Doctor Luke of the Labrador
N >>
Norman Duncan >> Doctor Luke of the Labrador
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 | 14 |
15
"Not sick?" cried Timmie, under his breath.
"Tell your father that I heared Jagger say he'd prove the doctor a
coward or drown him."
Timmie laughed.
"Tell un," Jonas whispered, speaking in haste and great excitement,
"that Jagger's as hearty drunk as ever he was--loaded t' the gunwale
with rum an' hate--in dread o' the trade o' broom-makin'--desperate t'
get clear o' the business o' the _Jessie Dodd_. Tell un he wants t'
drown the doctor atween your harbour an' Wayfarer's Tickle. Tell un t'
give no heed t' the message. Tell un t'----"
"Oh, Lard!" Timmie gurgled, in a spasm of delight.
"Tell un t' have the doctor stay at home 'til the weather lifts. Tell
un----"
In response to an urgent call from the skipper, who was waiting at the
small-boat, Timmie ran out. As he stumbled down the path, emitting
guffaws and delicious chuckles, he conceived--most unhappily for us
all--an infinitely humorous plan, which would still give him the delight
of a rough passage to our harbour: for Timmie loved a wet deck and a
reeling beat to windward, under a low, driving sky, with the night
coming down, as few lads do. Inform the skipper? Not Timmie! Nor would
he tell even Jacky. He would disclose the plot at a more dramatic
moment. When the beat was over--when the schooner had made harbour--when
the anchor was down--when the message was delivered--in the thick of the
outcry of protest against the doctor's high determination to venture
upon the errand of mercy--_then_ Timmie Lovejoy, the dramatic
opportunity having come, would, with proper regard for his own
importance, make the astounding revelation. It would be quite thrilling
(he thought); moreover, it would be a masterly joke on his father, who
took vast delight in such things.
"The wind's veerin' t' the s'uth'ard," said the skipper, anxiously,
while they put a double reef in the mainsail. "'Twill be a rough time
across."
"Hut! dad," Timmie answered. "Sure, _you_ can make harbour."
"Ecod!" Jacky added, with a grin. "You're the man t' do it,
dad--_you're_ the man t' drive her!"
"Well, lads," the flattered skipper admitted, resting from the wrestle
with the obstinate sail, and giving his nose a pleased sort of tweak, "I
isn't sayin' I'm not."
So, low as she was--sunk with the load in her hold and the gear and
casks and what-not on her deck--they took the _Trap and Seine_ into the
gale. And she made brave weather of it--holding her own stoutly,
cheerily shaking the frothy water from her bows: though 'twas an unfair
task to put her to. Skipper Tommy put the first hand at the mainsail
halliards, the second hand at the foresail, with orders to cut away at
the lift of his hand, lest the vessel get on her beam's ends and
capsize. 'Twas thus that they drove her into the wind--stout hearts and
stout timber: no wavering or weak complaint, whatever the wind and sea.
But night caught them off our harbour--deep night: with the headlands
near lost in the black sky; no more than the looming, changing shadow
of the hills and the intermittent flash of breakers to guide the way.
They were now beating along shore, close to Long Cove of the mainland,
which must then have lain placid in the lee of Naked Point. At the cry
of "Hard-a-lee!"--sung out in terror when the breakers were fair under
the bow--the ship came about and fell off towards the open sea. Then
came three great waves; they broke over the bow--swept the schooner,
stem to stern, the deck litter going off in a rush of white water. The
first wrenched Jacky from his handhold; but Skipper Tommy, standing
astern, caught him by the collar as the lad went over the taffrail.
Came, then, with the second wave, Timmie, whom, also, the skipper
caught. But 'twas beyond the old man's power to lift both to the deck:
nor could he cry for help, nor choose whom to drop, loving them alike;
but desperately clung to both until the rush of the third wave tore one
away.
It was Timmie.
