He stepped inside without waiting for an answer or an invitation. He found Tim in the bed beside the stove, snoring heavily. He grabbed his shoulder and shook it roughly until the fellow closed his mouth and opened his eyes.
"Tim Leary, ye squid, shut off yer fog-horn an" hark to me!" he exclaimed. "By sun-up ye goes back to the woods and commences cuttin"
out poles for Father McQueen"s church. Ye"ll take yer brother Corny an"
Peter Walen along wid ye an" ye"ll chop poles all day. Mark that, Tim. I let ye take a fling yesterday, jist to see what kind o" dogs ye be; but if ever I catches ye takin" another widout the word from me I"ll be killin" ye!"
The man groaned.
"Holy saints, skipper, ye"d not be sendin" me to choppin" poles wid a head on me like a lobster-pot?" he whispered. "Sure, skipper, me poor head feels that desperate bad, what wid the liquor an" the clout ye give me, I couldn"t heave it up from the pillow if Saint Peter himself give the word."
"I bain"t troublin" about Saint Peter," returned the skipper. "If ever he wants ye to chop poles he"ll see as how ye does it, I bes t"inkin"!
It bes me a-tellin" ye now; an" if ye can"t carry yer head to the woods wid ye to-day, ye treacherous dog, I"ll knock it off for ye to-night so ye"ll be able to carry it "round in yer two hands. Mark that!"
So the skipper paid his round of morning calls. At some cabins he paused only long enough to shout a word through the door, at others he remained for several minutes, re-inspiring treacherous but simple hearts with the fear of Dennis Nolan, master of Chance Along. At one bed he stayed for fifteen minutes, examining and rebandaging the wound given by the knife of d.i.c.k Lynch. As for that drunken, sullen, treacherous savage, d.i.c.k Lynch himself, he dragged him from his blankets, knocked him about the floor, and then flung him back on to his bed. Then, turning to the dazed man"s horrified wife, he said, "See that he don"t turn on me agin, Biddy, or by the crowns o" the Holy Saints I"ll be the everlastin" death o" him!"
At some of the cabins his orders were for the woods, and at some they were for work on the stranded ship. He did not disturb Bill Brennen or Nick Leary. He knew that they would be around at his house for orders by sun-up. The last cabin he visited was that of Pat Kavanagh. Kavanagh was a man of parts, and had been a close friend of the old skipper. He was a man of the world, having sailed deep-sea voyages in his youth. He was a grand fiddler, a grand singer, and had made more "Come-all-ye"s" than you could count on your fingers and toes. He had a wooden leg; and his daughter was the finest girl in Chance Along. His best known Come-all-ye, which is sung to this day from Caplin Arm to Bay Bulls, starts like this:--
"Come, all ye hardy fishermen An" hearken to me lay O" how the good brig "Peggy Bell"
Went down in Trin"ty Bay.
"The skipper he was from St. John"s, The mate from Harbor Grace; The bosun was a n.o.ble lad Wid whiskers "round his face."
Pat Kavanagh was the author of the ballad that commences this way, and of many more.
He was proud of his daughter and his wooden leg; he was happy with his fiddle and his verses; he did not hold with physical or emotional violence, and asked the world for nothing more than to be left alone beside his stove with a knowledge that there was something in the pot and a few cakes of hard bread in the bin. He could not understand the new skipper, his terrible activity, his hard-fisted ways and his ambitions, and he took no stock in wrecks except as subjects for songs; but he had been delighted with a gift of four fine blankets and two quarts of rum which the skipper had made him recently.
Mary Kavanagh opened the door to the skipper, and let a fine light slip into her blue eyes at the sight of him. Her cheeks, which had been unusually pale when she opened the door, flushed bright and deep. The young man greeted her pleasantly and easily, and stepped across the threshold. Pat was already out of bed and seated in his chair close to the stove. He was long and thin, with a straggling beard and moustaches, a long face, a long nose, and kindly, twinkling eyes. Though he looked happy enough he also looked like a widower--why, I can"t say. It may have been owing to his general unstowed, unfurled, unswabbed appearance. He had not yet fastened on his wooden leg. He never did, nowadays, until he had eaten his breakfast and played a tune or two on his fiddle. His eyes were paler than his daughter"s, and not nearly so bright, and he had a way of staring at a thing for minutes at a time as if he did not see it--and usually he didn"t. Altogether, he was a very impractical person. He must have made a feeble sailor--a regular fool as a look-out--and the wonder is that he lost only one leg during his deep-sea career. He looked at the skipper with that calm, far-away shimmer in his eyes, combing his thin whiskers with his fingers. He did not speak. His wooden leg was leaning up against his chair.
"Good morning to ye, Pat Kavanagh," said the skipper.
The poet blinked his eyes, thereby altering their expression from a shimmer to a gray, wise gleam.
