Dicey Comes Ashore

by LLEWELLYN HOWLAND

1

FOR an hour or more, sitting on upturned tubs in a shanty called the “Fish House” at Noman’s Land, the Skipper and I watched a succession of big codfish — that morning’s catch — pass through Jethro Gifford’s skillful hands, which moved with the precision of machinery and so fast that at times there seemed four of them instead of two. The whole performance was punctuated by the snicking of the knife, the plop of livers and tongues as they dropped into their respective kegs, the faint crackle of the “sounds” as they were ripped out, the rasp of coarse salt rubbed into spread belly cavities, and finally the squelch of dressed fish pressed home in a barrel of brine.

At first, as he was getting his “hand in,” Jethro was silent. Then without looking up from his work he said: —

“I guess Father sprung his yarn about livin’ on the floe off the Northwest Coast, didn’t he?” and without waiting for a reply he continued: “Some folks think his headpiece ain’t caulked real tight — but I’d rather take his judgment on most matters that count than any man’s I’ve met up with yet. And when it comes to a pinch, that left arm and hand o’ hisn is wuth more’n a dozen. I owe my bein’ here to that judgment and that arm; and some others, includin’ my wife, does too. I don’t remember seem.’ you, Skipper, to talk with since Dicey and me was married, three year ago come this fall — and I don’t figure you’ve heard the straight of that October night and early morn in’ when Dicey come ashore. There’s the Mornin’ Mercury’s account of it, tucked under the shingle that’s tacked onto the inside of the door yonder along with my tally sheets. You and your young friend take and read it over, and then I’ll tell ye where the feller that wrote it got off soundin’s. What he didn’t know about salt water doin’s was a caution!”

Jumping up from my seat, I ran over to the door, to find a folded yellowed sheet of newspaper which I handed to the Skipper. Glancing at it, he returned it to me, saying: “Read it yourself; I had my go with it at home, the day it was published.”

So, sitting down again, I went to work on the two columns of fine print under the caption: “British Ship Wrecked on Cuttyhunk.”

Like so many reports of such events, this account emphasized the loss of life that had occurred, but failed to explain the conditions and details responsible for the tragedy. When I had come to the end, I had a confused impression of “howling storm . . . raging seas . . . overturned lifeboat ” and eventual rescue of a “pitiful remnant” of the crews of both boat and ship.

As I looked up from my reading, the Skipper said, “Now, Jethro — the road’s clear, so let her go!”

“Well, Skipper, so’s your friend, who I presume ain’t very well acquainted here, will understand how we was all placed, I’ll say that Mother’d died over on the Vineyard the spring before; and Father bein’ lonesome, I’d fetched him to Cut tyhunk, where I was actin’ Captain of the Gov’ment Lifesavin Station—to hearten him up and keep an eye on him. He boarded to Veeder’s up on the hill, lend in’ a hand with this and that and gettin’ along pretty good, all things considered.

“September’d been rough and foggy, with three strandin’s— two schooners and one tern — keepin’ us busy and, what’s more, bothered by that Humane Society’s lifeboat manned by volunteer Cuttyhunkers, try in’ to get ahead of us and take the credit for what was done. I tell you, Skipper, it ain’t no bed o’ roses to handle a Gov’ment job such as mine was there when an outfit like that Society — the first folks to organize lifesavin’ on this coast — feels their holt on the business slippin’. You can’t blame them boys with their boat tryin’ all they knowed to get to wind’ard of us regular, paid hands

— they feelin’ that they was up against Uncle Sam with unlimited money and gear behind him. It’s just human nature to be galled and reckless-mad, and Father he’d figured there’d be an accident before long if somethin’ warn’t done to sweeten up that sour mess o’ bad blood.

“Me and my crew down to the Station was about as popular as a skunk to a church picnic, which ain’t a healthy arrangement on an island with a half a hundred folks livin’ close together, and some of ‘em oath-bound to save the lives and property of shipwrecked strangers. It warn’t only the weather and the tides and the fogs we was up against — but all the folks on Cuttyhunk, too, schemin’ to give us a black eye and put us in wrong with the public.