* * * * *
Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, making into our harbour, by way of the Gate, in
the depths of that wild night--poor old Skipper Tommy, blind and broken
by grief--ran his loaded schooner into the Trap and wrecked her on the
Seven Murderers, where she went to pieces on the unfeeling rocks. But
we managed to get the crew ashore, and no man lost his life at that
time. And Skipper Tommy, sitting bowed in my father's house, told us in
a dull, slow way--made tragic, from time to time, by the sweet light in
his eye, by the flitting shadow of a smile--told us, thus, that Jagger
of Wayfarer's Tickle lay at the point of death, in fear of hell, crying
for the help of his enemy: and then put his arm about Jacky, and went
with him to the Rat Hole, there to bury his sorrow, that it might not
distress us the more, who sorrowed, also.
XXVII
The DAY of The DOG
I was awakened at dawn. 'Twas by a gentle touch of the doctor's hand.
"Is it you, zur?" I asked, starting from sad dreams.
"Hush!" he whispered. "'Tis I, Davy."
I listened to the roar of the gale--my sleepy senses immediately aroused
by the noise of wind and sleet. The gathered rage was loosed, at last.
"'Tis a bitter night," I said.
"The day is breaking."
He sat down beside me, gravely silent; and he put his arm around me.
"You isn't goin'?" I pleaded.
"Yes."
I had grown to know his duty. 'Twas all plain to me. I would not have
held him from it, lest I come to love him less.
"Ay," I moaned, gripping his hand, "you're goin'!"
"Yes," he said.
We sat for a moment without speaking. The gale went whipping
past--driving madly through the breaking day: a great rush of black,
angry weather. 'Twas dim in the room. I could not see his face--but felt
his arm warm about me: and wished it might continue there, and that I
might fall asleep, serene in all that clamour, sure that I might find it
there on waking, or seek it once again, when sore need came. And I
thought, even then, that the Lord had been kind to us: in that this man
had come sweetly into our poor lives, if but for a time.
"You isn't goin' alone, is you?"
"No. Skipper Tommy is coming to sail the sloop."
Again--and fearsomely--the gale intruded upon us. There was a swish of
wind, rising to a long, mad shriek--the roar of rain on the roof--the
rattle of windows--the creaking of the timbers of our house. I trembled
to hear it.
"Oh, doctor!" I moaned.
"Hush!" he said.
The squall subsided. Rain fell in a monotonous patter. Light crept into
the room.
"Davy!"
"Ay, zur?"
"I'm going, now."
"Is you?"
He drew me very close. "I've come to say good-bye," he said. My head
sank in great misgiving against him. I could not say one word. "And you
know, lad," he continued, "that I love your sister. Tell her, when I am
gone, that I love her. Tell her----"
He paused. "An' what, zur," I asked, "shall I tell my sister for you?"
"Tell her--that I love her. No!" he cried. "'Tis not that. Tell her----"
"Ay?"
"That I loved her!"
"Hist!" I whispered, not myself disquieted by this significant change of
form. "She's stirrin' in her room."
It may be that the doctor loved my sister through me--that I found some
strange place in his great love for her, to which I had no title, but
was most glad to have. For, then, in the sheltering half-light, he
lifted me from my bed--crushed me against his breast--held me there,
whispering messages I could not hear--and gently laid me down again, and
went in haste away. And I dressed in haste: but fumbled at all the
buttons, nor could quickly lay hands on my clothes, which were scattered
everywhere, by my sad habit; so that, at last, when I was clad for the
weather, and had come to my father's wharf, the sloop was cast off.
Skipper Tommy sat in the stern, his face grimly set towards North
Tickle and the hungry sea beyond: nor did he turn to look at me. But the
doctor waved his hand--and laughed a new farewell.
