THE SKIPPER STRUGGLES AGAINST SUPERSTITION
"She lays snug enough. We'll break out the freight, to-morrow," said the
skipper.
"Aye, skipper, aye," returned Bill Brennen, with an unsuccessful attempt
to put some heartiness into his tones; but the others did not say a
word. They made litters for the dead and wounded, gathered up the spoils
of the cabins, and set off sullenly for Chance Along. The skipper stood
to one side and watched them from under lowering brows. At the first
stroke of misfortune they were sulking and snarling at him like a pack
of wolf-dogs. They evidently expected a boat-load of gold from every
wreck, and no casualties. He despised and hated them. He hurried after
them and called a halt. He ordered them to break open the ship's boxes.
They obeyed him in sullen wonder.
"If ye find any gold," he said, "count it an' divide it amongst ye. An'
the same wid the rest o' the gear. An' here bes somethin' more for ye!"
He tossed the purse and the earrings to them. "Take 'em. Keep 'em. I
take no shares wid a crew like ye--not this time, anyhow, ye cowardly,
unthankful, treacherous swabs! Aye, count the gold, damn ye! an' stow it
away in yer pockets. I bes makin' rich men o' ye--an' at a turn o' bad
luck ye all be ready to knife me. D'ye think I kilt them t'ree dead
fools? Nay, they kilt themselves wid fear of a poor drownded woman!
T'ree more would ha' bin stunned and drownded but for me. Holy saints
above! I bes minded to leave ye to fish an' starve--all o' ye save them
as has stood to me like men an' them o' me own blood--an' go to another
harbor. Ye white-livered pack o' wolf-breed huskies! Ye cowardly,
snarlin', treacherous divils. Take yer money. I gives it to ye. Go home
an' feed on the good grub I gives to ye an' drink the liquor ye'd never
have the wits nor the courage to salve but for me! Go home wid ye, out
o' my sight, or maybe I'll forgit the flabby-hearted swabs ye be an'
give ye a taste o' me bat!"
The skipper's fury increased with the utterance of every bellowed word.
His dark face burned crimson, and his black eyes glowed like coals in
the open draught of a stove. His teeth flashed between his snarling
lips like a timber-wolf's fangs. He shook his fist at them, picked up a
birch billet, which was a part of the wrecking-gear, and swung it
threateningly. About eight of the men and boys, including young Cormick
Nolan, Nick Leary and Bill Brennen, stood away from the others, out of
line of the skipper's frantic gestures and bruising words. Some of them
were loyal, some simply more afraid of Black Dennis Nolan than of
anything else in the world. But fear, after all, is an important element
in a certain quality of devotion.
The main party were somewhat shaken. A few of them growled back at the
skipper; but not quite loud enough to claim his attention to them in
particular. Some eyed him apprehensively, while others broke open the
ship's and passengers' boxes. They found minted money only in one of the
captain's dispatch-boxes--two small but weighty bags of gold containing
about two hundred sovereigns in all. This was the money which the dead
captain had been armed with by his owners against harbor-dues, etc. The
funds which the passengers must have possessed had doubtless been flung
overboard and under along with the unfortunate beings who had clung to
them. The sullen, greedy fellows began to count and divide the gold.
They were slow, suspicious, grasping. The skipper, having fallen to a
glowing silence at last, watched them for a minute or two with a bitter
sneer on his face. Then he turned and set out briskly for Chance Along.
The loyal and fearful party followed him, most of them with evident
reluctance. A few turned their faces continually to gaze at the
distributing of the gold and gear. The skipper noted this with a
sidelong, covert glance.
"Don't ye be worryin', men. Ye'll have yer fill afore long, so help me
Saint Peter!" he exclaimed. "No man who stands by me, an' knows me for
master, goes empty!"
