DERRY DUCK.
Derry Duck having vouchsafed his protection to the young stranger, for a
time sought no further intimacy with him. He might be seen occasionally
among the groups who were won to hear a song or a story from Blair, but
he was apt to leave these scenes suddenly, as if for some call of duty
or stirred by some quick and painful thrust of feeling.
Captain Knox was a stern, moody man, who had very little direct
intercourse with his crew. Derry Duck was made his medium of
communication on every ordinary occasion. The captain was the only
person on board who kept a stock of writing materials, and from him,
through Derry, Blair and the other sailors obtained such articles on
the rare occasions when they were in demand. There was not much taste or
time for literary efforts on board the Molly.
A pleasant evening had collected all the sailors on deck, and Blair had
taken the opportunity to retire below to spend some time in recalling
Scripture to his mind, which was now his substitute for reading in the
holy book. He was roused from his meditations by the entrance of Derry
Duck, with an inkstand in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other.
Blair rose as the mate came towards him, supposing the writing materials
were to be left in his charge for some shipmate.
"Sit down, boy," said Derry in his quick way, "sit down; I want you to
do something for me."
"I should be right glad to do any thing I could for you. You have been a
real friend to me," said Blair warmly. "You can't think how much I
thank you for it."
Derry sat down and laid the paper on the table before him. Then the two
were for a moment silent. Blair and his "friend" formed a strange
contrast to each other.
The slender stripling, tall for his years, was yet in the blossom of his
youth. His face, which was so like his loving mother's, would have been
effeminate, but for the savor of old Joe Robertson the pilot, which told
in the marked nose and strong chin of the boy, but had no part in his
great, clear, soul-lit eyes, or the flexible lines of his changing
mouth. That mouth was now parted as if he would say more, but waited for
some word or sign from his companion.
Deny Duck was a very bundle of time-worn, storm-tried muscles and
sinews. The knots on his bare arms were like knobs of oak; and his
great brawny hand that lay there on the white paper, looked like a
powerful living thing, having almost an identity and will of its own.
Derry's body and whole development to his thighs were those of a tall,
stalwart man; but his lower limbs were short and sturdy, ending in great
flat feet which were as much at home in the water as on the rolling
deck, or amid the dizzy rigging. These peculiarities had given him the
name by which he was known--originally "Daring Duck," but by degrees
contracted into the "Derry Duck" which Blair had caught from the
sailors.
It was hard to realize that the mate of the Molly had ever been an
infant, whose tender cheek had been pressed to that of a loving mother.
And yet it was true that a Christian mother had once hailed that
hardened man as a gift from God to nurse for him. His lips had been
taught to pray, and his young footsteps guided to the house of God.
Time had made sad changes in him since then. His skin was now as tough
and well-tanned as his leathern belt, in which hung many a curious
implement of war and peace, a perfect tool-shop for the boarder's wild
work, or the seaman's craft. In that strong, hard face there was a tale
of a life of exposure, a lawless life, which had well-nigh given over to
the evil one the soul which God meant for himself.
"I want you to write a letter for me," said Derry, looking cautiously
about him and then going on, "a letter to my little daughter. Hush; not
a word of this to any of the men. When it is done, you must put it
inside of one of your love-letters to your mother. They mustn't get
wind of it. They are not fit even to know I have such a child, much less
to see her. Be secret! Can I trust you, my boy?"
"I'll write for you with all my heart," said Blair in astonishment; "and
of course I wont name it if you don't wish me to; no, not to a soul on
board. But I shall have to tell my mother, or she wont know what to do
with the letter."
"Just ask her to mail it for one of your shipmates. That will be
enough," said Derry quickly. "'Least said, soonest mended.' I have my
reasons. I know which way the wind blows, and how to ward off a
sou'-wester."
"What shall I say?" said Blair, taking up the pen, and reaching for the
paper. Derry's hand lay on it, a "paperweight" that did not move itself
off at Blair's motion.
"You see," began the sailor, "you see I've got a little daughter, not
so old as you are by a year or two. I dare say you think she's made of
coarse stuff like me, fit for the rough and tumble of life. No such
thing. Her hand is white as a sail on a summer sea, and her little round
cheek is so soft, Oh, so soft, that when it snugs up to mine it seems as
if an angel was touching me, and I feel as if I wasn't fit for such as
her to love and fondle. Yet she loves me; she loves her old dad. She
don't call me Derry Duck, not she. She don't know any thing about Derry
Duck, and what he does when he 's off on the sea. I don't mean she ever
shall. I'd rather die first, gnawed to pieces by a hungry shark. Her
mother left her to me, a little two-year-old thing, a clinging little
creature that would snug in my arms and go to sleep, whether I was drunk
or sober. I killed her mother--sent her to the better country before
her time. I didn't lay my hand to her; I wasn't bad enough for that.
