THE STORYTELLER

Waikato Times, Volume 94, Issue 14584, 5 February 1921, Page 10 (Supplement)

THE STORYTELLER

The Ship of Shadows —.—* (By John Foster, author of The Bernardine, The Forgotten Rock, etc.). CHAPTER V.—AT THE WRECK. The path hesitated, slopped, and lost itself in the heather. 1 intended to cross the hill, then to come home by the sand; but i have rarely stuck to my charts or original plans in life. I changed my mind. I had nearly reached the granite scalp of the hill, and turned to look down at the Forth. The tide was out. The sky's are, blue and cloudless, bent down to the distant English coast and the thin ribbon of sea twinkling in an opalescent haze in the heat. The wide expanse of sand glowed like some Gargantuan harvest field, the limmer of my fancy tracing stocks and their shadows," long stretches of stubble, bright battalions of standing corn. As 1 looked my wandering eye caught a tiny streak, dark against the sunlit canvas. A wreck. My memory leaped back to the far-away morning when the mysterious schooner lay down to her lons sleep, for from its situation 1 guessed that the little, dark blotch might be the skeleton of the Ayrshire Rose. A whim, growing into a desire, seized me, and in a short tim el had made a descent by the cliff path, crossed the sands, and was standing besi<|: the weather-scarred hull of the wreck. Hull it scarcely could be called, for there was little left of her beyond her ribs and spine, picked clean by the tireless grey wolves of the sea. I looked at her, a great pity in my heart; for, of all things inaminate on God's earth, none calls to me so wistfully as a dead ship. She that had felt the quick life thrilling in her sails, had listened to the sea's music at her forefoot, welcomed 'All's well' ami far harbour lights after the thunder of the gale; whose tall spars had carried the ensign of Britain countless leagues, now lay in dissolution, her work done, lonely," broken, forgotten, lingering with her, as with all wrecks, whether of poor humanity or the great waters, the very note of tragedy. Tlie sand half covered her. Part of the stern, llie broken lines of the port timbers, and the remains of her bows were visible. Her deck and starboard sides were gone, and she was stripped to her keel by the seas. But for the. rusty rivets slicking up in a gigantic pin cushion, and the great brown clusters of seaweed clinging to her, she was as empty as a shell. Suddenly I became aware that I was not alone. In the shadow thrown by the stern a man was/sitting, his back against the wreck, l/s head forward, chin on one hand. He was staring seawards—sadly, 1 thought. I had made up my mind to speak, when he heard my footsteps and rose slowly and deliberately. The sand clung to his clothes, but lie did not trouble to shake himself. Curiosity to see what manner of man it was who chose to mediate near the old wreck prompted me to give Jiini good-day. He replied readily anfl politely In a pleasant voice. We were soon on a stream of small talk. Rather, 1 should say. I was, for 1 found him, 1 thought, shy and constrained. He allowed mc to do the talking. I had time to take a good look at him. Medium height, slim, with an oval, sunburnt face, a trifle too small for 'the good, straight forehead and the line eyes, large, deep blue, but sombre. Mentality of some sort was written on him. His hands and nails were well shaped and unmarked bymanual labour. His features touched delicacy—in tiiem an indefinable rude of distinction. He was scrupulously clean-shaven. His clothes were clean, but shabby and rustic, a contradiction to his face, speech and carriage; his collar was clean but frayed, and on; 1 of his boots —sure financial weathergauge!—had a hole in it; but the man carried these insignia with an air that invited and defeated speculation. 1 took out my ease and offend him a cigar. He accented it almost eagerly, with a word of llianks. Then he cut the Habana with care and j knowledge and lit up. As the incense j stole over him his eyes shone. After a moment or two, 'This is a Quilenana,' he said in the excellent voice of a celebrant. My estimate ol him went up like mercury. •It is,' 1 said, with, 1 hope, modest satisfaction, for I prided myself on my judgment of cigars. 