_From John Grant's Diary_
In a few minutes the slight protection afforded us by Will's Island was
denied us. I was anxious to ask further details about this injured man we
were hurrying to see, but the two fishermen had no leisure for
conversation. A few necessary words had to be shrieked. Even before I had
finished putting on my oilskins the water was dashing over us, and old
Sammy, at the tiller, was jockeying his boat with an intense
preoccupation that could not be interfered with.
The smack was of a couple of tons' burden, undecked, with big fish-boxes
built astern and amidships. She carried two slender masts with no
bowsprit to speak of, having no headsails, and her two tanned wings
bellied out while the whole of her fabric pitched and rolled over the
white crested waves. The fog was growing denser around us, as if we had
been journeying through a swift-moving cloud. It was scudding in from the
Grand Banks, pushed by a chill gale which might first have passed over
the icy plateaux of inner Greenland.
This lasted for a long time. We were all staring ahead and seeking to
penetrate the blinding veil of vapor, and I felt more utterly strayed and
lost than ever in my life before. Our faces were running with the salt
spray that swished over the bows or flew over the quarters, to stream
down into the bilge at our feet, foul with fragments of squid and caplin
long dead. We were also beginning to listen eagerly for other sounds than
the wind hissing in the cordage, the breaking of wave-tops and the hard
thumping of the blunt bows upon the seas.
"Look out sharp, byes, I'm mistrusting'," roared old Sammy.
There were some long tense moments, ended by a shriek from Frenchy by the
foremast.
"Hard a-lee!"
The sails shook in the wind and swung in-board, and out again, with a
rattling of the little blocks. The forefoot rose high, once or twice,
with the lessened headway, and a great savage mass of rock passed
alongside, stretching out jagged spurs, like some wild beast robbed of
its prey. Frenchy, ahead, crossed himself quietly, without excitement,
and again peered into the fog.
"Close call!" I shouted to the skipper, after I had recovered my breath,
since I am not yet entirely inured to the risks these men constantly run.
"We nigh got ketched," roared back Sammy Moore. "I were mistrustin' the
tide wuz settin' inshore furder'n common. But I knows jist where I be
now, anyways."
His grim wrinkled face was unmoved, for during all his life he had been
staring death in the face and such happenings as these were but incidents
in the day's work.
"I doesn't often git mistook," he shouted, "but fer this once it looks
like the joke were on me."
The little smack continued to rise and fall over the surge. Yves, the
Frenchman, remained at his post forward, holding on to the foremast and
indifferent to the spray that was drenching him as he stared through the
fog, keenly. My attention was becoming relaxed for, after all, I was but
a passenger. Despite Sammy's close shave I maintained a well-grounded
faith in him. It was gorgeous to see him speed his boat over the
turbulent waters with an inbred skill and ease which reminded one of
seagulls buffeting the wind or harbor seals playing in their element.
Like these the man was adapted to his life, not because he possessed
wonderful intelligence but owing to the brine which, since childhood, had
entered his blood. The vast ice-pans had revealed their secrets to him
and the North Atlantic gales had become the breath of his nostrils.
I can remember a time when I had an idea that I could handle a boat
fairly well, but now I was compelled to recognize my limitations, while I
really enjoyed the exhibition of Sammy's skill.
"We'd ought ter be gettin' handy," roared the latter to Frenchy, who
nodded back, turning towards us his dripping, bearded face, for an
instant.
Suddenly he extended his arm.
"Me see. To port!" he shouted.
Dimly, veiled by the fog curtain, of ghostly outline, a jutting cliff
appeared and Sammy luffed slightly. On both sides of us the seas were
dashing up some tremendous rocks, but directly ahead there was an opening
between the combers that hurled themselves aloft, roaring and impotent,
to fall back into seething masses of spume. There was a suggestion of
tremendous walls over which voices were shrieking in the battle of
unending centuries between the moving turmoil and the stolid cliffs,
defying the battering waves.
Our little boat flew on, and suddenly the rolling and pitching ceased as
if some magic had oiled the waters. Within the land-locked cove the wind
no longer howled and the surface was smooth. It was like awaking from the
unrest of a nightmare to the peace of one's bed. We glided on, losing
headway, for Frenchy had let the sheets run. With movements apparently
slow, yet with the deftness which brings quick results, the sails were
gathered about the masts and made fast, and presently we drifted against
the small forest of poles supporting the flakes and fishhouses. These
were black and glistening with the rain and from them came an odor, acrid
and penetrating, of decaying fish in ill-emptied gurry-butts and of
putrefying livers oozing out a black oil in open casks.
