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IMPORTED DIRECT
I laughed, too, unable to help it, and my uncle guffawed, in his large way; and then we all laughed like tried friends together: so that ’twas plain, being thus at once set upon agreeable terms, with no shyness or threat of antipathy to give ill ease, that we three strange folk were well-met in the wide world. ’Twas cosey in the best room: a lively blaze in the fireplace, the room bright with lamplight, warm with the color of carpet and tapestried mahogany, spotless and grand, as I thought, in every part; ay, cosey enough, with good company well-met within, the risen wind clamoring through the night, the rain lashing the black panes, the sea rumbling upon the rocks below, and, withal, a savory smell abroad in goodly promise. My uncle, grown fat as a gnome in these days, grotesquely fashioned, miscellaneously clothed as ever, stood with legs wide upon the black wolf’s-skin, his back to the fire, his great hands clasped over his paunch, lying as upon a shelf; regarding the direct importation and myself, the rise of my admiration, the room, the whole world, indeed, visible and invisible, with delight so boyish that ’twas good to watch the play of satisfaction upon his fantastic countenance, which now rippled and twinkled from his black cravat to his topmost scars and bristles. Well-met were we three folk; ay, no doubt: I was in a glow of content with this new fortune.
’Tis strange how the affections fall…
My tutor, John Cather, as his name turned out to be, was older than I, after all–my elder by five years, I fancied, with age-wise ways and a proud glance to overawe my youth, were need of it to come: a slight, dark-skinned man, clean-featured, lean-cheeked, full-lipped, with restless dark eyes, thin, olive-tinted hands, black hair, worn overlong, parted in the manner of a maid and falling upon his brow in glossy waves, which he would ruffle into disorder, with the air of knowing what he was about. He was clad all in black, for the reason, he said, that he aspired to holy orders: well-kept black, edged with linen of the whitest, and not ill cut, according to my uncle’s fashion-plates, but sadly worn at the seams and everywhere brushed near threadbare. Now sprawled, hands pocketed, in a great-chair under the lamp, indolent with accomplished grace (it seemed), one long leg thrown languidly over the other, the slender foot never at rest, he was postured with that perfection of ease and gentility into which my uncle, watchful observer of the manners of the world he walked in, had many a time endeavored to command me, but with the most indifferent success. I listened to my tutor’s airy, rambling chit-chat of the day’s adventures, captivated by the readiness and wit and genial outlook; the manner of it being new to my experience, the accompaniment of easy laughter a grateful enlightenment in a land where folk went soberly. And then and there–I remember, as ’twere an hour gone, the gale and the lamplight and the laughter of that time–I conceived for him an enduring admiration.
Taken by an anxious thought I whispered in my uncle’s ear, having him bend his monstrous head close for secrecy.
“Eh?” says he.
I repeated the question.
“Steerage, lad,” he answered. “Tut!” he growled, “none o’ that, now! ’Twill be steerage.”
It grieved me to know it.
“An’ now, Dannie, lad,” quoth my uncle, aloud, with a thirsty rubbing of the hands and a grin to match, “fetch the bottle. The bottle, b’y! ’Tis time for growed men t’ pledge the v’y’ge. A bit nippy, parson man? The bottle, Dannie!”
“Bottle?” cries my tutor. “Why, really, you know, Skipper Nicholas, I–”
“Is you much give t’ the use o’ fo’c’s’les, parson?” my uncle interrupted.
My tutor was not.
“Then,” says my uncle, grimly, “you’ll be wantin’ a drap.”
’Twas true enough, by my uncle’s mysterious perversity: a drop would be wanted, indeed.
“Dannie, lad,” he commanded, “fetch that there bottle!”