'I was sure. There was no' mistaking them, for the once initialed — and I knew them once,' he said : Quietly. He smoked like a gentleman, j I looked al him again, lie hail taken off his cap, and above the tanmark on his brow I he clear while' : skin showed traced with most deli- j catc blue veins. This man had nol j always worn village reach-me-downs and doubtful hoots. I turned the fail-: to for. ign travel. in which 1 had taken some pail. M> companion visibly thawed a little, and a casual uienlioii of s rccenl I k brightened him. Tin rivcrsulion ran on, iUI ull.-i pndrida of nun arid affairs', I books, arid gossip: but I slid had to do most of Hie talking. Thus we sal foe perhaps a quarter | of an hour. Then, 'you know these • parts'.'" lie said, after a remark of mine about the solw.iy. •I did. nut 'tis llftecn years since I've geen the Firth. I walked out to Die wreck here to please a whim, for J was one of Ih.' few who saw the schooner come to her lasl anchorage." i 1 replied. I've oflen wondered what i tlie story of The Ayrshire Hose is.' 'Story,' he repeated, 'Story!' He was silent for a moment or two. I was nol quite sure whether ,lhe words were intended for me or whether lie was thinking aloud. Then, 'Do you mean to pay a long ■Visit, may i ask ?' he said. 'Unluckily, no. I'm a guest at my cousin's place over there; bill I'm off on the wander in a day or two. Heaven knows when I'll see the old spot again!' Again he ken! silent. 'Then you say thai you saw the Ayrshire Hose si ram 1 .'." 'I did. There was nothing living on board except a couple of hens and a collie-dag.' I said. 'Yes, I her- was the flog.' he said half to himself. 'You know about I he wreck, then?' I looked al him. 'I- -well— l -I know." he said jerkily, and stopped short as one who has said 100 much. I did not press j him. Neither of us spoke. 'Would you care lo hear In-r story 0 ' he sudd, nly said at lasl. laying a hand I on the wreck. 'Did you hear nothing j 8b ml her?' 'Nol a syllable, and I am rather in- : teres'ed.' T. itlier inleresled !' 1 was on tenter-hooks to hear the story, and afraid that he might change his mind, for 'he was silent again, and 1 knew thai he look a swil'l glance al me. •Well,' he said, after a minute or two of revelling in tlie bouquet of the llalnna. Ibis is good. Luckily there .- ... wind ta mar the ilavour.' 1 liked his voice. He brushed the sand

off-his clothes, smoking in silence for a lime, gazing abstractedly seaward, and then turned to me. i call her The Ship of Shadows. If you would like lo hear llie story of the Ayrshire ttosc, and how she sailed up here alone, I'll be glad to tell it to you.' "Thank you.' '1 am the only one who can tell ilthe only one alive, I think,' he continued quietly. A faint flush showed for a moment, under the sunburn ofhis face. As 1 have said. 1 wanted to hear llie story, and I told him so. After a moment's hesitation he said, 'l'm truly sorry, but 1 can't wait longer to-day. I am due, elsewhere; but if you are really interested i can meet you tomorrow.' The upshot of our talk that day was that a rendezvous was suggested, and he really agreed to meet me under the Cled's Rock next day, after llie turn of the tide. CHAPTER VI.—'THE BERWICK LAW SCHOONER. Next morning my acquaintance of the wreck punctually met me at the foot of the cliff. We strolled over the sands to the wreck. I was instantly struck by the subtle .