But my ways took the pink out of her cheeks, and made her pine away and
just go out of my sight like the wake of a passing ship. Where she had
been, there she was not. I loved her, boy, and these eyes cried; these
great hands would have willingly been worn to the bone with hard work,
if that could have restored her life. I don't drink any more. I've quit
that. I haven't touched a drop since she died. I took to the sea. I made
up my mind I wouldn't kill the little tender thing she left me. _She_
should never die for knowing how bad her father was. I took the little
money I had, and bought a real gentleman's suit of clothes. Then I went
to a minister I knew about, in a far away town, where my--never mind
where the child's mother came from--and I asked him and his wife to take
care of the little thing, for a sorrowful man that was going off on the
sea, and would pay well for what they did. I knew it wasn't the money
that would make them lay their hand to the work; but they had nothing to
spare, and I didn't mean to leave her to charity. I wanted her brought
up to be like her mother, in ways that wouldn't end where I'm going.
They took her, and there she is. Nobody can see her without loving her,
such a little, dainty, winning, clinging, pretty thing, nine years have
made out of the toddlin' creature I put out of my arms, that ached after
her till I was clear out of sight of land. Don't think I miss seeing her
when I'm ashore. Don't I leave Derry Duck aboard ship, and put on my
landsman's clothes, and ride up to the door where she is, with my pocket
full of money. She don't lack for any thing, I warrant you. She's
dressed like a rose, all in pink and green, with little ribbons
fluttering like her little heart when she sees me coming. She's learning
too. Why, she knows most enough to teach the queen, the child does. And
then she's so modest and asks me questions, as if I could tell her every
thing. I always have a cold or a headache or something, and can't say
much when I'm there. I keep still, and take my fill of looking at her,
and hugging her close to this old tough heart. I wouldn't let out an
oath before her. I'd rather see the Molly go to the bottom in fair
weather. I'm scant of my talk, lest I should let out that my way of
thinking is different from hers. I wouldn't have her pretty blue eyes
turn away from me, so sorrowful, yet so loving, just as her mother's
used to. I couldn't bear that. She loves me, that little pure thing,
that says its prayers night and morning, and asks God to bless its
father on the sea. She's my angel. Mayhap those little prayers will get
heard some day, and a blessing will come to me and make me a different
man. Only the Almighty could turn Derry Duck into a father fit for that
child's eyes to look on. My heart yearns after her when I'm far away,
but I don't let her write to me. I wouldn't have such men as I live with
know where my flower hides its little head. I wouldn't have her run a
chance of seeing any body who knows Derry Duck, and might tell her of
his wild ways. It would break her little heart, it would. I can't write
to her; not but what I was scholard somewhat, long ago; but these hands
have had other work to do than holding a pen and making letters that a
wise little girl like her would think all right. I couldn't either put
into words just what I want to say. It a'n't much that I would say,
neither, but a kind of letting out how I set all the world by her, and
want her to be just so much better than other folks as I am worse.
Something would slip in that shouldn't, if I was to try; I know there
would. But you can write for me. You would know just how to put it. She
says she yearns after me when I'm gone, and would be so full of joy if
she could once have a letter from me, all her own, to read over and over
when she can't throw her arms round my neck and put her little loving
face close up to mine. Will you write for me, boy, something for the
dear girl to read over, and think the right kind of a father is talking
to her, a man she wouldn't be ashamed of before the company her mother
keeps _up there_?"
The last words were spoken reverently, and formed a strange contrast to
much that had gone before. We have omitted the oaths and rough
expletives with which Derry interlarded his speech. There is the taint
of sin even in the repetition of such language.
Blair Robertson had listened with a throbbing heart and tearful eye to
the sailor's story. It seemed to him that God had not quite cast off one
who had such a tender care for the happiness and purity of his child.
Blair gently laid his slender hand on Derry's brawny fingers, and looked
up earnestly into his face as he said, "Why can't you be just such a
father, Derry?"
Derry laughed a sorrowful, derisive laugh, and then said almost
fiercely, "You don't know me, lad. It would chill your very blood to
know what I've done, and where I've been. There are spots on me that
nothing can wash out. I've grown into it, boy. It's my life. I'm hard
and tough, soul and body. There's no making me over. I'm spoiled in the
grain. I tell you it's too late. I a'n't a father for her to know. I
can't be made into one. That a'n't what I came here to talk about. Will
you write my letter, that's the question?"
"Certainly I will write for you in the way that seems to me the best.
But, Derry, 'there is a fountain opened for sin and all uncleanness.'
'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.' 'If any man be in
Christ Jesus, he is a _new creature_; old things have passed away.'
'With God all things are possible.' 'Christ Jesus came into the world to
save sinners.' 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as
snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'"
As Blair spoke these words, he fixed his earnest eyes on the sailor's
face, and seemed pleading for his very soul.
"There is a look about you like her, like her _up there_," said Derry,
almost trembling. "I see her face in the dark night when I'm on the
watch, and her eyes speak to me just as yours do--Oh, so pleading. Hush!
There's some one coming. Write the letter as if it was one of your own.
They wont hector you now. I've taught 'em better manners. Let me see 'em
touch a hair of your head, and I'll finish 'em quick."
As Derry spoke, he gave a thrust with his clenched fist as at an
imaginary enemy. The eyes that had lately been softened into tenderness
had their old fierce twinkle, and his hard features settled into their
fixed expression of determined daring.
The men gave place as he forced his way up the hatchway. On he went,
stamping along the deck as if he ground an enemy beneath his heel at
every step.