We made our way over the precarious footing of unstable planks and shook
ourselves like wet dogs, while Sammy stopped for a moment to hunt beneath
his oilskins for a sodden plug of tobacco, from which he managed to gnaw
off a satisfactory portion.
"Well, we's here, anyways," he observed, quietly.
"Sammy, you're a wonderful man!" I exclaimed, earnestly.
The old fellow looked at me, but his seamed face appeared devoid of
understanding. Slowly there seemed to dawn upon his mind the idea that
this might be some sort of jest on my part, and the tanned leather of his
countenance wrinkled further into a near approach to a smile, as we
started up the steep path leading up to the village.
Yet I had meant no pleasantry whatever, for really I was awed by the
mystery of it all. In the fog that rolled in with the north-east gale we
had left Will's Island, ten miles away, and skirted, without ever seeing
them, some miles of cliffs. We had avoided scores of rocks over which the
seas broke fiercely, and had finally dashed through a narrow opening in
the appalling face of the huge ledge, unerringly. To me it seemed like a
gigantic deed, beyond the powers of man.
The path began to widen, and Sammy again vouchsafed some information,
taking up his slender thread of narrative as if it had never been
interrupted.
"So they carries him up to th' house, on a fishbarrow, an' they sends for
me, an' wuz all talkin' to onst, sayin' I must git you quick an' never
mind what it costs. Them people don't mind what-nothin' costs, 'pears to
me."
By this time we had risen well above the waters of Sweetapple Cove. The
few scattered small houses appeared through the mist, their eaves
dripping in unclean puddles. The most pretentious dwelling in the place
is deserted. It boasts a small veranda and a fairly large front window
over which boards have been nailed. In very halt and ill-formed letters a
sign announces "The Royal Shop," a title certainly savoring of affluence.
But it is a sad commentary upon the prosperity of the Cove that even a
Syrian trader has tried the place and failed to eke out a living there.
Some dispirited goats forlornly watched our little procession for a
moment, and resumed their mournful hunt outside the palings of tiny
enclosures jealously protected against their incursions among a few
anemic cabbages.
A little farther on the only cow in the place, who is descended from the
scriptural lean ones, was munching the discarded tail of a large codfish
which probably still held a faint flavor of the salt with which it had
been preserved. Nondescript dogs, bearing very little resemblance to the
original well-known breed, wandered aimlessly under the pelting rain.
Frenchy reached his dilapidated shack, and was the first to stop.
"Vell, so long," he said.
"_Au revoir à demain_!" I answered, as well as I could.
His somber, swarthy face brightened at the sound of words of his own
tongue. I believe that to him they were a tiny glimpse of something
well-beloved and of memories that refused to grow dim. For a moment he
stood at the door, beaming upon me. A small boy came out, very grimy of
face and hands and with a head covered with yellow curls. He was chiefly
clad in an old woollen jersey repaired with yarn of many hues, that
nearly reached his toes.
"_Papa Yves_!" he cried, leaping up joyfully, quite heedless of Frenchy's
dripping oilskins.
The sailor lifted up the child and kissed him, whereupon he grasped the
man's flaring ears as they projected from the huge tangled beard, and
with a burst of happy laughter kissed him on both cheeks, under the eyes,
in the only bare places.
We hurried on and soon reached one of the few houses distinguished from
others by a coat of paint. By this time the evening was near at hand, yet
the darkness would not have justified as yet a thrifty Newfoundland
housewife in burning valuable kerosene. But from the windows of this
place poured forth abundant light showing recklessness as to expense.
Upon the porch were a few feeble geraniums, and some nasturtiums and
bachelor's buttons twined themselves hopefully on strings disposed for
them.
At the sound of our footsteps the door was quickly opened. A young woman
appeared but the light was behind her and her features were not very
distinct.
"Couldn't you get him?" she cried, in sore disappointment.
"Yes, ma'am. That's what I went for," said Sammy. "I telled yer I'd sure
bring him, and here he be."
I had come nearer, and then, I am afraid, I somewhat forgot my manners
and stared at her.