* * * * *
I did not go to the hills--because I had no heart for that (and had no
wish to tell my sister what might be seen from there): but sat grieving
on a big box, in the lee of the shop, drumming a melancholy refrain with
my heels. And there I sat while the sad light of day spread over the
rocky world; and, by and by, the men came out of the cottages--and
_they_ went to the hills of God's Warning, as I knew they would--and
came back to the wharf to gossip: but in my presence were silent
concerning what they had seen at sea, so that, when I went up to our
house, I did not know what the sloop was making of the gale. And when I
crossed the threshold, 'twas to a vast surprise: for my breakfast was
set on a narrow corner of the kitchen table (and had turned cold); and
the whole house was in an amazing state of dust and litter and
unseasonable confusion--the rugs lifted, the tables and chairs awry, the
maids wielding brooms with utmost vigour: a comfortless prospect,
indeed, but not foreign to my sister's way at troublous times, as I
knew. So I ate my breakfast, and that heartily (being a boy); and then
sought my sister, whom I found tenderly dusting in my mother's room.
"'Tis queer weather, Bessie," said I, in gentle reproof, "for cleanin'
house."
She puckered her brow--a sad little frown: but sweet, as well, for,
downcast or gay, my sister could be naught else, did she try it.
"Is you thinkin' so, Davy?" she asked, pulling idly at her dust-rag.
"Ah, well!" she sighed.
"Why," I exclaimed, "'tis the queerest I ever knowed!"
"I been thinkin'," she mused, "that I'd get the house tidied up--while
the doctor's away."
"Oh, _was_ you?"
"Ay," she said, looking up; "for he've such a wonderful distaste for
dust an' confusion. An' I'll have the house all in order," she added,
with a wan smile, "when he gets back."
'Tis the way of women to hope; but that my clever sister should thus
count sure that which lay in grave doubt--admitting no uncertainty--was
beyond my understanding.
"Does you think," she asked, looking away, "that he will be back"--she
hesitated--"the morrow?"
I did not deign to reply.
"May be," she muttered, "the day after."
'Twas hard to believe it of her. "Bessie," I began, ignoring her folly,
"afore the doctor went, he left a message for you."
Her hands went swiftly to her bosom. "For me?" she whispered. "Ah, tell
me, Davy!"
"I'm just about t' tell," said I, testily. "But, sure, 'tis nothin' t'
put you in a state. When he come t' my room," I proceeded, "at dawn, t'
say good-bye, he left a message. 'Tell her,' said he, 'that I love
her.'"
It seemed to me, then, that she suffered--that she felt some glorious
agony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wondered
why.
"That he loves me!" she murmured.
"No," said I. "'Tell her not that,' said he," I went on. "'Tell her that
I loved her.'"
"Not that!" she cried. "'Twas that he loves me--_not_ that he loved me!"
"'Twas that he loved you."
"Oh, no!"
"I got it right."
"Ah, then," she cried, in despair, "he've no hope o' comin' back! Oh,"
she moaned, clasping her hands, "if only I had----"
But she sighed--and turned again to her womanly task; and I left her
tenderly caring for my mother's old room. And when, at midday, I came up
from the wharf, I found the house restored to order and quiet: my
sister sitting composed in my mother's place, smiling a welcome across
the table, as my mother used to do. And I kissed her--for I loved her!
* * * * *
It blew up bitter cold--the wind rising: the sea turned white with
froth. 'Twas a solemn day--like a sad Sunday, when a man lies dead in
the harbour. No work was done--no voice was lifted boisterously--no
child was out of doors: but all clung peevishly to their mothers'
skirts. The men on the wharf--speculating in low, anxious voices--with
darkened eyes watched the tattered sky: the rushing, sombre clouds,
still in a panic fleeing to the wilderness. They said the sloop would
not outlive the gale. They said 'twas a glorious death that the doctor
and Skipper Thomas Lovejoy had died; thus to depart in the high
endeavour to succour an enemy--but shed no tears: for 'tis not the way
of our folk to do it.... Rain turned to sleet--sleet to black fog. The
smell of winter was in the air. There was a feeling of snow abroad....
Then came the snow--warning flakes, driving strangely through the mist,
where no snow should have been. Our folk cowered--not knowing what they
feared: but by instinct perceiving a sudden change of season, for which
they were not ready; and were disquieted....
