Doctor Luke of the Labrador | Page 6

waves; and the spray swept over us like driving rain,
and was bitter cold; and the mist fell thick and swift upon the coast
beyond. Jacky, forward with the jib-sheet in his capable little fist and
the bail bucket handy, scowled darkly at the gale, being alert as a cat,
the while; and the skipper, his mild smile unchanged by all the tumult,
kept a hand on the mainsheet and tiller, and a keen, quiet eye on the
canvas and on the vanishing rocks whither we were bound. And forth
and back she went, back and forth, again and again, without
end--beating up to harbour.
"Dear man!" said Skipper Tommy, with a glance at the vague black
outline of the Watchman, "but 'tis a fine harbour!"
"'Tis that," sighed Jacky, wistfully, as a screaming little gust heeled the
punt over; "an'--an'--I wisht we was there!"
Skipper Tommy laughed at his son.
"I does!" Jacky declared.
"I--I--I'm not so sure," I stammered, taking a tighter grip on the
gunwale, "but I wisht we was--there--too."
"You'll be wishin' that often," said Skipper Tommy, pointedly, "if you
lives t' be so old as me."
We wished it often, indeed, that day--while the wind blustered yet more
wildly out of the north and the waves tumbled aboard our staggering
little craft and the night came apace over the sea--and we have wished
it often since that old time, have Jacky and I, God knows! I had the
curious sensation of fear, I fancy--though I am loath to call it that--for
the first time in my life; and I was very much relieved when, at dusk,
we rounded the looming Watchman, ran through the white waters and
thunderous confusion of the Gate, with the breakers leaping high on
either hand, sharply turned Frothy Point and came at last into the

ripples of Trader's Cove. Glad I was, you may be sure, to find my
mother waiting on my father's wharf, and to be taken by the hand, and
to be led up the path to the house, where there was spread a grand
supper of fish and bread, which my sister had long kept waiting; and,
after all, to be rocked in the broad window, safe in the haven of my
mother's arms, while the last of the sullen light of day fled into the
wilderness and all the world turned black.
"You'll be singin' for me, mum, will you not?" I whispered.
"And what shall I sing, lad?" said she.
"You knows, mum."
"I'm not so sure," said she. "Come, tell me!"
What should she sing? I knew well, at that moment, the assurance my
heart wanted: we are a God-fearing people, and I was a child of that
coast; and I had then first come in from a stormy sea. There is a
song----
"'Tis, 'Jesus Saviour Pilot Me,'" I answered.
"I knew it all the time," said she; and,
"'Jesus, Saviour, pilot me, Over life's tempestuous sea,'"
she sang, very softly--and for me alone--like a sweet whisper in my ear.
"'Unknown waves before me roll, Hiding rock and treacherous shoal;
Chart and compass came from Thee: Jesus, Saviour, pilot me!'"
"I was thinkin' o' that, mum, when we come through the Gate," said I.
"Sure, I thought Skipper Tommy might miss the Way, an' get t'other
side o' the Tooth, an' get in the Trap, an' go t' wreck on the Murderers,
an'----"
"Hush, dear!" she whispered. "Sure, you've no cause to fear when the
pilot knows the way."

The feeling of harbour--of escape and of shelter and brooding
peace--was strong upon me while we sat rocking in the failing light. I
have never since made harbour--never since come of a sudden from the
toil and the frothy rage of the sea by night or day, but my heart has felt
again the peace of that quiet hour--never once but blessed memory has
given me once again the vision of myself, a little child, lying on my
mother's dear breast, gathered close in her arms, while she rocked and
softly sang of the tempestuous sea and a Pilot for the sons of men, still
rocking, rocking, in the broad window of my father's house. I protest
that I love my land, and have from that hour, barren as it is and as bitter
the sea that breaks upon it; for I then learned--and still know--that it is
as though the dear God Himself made harbours with wise, kind hands
for such as have business in the wild waters of that coast. And I love
my life--and go glad to the day's work--for I have learned, in the course
of it and by the life of the man who came to us, that whatever the stress
and fear of the work to be done there