•hang/'' fro tlie belter in him. The listlessness I had marked on my first meeting him had gone, lie was strangely younger looking, more alertj better dressed. His eye had lost its sombre look, and was lively as a bird's. Instead of waiting for me to speak, he literally led the conversation. In his speech, just touched and no more with the pleasant Lowland accent, and tin his hearing, lay the elusive something vaguely labelled 'good form.' There was nothing obtrusive, no jarring nole of the professional talker. The talk rippled on, from my travels to books, and here he showed such Width in his reading, such freshness and originality in his views and criticisms, that I was surprised and delighted, i had no right lo he surprised, of course—--1 had been judging the man too much by his ho.'ls. Horace and Hie moderns. Shakespeare and Sardou, were on his lips. I willingly did mosl of the listening, and the half-hour over the sands seemed only a few minutes. We reached the wreck, and I clambered over tlie battered starboard limbers and looked for a. seat aft. "No, not there!' tie said hurridly; 'not there! I'll tell you why afterwards.' I followed him forward, sat town beside him on the remains of the battered hows, and produced the cigars. Then he began his tale, thus: ■Row I came, years ago, to be in rrinidad dt.es not concern my story much. How I got 011 l of the Island .toes, for on my return journey to the nld Country f fell in with David .'■errand and Eric Lowdcn, and a woman. No. I wasn't, in love. But lovers she sad, and one at least to spare. And here 1 must tell you thai j jeyond what you'll hear, 1 have no mowledge, nothing beyond mere rucsswork, of the people in the story, of their previous history, or he hidden springs that shaped their lives. "1 remember a lazy afternoon —just such another as this, only, of course, loiter —in Port o' Spain. 1 was sauntering aimlessly enough along the •vharves, with my hands, and precious ittle else, in my pockets. 1 had been jurning the candle at both ends, J nay as well confess; and, however nueh this process may yield in additional illumination, it makes the dark-* less immediately afterwards several iegrees blacked than pitch—so dark U any rate that your friends can't see j-ou. My only relatives were far-out jnes, the breed of feminine males and reniale nonentities —broadcloth and jlaek beads —who regard roaming over he world as tlie first step on the dope of Avernus. You can guess the sort. They iion't ward letters from am, and remark on jour neglect if hey don't gel any. They hope for Jie'hesl and believe the worst. I'eriaps yon know"." 1 nodded, and quoted: 'When I ha'e a saxpence under my thumb, Then I get credit in ilka town: But when I'm poor, they hid me gang by— Oh, poverty parts good company!' 'That's about it.' he wen! on. 'So . I was Willi me. I thought, as 1 (inrerod my lasl nickel and walrln d llie , ;angs of clattering niggers on the j vharves. The clamour and the lashes of bright colours reminded me 'or all the world of the parrot-house it the Zoo. Nothing equals a West rfdian crowd for unnecessary noise. Che less work they are at the more loise they make, gesticulating, racking, crowing, bickering lilce the big labics they are; the real youngsters lodging in and out of the crowd halflaked, or lying sprawling in tlie hoi , sun. ft •The scene had .Is picturesque side, in the moving bright-hue.| currents ol iiunanity, the women m dainty shades if muslin and scarlel lurbans, tlie men nore or less in rags perhaps, but rags [lntlering white and \ivid in the sunny picture. II was all vibration mil sparkle; hut. triilh lo tell, i was sick oi Ihe place, sick of the haekrruiind of Ihe surras, the big-leaved innanas, the palms, the cane-pieces, he slslmmed-milk sky. Sift, too, of he rum! Often the exotic, sounds ind scents and sighls were painted nit in my dreams, and a picture I ■arried always in my mind arose —a lieture of far-away Scotland, _a. green A0..,|, Ihe voice of the Solwa'y's tide creeping up lb.- long sands haunting I, Ihe hills behind it laced with mist. 'wonted home badly, and swore that would gel there even if 1 had lo ouch the na.hr of necessity, and ship is a stoker in a tramp steamer! And f that isn't a rertillcate of a man bong on his beam-ends, nothing i«! T had just failed in one attempt. t was a sample of many. A Yankee iteainer, Bristol hound, tempted me. md 1 managed to get an interview. le< ting, bul conclusive, with her ikipper. "Any chance of a passage, :ir?" I asked the hard-rase officer. Ie took me all in, shifting a big danilla cheroot from on.' corner of I hs clean-shaven mouth lo the other. | •YV-a-a-l -yep, if yew've got Ihe , lust- -sixty dallarsl' I shook my lead, lb- might as well have asked ! "or Ihe Koh-i-noor. "I've got p, work j ny passage home," I said. '"l'm on ny uppers!" "Can y' steer?" he isked. "No." I replied,, "bul "Then i put," lit saal ..nd turned en his heel. . md 1 ".putt, d." lb.' was a mull of idv sp. It, leaving no crumbs about. so "to speak. 