Complete works of hall c.., p.149
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 149
The fog had lifted, but the night was still very dark. Not a star was shining and no moon appeared. Yet Stephen’s eye — the eye of a sailor accustomed to the darkness of the sea at night — could descry something that lay to the north. The Irish brig had disappeared. Yes, her sails were now gone. But out at sea — far out, half a league away — what black thing was there? Oh, it must be a cloud, that was all; and no doubt a storm was brewing. Yet no, it was looming larger and larger, and coming nearer and nearer. It was a sail. Stephen could see it plainly enough now against the leaden sky. It was a schooner; he could make out its two masts, with fore and aft sails. It was an Irish schooner; he could recognize its heavy hull and hollowed cutwater. It was tacking against wind and tide from the northeast; it was a Dublin schooner and was homeward bound from Iceland, having called at Whitehaven and now putting in at Ramsey.
Stephen Orry had been in the act of putting about when this object caught his eye, but now a strange thing occurred. All at once his late troubles lay back in his mind, and by a sort of unconscious mechanical habit of intellect he began to put familiar ideas together. This schooner that was coming from Iceland would be heavy laden; it would have whalebone, and eider down, and tallow. If it ran ashore and was wrecked some of this cargo might be taken by some one and sold for something to a French smuggler that lay outside the Chicken Rocks. That flare on the Point of Ayre was the only sea-light on this north coast of the island, and it hung by a rope from a pole. The land lay low about it, there was not a house on that sandy headland for miles on miles, and the night was very dark. All this came up to Stephen Orry’s mind by no effort of will; he looked out of his dull eyes on the dull stretch of sea and sky, and the thoughts were there of themselves.
What power outside himself was at work with him? Did anything tell him that this was the great moment of his life — that his destiny hung on it — that the ordeal he had just gone through was as nothing to the ordeal that was yet before him? As he sat in his boat, peering into the darkness at the black shadow on the horizon, did any voice whisper in his ear:— “Stephen Orry, on the ship that is yonder there is one who hates you and has sworn to slay you? He is coming, he is coming, and he is flesh of your flesh? He is your own son, and Rachel’s!”
Stephen Orry fetched his boat away to leeward, and in two minutes more he had run down the light on the Point of Ayre. The light fell into the water, and then all was dark. Stephen Orry steered on over the freshening sea, and then slackened off to wait and watch. All this time he had been sitting at the tiller, never having risen from it since he stepped his mast by the side of the brig. Now he got on his feet to shorten sail, for the wind was rising and he meant to drift by the mizzen. As he rose something fell with a clank to the boat’s bottom from his lap or his pocket. It was the bag of money, which Michael Sunlocks had returned to him.
Stephen Orry stooped down to pick it up; and having it in his hand he dropped back like a man who has been dealt a blow. Then, indeed, a voice rang in his ears; he could hear it over the wind that was rising, the plash of the white breakers on the beach, and the low boom of the deep sea outside. “Remember your promise, father. I have bought every hour of your life that’s left.”
His heart seemed to stand still. He looked around in the dull agony of a fear that was new to him, turning his eyes first to the headland that showed faintly against the heavy sky, then to the pier where no light now shone, and then to the black cloud of sail that grew larger every instant. One minute passed — two — three. Meantime the black cloud of sail was drawing closer. There were living men aboard of that ship, and they were running on to their death. Yes, they were men, living men — men with wives who loved them, and children who climbed to their knees. But perhaps they had seen the light when it went down. Merciful heaven, let it be so — let it be so!
The soul of Stephen Orry was awake at length. Another minute he waited, another and another, and the black shadow came yet nearer. At her next tack the ship would run on the land, and already Stephen seemed to hear the grating of her keel over the rocks below the beach. He could bear the suspense no longer, and hoisted sail to bear down on the schooner and warn her. But the wind was strong by this time, driving hard off the sea and the tide ran faster than before.
