Sweetapple Cove | Page 9

of spume. There was a
suggestion of tremendous walls over which voices were shrieking in
the battle of unending centuries between the moving turmoil and the
stolid cliffs, defying the battering waves.
Our little boat flew on, and suddenly the rolling and pitching ceased as
if some magic had oiled the waters. Within the land-locked cove the
wind no longer howled and the surface was smooth. It was like
awaking from the unrest of a nightmare to the peace of one's bed. We
glided on, losing headway, for Frenchy had let the sheets run. With
movements apparently slow, yet with the deftness which brings quick
results, the sails were gathered about the masts and made fast, and
presently we drifted against the small forest of poles supporting the
flakes and fishhouses. These were black and glistening with the rain
and from them came an odor, acrid and penetrating, of decaying fish in
ill-emptied gurry-butts and of putrefying livers oozing out a black oil in
open casks.
We made our way over the precarious footing of unstable planks and
shook ourselves like wet dogs, while Sammy stopped for a moment to
hunt beneath his oilskins for a sodden plug of tobacco, from which he
managed to gnaw off a satisfactory portion.
"Well, we's here, anyways," he observed, quietly.
"Sammy, you're a wonderful man!" I exclaimed, earnestly.
The old fellow looked at me, but his seamed face appeared devoid of
understanding. Slowly there seemed to dawn upon his mind the idea
that this might be some sort of jest on my part, and the tanned leather of
his countenance wrinkled further into a near approach to a smile, as we
started up the steep path leading up to the village.

Yet I had meant no pleasantry whatever, for really I was awed by the
mystery of it all. In the fog that rolled in with the north-east gale we
had left Will's Island, ten miles away, and skirted, without ever seeing
them, some miles of cliffs. We had avoided scores of rocks over which
the seas broke fiercely, and had finally dashed through a narrow
opening in the appalling face of the huge ledge, unerringly. To me it
seemed like a gigantic deed, beyond the powers of man.
The path began to widen, and Sammy again vouchsafed some
information, taking up his slender thread of narrative as if it had never
been interrupted.
"So they carries him up to th' house, on a fishbarrow, an' they sends for
me, an' wuz all talkin' to onst, sayin' I must git you quick an' never
mind what it costs. Them people don't mind what-nothin' costs, 'pears
to me."
By this time we had risen well above the waters of Sweetapple Cove.
The few scattered small houses appeared through the mist, their eaves
dripping in unclean puddles. The most pretentious dwelling in the place
is deserted. It boasts a small veranda and a fairly large front window
over which boards have been nailed. In very halt and ill-formed letters
a sign announces "The Royal Shop," a title certainly savoring of
affluence. But it is a sad commentary upon the prosperity of the Cove
that even a Syrian trader has tried the place and failed to eke out a
living there.
Some dispirited goats forlornly watched our little procession for a
moment, and resumed their mournful hunt outside the palings of tiny
enclosures jealously protected against their incursions among a few
anemic cabbages.
A little farther on the only cow in the place, who is descended from the
scriptural lean ones, was munching the discarded tail of a large codfish
which probably still held a faint flavor of the salt with which it had
been preserved. Nondescript dogs, bearing very little resemblance to
the original well-known breed, wandered aimlessly under the pelting
rain.

Frenchy reached his dilapidated shack, and was the first to stop.
"Vell, so long," he said.
"Au revoir à demain!" I answered, as well as I could.
His somber, swarthy face brightened at the sound of words of his own
tongue. I believe that to him they were a tiny glimpse of something
well-beloved and of memories that refused to grow dim. For a moment
he stood at the door, beaming upon me. A small boy came out, very
grimy of face and hands and with a head covered with yellow curls. He
was chiefly clad in an old woollen jersey repaired with yarn of many
hues, that nearly reached his toes.
"Papa Yves!" he cried, leaping up joyfully, quite heedless of Frenchy's
dripping oilskins.
The sailor lifted up the child and kissed him, whereupon he grasped the
man's flaring ears as they projected from the huge tangled beard, and
with a burst of happy laughter kissed him on both cheeks, under the
eyes, in