinks o’ the man hereafter. I seed the big seas rub un on the reef, an’ cut his head, an’ break his ribs, as he come crawlin’ towards me. ’Twas a long, long time afore he reached the place. Ye’ll not forget it–will ye lad?–ye’ll surely not forget it when ye thinks o’ the man that was your father.”

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.