The Cruise of the Shining Light. Duncan Norman
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 37 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. …
’Twas really “damned t’ port an’ weather” my uncle would have me say; but I hesitate to set it down, lest the more gentle readers of my simple narrative think ill of the man’s dealings with a child, which I would not have them do.
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.
38
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 39 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 40 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 41 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