The Cruise of the Shining Light

“No, sir.”

To indicate his utter detachment from personal interest in the question to follow, my uncle would wave his dilapidated hand, as though leaving me free to answer as I would, which by no means was I.

“An’ of how much,” says he, “would he rob his neighbor that he might prosper?”

’Twas now time for me to turn loud and indignant, as I had been taught. Thus: my head must shoot out in truculent fashion, my brows bend, my lips curl away from my teeth like a snarling dog’s, my eyes glare; and I must let my small body shake with explosive rage, in imitation of my uncle, while I brought the table a thwack with all my force, shouting:

“Not a damn copper!”

“Good!” says my uncle, placidly. “You done that very well, Dannie, for a lad. You fetched out the damn quite noisy an’ agreeable. Now,” says he, “is Nicholas Top a rascal?”

’Twas here we had trouble; in the beginning, when this learning was undertaken, I must be whipped to answer as he would have me. Ay, and many a night have I gone sore to bed for my perversity, for in respect to obedience his severity was unmitigated, as with all seafaring men. But I might stand obstinate for a moment–a moment of grace. And upon the wall behind his chair, hanging in the dimmer light, was a colored print portraying a blue sea, spread with rank upon rank of accurately measured waves, each with its tiny cap of foam, stretching without diminution to the horizon, upon which was perched a full-rigged ship, a geometrical triumph; and from this vessel came by small-boat to the strand a company of accurately moulded, accurately featured, accurately tailored fellows, pulling with perfect accuracy in every respect. I shall never forget the geometrical gentleman upon that geometrically tempestuous sea, for as I stood sullen before my uncle they provided the only distraction at hand.

“Come, Daniel!” says he, in a little flare of wrath; “is he a rascal?”

“Well,” says I, defiantly, “I’ve heard un lied about.”

“Wrong!” roars my uncle. “Try again, sir! Is ol’ Nicholas Top a rascal?”

There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed for an obstinate whelp.

“A damned rascal, sir!” says I.

“Co’-rect!” cries my uncle, delighted.[2 - Of course, the frequent recurrence of this vulgarity in my narrative is to be regretted. No one, indeed, is more sensible of the circumstance than I. My uncle held the word in affectionate regard, and usefully employed it: ’tis the only apology I have to offer. Would it not be possible for the more delicate readers of my otherwise inoffensive narrative to elide the word? or to supply, on the spur of the moment, an acceptable equivalent, of which, I am told, there is an infinite variety? or (better still) to utter it courageously? I am for the bolder course: ’tis a discipline rich in cultural advantages. But ’tis for the reader, of course, to choose the alternative.]

And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, “Well, Dannie, lad, you might ’s well measure out the other,” and when I had with care poured his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say my prayers at his knee–not often–most when high winds, without rain, shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was unnerved by the night. “The wind’s high the night,” says he, with an anxious frown; “an’ Dannie,” says he, laying a hand upon my head, “you might ’s well overhaul that there

“‘Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless Thy little lamb to-night,’

afore you turns in. ’Twill do you good, an’ ’twon’t manage t’ do me no harm.” And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair, than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face drawn and woful. I see him now–under the lamp–a gray, monstrous, despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh–as then, a child, bound up to a lonely chamber in the night, I sighed.

“Good-night, sir!”

There was no response; but he would look in upon me on the way to bed–into the little room where I lay luxuriously, in the midst of those extravagant comforts which so strangely came to me. And more often than not he would haul this way and that upon the covers until, as though by some unhappy accident, I was awakened.

“God bless you, Dannie,” says he.

“Good-night, sir.”

’Twas all he wanted–a good wish spoken in the night. To his own bare room he would then be off, a bit uncertain (I recall) in the management of his wooden leg.

Under my window, at the foot of a short cliff which fell roughly into the open cove, as shall be told, the sea broke. While sleep waited ’twas my habit to listen to the waves upon the rocks: in that brief and mystical interval when many truths take shape, definite and lovely, as in a mist, but are forgot before dawn stirs us, nor can be remembered. Of still moonlit nights; of windless dusks, with the swell of past storms sullenly remaining; in clammy, breathless weather; with fresh winds blowing our craft to and fro on their way in search of the fish; in blackest gales, when the men of Twist Tickle kept watch for wrecks upon the heads–forever I listened to the voice of the sea before I fell asleep. But the sea has no voice, but may only play upon the souls of men, which speak from the uttermost depths, each soul in its own way: so that the sea has a thousand voices, and listening men are tranquil or not, as may chance within them, without mystery. Never since those far-off days, when the sea took my unspoiled soul as a harp in its hands, have I been secure in the knowledge of truth, untroubled by bewilderment and anxious questions. Untroubled by love, by the fear of hell, ’twas good to be alive in a world where the sea spoke tenderly below the window of the room where sleep came bearing dreams.