He did not speak another word on the way or so much as look at his
followers. He strode along swiftly, thinking hard. He could not blink
the fact that the needless deaths of the three men in the cabin of the
_Royal William_ had weakened his position seriously. He could not blink
the ugly fact that the day's activities had bred a mutiny--and that the
mutiny had not yet been faced and broken. It was still breeding. The
poison was still working. In a fit of blind anger and unreasoning
disgust he had fed the spirit of rebellion with gold. He had shattered
with his foot what he had built with his hands. The work of mastery was
all to do over again. He had taught them that his rights were four
shares to one--and now he had given them all, thereby destroying a
precedent in the establishing of which he had risked his life and
robbing himself and his loyal followers at the same time. The situation
was desperate; but he could not find it in his heart to regret the day's
work; for there was the girl with the sea-eyes, lying safe in his own
house this very minute! A thrill, sweet yet bitter, went through his
blood at the thought. No other woman had ever caused him a choking pang
like this. The remembrance of those clear eyes shook him to the very
soul and quenched his burning anger with a wave of strangely mingled
adoration and desire. He was little more than a fine animal, after all.
The man in him lay passive and undeveloped under the tides of passion,
craving, brute-pride and crude ambitions. But the manhood was there, as
his flawless courage and unconsidered kindness to women and children
indicated. But he was self-centred, violent, brutally masterful. Women
and children had always seemed to him (until now) helpless, harmless
things, that had a right to the protection of men even as they had a
right to remain ashore from the danger of wind and sea. The stag caribou
and the dog-wolf have the same attitude toward the females of their
races. It is a characteristic which is natural to animals and boasted of
by civilized men. Dogs and gentlemen do not bite and beat their females;
and if Black Dennis Nolan resembled a stag, a he-wolf, and a dog in many
points, in this particular he also resembled a gentleman. Like some
hammering old feudal baron of the Norman time and the finer type, his
battles were all with men. Those who did not ride behind him he rode
against. He feared the saints and a priest, even as did the barons of
old; but all others must acknowledge his lordship or know themselves for
his enemies. To Black Dennis Nolan the law of the land was a vague thing
not greatly respected. To Walter, Lord of Waltham, William the Red was a
vague personage, not greatly respected. Walter, Lord of Waltham, son of
Walter and grandson of Fitz Oof of Normandy; Skipper of Chance Along,
son of Skipper Pat and grandson of Skipper Tim--the two barons differed
only in period and location. In short, Black Dennis Nolan possessed
many of the qualities of strong animals, of a feudal baron, and one at
least of a modern gentleman.
The skipper was overtaken and joined by his young brother at the edge of
the barrens above Chance Along. They scrambled swiftly down the path to
the clustered cabins. At their own door Cormick plucked the skipper's
sleeve.
"They was talkin' o' witches," he whispered. "Dick Lynch an' some more
o' the lads. They says as how the comather was put on to ye this very
mornin', Denny."
The skipper paused with his hand on the latch and eyed the other
sharply.
"Witches, ye say? An' Dick Lynch was talkin', was he? Who did they
figger as put the spell on to me?"
"The lass ye saved from the fore-top. Sure, that's what they all bes
sayin', Denny. Mermaid, they calls her--an' some a fairy. A witch,
anyhow. They says as how yer luck bes turned now--aye, the luck o' the
entire harbor. 'Twas herself--the spell o' her--kilt the t'ree lads in
the cabin, they be sayin'. Their talk was desperate black, Denny."
"'Twas the poor dead, drownded woman, an' their own cowardly souls, kilt
'em!"
"Aye, Denny, so it was, nary a doubt; but they shot ye some desperate
black looks, Denny."
"Well, Cormy, don't ye be worryin'. Fifty t'ousand squid like Dick Lynch
couldn't frighten me. The comather, ye say? Saints o' God! but I'll be
puttin' it on themselves wid a club! Bewitched? What the divil do they
know o' witches? Fishes bes all they understands! Black looks they give
me, did they? I'll be batin' 'em so black they'll all look like rotted
herrings, by the Holy Peter hisself! Aye, Cormy, don't ye worry, now."