What a rush of feeling and things done--what rage and impulsive
deeds--came then! The days are not remembered--but lie hid in a mist, as
I write.... Timmie Lovejoy crawled into our harbour in the dusk of that
day: having gone ashore at Long Cove with the deck-litter of the _Trap
and Seine_; which surprised us not at all, for we are used to such
things. And when he gave us the message (having now, God knows! a tragic
opportunity, but forgetting that)--when he sobbed that Jagger, being in
sound health, would prove the doctor a coward or drown him--we
determined to go forthwith by the coast rocks to Wayfarer's Tickle to
punish Jagger in some way for the thing he had done. And when I went up
the path to tell my poor sister of the villany practiced upon the
doctor, designed to compass his very death--ah! 'tis dreadful to recall
it--when I went up the path, my mother's last prayer pleading in my
soul, the whitening world was all turned red; and my wish was that, some
day, I might take my enemy by the throat, whereat I would tear with my
naked fingers, until my hands were warm with blood.... But it came on to
snow; and for two days and nights snow fell, the wind blowing mightily:
so that no man could well move from his own house. And when the wind
went down, and the day dawned clear again, we put the dogs to my
father's komatik and set out for Wayfarer's Tickle: whence Jagger had
that morning fled, as Jonas Jutt told us.
"Gone!" cried Tom Tot.
"T' the s'uth'ard with the dogs. He's bound t' the Straits Shore t' get
the last coastal boat t' Bay o' Islands."
"Gone!" we repeated, blankly.
"Ay--but ten hours gone. In mad haste--alone--ill provisioned--fleein'
in terror.... He sat on the hills--sat there like an old crag--in the
rain an' wind--waitin' for the doctor's sloop. 'There she is, Jutt!'
says he. 'No,' says I. 'Thank God, Jagger, that's a schooner, reefed
down an' runnin' for harbour!' ... 'There she is!' says he. 'No,' says
I. 'Thank God, that's the same schooner, makin' heavy weather o' the
gale!' ... 'There she is, Jutt!' says he. 'Ay,' says I, 'God help her,
that's the doctor's sloop! They've wrecked the _Trap an' Seine_'.... An'
there he sat, watchin', with his chin on his hand, 'til the doctor's
sloop went over, an' the fog drifted over the sea where she had been....
An' then he went home; an' no man seed un agin 'til he called for the
dogs. An' he went away--in haste--alone--like a man gone mad...."
The lean-handed clerk broke in. He was blue about the lips--his eyes
sunk in shadowy pits--and he was shivering.
"'Timmons,' says he to me," he chattered, "'I'm going home. I done
wrong,' says he. 'They'll kill me for this.'"
"An' when he got the dogs in the traces," Jonas proceeded, "I seed he
wasn't ready for no long journey. 'Good Lord, Jagger,' says I, 'you
isn't got no grub for the dogs!' 'Dogs!' says he. 'I'll feed the dogs
with me whip.' 'Jagger,' says I, 'don't you try it. They won't _eat_ a
whip. They can't _live_ on it.' 'Never you fear,' says he. 'I'll feed
them ugly brutes when they gets me t' Cape Charles Harbour.' 'Jagger,'
says I, 'you better look out they don't feed theirselves afore they gets
you there. You got a ugly leader,' says I, 'in that red-eyed brute.'
'Him?' says he. 'Oh, I got _him_ broke!' But he _didn't_ have----"
"And with that," said the clerk, "off he put."
"Men," cried Tom Tot, looking about upon our group, "we'll cotch un
yet!"
So we set out in pursuit of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, who had fled
over the hills--I laugh to think of it--with an ugly, red-eyed leader,
to be fed with a whip: which dog I knew.... No snow fell. The days were
clear--the nights moonlit. Bitter cold continued. We followed a plain
track--sleeping by night where the quarry had slept.... Day after day
we pushed on: with no mercy on the complaining dogs--plunging through
the drifts, whipping the team up the steeper hills, speeding when the
going lay smooth before us.... By and by we drew near. Here and there
the snow was significantly trampled. There were signs of confusion and
cross purposes. The man was desperately fighting his dogs.... One night,
the dogs were strangely restless--sniffing the air, sleepless, howling;
nor could we beat them to their beds in the snow: they were like wolves.
