Said McCallum, very quiet and distinct: "There's somebody up there, sir.
I saw him quite plain. He saw me. I called up. He called down. Says he,
_'Don't you come up_!' and hang me if I'll stir a step for you or any
other man to-night!"
I never saw the face of any man alive go the turn that mate's face went.
If he wouldn't have relished knocking the Scotchman dead before his
eyes, I've lost my guess. Can't say what he would have done to the old
fellow, if there'd been any time to lose.
He'd the sense left to see there wasn't overmuch, so he orders out Bob
Smart direct.
Bob goes up steady, with a quid in his cheek and a cool eye. Half-way
amid to'-sail and to'-gallant he stops, and down he comes, spinning.
"Be drowned if there ain't!" said he. "He's sitting square upon the
yard. I never see the boy Kentucky, if he isn't sitting on that yard.
'_Don't you come up!_' he cries out,--'_don't you come up!_'"
"Bob's drunk, and McCallum's a fool!" said Jim Welch, standing by. So
Welch wolunteers up, and takes Jaloffe with him. They were a couple of
the coolest hands aboard,--Welch and Jaloffe. So up they goes, and down
they comes like the rest, by the back-stays, by the run.
"He beckoned of me back!" says Welch. "He hollered not to come up! not
to come up!"
After that there wasn't a man of us would stir aloft, not for love nor
money.
Well, Whitmarsh he stamped, and he swore, and he knocked us about
furious; but we sat and looked at one another's eyes, and never stirred.
Something cold, like a frost-bite, seemed to crawl along from man to
man, looking into one another's eyes.
"I'll shame ye all, then, for a set of cowardly lubbers!" cries the
mate; and what with the anger and the drink he was as good as his word,
and up the ratlines in a twinkle.
In a flash we were after him,--he was our officer, you see, and we felt
ashamed,--me at the head, and the lads following after.
I got to the futtock shrouds, and there I stopped, for I saw him
myself,--a palish boy, with a jerk of thin hair on his forehead; I'd
have known him anywhere in this world or t'other. I saw him just as
distinct as I see you, Tom Brown, sitting on that yard quite steady with
the royal flapping like to flap him off.
I reckon I've had as much experience fore and aft, in the course of
fifteen years aboard, as any man that ever tied a reef-point in a
nor'easter; but I never saw a sight like that, not before nor since.
I won't say that I didn't wish myself well on deck; but I will say that
I stuck to the shrouds, and looked on steady.
Whitmarsh, swearing that that royal should be furled, went on and went
up.
It was after that I heard the voice. It came straight from the figure of
the boy upon the upper yard.
But this time it says, "_Come up! Come up!_" And then, a little louder,
"_Come up! Come up! Come up!_" So he goes up, and next I knew there was
a cry,--and next a splash,--and then I saw the royal flapping from the
empty yard, and the mate was gone, and the boy.
Job Whitmarsh was never seen again, alow or aloft, that night or ever
after.
I was telling the tale to our parson this summer,--he's a fair-minded
chap, the parson, in spite of a little natural leaning to strawberries,
which I always take in very good part,--and he turned it about in his
mind some time.
"If it was the boy," says he,--"and I can't say as I see any reason
especial why it shouldn't have been,--I've been wondering what his
spiritooal condition was. A soul in hell,"--the parson believes in hell,
I take it, because he can't help himself; but he has that solemn, tender
way of preaching it as makes you feel he wouldn't have so much as a
chicken get there if he could help it,--"a lost soul," says the parson
(I don't know as I get the words exact),--"a soul that has gone and been
and got there of its own free will and choosing would be as like as not
to haul another soul alongside if he could. Then again, if the mate's
time had come, you see, and his chances were over, why, that's the will
of the Lord, and it's hell for him whichever side of death he is, and
nobody's fault but hisn; and the boy might be in the good place, and do
the errand all the same. That's just about it, Brown," says he. "A man
goes his own gait, and, if he won't go to heaven, he _won't_, and the
good God himself can't help it. He throws the shining gates all open
wide, and he never shut them on any poor fellow as would have entered
in, and he never, never will."
Which I thought was sensible of the parson, and very prettily put.
There's Molly frying flapjacks now, and flapjacks won't wait for no man,
you know, no more than time and tide, else I should have talked till
midnight, very like, to tell the time we made on that trip home, and
how green the harbor looked a sailing up, and of Molly and the baby
coming down to meet me in a little boat that danced about (for we cast a
little down the channel), and how she climbed up a laughing and a crying
all to once, about my neck, and how the boy had grown, and how when he
ran about the deck (the little shaver had his first pair of boots on
that very afternoon) I bethought me of the other time, and of Molly's
words, and of the lad we'd left behind us in the purple days.
Just as we were hauling up, I says to my wife: "Who's that old lady
setting there upon the lumber, with a gray bunnet, and a gray ribbon on
her cap?"
For there was an old lady there, and I saw the sun all about her, and
all on the blazing yellow boards, and I grew a little dazed and dazzled.
"I don't know," said Molly, catching onto me a little close. "She comes
there every day. They say she sits and watches for her lad as ran away."
So then I seemed to know, as well as ever I knew afterwards, who it was.
And I thought of the dog. And the green rocking-chair. And the book that
Whitmarsh wadded his old gun with. And the front-door, with the boy a
walking in.
So we three went up the wharf,--Molly and the baby and me,--and sat down
beside her on the yellow boards. I can't remember rightly what I said,
but I remember her sitting silent in the sunshine till I had told her
all there was to tell.
"_Don't_ cry!" says Molly, when I got through,--which it was the more
surprising of Molly, considering as she was doing the crying all to
herself. The old lady never cried, you see. She sat with her eyes wide
open under her gray bunnet, and her lips a moving. After a while I made
it out what it was she said: "The only son--of his mother--and she--"
By and by she gets up, and goes her ways, and Molly and I walk home
together, with our little boy between us.
The End.