At that he opened the door quietly and stepped inside with a strange air
of reverence and eagerness. The boy followed softly and closed the door
behind him. The fire roared and crackled in the round stove, but the
room was empty of human life. Wet garments of fine linen hung on a line
behind the stove. The inner door opened and old Mother Nolan hobbled
into the kitchen with a wrinkled finger to her lips.
"Whist wid ye!" she cautioned. "She be sleepin' like a babe, the poor
darlint, in Father McQueen's own bed, wid everything snug an' warm as
ye'd find in any marchant's grand house in St. John's."
She took her accustomed seat beside the stove and lit her pipe.
"Saints alive! but can't ye set down!" she exclaimed. "I wants to talk
wid ye, b'ys. Tell me this--where bes t'e rest o' the poor folk from the
wrack?"
"She bes the only livin' soul we found, Granny," replied the skipper.
"She was lashed in the foremast--an' t'other spars was all over the
side. We found a poor dead body in one o' the cabins--drownded to
death--an' not so much as another corpse. Aye, Granny, 'twas a desperate
cruel wrack altogether."
The old woman shot a keen glance at him; but he returned it without a
blink.
"Didn't ye find no more gold an' diamonds, then?" she asked.
"We found some gold. I give it all to the men."
"An' what was the cargo?"
"Sure, Granny, we didn't break into her cargo yet. There was a
rumpus--aye, ye may well call it a rumpus! Did ye say as she bes
sleepin', Granny?"
The old woman nodded her head, her black eyes fixed on the red draught
of the stove with a far-away, fateful, veiled glint in them which her
grandsons knew well. She had ceased to puff at her pipe for the moment,
and in the failing light from the window they could see a thin reek of
smoke trailing straight up from the bowl.
"Aye, sleepin'," she mumbled, at last. "Saints presarve us, Denny! There
bes fairy blood in her--aye, fairy blood. Sure, can't ye see it in her
eyes? I's afeard there bain't no luck in it, Denny. Worse nor wracked
diamonds, worse nor wracked gold they be--these humans wid fairy blood
in 'em! And don't I know? Sure, wasn't me own grandmother own cousin to
the darter o' a fairy-woman? Sure she was, back in old Tyoon. An' there
was no luck in the house wid her; an' she was a beauty, too, like the
darlint body yonder."
The skipper smiled and lit his pipe. The winter twilight had deepened to
gloom. The front of the stove glowed like a long, half-closed red eye,
and young Cormick peered fearfully at the black corners of the room.
The skipper left his chair, fetched a candle from the dresser and lit it
at the door of the stove.
"We bes a long way off from old Tyoon, Granny," he said; "an' maybe
there bain't no fairies now, even in Tyoon. I never seen no fairy in
Chance Along, anyhow; nor witch, mermaid, pixie, bogey, ghost,
sprite--no, nor even a corpus-light. Herself in yonder bes no
fairy-child, Granny, but a fine young lady, more beautiful nor an angel
in heaven--maybe a marchant's darter an' maybe a king's darter, but nary
the child o' any vanishin' sprite. Sure, didn't I hold her in me two
arms all the way from the fore-top o' the wrack to the cliff?--an'
didn't she weigh agin' me arms till they was nigh broke wid it?"
"Denny, ye poor fool," returned Mother Nolan, "ye bes simple as a squid
t'rowed up on the land-wash. What do ye know o' fairies an' the like?
Wasn't I born on a Easter Sunday, wid the power to see the good people,
an' the little people, an' all the tricksy tribes? The body o' a
fairy-child bes human, lad. 'Tis but the heart o' her bes unhuman--an'
the beauty o' her--an' there bain't no soul in her. Did ye hear the
voice o' her, Denny? Holy saints! But was there ever a human woman wid
a voice the like o' that?"
"Aye, Granny, but did she eat? Did she drink? Did she shed tears?" asked
the skipper.
The old woman nodded her head.
"Fairies don't shed tears," said Dennis, grinning. "Sure, ye've told me
that yerself many a time."
"But half-fairies, like herself, sheds 'em as well as any human, ye mad
fool," returned Mother Nolan.