Cather tossed his head, with a brief little laugh, and then, resigned to my uncle’s idiosyncrasy–divining the importance of it–gave me a quick nod of permission: the which I was glad to get, aware, as I was, of the hospitable meaning of my uncle’s invitation and his sensitiveness in respect to its reception. So I got the ill-seeming black bottle from the locker, the tray and glasses and little brown jug from the pantry, the napkin from Agatha, in a flutter in the kitchen, and having returned to the best room, where the tutor awaited the event in some apparent trepidation, I poured my uncle’s dram, and measured an hospitable glass for Cather, but with less generous hand, not knowing his capacity, but shrewdly suspecting its inferiority. The glasses glittered invitingly in the light of the fire and lamp, and the red liquor lay glowing within: an attractive draught, no doubt–to warm, upon that windy night, and to appetize for the belated meat.
“T’ you, parson!” says my uncle.
I touched the tutor’s elbow.
“Water?” says he, in doubt. “Is it the custom?”
“Leave un be, Dannie.”
“Whatever the custom,” my tutor began, “of course–”
“’Tis wise,” I ventured; minded to this by the man’s awkward handling of the glass.
“For shame, Dannie!” cries my uncle. “Leave the parson take his liquor as he will. ’Tis easy t’ see he likes it neat.”
Cather was amused.
“T’ you, parson!” says my uncle.
The tutor laughed as he raised the glass of clear rum. I watched him with misgiving, alive to all the signs of raw procedure–the crook of his elbow, the tilt of the glass, the lift of his head. “To you, sir!” said he: and resolutely downed it. ’Twas impressive then, I recall, to observe his face–the spasm of shock and surprise, the touch of incredulity, of reproachful complaint, as that hard liquor coursed into his belly. ’Twas over in a moment–the wry mouth of it, the shudder–’twas all over in a flash. My tutor commanded his features, as rarely a man may, into stoical disregard of his internal sensations, and stood rigid, but calm, gripping the back of his chair, his teeth set, his lips congealed in an unmeaning grin, his eyes, which ran water against his will, fixed in mild reproach upon my beaming uncle, turning but once, I recall, to my solicitous self. With no unseemly outbreak–with but an inconsequent ahem and a flirt of his handkerchief over his lips–he returned to his composure. He would never again drink rum with my uncle, nor any other liquor, through all the years of our intimate connection; but this mattered not at all, since he had in the beginning pledged the old man’s health with honor to himself. I was glad, however, that on the windy night of our meeting he was no more put out; for I wished him safe within my uncle’s regard, and knew, as I knew my uncle and the standards of our land, that he had by this gallant conduct achieved the exalted station. ’Twas a test of adaptability (as my uncle held), and of manhood, too, of which, as a tenet, taught me by that primitive philosopher, I am not able, bred as I am, to rid myself to this very day.
“Parson,” said my uncle, solemnly, advancing upon the tutor, “ye done it, and ye done it well! Shake, shipmate–shake!”
The bell tinkled.
“Is that dinner?” cries my tutor. “Jove! but I am on edge.”
We moved into the dining-room, myself pitying the man in a heartfelt way for his stomach’s sake. ’Twas unkind in my uncle to sharpen his appetite with red rum.
My uncle stumped ahead, his wooden leg as blithe as the sound one, and was waiting in his humble quarters, with a gnome-like leer of expectation, when we entered. Neither my watch, set with its shy jewels, nor my sparkling fingers, nor the cut and quality and fit of my London-made clothes, which came close to perfection, nor anything concerning me, had caused my tutor even so much as to lift an eyebrow of surprise; but the appearance of the table, laid in the usual way, gave him an indubitable fit of amazement: for, as was our custom on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, at the one end, where sat the luxurious Dannie Callaway, by no will of his own, was the glitter of silver, the flash and glow of delicate china, a flower or more from our garden, exquisite napery, the bounties of the kindly earth, whatever the cost; but at the other (the napery abruptly ceasing at the centre of the table because of the wear and tear that might chance) was set out, upon coarse ware, even to tin, fare of common description, forecastle fare, fisherman fare, unrelieved by any grace of flower or linen or glitter of glass, by any grace at all, save the grace of a black bottle, which, according to my experience, was sufficient to my uncle and such rough folk as dined with him. ’Twas no cause for surprise to me, to whom the enigma had been familiar from the beginning; but my tutor, come suddenly against the puzzle, was nonplussed, small blame to him.