Stephen Orry was now some thirty fathoms space to the north of the broken pier, and at that point the current from across Maughold Head meets the current going across the Mull of Galloway. Laboring in the heavy sea he could barely fetch about, but when at last he got head out to sea he began to drive down on the schooner at a furious speed. He tried to run close along by her on the weather side, but before he came within a hundred fathoms he saw that he was in the full race of the north current, and strong seaman though he was, he could not get near. Then he shouted, but the wind carried away his voice. He shouted again, but the schooner gave no sign. In the darkness the dark vessel scudded past him.
He was now like a man possessed. Fetching about he ran in before the wind, thinking to pass the schooner on her tack. He passed her indeed: he was shot far beyond her, shouting as he went, but again his voice was drowned in the roar of the sea. He was almost atop of the breakers now, yet he fetched about once more, and shouted again and again and again. But the ship came on and on, and no one heard the wild voice, that rang out between the dark sea and sky like the cry of a strong swimmer in his last agony.
CHAPTER IX.
The Coming of Jason.
The schooner was the Peveril, homeward bound from Reykjavik to Dublin, with a hundred tons of tallow, fifty bales of eider down, and fifty casks of cods’ and sharks’ oil. Leaving the Icelandic capital on the morning after Easter Day, with a fair wind, for the outer Hebrides, she had run through the North Channel by the middle of the week, and put into Whitehaven on the Friday. Next day she had stood out over the Irish Sea for the Isle of Man, intending to lie off at Ramsey for contraband rum. Her skipper and mate were both Englishmen, and her crew were all Irish, except two, a Manxman and an Icelander.
The Manxman was a grizzled old sea dog, who had followed the Manx fisheries twenty years and smuggling twenty other years, and then turned seaman before the mast. His name was Davy Kerruish, and when folks asked if the Methodists had got hold of him that he had turned honest in his old age, he closed one rheumy yellow eye very knowingly, tipped one black thumb over his shoulder to where the Government cutters lay anchored outside, and said in a touching voice, “Aw, well, boy, I’m thinking Castle Rushen isn’t no place for a poor man when he’s gettin’ anyways ould.”
The Icelander was a brawny young fellow of about twenty, of great height and big muscles, and with long red hair. He had shipped at Reykjavik, in the room of an Irishman, who had died on the outward trip and been buried at sea off the Engy Island. He was not a favorite among the crew; he spoke English well, but was no good at a yarn in the forecastle; he was silent, gloomy, not too fond of work, and often the butt of his mates in many a lumbering jest that he did not seem to see. He had signed on the wharf on the morning the schooner sailed, and the only kit he had brought aboard was a rush cage with a canary. He hung the bird in the darkness above his bunk, and it was all but his sole companion. Now and again he spoke to old Kerruish, but hardly ever to the other men.
“Och, sollum and quiet lek,” old Davy would say at the galley fire, “but none so simple at all. Aw no, no, no; and wonderful cur’ous about my own bit of an island yander.”
The Icelander was Jason, son of Rachel and Stephen Orry.
There is not a more treacherous channel around the British Isles than that which lies between St. Bee’s Head, the Mull of Galloway, and the Point of Ayre, for four strong currents meet and fight in that neck of the Irish Sea. With a stiff breeze on the port quarter, the Peveril had been driven due west from Whitehaven on the heavy current from the Solway Frith, until she had met the current from the North Channel and then she had tacked down towards the Isle of Man. It was dark by that time, and the skipper had leaned over the starboard gangway until he had sighted the light on the Point of Ayre. Even then he had been puzzled, for the light was feebler than he remembered it.
“Can you make it out, Davy?” he had said to old Kerruish.
“Aw, yes, though, and plain as plain,” said Davy; and then the skipper had gone below.
The Manxman had been at the helm, and Jason, who was on the same watch, had sidled up to him at intervals and held a conversation with him in snatches, of which this is the sum and substance.
“Is it the Isle of Man on the starboard bow, Davy?”
“I darn’ say no, boy.”
“Lived there long, Davy?”
“Aw, thirty years afore you were born, maybe.”
“Ever known any of my countrymen on the island?”
