LABOR AND REST.
"Turning to the celestial city, to infinite serenities, to love
without limit, to perfect joy."
The next evening Peter and Suneva and Dr. Balloch sat around Jan's
hearth, and talked of all that he had seen and done during his
absence. "But where is Michael Snorro?" asked the doctor. "I thought
to have heard him talk to-night."
"Snorro stays by the yacht. His quarters are on her, and she is in his
charge. No one finds Snorro far from the post of duty," answered Jan
proudly. "He is the best sailor in her Majesty's service, and the best
fighter."
"That is likely," said Peter. "Since the days of Harold Halfager, the
Snorros have been called good fighters."
"And why not?" asked Suneva, with a proud toss of her handsome head.
"He is pure Norse. Will a Norseman turn from any fight in a good
cause? That he will not Peter, there is none can tell us better what
the Norseman is than thou can. Speak out now, for Jan and the minister
will be glad to hear thee."
Every Shetlander can recite. Suneva had taught Peter to believe that
no one could recite as well as he could; so he laid down his pipe,
and, with great spirit and enthusiasm, spoke thus:
"A swarthy strength with face of light,
As dark sword-iron is beaten bright;
A brave, frank look, with health aglow,
Bonny blue eyes and open brow;
A man who'll face to his last breath
The sternest facts of life and death;
His friend he welcomes heart-in-hand,
But foot to foot his foe must stand;
This is the daring Norseman.
The wild wave motion, weird and strange,
Rocks in him: seaward he must range.
He hides at heart of his rough life
A world of sweetness for his wife;
From his rude breast a babe can press
Soft milk of human tenderness,
Make his eyes water, his heart dance,
And sunrise in his countenance;
The mild, great-hearted Norseman.
Valiant and true, as Sagas tell,
The Norseman hateth lies like hell;
Hardy from cradle to the grave,
'Tis his religion to be brave;
Great, silent, fighting men, whose words
Were few, soon said, and out with swords!
One saw his heart cut from his side
Living--and smiled, and smiling, died,
The unconquerable Norseman!
Still in our race the Norse king reigns,
His best blood beats along our veins;
With his old glory we can glow,
And surely sail where he could row.
Is danger stirring? Up from sleep
Our war-dog wakes the watch to keep,
Stands with our banner over him,
True as of old, and stern and grim;
The brave, true-hearted Norseman.
When swords are gleaming you shall see
The Norseman's face flash gloriously;
With look that makes the foeman reel:
His mirror from of old was steel.
And still he wields, in battle's hour,
That old Thor's hammer of Norse power;
Strikes with a desperate arm of might,
And at the last tug turns the fight:
For never yields the Norseman."
"That is true," said Jan; "and Snorro knows not the way to yield.
Once, on the river Songibusar, when we were attacking Sherif Osman,
there was danger that a battery would be taken in reverse. 'The Ajax'
had come up to assist the 'Hydra,' and her commander sent a sergeant
to tell Snorro that he had better spike his gun and retreat."
Suneva laughed scornfully, and asked, "Well, then, what did Snorro
answer?"
"'Thou tell him that sent thee, that Michael Snorro takes his orders
only from Captain Jan Vedder, and Captain Vedder has not said
"retreat." No, indeed!' Then he got his gun round to bear on the
enemy, and he poured such a fire down on them that they fled, fled
quick enough. As for Snorro, he did things almost impossible."
"Well, Jan, Osman was a very bad man. It is not well to pity the
downfall of tyrants. He had made Borneo, it seems, a hell upon
earth."
"My minister, he was a devil and no man. But five hundred free blue
jackets were more than he could bear. We utterly destroyed all his
forts, and took all his cannon, and made the coast habitable."
"To-day," said Margaret, "I heard thee say to Snorro, 'when thou comes
next on shore, bring with thee that idol of Chappo's for the
minister.' Who then is Chappo?"
"A wretch worth fighting. A Chinese pirate who came out against us
with forty junks, each junk carrying ten guns and a crew of fifty men.
He had been blockading the island of Potoo, where many English ladies
had taken refuge. It is not fit to name the deeds of these devils. We
took from them sixty wretched captives, destroyed one hundred of their
crafts and two hundred of their guns, and thus enabled a large number
of merchant vessels which had been shut up in different rivers for
ransom, to escape. There was even a worse state of affairs on the
Sarabas. There we were assisted by an American ship called 'The
Manhattan,' and with her aid destroyed a piratical expedition
numbering one hundred and twenty proas carrying more than twelve
hundred men. These wretches before starting beheaded and mutilated all
their women captives, and left their bodies with that of a child about
six years old upon the beach. Snorro's wrath that day was terrible. He
shut his ears to every cry for mercy. I do not blame him; indeed,
no."
Thus they talked, until the minister said, "Now I must go to my own
house, for Hamish is full of fears for me if I am late." So Jan walked
with him. It was midnight, but the moon was high in the zenith, and
the larks singing rapturously in mid-air. A tender, mystical glow was
over earth and sea, and both were as still as if they were a picture.
Many good words were said on that walk, and the man who was saved and
the man who saved him both lay down upon their beds that night with
full and thankful hearts.
For two months, full of quiet joy, Jan and Margaret occupied their old
home. They were almost as much alone as in their honeymoon; for little
Jan spent most of his time with his friend Snorro, on board "The
Lapwing." Snorro had been much pleased to join his old mates in the
fishing boats, but he could not bear to put off, even for a day, his
uniform. However, Jan and he and little Jan often sailed in advance of
the fleet, and found the herring, and brought word back what course to
steer. For this knowledge was a kind of instinct with Jan; he could
stand and look east and west, north and south, and then by some occult
premonition, strike the belt of fish.