“Parson,” says my uncle, “you– goes steerage!”
My tutor started, regarded my uncle with a little jerk of astonishment; and his eyebrows went high–but still conveyed no more than polite inquiry. “I beg your pardon?” he apologized.
“Steerage, parson!” my uncle repeated. “Steerage passage, sir, the night!”
“Really!”
“’Tis the same as sayin’,” I made haste to explain, “that you dines along o’ Uncle Nick at his end.”
The tutor was faintly amused.
“Steerage the night, parson; cabin the morrow,” said my uncle. “Ye’ll live high, lad, when ye’re put in the cabin. Lord love ye, parson! but the feedin’ there is fair scandalous. ’Twould never do t’ have the news of it go abroad. An’ as for the liquor! why, parson,” he proceeded, tapping my tutor on the breast, to impress the amazing disclosure, while we stood awkwardly, “Dannie haves a locker o’ wine as old as your grandmother, in this here very room, waitin’ for un t’ grow up; an’ he’ll broach it, parson, like a gentleman–he’ll broach it for you, when you’re moved aft. But bein’ shipped from the morrow, accordin’ t’ articles, signed, sealed, an’ delivered,” he added, gravely, “’twouldn’t be just quite right, accordin’ t’ the lay o’ fac’s you’re not in the way o’ knowin’, t’ have ye feed along o’ Dannie the night. ’Twouldn’t be right, ’twouldn’t be honest, as I sees it in the light o’ them fac’s; not,” he repeated, in a whisper, ghostly with the awe and mystery of it, so that the tutor stared alarmed, “accordin’ t’ them damned remarkable fac’s, as I sees un! But I’ve took ye in, parson–I’ve took ye in!” he cried, with a beaming welcome, to which my tutor instantly responded. “Ye’ll find it snug an’ plenty in the steerage, an’ no questions asked. No questions,” he repeated, with a wink of obscure meaning, “asked. They’s junk an’ cabbage, lad, with plum-duff t’ top off with, for a bit of a treat, an’ rum–why parson! as for the rum, ’tis as free as water! Sit ye,” says he, “an’ fall to!” his face all broken into smiles. “Fall to, parson, an’ spare nothin’. Better the salt-junk o’ toil,” he improvised, in bold imitation of the Scripture, to my tutor’s further astonishment, “than the ice-cream o’ crime!”
My tutor helplessly nodded.
“Ol’ Nick Top,” says my uncle, “is on’y a hook-an’-line man, an’ fares hard, as fishermen must; but little ol’ Dannie Callaway, sittin’ there in that little cabin o’ his, is a damn little gentleman, sir, an’ feeds off the best, as them big-bugs will.”
We fell to.
“Wild night,” my tutor remarked.
’Twas blowing wildly, indeed: the wind come to the east–sweeping in from the vast gray sea, with black rain to fling at the world. The windows rattled as the gusts went crying past the cottage. But a warm glow, falling from the lamp above the table, and the fire, crackling and snorting in the grate, put the power of the gale to shame. ’Twas cosey where we sat: warm, light, dry, with hunger driven off–a cosey place on a bitter night: a peace and comfort to thank the good God for, with many a schooner off our coast, from Chidley to the Baccalieu light, riding out the gale, in a smother of broken water, with a rocky shore and a flash of breakers to leeward. Born as I am–Newfoundlander to the marrow of my body and the innermost parts of my soul–my heart puts to sea, unfailingly, whatever the ease and security of my place, when the wind blows high in the night and the great sea rages. ’Tis a fine heritage we have, we outport Newfoundlanders–this feeling for the toss and tumult and dripping cold of the sea: this sympathy, born of self-same experience. I’d not exchange it, with the riches of cities to boot, for the thin-lipped, gray, cold-eyed astuteness, the pomp and splendid masks, of the marts and avenues I have seen in my time. I’d be a Newfoundlander, outport born, outport bred, of outport strength and tenderness of heart, of outport sincerity, had I my birth to choose…
“Dannie,” says my uncle, peering inquisitively into the cabin, “how d’ye like that there fresh beef?”
