The Tale of Timber Town. Grace Alfred Augustus
I ha’ done, Sartoris?” asked the bulky man gruffly. “Why, damme, I’d ha’ beat behind Guardian Point, and took shelter.”
“In the dark?”
“In the dark, I tell you.”
“Then most likely, Pilot, you’d ha’ run The Witch on the Three Sisters’ reefs, or Frenchman’s Island. I stood off an’ on, back’ard an’ forrard.”
“An’ shot yourself on to the rocks.”
The third man said nothing. He was looking at the Pilot’s house and the flowers while the two captains paused to argue, and fidgeted with the blanket he wore over his shoulders.
“Well, come in, come in,” said the Pilot. “We’ll finish the argyment over a glass an’ a snack.” And then it was that he had roared for his daughter, who, leaving Amiria to finish her toilet, tripped downstairs to meet her father.
“Why, Rosebud, my gal, I’ve been calling this half-hour,” exclaimed the gruff old Pilot. “An’ here’s two gentlemen I’ve brought you, two shipwrecked sailors – Cap’n Sartoris, of The Mersey Witch, and Mr. Scarlett.” His voice sounded like the rattling of nails in a keg, and his manner was as rough as his voice.
Each blanketed man stepped awkwardly forward and shook hands with the girl, first the captain, and then the tall, uncomfortable-looking, younger man, who turned the colour indicated by his name.
“What they want is a rig-out,” rumbled the Pilot of Timber Town; “some coats, Rosebud; some shirts, and a good feed.” The grizzled old mariner’s face broke into a grim smile. “I’m Cap’n Summerhayes, an’t I? I’m Pilot o’ this port, an’t I? – an’ Harbour Master, in a manner o’ speaking? Very good, my gal. In all those capacities – regardless that I’m your dad – I tell you to make these gen’lemen comfortable, as if they were at home; for you never know, Rosebud, when you may be entertaining a husband unawares. You never know.” And, chuckling, the old fellow led the shipwrecked men into his bedroom.
When they had been provided with suits belonging to the Pilot, they were shown into the parlour, where they sat with their host upon oak chairs round a battered, polished table, with no cloth upon it.
Captain Sartoris was a moderately good-looking man, if a trifle weather-beaten, but dressed in the Pilot’s clothes he was in danger of being lost and smothered; and Scarlett bore himself like one who laboured under a load of misery almost too great to be borne, but he had wisely rejected the voluminous coat proffered by his benefactor, and appeared in waistcoat and trousers which gave him the appearance of a growing boy dressed in his father’s cast-off apparel.
Such was the guise of the shipwrecked men as they sat hiding as much of themselves as possible under the Pilot’s table, whilst Rose Summerhayes bustled about the room. She took glasses from the sideboard and a decanter from a dumb-waiter which stood against the wall, and placed them on the table.
“And Rosebud, my gal,” said the Pilot, “as it’s quite two hours to dinner, we’ll have a morsel of bread and cheese.”
The French window stood open, and from the garden was blown the scent of flowers.
Rose brought the bread and cheese, and stood with her hands folded upon her snowy apron, alert to supply any further wants of the guests.
“And whose horse is that on the drive?” asked the Pilot.
“Amiria’s,” replied his daughter.
“Good: that’s a gal after my heart. I’m glad she’s come.”
“Take a chair, miss,” said Captain Sartoris from the depths of the vast garments that encumbered him.
“Thank you,” replied Rose, “but I’ve the dinner to cook.”
“Most domestic, I’m sure,” continued Sartoris, trying hard to say the correct thing. “Most right an’ proper. Personally, I like to see young ladies attend to home dooties.”
Rose laughed. “Which is to say the comfort of you men.”
“My gal,” said her father sternly, “we have all we want. Me an’ these gen’lemen will be quite happy till dinner-time.”
Rose stooped to pick up the boots which her father had discarded for a pair of carpet-slippers, and rustled out of the room.
“Gen’lemen,” said the Pilot of Timber Town, “we’ll drink to better luck next time.”
The three men carefully filled their glasses, emptied them in solemn silence, and put them almost simultaneously with a rattle on the polished table.
“Ah!” exclaimed the Pilot, after a long-drawn breath. “Four over proof. Soft as milk, an’t it? Goes down like oil, don’t it?”
“Most superior tipple,” replied the skipper, “but you had your losses in The Witch, same as me and the owners. I had aboard six cases of the finest port as ever you tasted, sent out for you by your brother; senior partner of the firm, Mr. Scarlett. ‘Cap’n Sartoris,’ he says, ‘I wish you good luck and a prosperous voyage, but take care o’ that port wine for my brother. There’s dukes couldn’t buy it.’ ‘No, sir,’ I says to him, ‘but shipowners an’ dukes are different. Shipowners usually get the pick of a cargo.’ He laughed, an’ I laughed: which we wouldn’t ha’ done had we known The Witch was going to be piled up on this confounded coast.”
The Pilot had risen to his feet. His face was crimson with excitement, and his brow dark with passion.
“Cap’n Sartoris!” he exclaimed, as he brought his fist with a bang upon the table, so that the decanter and tumblers rattled, “every sea-faring man hates to see a good ship wrecked, whoever the owner may be. None’s more sorry than me to see the bones of your ship piled on that reef. But when you talk about bringing me a present o’ wine from my brother, you make my blood boil. To Hell with him and all his ships!” With another bang upon the table, he paced up and down, breathing deeply, and trembling with passion still unvented.
Sartoris and Scarlett looked with astonishment at the suddenly infuriated man.
“As for his cursed port wine,” continued the Pilot, “let him keep it. I wouldn’t drink it.”
“In which case,” said the skipper, “if I’d ha’ got into port, I’d ha’ been most happy to have drank it myself.”
“I’d have lent you a hand, Captain,” said Scarlett.
“Most happy,” replied Sartoris. “We’d ha’ drank the firm’s health, and the reconciliation o’ these two brothers. But, Pilot, let me ask a question. What on this earth could your brother, Mr. Summerhayes, ha’ done to make you reject six cases o’ port – reject ’em with scorn: six cases o’ the best port as was ever shipped to this or any other country? Now, that’s what puzzles me.”
“Then, Cap’n Sartoris – without any ill-feeling to you, though I do disagree with your handling o’ that ship – I say you’ll have to puzzle it out. But I ask this: If you had a brother who was the greatest blackguard unhung, would you drink his port wine?”
“It would largely depend on the quality,” said the skipper – “the quality of the wine, not o’ the man.”
“The senior partner of your firm is my brother.”
“That’s right. I don’t deny it.”
“If he hadn’t been my brother I’d ha’ killed him as sure as God made little apples. He’d a’ bin dead this twenty year. It was the temptation to do it that drove me out of England; and I vowed I’d never set foot there while he lived. And he sends me presents of port wine. I wish it may choke him! I wish he may drink himself to death with it! Look you here, Sartoris: you bring back the anger I thought was buried this long while; you open the wound that twelve thousand miles of sea and this new country were healing. But – but I thank God I never touched him. I thank God I never proved as big a blackguard as he. But don’t mention his name to me. If you think so much of him that you