“Come October the weather set fair and stayed that way right through, so’s all we had to do was to keep patrol, overhaul gear, and put on a couple o’ practice drills with the boats. Come sunup the twenty-third, there was a moderate northerly breeze with quite a fleet o’ colliers flyin’ light and a fourmaster with lumber runnin’ out o’ the Sound to west’ard on the last half o’ the ebb. As pretty a mornin’ as you’d ever see that time o’ year. Come noon there was considerable traffic workin’ to east’ard on the flood. Along towards four in the afternoon a swell begun to heave in from the south’ard and it growed fast.

“Then just before sundown here come a little brig-rigged vessel alone from east’ard, creepin’ along on the first o’ the ebb. I got my glass on her and seen she was British by her rig and build, and I says to myself, ‘What’s that stranger doin’ in the mouth o’ the Sound this time o’ day with the breeze likely to peter out, the sea makin’ up, and the tide changin’ to flood come midnight?’ Then I ketched sight of a woman on her deck; and I don’t know why — but I got real uneasy.

2

FROM then till six o’clock, supper time, I was busy writin’ up my log, and such, in the Station and took no account o’ the weather. Whilst we was at table I heard the shingle south side o’ the Neck begin to scream in the undertow after every swoosh of a breaker, so I went outside to have a look around. ‘Twas oily calm; not a breath stirrin’; and gettin’ cold. A three-quarters moon was pokin’ up, bright as a new dollar, over Gay Head, and them swells with broad lanes o’ moonshine runnin’ crisscross over their tops was comin’ on like hills - silent as death till they tripped on bottom and burst. It beat any Fourth o’ July fireworks.

“In ten minutes I was back again indoors, so’s I could get the first night patrol’s report myself when he’d turn it in over the wire from the West End lookout station.

“When his voice come through I says without waitin’: ‘How’s that brig layin’?’ and he says, ‘By God, Cap’n, I can’t see her half the time, nor the Lightship neither. The seas out here’s bigger’n I ever seen ‘em — and not a sign of a breeze. But I figger the brig’s about abreast the Lightship and layin’ head to the south’ard. She must be catchin’ it. wicked with the ebb runnin’ against them rollers!’

“And I says, ‘You stay where you be and report every half hour!’

I hadn’t no more’n hung up when Father come in, and I seen he was set on some notion — the whites o’ his eyes was bloodshot, and I knowed he meant business. He jerked his head at the door; so we went outside and down the beach a piece where we could be alone.

“‘Son,’ says he, — and he never calls me Son unless he’s real worked up, — ‘that brig’ll go ashore about two hours after turn o’ tide an’ nothin’ we can do’ll save her. There ain’t a tug to Bedford could face that rip tonight, much less get a line aboard her, an’ we can’t tow her with the boats even if we could get alongside, which we can’t do till the flood’s runnin’ — an’ then it’ll be too late! I’ve been watchin’ how things was out to the West End, an’ them seas is breakin’ a mile ‘most outside Sow an’ Pigs, an’ as I come back along the north shore there was acres o’ broken water all between here an’ Hen an Chickens on Ribbon Reef an’ them threefathom knolls to the north’ard. You can hear the roar of it easy from the beach across the Pond.

“ ‘Now here’s what’ll happen: them boys in the Humane Boa t’ll launch under the Lighthouse — an’

I reckon they can just about get off the beach there. Then they’ll pull out. an’ lay so if the brig conies ashore they’ll have the jump on ye.

“‘But you an’ me an’ two o’ your boats is goin’ to be out in that neighborhood ourselves. An’ whilst you may be a Captain in Gov’ment service, I’m the Captain o’ this outfit from now on till this night’s over — an’ don’t you make no mistake about that!’

“Well, Skipper, when you’ve had a father like Sim as long as I have, there come times when you feel and act as if you was nothin’ but a boy again — and that was one o’ them times. So I says: ‘Heave away! The deck’s yourn! But I’m the Mate, and orders goes through me; and don’t you make no mistake about that.!'