’Twas good.
“He likes it!” cries my uncle, delighted. “Parson, he likes it. Hear un? He likes it. An’ ’tis paid for, parson–paid for! Dannie,” says he, again leaning forward, eyes bent upon my plates, “how d’ye like them there fresh greens? Eh, lad?”
They were very good.
“An’ paid for, parson–all paid for!”
My tutor, poor man! stared agape, his knife and fork laid by; for my uncle, become now excited and most indiscreet, was in a manner the most perplexing–and in some mysterious indication–pointing, thumb down, towards the oil-cloth that floored the room, or to the rocks beneath, which the wind ran over, the house being set on spiles, or to the bowels of the earth, as you may choose. ’Twas a familiar thing to me–the mystery of the turned thumb and spasmodic indication, the appearance, too, at such times, of my uncle’s eyes: round, protruding, alight with wicked admiration, starting from the scars and bristles and disfigurements of his face, but yet reflecting awe, as of some unholy daring, to be mightily suffered for in due time. But ’twas not familiar to my tutor, nor, doubtless, had ever occurred to his imagination, sophisticated as he may have thought it; he could do nothing but withstand the amazement as best he might, and that in a mean, poor way, as he gazed alternately upon my uncle’s flushed and deeply stirred countenance and upon my own saddened, aged face, speaking its ancient bewilderment. I pitied his disquietude, rather: for he was come from abroad to our coast–and could not understand.
“Dannie, lad,” my uncle anxiously inquired, “can it be that you likes them there fresh carrots?”
It could easily be.
“An’ paid for!” my uncle ejaculated, with no abatement of delight. “Parson,” he proceeded, proudly, “good feed that there young gentleman has in the cabin, eh?”
My tutor agreed.
“None better in the world, eh?” the old man went on. “You couldn’t do no better, could you?”
My tutor said that no man could.
“An’ paid for,” says my uncle, thumbing down. “Paid for, every bite!” He turned to me. “Dannie,” says he, “how d’ye like them there new potatoes?”
They were more than palatable.
“Hear that, parson!” cries my uncle. “He likes un! Imported direck, sir, from Bermuda,” says he, with all the vanity of riches. “Ever feed so high yourself, parson? Consignment arrived,” says he, “per S.S. Silvia. You’ll see it in the Herald an you looks.”
“Really!” my tutor exclaimed, for lack of something better.
“Fac’,” says my uncle; “an’ paid for–skin an’ eye!”
My tutor gave it up–permitted himself no longer to be troublesomely mystified; but after a quick glance from steerage to cabin, flashed with amused comprehension of the contrast, threw back his head with a little laugh quite detached from our concerns, and presently, innured to the grotesquery, busied himself with relish upon his salt-junk. Thereafter, the rum buzzing in his head, he ran on in a vivacious way upon all things under the sun, save himself, so that the windy night seemed very far away, indeed, and the lamplight and fire to lend an inspiration to his nimble tongue, until, in a lull of the engaging discourse, he caught my uncle peering greedily into the cabin, all but licking his lips, his nostrils distended to the savor, his flooded eyes fixed upon the fresh beef and vegetables in manifest longing, every wrinkle and muscle of his broad face off guard. My tutor–somewhat affected, I fancy, by this display–turned to me with a little frown of curiosity, an intrusive regard, it seemed to me, which I might in all courtesy fend off for the future. ’Twas now time, thinks I, to enlighten him with the knowledge I had: a task I had no liking for, since in its accomplishment I must stir my uncle unduly.
“Uncle Nick,” says I, “’tis like Mr. Cather will be havin’ a cut off my roast.”
“The parson?” my uncle demanded.
