CHAPTER XVI
STEPHEN'S TALE
I cannot remember how I reached Grandfather Nat. I must have climbed thestairs, and I fancy I ran into him on the landing; but I only rememberhis grim face, oddly grey under the eyes, as he sat on his bed and tookthe paper in his hand. I do not know even what I said, and I doubt if Iknew then; the only words present to my mind were "all crew saved exceptfirst mate"; and very likely that was what I said.
My grandfather drew me between his knees, and I stood with his arm aboutme and his bowed head against my cheek. I noticed bemusedly that withhis hair fresh-brushed the line between the grey and the brown at theback was more distinct than common; and when there was a sudden clatterin the bar below I wondered if Joe had smashed something, or if it wereonly a tumble of the pewters. So we were for a little; and thenGrandfather Nat stood up with a sound between a sigh and a gulp, lookingstrangely askant at me, as though it surprised him to find I was notcrying. For my part I was dimly perplexed to see that neither was he;though the grey was still under his eyes, and his face seemed pinchedand older. "Come, Stevy," he said, and his voice was like a groan;"we'll have the house shut again."
I cannot remember that he spoke to me any more for an hour, except toask if I would eat any breakfast, which I did with no great loss ofappetite; though indeed I was trying very hard to think, hindered by anodd vacancy of mind that made a little machine of me.
Breakfast done, my grandfather sent Joe for a cab to take us toBlackwall. I was a little surprised at the unaccustomed conveyance, andrather pleased. When we were ready to go, we found Mr. Cripps and twoother regular frequenters of the bar waiting outside. I think Mr. Crippsmeant to have come forward with some prepared condolence; but he stoppedshort when he saw my grandfather's face, and stood back with the others.The four-wheeler was a wretched vehicle, reeking of strong tobacco andstale drink; for half the employment of such cabs as the neighbourhoodpossessed was to carry drunken sailors, flush of money, who took bottlesand pipes with them everywhere.
Whether it was the jolting of the cab--Wapping streets were paved withcobbles--that shook my faculties into place; whether it was theassociation of the cab and the journey to Blackwall that reminded me ofmy mother's funeral; or whether it was the mere lapse of a little time,I cannot tell. But as we went, the meaning of the morning's news grew onme, and I realised that my father was actually dead, drowned in the sea,and that I was wholly an orphan; and it struck me with a sense ofself-reproach that the fact afflicted me no more than it did. When mymother and my little brother had died I had cried myself sodden andfaint; but now, heavy of heart as I was, I felt curiously ashamed thatGrandfather Nat should see me tearless. True, I had seen very little ofmy father, but when he was at home he was always as kind to me asGrandfather Nat himself, and led me about with him everywhere; and lastvoyage he had brought me a little boomerang, and only laughed when Ihove it through a window that cost him three shillings. Thus I ponderedblinkingly in the cab; and I set down my calmness to the reflection thatmy mother would have him always with her now, and be all the happier inheaven for it; for she always cried when he went to sea.
So at last we came in sight of the old quay, and had to wait till thebridge should swing behind a sea-beaten ship, with her bulwarks patchedwith white plank, and the salt crust thick on her spars. I could seeacross the lock the three little front windows of our house, shut closeand dumb; and I could hear the quick chanty from the quay, where thecapstan turned:--
O, I served my time on the Black Ball Line, Hurrah for the Black Ball Line! From the South Sea north to the sixty-nine, Hurrah for the Black Ball Line!
And somehow with that I cried at last.
The ship passed in, the bridge shut, and the foul old cab rattled tillit stopped before the well-remembered door. The house had been closedsince my mother was buried, Grandfather Nat paying the rent and keepingthe key on my father's behalf; and now the door opened with a protestingcreak and a shudder, and the air within was close and musty.
There were two letters on the mat, where they had fallen from theletter-flap, and both were from my father, as was plain from thewriting. We carried them into the little parlour, where last we had satwith the funeral party, and my grandfather lifted the blind and flungopen the window. Then he sat and put one letter on each knee.
"Stevy," he said, and again his voice was like a groan; "look at thempostmarks. Ain't one Belize?"
Yes, one was Belize, the other La Guaira; and both for my mother.
"Ah, one's been lyin' here; the other must ha' come yesterday, by thesame mail as brought the news." He took the two letters again, turnedthem over and over, and shook his head. Then he replaced them on hisknees and rested his fists on his thighs, just above where they lay.
