Happy Island 3

Happy Island 3

“All you’ve done, was wipe ’em, Benjy,” said Uncle William anxiously.

 

“I know, William—and it’s all right—and I liked it!”

 

“You ’d pay a little suthin’,” suggested Andy.

 

“Oh, anything reasonable,” responded the tall man. “Now let’s see the

map.”

 

 

 

 

III

 

THEY bent over the table, following Uncle William’s finger. The room was

filled with light smoke from Uncle William’s pipe and the cigarette

that Bodet held in his fingers and whiffed from time to time. The dusk

outside crept in and mingled with the smoke.

 

“It’s along up here somewheres....” said Uncle William, peering at

the map—“Here—! Here it is!” He glued his finger to a tiny spot—“They

stopped here, they said—off St. Pierre, and then run along up through

Placentia Bay and stopped off two-three times, and back to St.

Mary’s—kind o’ edgin’ along—They struck a squall here—off Lance

Point—and that kep’ ’em back a spell—”

 

“The boat’s all right!” said Bodet quickly.

 

“Oh, she’s all right, I guess. They didn’t say nothin’ about the boat.

They was writin’ about the scenery and about their feelings, and so on;

but I managed to make out their course—puttin’ this and that together.

Your boat’s all right, Benjy. She ’ll stand any weather they ’ll get

this time o’ year.”

 

“Yes—she ’ll stand it—with good handling—”

 

“Well, you’ve got a captain knows his business.... They ’ll bring her

’round to your back door some day, safe and sound.... You ain’t worryin’

to have ’em back, Benjy?”

 

The other shook his head. “Not a bit—I’m contented here.” He gave a

little puff to the cigarette and wrinkled his eyes, smiling across the

map and dreaming a little.

 

Uncle William’s eyes were on his face, kindly and glad. The pipe in

his lips gave out a gentle volume of smoke and rumbled a little down

below—“You can’t find a much better place ’n this is, can you?” He moved

his hand toward the window where the dusk was coming in... and across

the harbor where the lights glowed faintly—like stars.

 

Benjy’s eye rested on them. “Best place in the world,” he said.

 

“We all like it,” said Uncle William, “Andy likes it, too—”

 

The green in Andy’s eye retreated a little—“I’d like to see some of them

other places,” he said.... “Now, that,” he shoved his finger at a point

on the map—“That’s the farthest north I ever went.” Uncle William bent

to it.... “Dead Man’s Point.” He chuckled a little. “‘Tis kind o’ rough,

Andy, ain’t it!”

 

“I’ve started times enough,” said Andy—“once for Labrador and once in

a whaler ’twas going way up—they said. Seem’s if we always got stuck

or got a cargo—or suthin’—before we’re fairly under way—and had to turn

around and come back.”

 

Uncle William nodded. “You’ve had a hard time, Andy—and I do’ ’no’s I’d

risk taking you along myself—not if I wanted to get anywhere.”

 

Andy grinned. “You’ve been,” he said. “You don’t care.”

 

Uncle William’s eye swept the map and he laid his great hand on it

affectionately, spreading the fingers wide. “It does feel good to think

you’ve seen it,” he said, “But I’d rather be right here with you and

Benjy a-traveling this way—after them young things, that don’t know

where they’re sailing or what kind of waters they’re comin’ to—and not

trusting the Lord even—not fairly trustin’ him, so to speak—just kind

o’ thinkin’ of him as suthin’ to fall back on if a storm comes up—a real

hard one—kind of a tornado like.”

 

“She’s a good boat,” said the tall man.

 

“She’s all right, Benjy—and they’re nice children,” responded Uncle

William, “and I hope they won’t hurry a mite about getting round the

earth.... The rate they’re goin’ now—when they wrote—I reckon it ’ll

take just about twenty-five years,” he said reflectively.... “They don’t

say how far North they plan to make, but I kind o’ reckon they ’ll cut

across from here—from Battle Harbor to Disco, and then skirt along down

the Cape, and up,”... His finger followed the course with slow touch and

the smoke curled about his head with deep, contemplative puffs. His eye

ran back over the course and lingered on a bit of clear water to the

North. “It does seem a pity not to go up there—when they’re so near,”

he said regretfully, “and best kind of weather, too.”... His eye grew

dreamy—“It was along ’71, I sailed there—along with Captain Hall—You

know that last voyage of his? We had one eye on whales and one on the

Pole, I reckon... and the Polaris, she edged and edged, up and up. Some

days I didn’t know but she would strike the Pole—run smack into it....

We ’d got up here through the Strait and up Smith’s Sound... and on

beyond—the farthest of anybody’t that time—and Captain Hall, he was for

pushing on—and all of ’em, except Buddington—he was sailing master and

that slow, cautious kind—no sort o’ timber to go after the North Pole

with—but he said we ’d winter right there—’twas somewheres along in

August then—and we run back a little to a good place—and that’s where

it got its name now, ’Polaris Bay’—we was the ones that named it.”