“And I will say, when he’d finished spillin’ what was on his mind, there warn’t nothin’ overlooked or left to chance, as far as I could figure; and within an hour we’d launched from the north beach abreast the Station — where it was moderate quiet - with Father in charge of the whaleboat with four hands to the oars; me in the lifeboat with a full crew - and my Mate up to the West End lookout, all primed for signalin’.”

At this point Jethro paused in his narrative to shift brine barrels and when he was back at the bench, with fish passing through his hands again, he continued silent for some time. At last he laid down his knife and turned to face us, saying: “And there you have it, Skipper, just the way it was bright moonlight, ungodly sea, and dead calm, with everything happening the way Father’d foretold. There’s spells a man has to go through, that he can’t hardly keep clear in his mind after they’re over; and what come to pass that night and early mornin’ is one of ‘em, far’s I’m concerned.

“To tell the truth, I don’t hanker, and never have, to try to figure step by step all we done. Fust place, ‘twould take too long to tell, and second, ‘twould sound as if I was tootin’ the Gifford horn kind o’ loud. All any folks that warn’t there needs to know is, the brig struck about two o’clock in the mornin’ and we was layin’ where we could see her rulin’ in on one o’ them rollers, all lit up for a flash by the moon. Then she disappeared in a lather o’ foam and spray, and presently, sharp as a pistol shot, above the roar o’ the breakin’ seas, here come a crack, and a weak, pitiful cry as she fetched up on t he rocks — the lonesomest sight and sound I ‘most ever seen or heard. And we as near as that, and yet too far to do more than burn flares to let them strangers know we’d seen ‘em and was stand in’ by.

“Come false dawn, and them ambitious boys aboard the Humane Boat begun to pull out for the wreck — Father and me trailin’ ‘em, as agreed. Then the moon dipped, the sky filmed, and ’twas darker’n the inside of a tar barrel and I knowed by the feel o’ the helm we was in broken water, where the back run o’ the rollers was ketchin’ on shoal spots inside the reef. Another minute, and Father’s boat showed a red flare and L knowed them youngsters in the Society’s boat had come to grief up ahead. So we quit pullin’ anti layed. Ten minutes more and Father touched off a blue light and we begun to pull easy — headed for the island, cruisin’, with our eyes and ears open for what we might run across.

3

BETWEEN then and dawn the whaleboat got one — alive — out o’ that capsized boat, and I got two that warn’t — the sea and rocks had got to ‘em first. We just drove onto ‘em and hauled what there was aboard; and I thought of them poor folks on the brig — if she was still there, which I misdoubted.

“I reckon ‘twas past five, with stars palin’ fast, when Father touched off another blue light and we headed out again with the ebb commencin’ to cock up them seas and Father’s flare bobbin’ into sight now and then between us and the reef. ‘Twas chancy work—pull for all you was worth a few strokes, then hold her steady whilst you rode one that looked like breakin’. And me sweatin’ more and more to sight the wreck. At last when we was on top of a long one, I saw a lower mast stickin’ up out of a welter o’ broken water with a huddle o’ folks in the top. When we come up again, ‘twas gone, and there was the whaleboat ridin’ on her tail on the face of a sea just dimplin’ and edgin’ to break.

“And now, Skipper, I can’t say much more — except, some time later, when ‘twas light enough for the water to begin to blue just before sunup, there come that spar, with two folks still in the top, stabbin’ out through the body of a snorer bearin’ down on us. And as we rose to it, that mast was hove by us and I seen the woman — Dicey — just out o’ reach; and I done what no man callin’ himself a seaman had oughter do. For I kicked off my boots and everything, down to drawers, singlet, and clasp knife on a lanyard, and went outboard. ‘Twas desertion o’ my sworn duty, and but for bather it might ha’ cost the lives o’ my crew — let alone my own, Dicey’s, and the old man’s with her.