And next day--being then two hours after dawn--we saw before us a bloody
patch of snow: whereupon Tom Tot cried out in horror.
"Oh, dear God!" he muttered, turning with a gray face. "They've eat him
up!"
Then--forgetting the old vow--he laughed.
* * * * *
... And this was true. They had eaten him up. The snow was all trampled
and gory. They had eaten him up. Among the tatters of his garments, I
found a hand; and I knew that hand for the hand of Jagger of Wayfarer's
Tickle.... They had turned wolves--they had eaten him up. From far
off--the crest of a desolate hill--there came a long howl. I looked
towards that place. A great dog appeared--and fled. I wondered if the
dog I knew had had his day. I wondered if the first grip had been upon
the throat....
* * * * *
When we came again to our harbour--came close again to the grief we had
in rage and swift action forgot--when, from the inland hills, we caught
sight of the basin of black water, and the cottages, snuggled by the
white water-side--we were amazed to discover a schooner lying at anchor
off my father's wharf: the wreck of a craft, her topmast hanging, her
cabin stove in, her jib-boom broke off short. But this amazement--this
vast astonishment--was poor surprise as compared with the shock I got
when I entered my father's house. For, there--new groomed and
placid--sat the doctor; and my dear sister was close to him--oh, so
joyfully close to him--her hand in his, her sweet face upturned to him
and smiling, glowing with such faith and love as men cannot deserve: a
radiant, holy thing, come straight from the Heart of the dear God, who
is the source of Love.
"Oh!" I ejaculated, stopping dead on the threshold.
"Hello, Davy!" the doctor cried.
I fell into the handiest chair. "You got home," I observed, in a gasp.
"Didn't you?"
He laughed.
"Sure," I began, vacantly, "an', ecod!" I exclaimed, with heat, "what
craft picked _you_ up?"
"The _Happy Sally_."
"Oh!" said I. 'Twas a queer situation. There seemed so little to say.
"Was you drove far?" I asked, politely seeking to fill an awkward gap.
"South o' Belle Isle."
"Ah!"
The doctor was much amused--my sister hardly less so. They watched me
with laughing eyes. And they heartlessly abandoned me to my own
conversational devices: which turned me desperate.
"Is you goin' t' get married?" I demanded.
My sister blushed--and gave me an arch glance from behind her long, dark
lashes. But--
"We are not without hope," the doctor answered, calmly, "that the Bishop
will be on our coast next summer."
"I'm glad," I observed, "that you've both come t' your senses."
"Oh!" cried my sister.
"Ecod!" the doctor mocked.
"Ay," said I, with a wag. "I is _that_!"
The doctor spoke. "'Twas your sister," said he, "found the way. She
discovered a word," he continued, turning tenderly to her, his voice
charged with new and solemn feeling, "that I'd forgot."
"A word!" said I, amazed.
"Just," he answered, "one word."
'Twas mystifying. "An' what word," I asked, "might that word be?"
"'Expiation,'" he replied.
I did not know the meaning of that word--nor did I care. But I was glad
that my dear sister--whose cleverness (and spirit of sacrifice) might
ever be depended upon--had found it: since it had led to a consummation
so happy.
"Skipper Tommy saved?" I enquired
"He's with the twins at the Rat Hole."
"Then," said I, rising, "as you're both busy," said I, in a saucy flash,
"I'll be goin'----"
"You'll not!" roared the doctor. And he leaped from his seat--bore down
upon me, indeed, like a mad hurricane: my sister laughing and clapping
her little hands. So I knew I must escape or have my bones near crack
under the pressure of his affection; and I was agile--and eluded him.