“Just one, boy; just one.”
“What was he?”
“A big chap, six feet six, if an inch, and ter’ble strong; and a fist at him like a sledge; and a rough enough divil, too, and ye darn’ spit afore him; but quiet for all — aw, yes, wonderful quiet.”
“Who was he, Davy?”
“A widda man these teens of years.”
“But what was his name?”
“Paul? — no! Peter? — no! Chut, bless ye, it’s clane gone at me; but it’s one of the lot in the ould Book, any way.”
“Was it Stephen?”
“By gough, yes, and a middlin’ good guess too.”
“Stephen what?”
“Stephen — shoo! it’s gone at me again! What’s that they’re callin’ the ould King that’s going buryin’ down Laxey way?”
“Orry?”
“Stephen Orry it is, for sure. Then it’s like you knew him, boy?”
“No — that is — no, no.”
“No relations?”
“No. But is he still alive?”
“Aw, yes, though. It’s unknownced to me that he’s dead, anyway.”
“Where is he living now?”
“Down Port Erin way, by the Sound, some place.”
“Davy, do we put into the harbor at Ramsey?”
“Aw, divil a chance of that, boy, with sperrits comin’ over the side quiet-like in the night, you know, eighteen-pence a gallon, and as much as you can drink for nothin’.”
“How far do we lie outside?”
“Maybe a biscuit throw or two. We never useder lie farther, boy.”
“That’s nothing, Davy.”
After that the watch had been changed, and then a strange thing had happened. The day had been heavy and cold, with a sky that hung low over the sea, and a mist that reduced the visible globe to a circle of fifty fathoms wide. As the night had closed in the mist had lifted, and the wind had risen and some sheets of water had come combing over the weather quarter. The men had been turned up to stow the yards and bring the schooner to the wind, and when they had gone below they had been wet and miserable, chewing doggedly at the tobacco in their cheeks, and growling at the darkness of the forecastle, for the slush-lamp had not yet been lighted. And just then, above the muttered curses, the tramping of heavy boots and the swish of oilskins that were being shaken to drain them, there arose the sweet song of a bird. It was Jason’s canary, singing in the dark corner of his bunk a foot above his head, for on coming below the lad had thrown himself down in his wet clothes. The growling came to an end, the shuffling of feet stopped, and the men paused a moment to listen, and then burst into peals of laughter. But the bird gave no heed either to their silence or their noise, but sang on with a full throat. And the men listened, and then laughed again, and then suddenly ceased to laugh. A match was struck and the slush-lamp began to gleam out over mahogany faces that looked at each other with eyes of awe. The men shook out their coats and hung them over the stanchions. Still the bird sang on. It was uncanny, this strange singing in the darkness. The men charged their cuddies, fired up, and crouched together as they smoked. Still the bird sang on.
“Och, it’s the divil in the craythur,” said one; “you go bail there’s a storm brewin’. It’s just ould Harry hisself rej’icing.”
“Then, by St. Patrick, I’ll screw the neck of him,” said another.
“Aisy, man, aisy,” said old Davy; “it’s the lad’s.”
“The lad be — —” said the other, and up he jumped. Jason saw the man coming towards his bunk, and laid hold of the wrist of the arm that he stretched over it.
“Stop that,” said Jason; but the lad was on his back, and in an instant the man had thrown his body on top of him, leaned over him and wrenched open the door of the cage. The song stopped; there was a short rustle of wings, a slight chirp-chirp, and then a moment’s silence, followed by the man’s light laugh as he drew back with the little yellow bird dangling by the neck from his black thumb and forefinger.
But before the great hulking fellow had twisted about to where his mates sat and smoked under the lamp, Jason had leapt from his bunk, stuck his fist into the ruffian’s throat and pinned him against a beam.
“ —— you,” he cried, thrusting his face into the man’s face, “shall I kill you after it?”
“Help! My God, help!” the man gurgled out, with Jason’s knuckles ground hard into his windpipe.