"So it bes yerself, Skipper Denny," he said. "Set down. Set down. Sure, b"y, I didn"t expect to see ye so spry to-day, an" was just studyin" out a few verses concernin" death an" pride an" ructions that would keep yer memory green."
"Whist, father!" exclaimed the girl.
"I bain"t dead, Pat, so ye kin set to on some new va.r.s.es," said the skipper. "If ye t"ought them poor fools ye heard yowlin" last night was to be the death o" me, then ye was on the wrong tack. But I bes here now to ax yer opinion concernin" them same fools, Pat. Yesterday they raised a mutiny agin me, all along o" a poor girl as I saved from the wrack, an" last night an" this mornin" I larned "em the error o" their ways.
Now ye was once a deep-sea sailorman, Pat, a-sailin" foreign v"yages, an" so I wants ye to tell me what I"d better be doin" wid some o" them squid? There was Foxey Jack Quinn; but he run away an" done for himself in the flurry. Here bes d.i.c.k Lynch, nigh as treacherous an" full o"
divilment as ever Jack was, growlin" an" snarlin" at me heels like a starvin" husky an" showin" his teeth every now an" agin. So I wants to know, Pat, will I kill him dead or run him out o" the harbor? I bes skipper here--aye, an" more nor skipper--an" all a man has to do to live safe an" happy an" rich in this harbor bes to do what I tells him to do--but this here d.i.c.k Lynch bain"t knowledgeable enough to see it. I"s had to bat him twice. Next time I bats him maybe I"d best finish the job? I puts it to ye, Pat Kavanagh, because ye knows the world an" how sich things bes done aboard foreign-going ships."
"This harbor bain"t no foreign-going ship, Denny," replied the poet.
"True, Pat; but if I calls it a ship it bes the same as one!" retorted the skipper.
"If ye takes it that way, Denny, then ye"d best be handin" the lad over to the jedges to be tried for mutiny," suggested the other, quietly.
"But if ye wants my opinion, ye"ll leave him be."
"Leave him be?"
"Aye. He bain"t worth troublin" about. Bat him now an" agin, if he tries to knife ye, an" maybe he"ll follow Jack Quinn. But this harbor bain"t a ship, lad. The skipper o" a ship has the law to his back in cases o"
mutiny an" the like--but the law bain"t behind ye, Dennis Nolan!"
"The divil fly away wid the law!" cried the skipper. "I bes skipper here! I makes the law for this harbor--an" them as don"t like the laws I makes kin go somewheres else."
"Leave him be, skipper. That bes what I tells ye, for yer own good.
Don"t kill him. Ye kin break up desarted wracks; ye kin fill yer pockets wid gold; ye kin bat yer mates over the n.o.b if ye wants to; but once ye gets to killin" men, Denny Nolan, then ye"ll find the law to yer back sure enough, a-fixin" a noose around yer neck! Aye, lad, that bes the truth! I warns ye because I likes ye--an" I bes glad to see ye so prosperous."
CHAPTER X
MARY KAVANAGH
A number of men with sore heads and dry mouths made their way to the top of the cliff, across the barrens and into a thin belt of spruces. There they worked as well as they could at cutting timber for Father McQueen"s church. They were a dolorous company. The daring spirit of mutiny had pa.s.sed away, leaving behind it the fear of the skipper. The courage, uplift and inspiring glow of the brandy had ebbed and evaporated, leaving the quaking stomach, the swimming brain, the misty eye. They groaned as they hacked at the trees, for the desire to lie down on the cold snow was heavy upon them; but still they hacked away, for the fear of Black Dennis Nolan, the unconquerable, was like a hot breath upon their necks. They said some bitter things about d.i.c.k Lynch.
The skipper visited the wreck, accompanied by Bill Brennen and a few of the men and boys who had not taken part in yesterday"s mutiny. The sea was almost flat and there was no wind. The hatches were broken open; and what they could see of the _Royal William"s_ cargo looked entirely satisfactory to them--sail-cloth, blankets, all manner of woollen and cotton goods, boots and shoes, hams, cheeses and tinned meats. Though some of these things were damaged by the salt water, few of them were ruined by it. They worked all day at winching out the cargo. Next day, the men who had cooled their sore heads in the woods were also put to work on the stranded ship. With timbers and tarpaulins from the ship they built a storehouse on the barren, in the midst of a thicket of spruces. In the two days they managed to save about a quarter of the cargo. The skipper drove them hard, an iron belaying pin in his hand and slashing words always on his lips. But even the dullest of them saw that he neither drove, cursed nor threatened Bill Brennen, Nick Leary or any of the men who had kept out of the mutiny. Most of the stuff that was salvaged was put in the new store, but a few hundreds of pounds of it were carried to the harbor.