* * * * *
I found Skipper Tommy and the twins at the Rat Hole--the skipper
established in comfort by the stove, a cup of tea at his hand, his
stockinged feet put up to warm: the twins sitting close, both grinning
broadly, each finely alert to anticipate the old man's wants, who now
had acquired a pampered air, which sat curiously upon him. "Seems t' me,
Davy," he said, in a solemn whisper, at the end of the tale, new told
for me, "that the dear Lard took pity. 'You done pretty well, Tommy,'
says He, 't' put out t' the help o' Jagger in that there gale. I'm
thinkin' I'll have t' change my mind about you,' says He. 'The twins,
Tommy,' says He, 'is well growed, an' able lads, both, as I knowed when
I started out t' do this thing; but I'm thinkin',' says He, 'that I'll
please you, Tommy,' says He, 'by lettin' you live a little longer with
them dear lads.' Oh," the skipper concluded, finding goodness in all the
acts of the Lord, the while stretching out his rough old hand to touch
the boys, his face aglow, "'twas wonderful kind o' Him t' let me see my
lads again!"
The twins heartily grinned.
XXVIII
IN HARBOUR
When the doctor was told of the tragic end of Jagger of Wayfarer's
Tickle, he shuddered, and sighed, and said that Jagger had planned a
noble death for him: but said no more; nor has he since spoken the name
of that bad man. And we sent the master of the _Jessie Dodd_ to St.
Johns by the last mail-boat of that season--and did not seek to punish
him: because he had lost all that he had, and was most penitent; and
because Jagger was dead, and had died the death that he did.... The last
of the doctor's small patrimony repaired the damage done our business by
the wreck of the _Trap and Seine_: and brought true my old dream of an
established trade, done with honour and profit to ourselves and the folk
of our coast, and of seven schooners, of which, at last, the twins were
made masters of two.... And that winter my sister was very happy--ay, as
happy (though 'tis near sin to say it) as her dear self deserved. Sweet
sister--star of my life!... The doctor, too, was happy; and not once
(and many a cold night I shivered in my meagre nightgown at his door
to discover it)--not once did he suffer the old agony I had known him to
bear. And when, frankly, I asked him why this was----
"Love, Davy," he answered.
"Love?" said I.
"And labour."
"An' labour?"
"And the Gospel according to Tommy."
"Sure," I asked, puzzled, "what's that?"
"Faith," he answered.
"'Tis queer!" I mused.
"Just faith," he repeated. "Just faith in the loving-kindness of the
dear God. Just faith--with small regard for creeds and forms."
This he said with a holy twinkle.
* * * * *
But that was long ago. Since then I have been to the colleges and
hospitals of the South, and have come back, here, in great joy, to live
my life, serving the brave, kind folk, who are mine own people, heartily
loved by me: glad that I am Labrador born and bred--proud of the brave
blood in my great body, of the stout purpose in my heart: of which
(because of pity for all inlanders and the folk of the South) I may not
with propriety boast. Doctor Davy, they call me, now. But I have not
gone lacking. I am not without realization of my largest hope. The
decks are often wet--wet and white. They heave underfoot--and are wet
and white--while the winds come rushing from the gray horizon. Ah, I
love the sea--the sweet, wild sea: loveliest in her adorable rage, like
a woman!... And my father's house is now enlarged, and is an hospital;
and the doctor's sloop is now grown to a schooner, in which he goes
about, as always, doing good.... And my sister waits for me to come in
from the sea, in pretty fear that I may not come back; and I am glad
that she waits, sitting in my mother's place, as my mother used to do.
And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy this day lies dying....
* * * * *
I sit, a man grown, in my mother's room, which now is mine. It is
springtime. To-day I found a flower on the Watchman. Beyond the broad
window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God's Warning stand
yellow in the sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of
snow which yet linger in the hollows; and the harbour water ripples
under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices,
strangely unchanged by the years that are passed, come drifting up the
hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea
and land is warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be,
when I was a lad, and my mother lay here dying. But there is no shadow
in the house--no mystery. The separate sorrows have long since fled. My
mother's gentle spirit here abides--just as it used to do: touching my
poor life with holy feeling, with fine dreams, with tender joy. There is
no shadow--no mystery. There is a glory--but neither shadow nor mystery.
And my hand is still in her dear hand--and she leads me: just as she
used to do. And all my days are glorified--by her who said good-bye to
me, but has not left me desolate.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 | 14 |
15