'Howev. r. I was young, and not 'asilv easl down, ...ud that v.-r; a!'|.-r----loon I got wind I wanted. There was ~ schooner,-The Uerwirl; Law, hcrllo'd il a wharf .pis! below ..!.l K.-r.ipo's. Maximilian Napoleon I'erajo, in spile .f his name was a nigger who ran a I .lor,' and a middling hoarding house I md what lie didn't know of Ihe wavs if Ihe Port ild have teen wrilt- n m a postage stamp. Wasn't above | Jopins the nun when a skipper was ' short-handed, so folk- said. I was | passing- his shanty -when Uis ulu raa- \

c.'il hailed me. "Do oap'n ob de Bellwick Law just in, sah. Him wants buckra gen'l'man. Won't, have no culMid (jen'lj'niiin. Ilini s'aiftag tonight, sah, for certain su-ah. You find him on bo-alid. Yno gel laketi awn, sah, an' not forget old Max, sail!" • "I'm down Lo my lust coin, bill you'll have it if I sign on," I said, and I straightaway I ImrriiMl lo the Ber- ! wick Law, a lil-tle schooner. There | I found Hie captain, !'iavid Oorrand. ! lie was a tall man, with a good, ! square, honest face; a Scot, tint with j the mighty frame, fair hair, and sloel- ; blue i yes of a Viking. A pk.isanler man llian I fie average Scotch skipper, perhaps because he owned the sclux r. 1 don't mean that the Scotch skipper is worse than his I neighbour: hut most of Ihern have Minimi! rows I" hoe. The old red L nsiiui run- more to owner's profits in.m sentiment. I told him my story, lie listened, weighing me up. •When 1 had finished, "Well, it's like this," he said, in a deep bass, after taking a fore-and-aft turn along the rieek. "I'll no deny thai I'd rather have had an A. 8., but there's nothing lo be had here but a iple of nigger skrim-sha.'ikers, fed on mashed ynms, that 1 woiildna have in a gift." lie look a long stare at rue. "I'm!- —inn!-—ye havena tlie cut o' a. pierhead juniper, an' ye'rc purposelike an' willin,' I make no doubt. Mind ye. I'm no' exactly short-handed. No. I can handle her fine wi' live ,r a crew, countin' mysel", but I can be doin' wi' six. Ye look like yer day's darg. I'm get.lin' yer cheap. I'll no' deny, so if ye'll like lo come I'll -i'e \v yer keep. I'm on the Newf'un'lan' run willi fruit, and if ye do yer job I'll land yer in SI. .Mm wi' something in yer hand, an' n chance or a passage h.uiie at the hinder-end." ■[ closed with him at once, and became a roremnsl hand in (he little wind-jammer, got together my few belonging*, and that evening we had up anchor and slid out past the cluster of islets thai fronl the island. The fori o' Spain light soon dimmed in a pin-piiinl and disappeared when we sailed mil of the Dragon's Mouth, and I lie Berwick Law, under a sky splendid with stars, spread tier wings for the great Atlantic.' CHAPTER VII.—THE SHIP'S COMPANY. 'l'll muster the ship's crew. Where are they all now? 'We were half-a-dozen all told, not counting the skipper's wife, who. I learned, was on board, but 100 ill for sonic days to come on deck. She was newly marroOt —on her honeymoon. When she did appeal— Well, I'll come lo that. 'The captain, David Gerrand—the "Old Man" in sailor parlance—-I've told you about. The mate, llulsc by name, was a Londoner, a little man willi a gimlet face, a decent chap, nothing particular about him save a piping cockney voice and a hobby for modelling ships to lake home lo his wife and family, who were waiting for him somewhere down Barking way. P«ur souls! . . . Every second Of his spare tune was occupied whittling down matches and in the cunning reeling of liny knots, for a model of the Berwick Law was 'taking form and shape under his work-stained hands. lie lingered every day as lovingly over his first Aacdcmy picture, i thought it rather a childish form of amusement, I remember, but I've come to think belter of