During these two days the skipper did not once set eyes on the girl he had saved from the fore-top. Mother Nolan would not let him approach within two yards of the door of the room in which she lay. It seemed, from Mother Nolan"s talk, that the beautiful stranger was always sleeping. But, through the old woman, he learned her name. It was Flora Lockhart.
When the skipper and Cormick reached home after the second day"s work on the cargo, Mother Nolan told them that Flora was in the grip of a desperate fever, upon which none of her brews of roots and herbs seemed to have any effect. She was hot as fire and babbled continually of things strange and mad to the ears of the old woman. The skipper was dismayed at the news; but his vigorous mind immediately began to search for a means of dealing with the fever. He knew nothing of any remedies save the local ones, in the manufacture and administering of which his grandmother was a mistress. But here was the _Royal William"s_ medicine-chest, and here was Pat Kavanagh who had sailed foreign voyages in vessels carrying similar chests. He rushed from the house straight to the poet-fiddler"s cabin. He pushed open the door and entered without knocking, as the custom is in Chance Along. Mary was attending to a stew-pan on the stove, and Pat was seated in his chair with his wooden leg strapped in place. The skipper told of the stranger"s fever.
"An" ye has the ship"s medicine-chest?" queried Pat. "Then we"ll give her the bitter white powder--quinine--aye, quinine. Every ship carries it, lad. When I was took wid the fever in Port-o"-Spain didn"t the mate shake it on to me tongue till me ears crackled like hail on the roof, an" when I got past stickin" out me tongue didn"t he mix it wid whiskey an" pour it into me? Sure, Denny! An" it knocked the fever galley west in t"ree days an" left me limp as cook"s dish-clout hangin" to dry under the starboard life-boat. But it bes better nor dyin" entirely wid the fever. I"ll step round wid ye, skipper, and p"int out this here quinine to ye."
And he did. He found a large bottle of quinine in the box, in powder form. He measured out a quant.i.ty of it in doses of from three to five grains, for his memory of the sizes of the doses administered to him by the mate was somewhat dim, and advised Mother Nolan not to give the powders too often nor yet not often enough. Mother Nolan asked for more exact directions. She felt that she had a right to them. Pat Kavanagh combed his long whiskers reflectively with his long fingers, gazing at the medicine-chest with a far-away look in his pale eyes.
"I don"t rightly recollect the ins an" outs o" me own case," he said, at last, "but I has a dim picter in me mind o" how Mister Swim, the mate, shook the powder on to me tongue every blessed time I opened me mouth to holler. An" the b"ys let me drink all the cold water I could hold--aye, an" never once did they wake me up when I was sleepin" quiet, not even to give the quinine to me. An" they stowed me in blankets an" made me sweat, though the fo"castle was hotter nor the hatches o" h.e.l.l. An" when I wouldn"t stick out me tongue for the powder then they"d melt it in whiskey an" pour it down me neck."
With this Mother Nolan had to be content. She retired to her own room, mixed a powder in a cup of root-tea and gave it to the girl, who was quiet now, though wide-awake and bright-eyed. Kavanagh went home, invented a ballad about his fever in Port-o"-Spain, and wrote it upon his memory, verse by verse--for he did not possess the art of writing upon paper. After supper Cormick retired to the loft and his bed; but the skipper did not touch a blanket that night. He spent most of the time in his chair by the stove; but once in every hour he tiptoed into his grandmother"s room and listened. If he heard any sound from the inner room when the old woman happened to be asleep he awakened her and sent her in to Flora Lockhart. At dawn he fell asleep in his chair and dreamed that he was the mate of a foreign-going ship, and that all he had to do was to shake white powders on to the tongue of the girl he had saved from the fore-top of the _Royal William_. Cormick shook him awake when breakfast was ready. After hearing from Mother Nolan that the girl seemed much cooler and better than she had since the early afternoon of the previous day, he ate his breakfast and went out and sent all the able-bodied men to get timber for Father McQueen"s church, some from the woods and others from the wreck. They would haul the timber after the next fall of snow. But he did not go abroad himself. He hung about the harbor all day, sometimes in his own kitchen, sometimes down on the land-wash, and sometimes in other men"s cabins. He put a new dressing on the wound of the lad who had received the knife and paid another visit to d.i.c.k Lynch. Lynch was still in bed; but this time he did not drag him out on the floor.
Mother Nolan was full of common sense and wise instincts, in spite of the fact that she believed in fairies, mermaids and the personal attentions of the devil. She was doctor and nurse by nature as well as by practice--by everything, in short, but education. So it happened that she did not follow Pat Kavanagh"s instructions to the letter. She argued to herself that Pat"s fever had been a hot-climate one, while Flora Lockhart"s was undoubtedly a cold-climate one. She saw that the girl"s trouble was a sickness, accompanied by high fever, brought on by cold and exposure. So she did not give the quinine quite as generously as the fiddler had recommended, and kept right on with her hot brews of herbs and roots in addition. Instinct told her that if she could drive out the cold the fever would follow it out of its own accord.
