Harbor Tales Down North - Norman Duncan (top 10 books of all time txt) 📗

comin' down with the gale; 'twill ram this pack within the hour.'

"'You stand by,' says he, 't' take a line from that tramp when she yelps.'

"'Cap'n Sammy, sir,' says I, 'the ship lies badly. She'll never weather----'

"'Mr. Tumm,' says he, 'you got your orders, isn't you?'

"When Cap'n Sammy fixed his little green squint on me in jus' that frosty way I knowed my duty. 'I is, sir,' says I.

"'Then,' says he, 'h'ist your canvas. There's another minute gone!'

"By this time the wind was leapin' out o' the nor'west. Fog was come down with the gale, too. 'Twas fallin' thick weather. Comin' on dusk, now, too. The big, black tramp, showin' hazy lights, was changed to a shadow in the mist. The pack had begun t' heave an' grind. I could feel the big pans get restless. They was shiftin' for ease. I could hear un crack. I could hear un crunch. Not much noise yet, though: not much wind yet. But 'twas no fair prospect for the night. Open water--in a shift o' the ice--was but half a league t' the nor'west, a bee-line into the gale's eye. The wind had packed the slob about the ships. It had jammed half a league o' ice against the body o' the big pack t' the sou'east. In the nor'west, too, was another floe. 'Twas there, in the mist, an' 'twas comin' down with the wind. It cotched the first of the gale; 'twas free t' move, too. 'Twould overhaul us soon enough. Ever see the ice rafter, sir? No? Well, 'tis no swift collison. 'Tis horrible an' slow. No shock at all: jus' slow pressure. The big pans rear. They break--an' tumble back. Fields--acres big--slip one atop o' the other. Hummocks are crunched t' slush. The big bergs topple over. It always makes me think o' hell, somehow--the wind, the night, the big white movin' shapes, the crash an' thunder of it, the ghostly screeches. An' the _Claymore's_ iron plates was doomed; an' the _Royal Bloodhound_ could escape on'y by good luck or the immediate attention o' the good God A'mighty.

"Jus' afore dark I come t' my senses.

"'What's _this_!' thinks I.

"I waited.

"'Wind's haulin' round a bit,' thinks I.

"I waited a spell longer t' make sure.

"'Jumpin' round t' the s'uth'ard,' thinks I, 'by Heavens!' I made for the skipper's cabin with the news. 'Cap'n Sammy, sir,' says I, 'the wind's haulin' round t' the s'uth'ard.'

"'_Wind's what!_' Cap'n Sammy yelled.

"'Goin' round t' the s'uth'ard on the jump,' says I.

"Cap'n Sammy bounced out on deck an' turned his gray ol' face t' the gale. An' 'twas true: the wind was swingin' round the compass; every squall that blew was a point off. An' Cap'n Sammy seed in a flash that they wasn't no dollar a minute for he if Cap'n Wrath knowed what the change o' wind meant. For look you, sir! when the wind was from the nor'west, it jammed the slob against the pack behind us, an' fetched down the floe t' win'ard; but blowin' strong from southerly parts, 'twould not only halt the floe, but 'twould loosen the pack in which we lay, an' scatter it in the open water half a league t' the nor'west. In an hour--if the wind went swingin' round--the _Royal Bloodhound_ an' the _Claymore_ would be floatin' free. An' round she went, on the jump; an' she blowed high--an' higher yet--with every squall.

"I jumped when I cotched sight o' Cap'n Sammy's face. 'Twas ghastly--an' all in a sour pucker o' wrinkles. Seemed, too, that his voice had got lost in his throat. 'Tumm,' says he, 'fetch my coon-skin coat. I'm goin' aboard Cap'n Wrath,' says he, 't' reason.'

"'You'll never do _that_!' says I.

"'I wants my tow,' says he; 'an' Cap'n Wrath is a warm-water sailor, an' won't know what this ice will do.'

"'Skipper Sammy,' says I, ''tis no fit time for any man t' be on the ice. The pack's goin' abroad in this wind.'

"'I'm used t' the ice from my youth up,' says he, 'an' I'll manage the passage.'

"'Man,' says I, 'the night's near down!'

"'Mr. Tumm, I'm a kindly skipper,' says he, 'but I haves my way. My coon-skin coat, sir!'

"I fetched it.

"'Take the ship, Mr. Tumm,' says he; 'an' stand aside, sir, an you please!'

"Touched with rum, half mad o' balked greed, with a face like wrinkled foolscap, Small Sam Small went over the side, in his coonskin coat. The foggy night fell down. The lights o' the _Claymore_ showed dim in the drivin' mist. The wind had its way. An' it blowed the slob off t' sea like feathers. What a wonder o' power is the wind! An' the sea begun t' hiss an' swell where the ice had been. From the fog come the clang o' the _Claymore's_ telegraph, the chug-chug of her engines, an' a long howl o' delight as she gathered way. 'Twas no time at all, it seemed t' me, afore we lost her lights in the mist. An' in that black night--with the wind t' smother his cries--we couldn't find Sammy Small.