And my uncle? God knows! The harp was warped, and the strings of the harp were broken and out of tune…

IV

ON SINISTER BUSINESS

Our pilgrimages to St. John’s, occurring twice a year, were of a singular description: not only in the manner of our progress, which was unexampled, in view of our relationship and condition, but in the impenetrable character of our mission and in the air of low rascality it unfailingly wore. For many days before our departure from Twist Tickle by the outside boat, my uncle would quit the Green Bull grounds, where he fished with hook and line, would moor his punt fore and aft, and take to the bleak hills of Twin Islands, there (it seemed) to nurse some questionable design: whence at dusk he would emerge, exhausted in leg and spirit, but yet with strength to mutter obscure imprecations as he came tapping up the gravelled walk from the gate, and with the will to manage a bottle and glass in the kitchen.

“The bottle!” cries he. “Ecod! the dog’ll never scare ol’ Nick Top. Dannie, the bottle!”

While I fled for this he would sit growling by the table; but before I was well returned the humor would be vanishing, so that sometimes I guessed (but might be mistaken) he practised this rage and profanity to play a part.

“Ol’ Nick Top,” says he, “is as saucy a dog as you’ll find in the pack!”

’Twas said with a snap.

“A saucy ol’ dog!” snarls he. “An’ Lord love ye! but he’s able t’–t’–t’ bite!”

“Uncle Nick,” says I, “you’re all wore out along o’ walkin’ them hills.”

“Wore out!” cries he, an angry flash in his wide little eyes. “Me wore out?.. Pass the bottle… Ye’d never think it, lad, an ye could see me t’ St. John’s,” says he, “at the–”

The revelation came to a full stop with the tipping of the square black bottle.

“Where’s that?” says I.

“’Tis a wee water-side place, lad,” says he, with a grave wink, “where ol’ Nick Top’s the sauciest dog in the pack!”

I would pass the water for his liquor.

“An’ here,” cries he, toasting with solemn enthusiasm, “is wishin’ all water-side rascals in”–’twas now a long pull at the glass–“jail!” says he. “’Twould go agin my conscience t’ wish un worse. I really isn’t able!”

By these wanderings on the hills the slow, suspicious wits of our folk of Twist Tickle were mystified and aroused to superstitious imaginings. ’Twas inevitable that they should pry and surmise–surmising much more than they dared pry. They were never bold, however, in the presence of my uncle, whether because of their courteous ways or because of his quick temper and sulphurous tongue, in respect to meddling, I am not able to say; but no doubt they would have troubled us a deal had my uncle even so much as admitted by the set of his eyelid (which he never would do) that there was a mystery concerning us. The lads of the place lurked upon the hills when the business went forward, continuing in desperate terror of my uncle at such times. They learned, notwithstanding their fright, that he trudged far and hard, at first smiling with the day, then muttering darkly, at last wrathfully swishing the spruce with his staff; but not one of them could follow to the discovery of the secret, whatever it might be, so that, though ’twas known the old man exchanged a genial humor for an execrable one, the why and wherefore were never honestly fathomed.

Came, at last, the day before our departure, upon which my wardrobe for the journey must be chosen from the closets and chests, inspected, scrupulously packed–this for travel, that for afternoon, this, again, for dinner–tweed and serge and velvet: raiment for all occasions, for all weathers, as though, indeed, I were to spend time with the governor of the colony. Trinkets and cravats presented pretty questions for argument, in which my uncle delighted, and would sustain with spirit, watching rather wistfully, I recall, to see my interest wax; and my interest would sometimes wax too suddenly for belief, inspired by his melancholy disappointment, so that he would dig me in the ribs with his long forefinger and laugh at me because he had discovered my deception. My uncle was a nice observer (and diligent) of fashion, and a stickler for congruity of dress, save in the matter of rings and the like, with which, perhaps, he was in the way of too largely adorning me.

“Ye’ll be wearin’ the new Turkish outfit aboard ship, Dannie?” says he.

I would not.

“Lon’on Haberdasher come out strong,” says he, at a coax, “on Turkish outfits for seven-year-olds.”

’Twas not persuasive.

“Wonderful pop’lar across the water.”

“But,” I would protest, “I’m not likin’ the queer red cap.”

“Ah, Dannie,” says he, “I fears ye’ll never be much of a gentleman if ye’re careless o’ the fashion. Not in the fashion, out o’ the world! What have ol’ Skipper Chesterfield t’ say on that p’int? Eh, lad? What have the bully ol’ skipper t’ say–underlined by Sir Harry? A list o’ the ornamental accomplishments, volume II., page 24. ‘T’ be extremely clean in your person,’ says he, ‘an’ perfeckly well dressed, accordin’ t’ the fashion, be that what it will.’ There you haves it, lad, underlined by Sir Harry! ‘Be that what it will.’ But ye’re not likin’ the queer red cap, eh? Ah, well! I ’low, then, ye’ll be havin’ t’ don the kilt.”

This I would hear with relief.

“But I ’low,” growls he, “that Sir Harry an’ Skipper Chesterfield haves the right of it: for they’re both strong on manners–if weak on morals.”