"Me an' your father, Dannie," he continued, presently, dwelling upon
the quiet sunset, now flaring with the last of its fire, "somehow
cotched a grip o' the rock. 'Twas a mean reef t' be cast away on, with
no dry part upon it: 'twas near flush with the sea, an' flat an' broad
an' jagged, slimy with sea-weed; an' 'twas washed over by the big
seas, an' swam in the low roll o' the black ones. I 'low, Dannie, that
I was never afore cotched in such a swirl an' noise o' waters. 'Twas
wonderful--the thunder an' spume an' whiteness o' them big waves in
the dawn! An' 'twas wonderful--the power o' them--the wolfish way
they'd clutch an' worry an' drag! 'Twas a mean, hard thing t' keep a
grip on that smoothed rock; but I got my fingers in a crack o' the
reef, an' managed t' hold on, bein' stout an' able, an' sort of savage
for life--in them old days. Afore long, your poor father crep' close,
lad, an' got his fingers in the same crack. 'Twas all done for you,
Dannie, an' ye'll be sure t' bear it in mind--will ye not?--when ye
thinks o' the man hereafter. I seed the big seas rub un on the reef,
an' cut his head, an' break his ribs, as he come crawlin' towards me.
'Twas a long, long time afore he reached the place. Ye'll not forget
it--will ye lad?--ye'll surely not forget it when ye thinks o' the man
that was your father."
I looked at the sward, soft and green with summer, and roundabout upon
the compassionate shadows of evening.
"'Nick,' says your father," my uncle continued, "'does ye hear them
men?'
"They was all gone down, poor souls! I knowed.
"'Nine men o' the crew,' says he, 'drownin' there t' le'ward.'
"'Twas o' Mary Luff's son I thought, that poor lad! for I'd fetched un
on the v'y'ge.
"'I hear un callin',' says he.
"'Twas but a fancy: they was no voices o' them drowned men t'
le'ward.
"'Nick,' says he, 'I didn't mean t' wreck her here. I was 'lowin' t'
strike the Long Cliff, where they's a chance for a man's life. Does ye
hear me, Nick?' says he. 'I didn't mean t' do it _here_!'
"'Skipper,' says I, 'was ye meanin' t' wreck that there ship?'
"'Not here,' says he.
"'Was ye meanin' t' _do_ it?' says I."
My uncle paused.
"Go on, sir," said I.
"Dannie," said he, "they come, then, three big seas, as seas will; an'
I 'low"--he touched the crescent scar--"I got this here about that
time."
'Twas quite enough for me.
"'Skipper,' says I," my uncle continued, "'what did ye go an' do it
for?'
"'I got a young one t' St. John's,' says he.
"''Tis no excuse,' says I.
"'Ay,' says he, 'but I was 'lowin' t' make a gentleman of un. He's the
on'y one I got,' says he, 'an' his mother's dead.'
"''Twas no way t' go about it,' says I.
"'Ye've no lad o' your own,' says he, 'an' ye don't know. They was a
pot o' money in this, Top,' says he. 'I was 'lowin' t' make a
gentleman o' my young one an I lived through; but I got t' go--I got
t' go t' hell an' leave un. They's ice in these big seas,' says he,
'an I've broke my left arm, an' can't stand it much longer. But you'll
live it out, Top; you'll live it out--I knows ye will. The wind's gone
t' the nor'west, an' the sea's goin' down; an' they'll be a fleet o'
Labrador craft up the morrow t' pick you up. An' I was 'lowin', Top,'
says he, 'that you'd take my kid an' fetch un up as his mother would
have un grow. They isn't no one else t' do it,' says he, 'an' I was
'lowin' you might try. I've broke my left arm,' says he, 'an' got my
fingers froze, or I'd live t' do it myself. They's a pot o' money in
this, Top,' says he. 'You tell the owner o' this here ship,' says he,
'an' he'll pay--he've got t' pay!'
"I had no wish for the task, Dannie--not bein' much on nursin' in them
days.
"'I got t' go t' hell for this, Top,' says your father, 'an' I 'lowed
ye'd ease the passage.'
"'Skipper, sir,' says I, 'is ye not got a scrap o' writin'?'
"He fetched out this here little Bible.
"'Top,' says he, 'I 'lowed I'd have a writin' t' make sure, the owner
o' this here ship bein' on'y a fish speculator; an' I got it in this
Bible.'