“Ay,” says I, disregarding his scowl; “a bit o’ roast beef.”
“Not he!” snaps my uncle. “Not a bite!”
I nerved myself–with a view wholly to Cather’s information. “Uncle Nick,” I proceeded, my heart thumping, such was the temerity of the thing, “’tis a dirty night without, an’ here’s Mr. Cather just joined the ship, an’ I ’low, now, the night, Uncle Nick, that maybe you–”
“Me?” roars my uncle, in a flare of rage and horror. “Me touch it? ME!”
The vehemence of this amazed my tutor, who could supply no cause for the outburst; but ’twas no more than I had expected in the beginning.
“Me!” my uncle gasped.
There was a knock at the door…
Ay, a knock at the door! ’Twas a thing most unexpected. That there should come a knock at the door! ’Twas past believing. ’Twas no timid tapping; ’twas a clamor–without humility or politeness. Who should knock? There had been no outcry; ’twas then no wreck or sudden peril of our people. Again it rang loud and authoritative–as though one came by right of law or in vindictive anger. My uncle, shocked all at once out of a wide-eyed daze of astonishment, pushed back from the board, in a terrified flurry, his face purpled and swollen, and blundered about for his staff; but before he had got to his feet, our maid-servant, on a fluttering run from the kitchen, was come to the door. The gale broke in–rushing noises and a swirl of wet wind. We listened; there was a voice, not the maid-servant’s–thin, high-tempered, lifted in irascible demand–but never a word to be distinguished in that obscurity of wind and rain. ’Twas cold, and the lamp was flaring: I closed the door against this inrush of weather.
My wretched uncle beckoned the tutor close, a finger lifted in caution; but still kept looking at me–and all the while stared at me with eyes of frightened width–in a way that saw me not at all. “Parson,” he whispered, “they wasn’t ar another man landed by the mail-boat the day, was they?”
The tutor nodded.
“Ye wouldn’t say, would ye,” my uncle diffidently inquired, “that he’d be from St. John’s by the cut of um?”
“A gray little man from St. John’s.”
“I ’low then,” says my uncle, “that he talked a wonderful spell about a lad, didn’t um?”
My tutor shook his head.
“Nar a word–about any lad?”
“I’m sure not.”
My uncle tapped the tip of his nose.
“A red mole,” said my tutor.
And now my uncle poured himself a great dram of rum. ’Twas a cataract of liquor! Never such a draught had I known him dare–not in his most abandoned hours at the Anchor and Chain. ’Twas beyond him to down it at a gulp; ’twas in two gulps that he managed it, but with no breath between–and then pushed the glass away with a shudder of disgust. Presently–when the liquor had restored his courage and begun to fetch the color to his pallid face–he got his staff in his fist and stumbled off in a high bluster, muttering gross imprecations as he went. The door slammed behind him; we heard no more–never a sound of growl or laugh from the best room where he sat with the gray little man from St. John’s. ’Twas not a great while he stayed; and when he came again–the stranger having gone–he drew up to the board with all his good-humor and ease of mind regained. The rum had thickened his tongue and given a wilful turn to his wooden leg: no more. There was not a hint of discomposure anywhere about him to be descried; and I was glad of this, for I had supposed, being of an imaginative turn, that all the mystery of the luxury that was mine was at last come to its dreadful climax.
“A ol’ shipmate, Dannie,” my uncle genially explained.
’Twas hard to believe.
“Sailed along o’ that there ol’ bully t’ Brazilian ports,” says he, “thirty year ago.”
I wondered why my uncle had not called for his bottle to be brought in haste to the best room.
“Still storming,” the tutor ventured.
“Blowin’ high,” I remarked.
“I ’low I’ll stay ashore, the morrow,” says my uncle, “an’ have a spurt o’ yarnin’ along o’ that there ol’ bully.”
But the gray little man from St. John’s–the gray little red-moled man–was no old shipmate (I knew), nor any friend at all, else my uncle would have had him hospitably housed for the night under our roof.