Never had Jan dreamed of such happiness as came at last to him in that
humble home of his early married life. It was a late harvest of joy,
but it was a sure one. Margaret had wept tears of fond regret in all
its rooms; its hearth had been an altar of perpetual repentance to
her. But the sorrow had been followed by the joy of forgiveness, and
the bliss of re-union. Its walls now echoed the fond words of mutual
trust and affection, and the hearty communings of friendship. There
was no stint in its hospitality; no worry over trivial matters.
Margaret had learned that in true marriage the wife must give as well
as take--give love and forbearance, and help and comfort.
Jan's and Snorro's visit was a kind of festival for Lerwick. Though it
was the busy season, Peter and Suneva kept open house. Never had Peter
been so generous both in friendship and in business; never had Suneva
dressed so gayly, or set such plenteous feasts. She was very proud of
Margaret's position, and paid her unconsciously a vast respect; but
she opened all her warm heart to little Jan, and every thing that was
hers she determined to give him.
Dr. Balloch, in his quiet way, enjoyed the visit equally. He went very
often to sea in the yacht with Jan and Snorro, and, in the happy
intercourse with them, the long days were short ones to him. He saw
the full fruition of his faith and charity, and was satisfied.
Fortunately, after this event Jan was never very long away at one
time. Until the Russian war he made short cruises in the African seas,
and Snorro had many opportunities of realizing the joy of liberating
the slave, and punishing the oppressor. In the toil and suffering of
the Crimea, Jan and Snorro bore their part bravely. Jan had charge of
a naval brigade formed of contingents from the ships of the allied
fleets. No men did a greater variety of duties or behaved more
gallantly than these blue jackets on shore. They dragged the heavy
guns from their ships, and they fought in the batteries. They carried
the scaling ladders in assaults. They landed the stores. They
cheerfully worked as common laborers on that famous road between
Balaclava and Sebastopol, for they knew that on its completion
depended the lives of the brave men famishing and dying on the
heights.
But after many happy, busy years, Jan came home one day and found only
Margaret to welcome him. His son Jan was commanding his own vessel in
Australian waters; his son Peter was in the East Indies. His
daughters' homes were far apart, Margaret, with fast silvering hair,
and the heavy step of advancing years, longed greatly for the solace
and strength of his constant presence; and Jan confessed that he was a
little weary of the toil, and even of the glory of his life.
The fact once admitted, the desire for retirement grew with its
discussion. In a little while Jan and Snorro returned to Shetland for
the evening of their lives. They had been twenty years away, but
Lerwick was very little changed. The old world had not been invaded by
the new one. Here and there the busy spirit of the age had left a
finger-mark; no more. The changes were mostly those which under any
circumstances would have come. Doctor Balloch had finished his work,
and gone to his reward. Peter's store was in another name, but Peter,
though a very old man, was bright and hale, and quite able to take an
almost childlike interest in all Jan's plans and amusements.
At first Jan thought of occupying himself with building a fine new
house; but after he had been a week in Shetland, his ambitious project
seemed almost ridiculous. He noticed also that Margaret's heart clung
to her old home, the plain little house in which she had suffered, and
enjoyed, and learned so much. So he sat down contentedly on the hearth
from which he began a life whose troubled dawning had been succeeded
by a day so brilliant, and an evening so calm.
Snorro, never far away, and never long away, from his "dear captain,"
his "dear Jan," bought the little cottage in which he had once lived.
There he hung again the pictured Christ, and there he arranged, in his
own way, all the treasures he had gathered during his roving life.
Snorro's house was a wonderful place to the boys of Lerwick. They
entered it with an almost awful delight. They sat hour after hour,
listening to the kind, brave, good man, in whom every child found a
friend and comforter. His old mates also dearly loved to spend their
evenings with Snorro, and hear him tell about the dangers he had
passed through, and the deeds he had done.
How fair! how calm and happy was this evening of a busy day! Yet in
its sweet repose many a voice from the outside world reached the tired
wayfarers. There were frequent letters from Jan's children, and they
came from all countries, and brought all kinds of strange news. There
were rare visits from old friends, messages and tokens of remembrance,
and numerous books and papers that kept for them the echoes of the
places they had left.
Neither did they feel the days long, or grow weary with inaction. Jan
and Snorro, like the majority of men, whose life-work is finished,
conceived a late but ardent affection for their mother earth. They
each had gardens and small hot-houses, and they were always making
experiments with vegetables and flowers. It was wonderful how much
pleasure they got out of the patches of ground they tried to beautify.
Then the fishing season always renewed their youth. The boats in which
Jan or Snorro took a place were the lucky boats, and often both men
sat together during the watch, as they had done long years before, and
talked softly in the exquisite Shetland night of all the good that had
come to them.
For the companionship between these two souls grew closer and fonder
as they drew nearer to the heavenly horizon. They were more and more
together, they walked the long watches again, and fought over their
battles, and recalled the hours which had been link after link in that
chain of truest love which had bound their hearts and lives together.
And Margaret, still beautiful, with hair as white as snow, and a face
as fair and pink as a pale rose-leaf, sat smiling, and listening, and
knitting beside them; no fears in any of their hearts to beat away, no
strife to heal, the past unsighed for, the future sure, they made a
picture of old age, well won,
"Serene and bright
And lovely as a Shetland night."
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Archaic spellings have been preserved, including rereward,
throstle, wadmall, and lish.
Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).