Uncle William looked at it, with the pride of possession, and rubbed his

finger on it. “Well, we stayed there.... But Captain Hall—you couldn’t

hold him still, and he was all the time sledgin’ off, one way and

another—to see what the earth was doin’ up that way—and it run along

into October—the last of the month—It all seems like yesterday,” said

Uncle William slowly.... “I was a young fellow, you see—not more ’n

twenty-two-three, and I’d left Jennie down here, and gone up there—so’s

to make money faster.”—His eye traveled about the red room... and came

back to the map... “and there we was, settin’ down up there—waitin’ for

winter and not a whale in sight—and then, all of a sudden, before you

could say Jack Robinson—Captain Hall died.... There was whisperin’s

around among the crew about the way he was took and the Navy went into

it later—but nothin’ was proved... and Captain Buddington wa’ n’t the

kind of man you could stand up to—captain or sailin’ master, or what, he

’d have his way... and we stayed there best part of a year. Then he said

we was goin’ home—I remember,’. if it was yesterday, the day we got wind

what he was plannin’ for. I’d been out off from the boat all day.... and

when I came in George Pelman, he whispered to me we was goin’ home—and

then, all in a minute, out there in the snow, I see Jennie’s face

looking to me and smilin’, and my eyes kind o’ blurred—with the snow

and all that—and that was the last time I see her—” said Uncle William

slowly. “She died that winter.... When we got home, along in the spring,

they told me she had waited—seems ’s if she kind o’ made her body wait

till I’d come—They said it was like her spirit died out, faint, till it

just wa ’n’t there.... So that’s the way I come to be here alone...

and it seemed pretty good when Benjy come back so, one day, all out o’

nothin’—and there he was standin’ in that door....”

 

The tall man went to the window and stood with his back to the room

looking out. When he turned about, his eyes were shining—like the lights

across the water. “It was like getting home,” he said.

 

“Yes,’.was home,” said Uncle William contentedly. “Of course, any place

where you happen to be is home,—but if there’s somebody there waitin’

for ye and needin’ ye, it’s more homier than any of ’em.” Andy got

slowly to his feet. “Harr’et’s waitin’ for me,” he said, “and I might’s

well go—” He cast a lingering look at the table. “You boys going to sit

up all night, talking and gabbling!”

 

“Why, no, Andy. I do ’no ’s we ’ll light up,” responded Uncle William.

“I was thinkin’ of going down to look after the boats a little and then

we ’ll go to bed—like enough.”

 

“Well, good night,” said Andy, “I’ve got to go,”

 

“Good night, Andy.” They sat listening to his footfalls on the rocky

path below. “He’s a good boy,” said Uncle William. “He ’ll stan’ a

lot—without whimpering—but he don’t know it—no more ’n that cat there.”

 

Juno rose and stretched her back, yawning. Then she walked indifferently

to the door and passed out—as if a summons had come to her from the

night out there.

 

 

 

 

IV

 

UNCLE WILLIAM finished the last saucepan and carried it, with careful

flourish, to the stove, where the top was piled high with pots and

kettles. He found a place for the saucepan and deposited it with

cautious touch. Then he stood back and surveyed the topply pile with

hopeful eye.

 

Benjamin, seated on a rock outside, was whistling softly. “You most

ready, William,” he called.

 

Uncle William glanced hastily toward the window, then his glance

traveled about the room. “Pretty near, Benjy,” he said. “You wait a

minute whilst I chuck two-three more things out o’ sight.”

 

Benjamin rose and stretched his long legs. The sun shone brilliantly and

the salt air was alive with the freshness of summer. He strolled to the

window and looked in.... Uncle William, on his knees by the red lounge,

was poking things under with swift, efficient touch.

 

He looked up and nodded. “Don’t you wait, Benjy. I’m most done. The’s

just two-three things got strayed around—” He gathered up a plate and

saucer, with the remnants of Juno’s supper, and carried them across to

the sink. He opened the cupboard door underneath and thrust them in....

“The’s a few things left,” he said apologetically, “if I raked way in

under for ’em, mebbe. But we’ve got enough to run along—quite a spell

now.” He glanced affectionately at the stove and the rows of shining

cups and plates ranged on the shelf above the sink.

 

Benjamin’s eye followed the glance with a touch of amusement and a

little impatience, “Oh, come on, William. You ’d let things run a week

and then you ’d scrub all day—”

 

Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s right, Benjy. That’s just the way I

like it—now, how ’d you know!”

 

“Well, I have eyes,” said Benjamin dryly, “and I’ve been living with you

a month or so, you know.”

 

“That’s so, Benjy—and don’t it seem good!” Uncle William came to the

window and patted the thin hand resting on the sill. “I’m coming right

along, now, soon’s I get my apron off—” His fingers tugged at the

strings of the big oil cloth pattern that encompassed him.

 

Benjamin’s eye waited, impatient—“You ’ll get rid of all that fuss when

the new girl comes,” he said.

 

Uncle William’s mouth opened and looked at him. Then it closed and Uncle

William shook his head. “I’d clean forgot her,” he said slowly, “and

if I don’t send her word today, she can’t come for two weeks—nor four,

mebbe. The boats don’t run right.” He reached up to the clock for the pen and bottle of ink that stood there.