* * * * *


"The wind fell away at dawn," Tumm went on. "A gray day: the sea a cold gray--the sky a drear color. We found Skipper Sammy, close t' noon, with fog closin' down, an' a drip o' rain fallin'. He was squatted on a pan o' ice--broodin'--wrapped up in his coonskin coat. 'Tumm,' says he, 'carry my ol' bones aboard.' An' he said never a word more until we had un stretched out in his bunk an' the chill eased off. 'Tumm,' says he, 'I got everything fixed in writin', in St. John's, for--my son. I've made you executor, Tumm, for I knows you haves a kindly feelin' for the lad, an' an inklin', maybe, o' the kind o' man I wished I was. A fair lad: a fine, brave lad, with a free hand. I'm glad he knows how t' spend. I made my fortune, Tumm, as I made it; an' I'm glad--I'm proud--I'm mighty proud--that my son will spend it like a gentleman. I loves un. An' you, Tumm, will teach un wisdom an' kindness, accordin' t' your lights. That's all, Tumm: I've no more t' say.' Pretty soon, though, he run on: 'I been a mean man. But I'm not overly sorry now: for hunger an' hardship will never teach my son evil things o' the world God made. I 'low, anyhow,' says he, 'that God is even with me. But I don't know--I don't know.' You see," Tumm reflected, "'tis wisdom t' _get_ an' t' _have_, no doubt; but 'tis not the whole o' wisdom, an' 'tis a mean poor strand o' Truth t' hang the weight of a life to. Maybe, then," he continued, "Small Sam Small fell asleep. I don't know. He was quite still. I waited with un till twilight. 'Twas gray weather still--an' comin' on a black night. The ship pitched like a gull in the spent swell o' the gale. Rain fell, I mind. Maybe, then, Skipper Sammy didn't quite know what he was sayin'. Maybe not. I don't know. 'Tumm,' says he, 'is you marked his eyes? Blood back o' them eyes, sir--blood an' a sense o' riches. His strut, Tumm!' says he. 'Is you marked the strut? A little game-cock, Tumm--a gentleman's son, every pound an' inch of un! A fine, fair lad. My lad, sir. An' he's a free an' genial spender, God bless un!'

"Skipper Sammy," Tumm concluded, "died that night."

The gale was still blowing in Right-an'-Tight Cove of the Labrador, where the schooner _Quick as Wink_ lay at anchor: a black gale of fall weather.

"Tumm," the skipper of the _Quick as Wink_ demanded, "what become o' that lad?"

"Everybody knows," Tumm answered.

"What!" the skipper ejaculated; "you're never tellin' me he's the Honor----"

"I is," Tumm snapped, impatiently. "He's the Honorable Samuel Small, o' St. John's. 'If I'm goin' t' use my father's fortune,' says he, 'I'll wear his name.'"

"'Twas harsh," the skipper observed, "on the mother."

"No-o-o," Tumm drawled; "not harsh. She never bore no grudge against Small Sam Small--not after the baby was born. She was jus' a common ordinary woman."


IX

AN IDYL OF RICKITY TICKLE

No fish at Whispering Islands: never a quintal--never so much as a fin--at Come-by-Chance; and no more than a catch of tom-cod in the hopeful places past Skeleton Point of Three Lost Souls. The schooner _Quick as Wink_, trading the Newfoundland outports in summer weather, fluttered from cove to bight and tickle of the coast below Mother Burke, in a great pother of anxiety, and chased the rumor of a catch around the Cape Norman light to Pinch-a-Penny Beach. There was no fish in those places; and the _Quick as Wink_, with Tumm, the clerk, in a temper with the vagaries of the Lord, as manifest in fish and weather, spread her wings for flight to the Labrador. From Bay o' Love to Baby Cove, the hook-and-line men, lying off the Harborless Shore, had done well enough with the fish for folk of their ill condition, and were well enough disposed toward trading; whereupon Tumm resumed once more his genial patronage of the Lord God A'mighty, swearing, in vast satisfaction with the trade of those parts, that all was right with the world, whatever might seem at times. "In this here world, as Davy Junk used t' hold," he laughed, in extenuation of his improved philosophy, "'tis mostly a matter o' fish." And it came about in this way that when we dropped anchor at Dirty-Face Bight of the Labrador, whence Davy Junk, years ago, in the days of his youth, had issued to sail the larger seas, the clerk was reminded of much that he might otherwise have forgotten. This was of a starlit time: it was blowing softly from southerly parts, I recall; and the water lay flat under the stars--flat and black in the lee of those great hills--and the night was clear and warm and the lights were out ashore.

"I come near not bein' very _fond_ o' Davy Junk, o' Dirty-Face Bight," Tumm presently declared.

"Good Lord!" the skipper taunted. "A rascal you couldn't excuse, Tumm?"

"I'd no fancy for his _religion_," Tumm complained.

"What religion?"

"Well," the clerk replied, in a scowling drawl, "Skipper Davy always 'lowed that in this here damned ol' world a man had t' bite or get bit. An' as for his manner o' courtin' a maid in consequence----"

"Crack on!" said the skipper.

And Tumm yarned to his theme....

* * * * *


"Skipper Davy was well-favored enough, in point o' looks, for fishin' the Labrador," he began; "an' I 'low, with the favor he had, such as 'twas, he might have done as well with the maids as the fish, courtin' as he cotched--ay, an' made his everlastin' fortune in love, I'll be bound, an' kep' it at compound interest through the eternal years--had his heart been as tender as his fear o' the world was large, or had he give way, by times, t' the kindness o' soul he was born with. A scrawny, pinch-lipped,