The others were in no hurry to interfere, but they shambled up at length, and amid shouts and growls of “Let go,” “Let go the hoult,” and “God’s sake, slack the grip,” the two were parted. Then the man who had killed the bird went off, puffing and cursing between his chattering teeth, and his mates began to laugh at the big words that came from his weak stomach, while old Davy Kerruish went over to Jason to comfort him.
“Sarve him right, the craythur,” said Davy. “He’s half dead, but that’s just half too much life in him yet, though. It’s what I’ve tould them times on times. ‘Lave him alone,’ says I; ‘the lad’s quiet, but he’ll be coorse enough if he’s bothered. And my gough, boy, what a face at ye yander, when you were twissin’ the handkercher at him! Aw, thinks I, he’s the spittin picsher of the big widda man Orry — Stephen Orry — brimstone and vinegar, and gunpowder atop of a slow fire.”
And it was just at that moment, as old Davy was laughing through his yellow eyes and broken teeth at young Jason, and the other men were laughing at Jason’s adversary, and the dim forecastle under its spluttering slush-lamp echoed and rang with the uproar, that a wild voice came down from the deck— “Below there! All hands up! Breakers ahead!”
Now the moment when the watch had been changed had been the very moment when Stephen Orry had run down the lamp, so that neither by the Manxman who gave up the helm nor by the Irishman who took it had the light been missed when it fell into the sea. And the moment when Stephen Orry shouted to the schooner to warn it had been the moment when the muffled peals of laughter at the bird’s strange song had come up from the watch below in the forecastle. The wind had whistled among the sheets, and the flying spray had smitten the men’s faces, but though the mist had lifted, the sky had still hung low and dark, showing neither moon nor stars, nor any hint of the land that lay ahead. But straight for the land the vessel had been driving in the darkness, under the power of wind and tide. After a time the helmsman had sighted a solitary light close in on the lee bow. “Point of Ayre,” he thought, and luffed off a little, intending to beat down the middle of the bay. It had been the light on the jetty at Ramsey; and the little town behind it, with its back to the sea, lay dark and asleep, for the night was then well worn towards midnight. After that the helmsman had sighted two stronger lights beyond. “Ramsey,” he thought, and put his helm aport. But suddenly the man on the lookout had shouted, “Breakers ahead,” and the cry had been sent down the forecastle.
In an instant all hands were on deck, amid the distraction and uproar, the shouting and blind groping of the cruel darkness. Against the dark sky the yet darker land could now be plainly seen, and a strong tide was driving the vessel on to it. The helm was put hard to starboard, and the schooner’s head began to pay off towards the wind. Then all at once it was seen that right under the vessel’s bow some black thing lay just above the level of the sea, with a fringe of white foam around it.
“Davy, what do you make of it?” shouted the skipper.
“Lord-a-massy, it’s the Carick,” screamed Davy.
“Let go the anchor,” roared the skipper.
But it was too late even for that last refuge. At the next moment the schooner struck heavily; she was on the reef in Ramsey Bay, and pitching miserably with every heave of the sea.
The two bright lights that led the vessel to her ruin came from the two little bays that lie under Maughold Head. The light in Port-y-Vullin was in the hut of Stephen Orry, who had lit his lamp and placed it in the window when he went out to bid farewell to Michael Sunlocks, thinking no evil thereby to any man but only that it would guide him home again when he should return in the boat. The light in Port Lague was from the cottage of three old net weavers, who had lived there without woman or girl, or chick or child, through more than forty years. Two or three were brothers, Danny and Jemmy Kewley, both over seventy years old, and their housemate, who was ninety, and had been a companion of their father, was known as Juan McLady. Danny and Jemmy still worked at the looms year in and year out, every working hour of the day and night, and Juan, long past other labor, cooked and sewed and cleaned for them. All three had grown dim of sight, and now groped about like three old earthworms. Every year for five years past they had needed an extra candle to work by, so that eight tallow dips, made in their own iron mould, swung from the open roof rafters over the meshes on that night when the Peveril struck on the Carick.