"'Then,' says I, 'I'll take that young one, Tom Callaway, if I
weathers this here mess.'
"'Ay,' says he, 'but I'm not wishin' t' go t' hell for _that_.'
"'Twas come broad day now.
"'An I'm but able, Tom Callaway,' says I, 'I'll make a gentleman of un
t' ease your pains.'
"'Would ye swear it?' says he.
"I put my hand on the Book; an' I knowed, Dannie, when I made ready t'
take that oath, out there on the Devil's Teeth, that I'd give my soul
t' hell for the wickedness I must do. I done it with my eyes wide open
t' the burden o' evil I must take up; an' 'twas sort o' hard t' do,
for I was by times a Christian man, Dannie, in them ol' days, much sot
on church an' prayer an' the like o' that. But I seed that your poor
father was bent on makin' a gentleman out o' you t' please your dead
mother's wishes, an' I 'lowed, havin' no young un o' my own, that I
_didn't_ know much about the rights of it; an' I knowed he'd suffer
forever the pains o' hell for what he done, whatever come of it, an' I
'lowed 'twould be a pity t' have the murder o' seven poor men go t'
waste for want o' one brave soul t' face the devil. 'Nick,' thinks I,
while your father, poor, doomed man! watched me--I can see here in the
dusk the blood an' water on his white face--'Nick,' thinks I, 'an you
was one o' them seven poor, murdered men, ye'd want the price o' your
life paid t' that wee young one. From heaven or hell, Nick, accordin'
t' which place ye harbored in,' thinks I, 'ye'd want t' watch that
little life grow, an' ye'd like t' say t' yourself, when things went
ill with ye,' thinks I, 'that the little feller ye died for was
thrivin', anyhow, out there on earth.' An' I 'lowed, for your wee
sake, Dannie, an' for the sake o' the seven poor, murdered men, whose
wishes I read in the dead eyes that looked into mine, an' for the sake
o' your poor, fond father, bound soon for hell, that I'd never let the
comfort o' my mean soul stand in the way o' fetchin' good t' your
little life out o' all this woe an' wickedness. I 'lowed, Dannie, then
an' there, on the Devil's Teeth, that could I but manage to endure,
I'd stand by your little body an' soul t' the end, whatever become o'
me."
'Twas but a tale my uncle told: 'twas not an extenuation--not a plea.
"'Tide's risin', Nick,' says your father. 'I can't stand it much
longer with my broken arm an' froze fingers. Nick,' says he, 'will ye
swear?'
"I was afraid, Dannie, t' swear it.
"'Won't ye?' says he. 'He've his mother's eyes--an' he'll be a
wonderful good lad t' you.'
"I couldn't, Dannie.
"'For God's sake, Nick!' says he, 'swear it, an' ease my way t'
hell.'
"'I swear!' says I.
"'Then,' says he, 'you turn the screws on the owner o' that there
ship. The writin' is all you needs. You make a gentleman o' my lad,
God bless un! accordin' t' the wishes of his mother. Give un the best
they is in Newf'un'land. Nothin' too good in all the world for Dannie.
You bear in mind, Nick,' says he, 'that I'm roastin' in hell,' says
he, '_payin_' for his education!'"
My uncle's hand approached the low table, but was in impatience
withdrawn; and the old man looked away--northward: to the place, far
distant, where the sea still washed the Devil's Teeth.
"I've bore it in mind," he muttered.
Ay! and much more than that: the wreck of his own great soul upon my
need had clouded twenty years of life with blackest terror of the
unending pains of perdition.
"'Tis a lovely evening, Dannie," he sighed. "'Tis so still an' kind
an' beautiful. I've often 'lowed, in weather like this, with the sea
at peace an' a red sky givin' promise o' mercy for yet one day," said
he, "that I'd like t' live forever--jus' live t' fish an' be an'
hope."
"I wisht ye might!" I cried.
"An' t' watch ye grow, Dannie," said he, turning suddenly upon me, his
voice fallen low and tremulous with affectionate feeling and pride.
"Life," says he, so earnestly that I was made meek by the confession,
"held nothin' at all for me but the Christian hope o' heaven until ye
came; an' then, when I got ye, 'twas filled full o' mortal, unselfish,
better aims. I've loved ye well, lad, in my own delight," says he.
"I've loved ye in a wishful way," he repeated, "quite well."