"I don't know as we ought to open 'em, Stevy," he said wearily. "Idunno, Stevy, I dunno."
He turned each over once more, and shut his fists again. "I dunno, Idunno.... Man an' wife, between 'emselves.... Wouldn't do it, living....Stevy boy, we'll take 'em home an' burn 'em."
But to me the suggestion seemed incomprehensible--even shocking. I couldsee no reason for burning my father's last message home. "Perhapsthere's a little letter for me, Gran'father Nat," I said. "He used toput one in sometimes. Can't we look? And mother used to read me herletters too."
My grandfather sat back and rubbed his hand up through his hair behind,as he would often do when in perplexity. At last he said, "Well, well,it's hard to tell. We should never know what we'd burnt, if we did....We'll look, Stevy.... An' I'll read no further than I need. Come, theBelize letter's first.... Send I ain't doin' wrong, that's all."
He tore open the cover and pulled out the sheets of flimsy foreignnote-paper, holding them to the light almost at arm's length, aslong-sighted men do. And as he read, slowly as always, with a leatheryforefinger following the line, the grey under the old man's eyes grewwet at last, and wetter. What the letter said is no matter here. Therewas talk of me in it, and talk of my little brother--or sister, as itmight have been for all my father could know. And again there was thesame talk in the second letter--the one from La Guaira. But in thislatter another letter was enclosed, larger than that for my mother,which was in fact uncommonly short. And here, where the dead spoke tothe dead no more, but to the living, was matter that disturbed mygrandfather more than all the rest.
The enclosure was not for me, as I had hoped, but for Grandfather Nathimself; and it was not a simple loose sheet folded in with the rest,but a letter in its own smaller envelope, close shut down, with thewords "Capn. Kemp" on the face. My grandfather read the first few lineswith increasing agitation, and then called me to the window.
"See here, Stevy," he said, "it's wrote small, to get it in, an' I'mslow with it. Read it out quick as you can."
And so I read the letter, which I keep still, worn at the folds andcorners by the old man's pocket, where he carried it afterward.
DEAR FATHER,--Just a few lines private hoping they find you well. This is my hardest trip yet, and the queerest, and I write in case anything happens and I don't see you again. This is for yourself, you understand, and I have made it all cheerful to the Mrs., specially as she is still off her health, no doubt. Father, the _Juno_ was not meant to come home this trip, and if ever she rounds Blackwall Point again it will be in spite of the skipper. He had his first try long enough back, on the voyage out, and it was then she was meant to go; for she was worse found than ever I saw a ship--even a ship of Viney's; and not provisioned for more than half the run out, proper rations. And I say it plain, and will say it as plain to anybody, that the vessel would have been piled up or dropped under and the insurance paid months before you get this if I had not pretty nigh mutinied more than once. He said he would have me in irons, but he shan't have the chance if I can help it. You know Beecher. Four times I reckon he has tried to pile her up, every time in the best weather and near a safe port--_foreign_. The
men would have backed me right through--some of them did--but they deserted one after another all round the coast, Monte Video, Rio and Bahia, and small blame to them, and we filled up with half-breeds and such. The last of the ten and the boy went at Bahia, so that now I have no witness but the second mate, and he is either in it or a fool--I think a fool: but perhaps both. Not a man to back me. Else I might have tried to report or something, at Belize, though that is a thing best avoided of course. No doubt he has got his orders, so I am not to blame him, perhaps. But I have got no orders--not to lose the ship, I mean--and so I am doing my duty. Twice I have come up and took the helm from him, but that was with the English crew aboard. He has been quiet lately, and perhaps he has given the job up; at any rate I expect he won't try to pile her up again--more likely a quiet turn below with a big auger. He is still mighty particular about the long-boat being all right, and the falls clear, etc. If he does it I have a notion it may be some time when I have turned in; I can't keep awake all watches. And he knows I am about the only man aboard who won't sign whatever he likes before a consul. You know what I mean; and you know Beecher too. Don't tell the Mrs. of course. Say this letter is about a new berth or what not. No doubt it is all right, but it came in my head to drop you a line, on the off chance, and a precious long line I have made of it. So no more at present from--Your Affectionate Son,
NATHANIEL.
P.S. I am in half a mind to go ashore at Barbadoes, and report. But perhaps best not. That sort of thing don't do.
While I read, my grandfather had been sitting with his head between hishands, and his eyes directed to the floor, so that I could not see hisface. So he remained for a little while after I had finished, while Istood in troubled wonder. Then he looked up, his face stern and hardbeyond the common: and his was a stern face at best.