“When I laid hold o’ that top I found them two lashed to it without a kick o’ their own left in ‘em. ‘Twas ticklish business bangin’ on; that spar didn t lay flat — more up and down, liftin’ me once or twice nigh out o’ water. Three times my boat come up abreast, and me with my knife ready to slash them lashin’s. And three times that stick of ourn bobbed out o’ reach. Then here come Father in the whaleboat, handlin’ her with gloves, and I cut — and as I done so I caught my head a crack from some bit o’ loose gear.

“When I come to, there was Dicey and the old man layin’ in the whaler, with Father still at the steerin’ oar, his face set grim. As I opened my eyes again he give me one look, and I felt small and ord’nary — just the way when he’d found me playin’ the fool, to home, old days on the Vineyard. But there warn’t a word out o’ him till I was abed that afternoon in the Stat ion. Then all ho says was: Jethro, you lay there till your headpiece is mended; an’ then you throw up this job here — you ain’t fit to be responsible for Gov’ment property. The woman’s cornin’ on good, an’ her uncle too — if that’s any consolation to ye.’

“And so, a few days later, when I got my legs under me, I wrote out my resignation and mailed it to headquarters — though there warn’t no blame attachin’ to me then, or after when the bearin’ was held. And here’s a funny thing, Skipper, I’ve noticed about some folks: the more they think they’re under obligations to ye, the more they keep away from ye and act up mean. All the time we was waitin’ round for the bearin’ to be held, Cap’n Stillwell made himself scarce where I was, so’s I got the notion he was figurin’ to get his knife into me when he come to say his piece. And Father — he didn’t say nothin’ to help; just mooned around mum as an oyster till I felt I was branded — as the man responsible for all them that had been drowned.

“If it hadn’t been for that stranger, Dicey, I don’t know as I could’ve stuck them days without losin’ my grip. But she stood by through all that bad time — showin’ all she knowed how that she believed I’d done right when she and her uncle was adrift on the spar. It warn’t so much what she said the two or three times we was together — for to tell the truth, I couldn’t rightly understand her lingo then, or she mine — as ‘twas the way she looked and behaved to hearten me up. And I made out somehow that she give Father and me the credit for her bein’ alive. I managed to get it clear she was an orphan and had come on this cruise with her uncle to get shut of a stepmother she couldn’t gee with, after her father’d died.

“But when the day come and we was all up before the investigatin’ board, I found Dicey’s uncle was about as good a friend to me and Father as we could’ve had. For he brought it. out, when his turn come, that, bein’ a stranger to this coast, he’d miscalculated the set o’ the tides in the mouth of the Sound, and by the time the breeze dropped and he seen he was in for trouble, there warn’t any man, includin’ me, could done more’n we did.

‘He said when the flood tide begun to set the brig to north’ard towards the reef, he let go both anchors in hopes she’d fetch up and lay; but soon’s the cables come taut they ripped out the windlass and she commenced to drag, and it warn’t long before the cables cut down the hawsepipes — so’s she was sinkin’ ‘fore she struck. After the talk was all over, I got a clean bill o’ health; but with all them fine Cuttyhunk boys and the brig’s crew gone and with Father’s opinion o’ me, I didn’t hanker to stay round the Island no longer.

“A couple o’ weeks more and Cap’n Stillwell had fixed to go home to Scarborough, and Dicey — well, she’d fixed to stay in these parts with me and Father; and so when the day for movin’ come, the four of us crossed over to Bedford, and Dicey and me was married and we bid Cap’n Stillwell goodbye. And I ain’t ashamed to say I was considerable sorry to see the last of the old man, even if he was a Britisher. That winter we boarded to Vineyard Haven, and come here to Noman’s the spring follerin’, and — ”

Suddenly a soft, caressing voice broke in on Jethro’s clipped, nasal twang, asking: “Tha’ll coom to tha dinner now, lad?” And there, facing us in the doorway, stood Juno or, better, soft-eyed Athene with a baby in the crook of one arm and a toddler clinging to her skirt.

“Now, Dicey,” said Jethro, “you fetch these friends o’ mine up to the house whilst I finish dressin down. ‘Twon’t take more’n two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”