Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 4

The man stepped in and seized the oars. "I'll help get her off," he said, "but I won't go."

In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William's face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. "I guess you'll go, Andrew," he said; "you wouldn't want a man drowned right at your door-yard."

"You can't live in it," said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light.

Far to the east a boat crawled against it. "It'll strike in five minutes," he said.

"Like enough," said Uncle William--"like enough. Easy there!" He seized the stern of the _Andrew Halloran_ and sprang on board. They worked in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail,--a single reef,--making it fast. "All she'll stan'," said Uncle William. He turned to the helm.

Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. "If she's going out, I take her," he said.

"You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy," said Uncle William.

In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the murky light as if drawn by unseen hands.

The light thickened and grew black--clouded and dense and swift. Then, with a wrench, heaven parted about them. The water descended in sheets, gray-black planes that shut them in--blinded them, crushed them. Andrew, crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer, closer--hugging the wind with tense grasp. About them, the water flattened like a plate beneath the flood. When the rain s.h.i.+fted a second they saw it, a gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Uncle William bent to it, scanning the east. "Hold her tight, Andy," he yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller, and his back strained to it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair, lashed flat to the big skull, were mere lines. "Hold her tight! Make fast!" he yelled again.

Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened to ages and beat them, eternally, in torment. Water and clouds were all about them--underneath them, and over. The boat, towering on each wave, dropped from its crest like a ball. Andy, crouching on the bottom of the boat, held on like grim death. Then, in a breath the storm was gone.

With a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its black skirts hurtling behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam.

Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head, like a turtle, breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east.

Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length, mopping off the wet. "There she is!" he said in a deep voice. "Let her out, Andy."

With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef and loosing it to the wind.

The water still tossed in tumbling waves and the fitful rain blew past.

But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered, monstrous and black.

With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller.

"We'll make it, Andy," he said quietly. "We'll make it yet if the _Jennie_ holds out--" Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the tiller, his eyes glued fast.

"Luff her," he cried. "She's gone--Luff her, I tell you!" He sprang back, jamming the tiller from him. "Let her out, Andy, every inch!"

The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its touch.

She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping sidewise flight, to the race.

Across the water something bobbed--black, uncertain.

"Look sharp, Andy," said Uncle William.

Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the chase was on him. His indifference had washed from him, like a husk, in that center of terror. His eyes leaped to the ma.s.s and glowed on it.

"Yep," he said solemnly, "he's held on--he's there!"

"Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don't lose her." Uncle William's big arms strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in her course. Nearer she came and nearer, circling with white wings that opened and closed silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, hung poised a moment, and swept away with swift stroke.

The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man's head, round and smooth, like a boulder, stood out against the black above him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon--thick and nebulous and dizzy.

"Roll him over, Andy," said Uncle William, "roll him over. He's s.h.i.+pped too much."

V

Uncle William sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine deftly in and out, squinting now and then across the harbor at a line of smoke that dwindled into the sky. Each time he looked it was fainter on the horizon. He whistled a little as he bent to his work.

Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of nets. He threw it on the sand with a grunt. Straightening himself, he glanced at the line of smoke. "_He's_ gone," he said, jerking his thumb toward it.

"He's gone," a.s.sented Uncle William, cheerfully.

Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him, spreading it along the beach. "He's left _you_ poorer'n he found you,"

he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the nets, untying knots and straightening meshes.

"I dunno 'bout that," said Uncle William. His eyes followed the whiff of smoke kindly.

"You kep' him a good deal, off and on. He must 'a' e't considerable,"

said Andrew. "And now he's up and lost your boat for you." He glanced complacently at the _Andrew Halloran_ swinging at anchor. "You'll never see _her_ again," he said. He gave a final toss to the net.

"Mebbe not," said Uncle William. "Mebbe not." His eyes were on the horizon, where the gray-blue haze lingered lightly. The blue sky dipped to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William's eyes returned to his nets.

"How you going to get along 'bout a bout?" asked Andrew, carelessly.

Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. "I shouldn't need her much more this fall, anyways," he said. "An' come spring, I'll get another. I've been needin' a new boat a good while."

Andrew grunted. He glanced a little jealously at the _Andrew Halloran_.

"Got the money?" he asked.

"Well, not _got_ it, so to speak," said Uncle William, "but I reckon I shall have it when the time comes."

Andrew's face lightened a little. "What you countin' on?" he said.

Uncle William considered. "There's the fish. Gunnion hain't settled with me yet for my fish."

Andrew nodded. "Seventy-five dollars."

"And I've got quite a count of lobsters up to the boardin'-house--"

Andrew's small eyes squinted knowingly. "Out o' season?"

Uncle William returned the look benignly. "We didn't date the 'count--just lumped 'em, so much a catch; saves trouble."

Andrew chuckled. "I've saved trouble that way myself." He made a rough calculation. "It won't make a hunderd, all told. How you goin' to get the rest?"

"Mebbe I shall borrow it," said Uncle William. He looked serenely at the sky. "Like enough _he'll_ send a little suthin'," he added.

"Like enough!" said Andrew.

"He mentioned it," said Uncle William.

"He's gone," said Andrew. He gave a light _p-f-f_ with his lips and screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail away.