anyone' with a decent hobby.' lie gave me the ghost of a sigh. ' 1 wish 1 had one -l think. •The ( k, Evan Macleud*, was a Highlander, a six-footer from Skyc. 1 gathered bits of his history gradually. We became fasl friends, lie had been a second mate '.nee. Then there had been a descent lo half steward, half deck-hand, on one of Macßrayne's Wes! Highland steamers. Lord knows how he came lo drift over far seas. ; A restless youth, i think, and once lie gav« me a hint of his being iy. some bother that didn't make him over anxious to return, but Skye, he said, kept calling to him, and he wanted lo see it again. Perhaps the sheer love of roaming had as much lo do with his wanderings as anything, ft'.' was full of harmless superstitions of the Hebrides, and the adaptibilily and ingenuity Of the Cell. He here I! |e-signed-10-fate expression wholly de- ( cepiive, fur his gloom was but skindeep, contradicted by a humorous , mouth. A man of hair-trigger temper, llw twinkle of his eye quickly changing lo a spark. A handy man was Kvan, a decent cook .too, keep him off Hie rum. bid his abilities by no means ended at the galley llool'. lie I Id lake his hick at the wheel, and knew something of navigation. Indeed, had ,| not been for him I shouldn't be here telling this story to-day. His earthly possessions consisted of the dollies he stood in, a fine baritone voice, and a concertino. He and 1 became good friends, and faced seme unusual music together. 'The other three of the crew were Erie Lowden, a youngster —an ordin- ■ Dry cub—called Cullender, and myself, i •Lowden from the first was a my- - slery. In appearance he was slight, ■ ored of frame, finely modelled, co- i ordination in his build, and his dark i face was the handsomest of Hie aqui- I line that I've ever seen. Physically i he was a surprise, for he was as hard I as nails, and showed endurance un- I believable if one were lo judge from I his slim lines. In spite of Ins corn- I in.m place sailor clothes, many a ' pretty girl at fho port threw him i bright filances, but he paid them about as much + d as a wooden image t mishl. He had joined the ship at Port I ~• Spain. I never discovered where i he haded from, for lie literally rower I spoke un unnecessary word. lie had I niio of the principal parts, this silent i man. in the—the—the things thai , happened, lb- never joined in Hie . chaffing and chatter of our scanty lei- i euro forward, and would sit. gloomily , for long enough, with his head in his i hands, listless and sad-eyed. 'A dozen little things gave me the , idea—right, as it. turned out—that tie , was out of his amhil berthing for- < ward. But he was a splendid and a \ willing seaman. lie could teach us j ili our business. His Illness corn- | manded respect, and with it he obeyed I the unwritten laws and courtesies of s the republic of the fo'c'sle, where all ■ men are equal except the man who i doesn't know or won'l do his job. i 11, vend Hie bare necessities of s'» eeh, lowever, scarcely a Word could be Lfol out of him, and ./ something in his •>e furb.ute even the inquisitive Evan to draw him. 'I fid| a vague sympathy for him, fur whatever was vvroiiy with Ids Aoi-ld. to- was evid.-ullv of the breed who "thole" and sa> nothing. Although silent, lo- was not surly, and ld> voice what little we beard of it) was ■o-ikul.-wlv pleasant lo the e.,r. line lldnv "i him I cordiallv dislike,l. . He was ~|' Hie scarce and uncanny lliee.l ~C !||,,se Wlh. talk to themselves. I -aw him frequently, his lips I nmviiiK. toil i eniilil caich nothing of ' what he said. I thought the unpleasant habit a had sign, and in a couple of days an idea I had l; row into a bedel-. II was that tile man -wasn't normal. I ean'l lay ni\ linger on (he exact data on win h I built mv conviction. Chiefly. I Hunk, my belief was helped by a curious gesture of his. He would throw up tus head bad- I