At that moment the outer door opened, and Nick Leary entered the
kitchen, closing the door behind him, and shooting the bolt into its
place. His face was so generously bandaged that only his eyes and nose
were visible. He glanced fearfully around the room.
"Where bes the mermaid? Has she flew away?" he whispered.
The skipper sprang to his feet with an oath.
"Mermaid?" he cried. "Ye dodderin' fool ye! She bes no more a mermaid
nor any fat wench in Chance Along! Has she flew, ye say! How to hell kin
a mermaid fly? Wid her tail? Ye bes a true man, Nick, or I'd bat ye over
the nob for yer trouble. She bes a poor young woman saved from a wrack,
as well ye know. What d'ye want wid me?"
Leary trembled, big as he was, and pulled off his fur cap with both
hands.
"Aye, skipper, aye! but where bes she now?" he whispered.
"She bes sleepin' like any poor babe in his reverence's own bed,"
replied the skipper.
"Saints presarve us!" exclaimed the other. "In the blessed father's bed!
I bain't sayin' naught, skipper, sir, but--but sure 'twill be desperate
bad luck for his reverence!"
Black Dennis Nolan lost his temper then. He gripped Nick by the
shoulder, swore at him, shook him about, and threatened to knock his
head off. Had Nick been one of the mutineers, the chances are ten to one
that he would have been floored and beaten half to death. But even in
the full fury of his rage the skipper did not lose sight of the fact
that this fellow was a loyal slave. He did not love Nick, but he loved
his dog-like devotion. So he kept his right hand down at his side, and
it cost him a mighty effort of restraint, and contented himself with
cursing and shaking. The boy stared at the two wide-eyed, and the old
woman smoked and nodded without so much as a glance at them. At last the
skipper unhooked his fingers from Nick's shoulder, laughed harshly and
returned to his seat.
"Luck?" he said, derisively. "The luck o' Father McQueen bes the
protection o' the holy saints above. An' my luck bes the strength o' my
heart an' my wits, Nick Leary. I saves a woman from a wrack an' brings
her into my own house--an' ye names her for a mermaid an' a she-divil!
Maybe ye holds wid Dick Lynch 'twas herself kilt the t'ree lads in the
cabin--an' her in this house all the time, innocent as a babe."
Leary made the sign of the cross quickly and furtively.
"Nay, skipper; but the divil was in that wrack," he said. "The lads got
to fightin' over the gold, skipper, an' Dick Lynch slipped his knife
into Pat Brennen. Sure, the divil come ashore from that wrack. Never
afore did them two pull their knives on each other; an' now Pat Brennen
lays bleedin' his life out. The divil bes got into the lads o' Chance
Along, nary a doubt, an' the black luck has come to the harbor."
"The divil an' the black luck bes in their own stinkin' hearts!"
exclaimed Nolan, violently.
"Aye, skipper; but they says it bes her ye brought ashore put the curse
on to us--an' now they bes comin' this way, skipper, to tell ye to run
her out o' yer house."
"What d'ye say?" cried the skipper, springing from his chair. "Run her
out, ye say?"
He trembled with fury, burned the air with oaths, and called down all
the curses known to tradition upon the heads of the men of Chance Along.
He snatched up a stout billet of birch, green and heavy, wrenched open
the door, and sprang into the outer gloom.
Nick Leary's story was true. The mutineers had consumed the brandy, come
to hot words over the sharing of the gold, dropped their dead and
wounded, and commenced to curse, kick and hit at one another with clubs.
Then Dick Lynch had put his knife into a young man named Pat Brennen, a
nephew of the loyal Bill. Panic had brought the fight to a drunken,
slobbering finish.
"There bes four strong lads kilt in one day!" some one had cried. "The
black curse bes on us! The divil bes in it!"