In the afternoon the girl became restless and highly feverish again, and by sunset she was slightly delirious. She talked constantly in her wonderful voice of fame, of great cities and of many more things which sounded meaningless and alarming to Mother Nolan. For a little while she thought she was on the _Royal William_, talking to the captain about the great reception that awaited her in New York, her own city, which she had left four years ago, humble and unknown, and was now returning to, garlanded with European recognition. It was all double-Dutch to Mother Nolan. She put an end to it with her potent dose of quinine and whiskey. She spent this night in her patient"s room, keeping the fire roaring and catching catnaps in a chair by the hearth; and the skipper haunted the other side of the door. Toward morning the girl asked for a drink, as sanely as anybody could, took it eagerly, and then sank into a quiet sleep. The old woman nodded in her chair. The skipper tiptoed back to the kitchen and flung himself across his bed.
After the fourth day of the fight against the fever Mother Nolan saw that the struggle was likely to prove too much for her, if prolonged at the present pitch, whatever it might prove for Flora Lockhart; so she sent the skipper over to bring Mary Kavanagh to her. Now Mary was as kind-hearted and honest as she was big and beautiful. Her mind was strong and sane, and spiced with a quick wit. Her kindness and honesty were spiced with a warm temper. She was human all through. As she could flame to love so could she flame to anger. As she could melt to pity so could she chill to pride. In short, though she was a fine and good young woman, she wasn"t an angel. Angels have their place in heaven; and the place and duty of Mary Kavanagh was on this poor earth, where men"s souls are still held in sh.e.l.ls of clay and wrenched this way and that way by the sorrows and joys of their red hearts. Like most good human women, Mary had all the makings of a saint in her; but heaven itself could never make a s.e.xless, infallible angel of her.
Mary told her father not to forget to keep the fire burning, threw a blue cloak over her head and shoulders, and accompanied the skipper back to Mother Nolan. Short as the distance was between the two dwellings she glanced twice at her companion, with kindliness, inquiry and something of anxiety in her dark gray eyes. But he stared ahead of him so intently, with eyes somewhat haggard from lack of sleep, that he did not notice the glances. Mother Nolan welcomed her joyfully.
"Help me tend on this poor lamb from the wrack," said the old woman, "an" ye"ll be the savin" of me life. Me poor old eyes feels heavy as stove-lids, Mary dear."
"Sure, I"ll help ye, Mother Nolan, an" why not?" returned Mary, throwing aside her cloak from her smooth brown head and strong, shapely shoulders. "Father kin mind himself, if he bes put to it, for a little while. Now tell me what ye does for the lady, Mother Nolan, dear, an"
give me a look at her, an" then pop into bed wid ye, an" I"ll lay a bottle o" hot water to yer feet."
"Saints bless ye, me dear. May every hair o" yer darlint head turn into a wax candle to light ye to glory amongst the holy saints," returned the old woman.
So it came about that Mary Kavanagh joined in the fight for the life of the girl from the wreck. She stood her trick at Flora"s bed-side turn and turn about with the old woman, quiet as a fairy on her feet, though she was surely as big as a dozen fairies, quiet as a whisper with her voice, her hands as gentle as snow that falls in windless weather. She did not worry about her father. There was bread in the bin and fish in the shed for him, and he had his fiddle and his ballads. Every evening, sometimes before and sometimes after supper, he came over and sat with the skipper, combing his long beard with his restless fingers, and telling improbable tales of his deep-sea voyages.
The skipper"s faith in his grandmother and Mary was great. He soon schooled himself to stay away from the house for hours at a time, and give at least half his attention to the work of impressing the men with his mastery, and getting out lumber for the little church which Father McQueen was to build in June, on the barrens behind and above Chance Along. The men felt and knew his touch of mastery. They felt that this work at church-building was sure to lift any curse and devilment from the harbor, if such things had really been, and establish the skipper"s good luck for all time. d.i.c.k Lynch, who still walked feebly, with a bandage about his head, was in bad repute with all of them, and more especially with the blood-kin of the young man whom he had knifed in the drunken fight over the gold. But the youth who had been knifed, Pat Brennen by name, was in a fair way to recover from the wound, thanks to the skipper"s care and the surgical dressings from the _Royal William"s_ medicine-chest. So they worked well, ate well, clothed themselves in warm garments made by their womenfolk from the goods saved from the last wreck, and said with their undependable tongues, from the shallows of their undependable hearts, that Black Dennis Nolan was a great man and a terrible. The spirit of distrust and revolt was dead--or sound asleep, at least.