The Cruise of the Shining Light. Duncan Norman

      ’Twas my uncle’s sad habit thus to solve his ethical difficulties. To a gigantic, thumb-worn Bible he would turn, the which, having sought with unsuccess until his temper was hot, he would fling back to its place, growling: “Them ol’ prophets was dunderheads, anyhow; they left out more’n they put in. Why, Dannie,” in vast disgust, “you don’t find the mention of barratry 31 from jib-boom t’ taffrail! An’ you mean t’ set there an’ tell me them prophets didn’t make no mistake? No, sir! I ’low they was well rope’s-ended for neglect o’ dooty when the Skipper cotched un in the other Harbor.” But if by chance, in his impatient haste, he stumbled upon some confirmation of his own philosophy, he would crow: “There you got it, Dannie! Right under the thumb o’ me! Them ol’ bullies was wise as owls.” ’Twas largely a matter of words, no doubt (my uncle being self-taught in all things); and ’tis possible that the virtue of standing by, indirectly commended, to be sure, is not specifically and in terms enjoined upon the righteous. However––

      “Come, now!” says my uncle; “would you say that ol’ Nicholas Top was famous for standin’ by?”

’Twas hard to remember the long response. “Well,” I must begin, in a doubtful drawl, every word and changing inflection his own, as I had been taught, “I wouldn’t go quite t’ the length o’ that. Ol’ Nicholas Top wouldn’t claim it hisself. Ol’ Nicholas Top on’y claims that he’s good at standin’ by. His cronies do ’low that he can’t be beat at it by ar a man in Newf’un’land; but Nicholas wouldn’t go t’ the length o’ sayin’ so hisself. ‘Ol’ Nick,’ says they, ‘would stand by if the ship was skippered by the devil and inbound on a fiery wind t’ the tickle t’ hell. Whatever Nick says he’ll do,’ says they, ‘is all the same as did; an’ if he says he’ll stand by, he’ll stick, blow high or blow low, fog, ice, or reefs. “Be jiggered t’ port an’ weather!” 32 says he.’[1] But sure,” I must conclude, “ol’ Nicholas wouldn’t say so hisself. An’ so I wouldn’t go t’ the length o’ holdin’ that he was famous for standin’ by. Take it by an’ all, if I was wantin’ sea room, I’d stick t’ well knowed an’ be done with it.”

      “Co’-rect!” says my uncle, with a smack of satisfaction. “You got that long one right, Dannie. An’ now, lad,” says he, his voice turning soft and genuine in feeling, “what’s the ol’ sailorman tryin’ t’ make out o’ you?”

      “A gentleman.”

      “An’ why?”

      Then this disquieting response:

      “ ’Tis none o’ my business.”

      ’Twould have been logical had he asked me: “An’, Dannie, lad, what’s a gentleman?” But this he never did; and I think, regarding the thing from this distance, that he was himself unable to frame the definition, so that, of course, I never could be taught it. But he was diligent in pursuit of this knowledge; he sat with open ears in those exclusive tap-rooms where “the big bugs t’ St. John’s” (as he called them) congregated; indeed, the little gold watch by which Skipper Tom Bull’s suspicion had been excited at the Anchor and Chain came to me immediately after the 33 Commissioner of This had remarked to the Commissioner of That, within my uncle’s hearing––this at the Gold Bullet over a bottle of Long Tom––that a watch of modest proportions was the watch for a gentleman to wear (my other watches had been chosen with an opposite idea). And my uncle, too (of which anon), held in high regard that somewhat questionable light of morality and deportment whom he was used to calling ol’ Skipper Chesterfield. But “What is a gentleman?” was omitted from my catechism.

      “An’ is this ol’ Nicholas Top a liar?” says my uncle.

      “No, sir.”

      “Is he a thief?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Smuggler?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Have he ever been mixed up in burglary, murder, arson, barratry, piracy, fish stealin’, or speckalation?”

      “No, sir.”

      To indicate his utter detachment from personal interest in the question to follow, my uncle would wave his dilapidated hand, as though leaving me free to answer as I would, which by no means was I.

      “An’ of how much,” says he, “would he rob his neighbor that he might prosper?”

      ’Twas now time for me to turn loud and indignant, as I had been taught. Thus: my head must shoot out in truculent fashion, my brows bend, my lips curl away from my teeth like a snarling dog’s, my eyes glare; and I must let my small body shake with explosive 34 rage, in imitation of my uncle, while I brought the table a thwack with all my force, shouting:

      “Not a damn copper!”

      “Good!” says my uncle, placidly. “You done that very well, Dannie, for a lad. You fetched out the damn quite noisy an’ agreeable. Now,” says he, “is Nicholas Top a rascal?”

      ’Twas here we had trouble; in the beginning, when this learning was undertaken, I must be whipped to answer as he would have me. Ay, and many a night have I gone sore to bed for my perversity, for in respect to obedience his severity was unmitigated, as with all seafaring men. But I might stand obstinate for a moment––a moment of grace. And upon the wall behind his chair, hanging in the dimmer light, was a colored print portraying a blue sea, spread with rank upon rank of accurately measured waves, each with its tiny cap of foam, stretching without diminution to the horizon, upon which was perched a full-rigged ship, a geometrical triumph; and from this vessel came by small-boat to the strand a company of accurately moulded, accurately featured, accurately tailored fellows, pulling with perfect accuracy in every respect. I shall never forget the geometrical gentleman upon that geometrically tempestuous sea, for as I stood sullen before my uncle they provided the only distraction at hand.

      “Come, Daniel!” says he, in a little flare of wrath; “is he a rascal?”

      “Well,” says I, defiantly, “I’ve heard un lied about.”

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      “Wrong!” roars my uncle. “Try again, sir! Is ol’ Nicholas Top a rascal?”

      There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed for an obstinate whelp.

      “A damned rascal, sir!” says I.

“Co’-rect!” cries my uncle, delighted.[2]

      And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, “Well, Dannie, lad, you might ’s well measure out the other,” and when I had with care poured his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say my prayers at his knee––not often––most when high winds, without rain, shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was unnerved by the night. “The wind’s high the night,” says he, with an anxious frown; “an’ Dannie,” says he, laying a hand upon my head, “you might ’s well overhaul that there

“ ‘Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night,’

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      afore you turns in. ’Twill do you good, an’ ’twon’t manage t’ do me no harm.” And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair, than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face drawn and woful. I see him now––under the lamp––a gray, monstrous, despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh––as then, a child, bound