Full of liquor, fear and general madness, they had come to the opinion
that the strange young female whom the skipper had saved from the
fore-top and carried to his house was such an imp of darkness as had
never before blighted the life and luck of Chance Along. She had
bewitched the skipper. Her evil eyes had cast a curse on the wreck and
that curse had been the death of their three comrades. She had put a
curse on the gold, so that they had all gone mad the moment they felt
the touch of it in their hands. The skipper, under her spell, had
betrayed them--had given them gold so that they should fight over it and
destroy one another. It was all very simple--too simple to require
reasoning! In truth, the curse was upon them--the curse of dead men's
liquor, dead men's gold--the curse of greed, blood-lust and fear! So
they had picked up their dead, their wounded and their loot and
continued their journey at top speed, intent on casting out the witch,
and bringing the skipper to a knowledge of his desperate state even if
the operation should cost him his life. What cared they for his life now
that he had lost his luck?
They reached Chance Along, scattered for a few minutes to dispose of
the dead and wounded, gathered again and crowded toward the skipper's
house. They were quiet now, for the superstitious fear had not entirely
driven from their hearts the human fear of the skipper's big hands and
terrible eyes. They stumbled and reeled against one another, their heads
and feet muddled by brandy and excitement. Some were armed with sticks,
a few had drawn their knives, others had forgotten to arm themselves
with anything. They trod upon each other's feet in the dark, narrow,
uneven ways between the cabins. Bill Brennen joined them in the dark. He
carried a broken oar of seasoned ash in his hands. He had sent Nick
Leary to warn the skipper of the approach of the mutineers; and his
faith in the skipper's prowess was such that he felt but little anxiety.
He was sober and he knew that Black Dennis Nolan was sober. He kept to
the rear of the mob, just far enough behind it to allow for a full swing
of his broken oar, and waited for his master to make the first move
against this disorderly demonstration of superstition, bottle-valor and
ingratitude. He removed his mittens, stowed them in his belt and spat
upon the palms of his hands while he waited. Being sober, he reasoned.
Bad luck had struck the harbor this day, beyond a doubt, and brought
death and mutiny. But death had not come to the skipper. Not so much as
a scratch had come to the skipper. If a witch was in the harbor he
trusted to Black Dennis Nolan to deal with her without bringing harm
upon himself or his friends. If the devil himself visited Chance Along
he would look to the skipper to outwit, outcurse and out-devil him. This
is how he felt about the man he had attached himself to. He gripped his
broken oar with his moistened palm and fingers and waited hopefully. He
had not long to wait.
Suddenly the door of the skipper's house flew open and out of the glow
of candle-light leaped a figure that might easily (under the
circumstances and condition of the mob) have been the devil
himself--himself, the father of all the little devils in hell. The
wrathful bellow of him was like the roar of a wounded walrus. He touched
ground in the centre of the front rank of the mob, and as his feet
touched the ground his billet of green birch cracked down upon a skull.
And still he continued to roar; and still the club cracked and cracked;
and then Bill Brennen got heartily to work on the rear rank with his
broken oar.
The mob of mutineers had arrived intoxicated, and with no very clear
idea of what they intended to do to the witch and the skipper. They had
intended to make the first move, however; of that they were certain.
They had intended to open the door themselves--and now some divil had
opened it before they were ready! They were so unsteady on their feet
that no man of them stood up for a second blow. A few got to work on
their own account; but it was so dark that they did little damage even
to their friends. After five or six had fallen the next in order for
treatment faced about to retire. In their indignation and bewilderment
they discovered that another club was at work in their rear. This
unnerved them so that they--the survivors of the demonstration--raised
their voices to heaven in expostulation and stampeded. They went over
Bill Brennen like a wave over a bar, knocking the breath out of him, and
sending the oar flying from his grasp; but the skipper kept right after
them, still roaring, still plying the billet of green birch. They
scattered, each dashing for his own cabin, bursting open the door,
sprawling inside, and shutting the door with his feet.
After the last door had been slammed in his face, the skipper went home.
He found Bill Brennen seated by the stove, trying a pipeful of Mother
Nolan's tobacco. He had regained his broken oar and held it tenderly
across his knees.
"We sure put the witchery into them squid, skipper, sir," he said. "We
sure larned 'em the black magic, by Peter!"