"Stevy," he said, "do you know what that means, that you've beena-readin'?"
I looked from his face to the letter, and back again. "Itmeans--means ... I think the skipper sank the ship on purpose."
"It means Murder, my boy, that's what it means. Murder, by the law ofEngland! 'Feloniously castin' away an' destroyin';' that's what theycall the one thing, though I'm no lawyer-man. An' it means prison;though why, when a man follows orders faithful, I can't say; but well Iknow it. An' if any man loses his life thereby it's Murder, whetheraccidental or not; Murder an' the Rope, by the law of England, an'bitter well I know that too! O bitter well I know it!"
He passed his palm over his forehead and eyes, and for a moment wassilent. Then he struck the palm on his knee and broke forth afresh.
"Murder, by the law of England, even if no more than accident in God'struth. How much the more then this here, when the one man as won't standand see it done goes down in his berth? O, I've known that afore, too,with a gimlet through the door-frame; an' I know Beecher. But orders isorders, an' it's them as gives them as is to reckon with. I've tookorders myself.... Lord! Lord! an' I've none but a child to talk to! Alittle child!... But you're no fool, Stevy. See here now, an' remember.You know what's come to your father? He's killed, wilful; murdered, likewhat they hang people for, at Newgate, Stevy, by the law. An' do youknow who's done it?"
I was distressed and bewildered, as well as alarmed by the old man'svehemence. "The captain," I said, whimpering again.
"Viney!" my grandfather shouted. "Henry Viney, as I might ha' served thesame way, an' I wish I had! Viney and Marr's done it; an' Marr's paidfor it already. Lord, Lord!" he went on, with his face down in his handsand his elbows on his knees. "Lord! I see a lot of it now! It was whatthey made out o' the insurance that was to save the firm; an' when myboy put in an' stopped it all the voyage out, an' more, they could holdon no longer, but plotted to get out with what they could lay hold of.Lord! it's plain as print, plain as print! Stevy!" He lowered his handsand looked up. "Stevy! that money's more yours now than ever. If I everhad a doubt--if it don't belong to the orphan they've made--but there,it's sent you, boy, sent you, an' any one 'ud believe in Providenceafter that."
In a moment more he was back at his earlier excitement. "But it'sViney's done it," he said, with his fist extended before him. "Remember,Stevy, when you grow up, it's Viney's done it, an' it's Murder, by thelaw of England. Viney has killed your father, an' if it was broughtagainst him it 'ud be Murder!"
"Then," I said, "we'll go to the police station and they will catchhim."
My grandfather's hand dropped. "Ah, Stevy, Stevy," he groaned, "youdon't know, you don't know. It ain't enough for that, an' if it was--ifit was, I can't; I can't--not with you to look after. I might do it, an'risk all, if it wasn't for that.... My God, it's a judgment on me--acruel judgment! My own son--an' just the same way--just the same way!...I can't, Stevy, not with you to take care of. Stevy, I must keep myselfsafe for your sake, an' I can't raise a hand to punish Viney. I can't,Stevy, I can't; for I'm a guilty man myself, by the law of England--an'Viney knows it! Viney knows it! Though it wasn't wilful, as God's myjudge!"
Grandfather Nat ended with a groan, and sat still, with his head bowedin his hands. Again I remembered, and now with something of awe, myinnocent question: "Did you ever kill a man, Grandfather Nat?"
Still he sat motionless and silent, till I could endure it no longer:for in some way I felt frightened. So I went timidly and put my armabout his neck. I fancied, though I was not sure, that I could feel atremble from his shoulders; but he was silent still. Nevertheless I wasoddly comforted by the contact, and presently, like a dog anxious fornotice, ventured to stroke the grey hair.
Soon then he dropped his hands and spoke. "I shouldn't ha' said it,Stevy; but I'm all shook an' worried, an' I talked wild. It was no needto say it, but there ain't a soul alive to speak to else, an' somehow Italk as it might be half to myself. But you know what about things Isay--private things--don't you? Remember?" He sat erect again, andraised a forefinger warningly, even sternly. "Remember, Stevy!... Butcome--there's things to do. Give me the letter. We'll get together anylittle things to be kep', papers an' what not, an' take 'em home. An'I'll have to think about the rest, what's best to be done; sell 'em, orwhat. But I dunno, I dunno!"