denly in the midst of one of his silent brandings, as if listening for somelliing'—something that he seemed to be half wishing for, half-afraid of. Once, in one of these moments, his eye caught min,o, and held it in the unblinking slave of a relentless animal until I looked somewhere rise. vaguely irritated, and tie resumed his sa<l,-stolid gaze at nothing. Fear whs not lh§ emotion I often dtagonised in ins fare. The look was mure of nervous, over-wrought expectancy. Sometimes his wistful, staring eyes looked to me to be nothing short of haunted. The next moment they would glow like an animal's, and he would listen —listen, unfit a dreadful Ihought would seize me, and I had a mind to run out and see if there was something or someone in the ship moving with a step that he alone of all Hum could hear. 1 am not supercilious, but I had an uneasy feeling that there was trouble on hoard. So it tinned out, though the trouble arose from flesh and blood, primordial, not from messengers from the underworld. 'Well, on the third evening out. Martinique on the beam, Evan Macleod Ihe cook and I had "foregathered." The Berwick Law was making headway in the North-East Trades, and the sky gave promise of line weather. Evan and I were leaning over the weather-rail, listening to the water buzzing cheerfully under us, and watching a fairy sea, for our track gleamed with moll en phosphorescence. and the arc of the* sky was clear to tlie zenith. ■ "What will you pe makin' of Lowdim?" asked Evan. The soft West accent had never left him. ' " Well"—I began. •" Wheesht, man!" was the whispered interruption, with a nudge from Evan's stalwart elbow. "He's chust pehind us." 'I looked round, but could see no one. "Nobody about . You're dreamin-' Evan," I said, keeping my voice low. ' "Dreamin'," is il ? We'll take a smahl walk," quoth lie, ami we turned and took a couple of slep.s quietly forward. Evan halted and jerked a thumb lo the lee between the main hatch ami Hie galley," where, sure enough, Lowdcn was standing. He did not see us. He was facing aft, both hands clenched, his head in the listening pose thai I had remarked, lie was deathly pale, his eyes burning, ihnost unreason in them, 1 thought. His lips were moving, but no speech came from them th.it we eo.uld hear. I stood for a moment, fear mingling with my amazement. 1 see him now, nen at this distance. 1 felt as if I was watching a sorrowful devil rommuni•ating with evil, lie put his hands iver his eyes as if lo shut out a black memory. 'Evan clutched my arm. a gulp in lis throat. "Come away," he whislored, and we stole round in the shadow of Hie galley. "It—it's nn•anny to pe lookin' at a man scein' billys like what, he will pe scein'." 'We went back again softly to the ■ail ami wailed in silence. I thought heard a sound, half-groan. lialfuirse. then the solitary figure moved iw.iy without a glance in our direeion. We watched 41 go forward and lisappcar into the fo'c'sle. ' "Well, what do you make of that, Svan?" I asked in a whisper. 'The Celt rose like a cork to Evan's surface. 'Every shop, they say, will ie liavin' drowned sailors' voices talkug lo her. Oh. but yess," he said, seeing me smile, "an' for those who tear them it iss a warnin' that they ,oo will soon pe dead. There was my ifcvn mother's sisler's son, goin' round he Mill o' Kintyre in ihe old Clydeslale. What does he hear one night u the first, wa-atch but a wailin' 'Oice ovrt of the waiter, an' there was he drowned wet face of a man with rreat staling eyes, an' it looked at him he wanee an' went down again!" ' "Very likely a seal, Evan," I sugrested, not without mischief. •"A seal I How could it pe a seal. .t ahl, when my cousin was very sick iftcr at the Kyle, an' the poor man licit of a fever in fower days?" asked Svan with indignation. '! forebore from arranging !he remarkable logic of this physical rmimestation. Indeed, I knew that it vould have been useless, and Evan vent on wrathfully, ' "But of course here are /people who know about iverythlng an' will not pelieve thiir iwn eyes, nor nobody else's. No, I ell you that we shall pe scein' fury (range doin's —yess!—peforo we'll pe beam o' Ail.sa Craig again." I'hni, onsiderably ruffled, he retired into lis galley. 'I paid but little attention at the ime to his gloomy "haverings." 1-ut Ivan was right.' (To be Continued.