THEY bent over the table, following Uncle William’s finger. The room was filled with light smoke from Uncle William’s pipe and the cigarette that Bodet held in his fingers and whiffed from time to time. The dusk outside crept in and mingled with the smoke.
“It’s along up here somewheres....” said Uncle William, peering at the map—“Here—! Here it is!” He glued his finger to a tiny spot—“They stopped here, they said—off St. Pierre, and then run along up through Placentia Bay and stopped off two-three times, and back to St. Mary’s—kind o’ edgin’ along—They struck a squall here—off Lance Point—and that kep’ ’em back a spell—”
“The boat’s all right!” said Bodet quickly.
“Oh, she’s all right, I guess. They didn’t say nothin’ about the boat. They was writin’ about the scenery and about their feelings, and so on; but I managed to make out their course—puttin’ this and that together. Your boat’s all right, Benjy. She ’ll stand any weather they ’ll get this time o’ year.”
“Yes—she ’ll stand it—with good handling—”
“Well, you’ve got a captain knows his business.... They ’ll bring her ’round to your back door some day, safe and sound.... You ain’t worryin’ to have ’em back, Benjy?”
The other shook his head. “Not a bit—I’m contented here.” He gave a little puff to the cigarette and wrinkled his eyes, smiling across the map and dreaming a little.
Uncle William’s eyes were on his face, kindly and glad. The pipe in his lips gave out a gentle volume of smoke and rumbled a little down below—“You can’t find a much better place ’n this is, can you?” He moved his hand toward the window where the dusk was coming in... and across the harbor where the lights glowed faintly—like stars.
Benjy’s eye rested on them. “Best place in the world,” he said.
“We all like it,” said Uncle William, “Andy likes it, too—”
The green in Andy’s eye retreated a little—“I’d like to see some of them other places,” he said.... “Now, that,” he shoved his finger at a point on the map—“That’s the farthest north I ever went.” Uncle William bent to it.... “Dead Man’s Point.” He chuckled a little. “‘Tis kind o’ rough, Andy, ain’t it!”
“I’ve started times enough,” said Andy—“once for Labrador and once in a whaler ’twas going way up—they said. Seem’s if we always got stuck or got a cargo—or suthin’—before we’re fairly under way—and had to turn around and come back.”
Uncle William nodded. “You’ve had a hard time, Andy—and I do’ ’no’s I’d risk taking you along myself—not if I wanted to get anywhere.”
Andy grinned. “You’ve been,” he said. “You don’t care.”
Uncle William’s eye swept the map and he laid his great hand on it affectionately, spreading the fingers wide. “It does feel good to think you’ve seen it,” he said, “But I’d rather be right here with you and Benjy a-traveling this way—after them young things, that don’t know where they’re sailing or what kind of waters they’re comin’ to—and not trusting the Lord even—not fairly trustin’ him, so to speak—just kind o’ thinkin’ of him as suthin’ to fall back on if a storm comes up—a real hard one—kind of a tornado like.”
“She’s a good boat,” said the tall man.
“She’s all right, Benjy—and they’re nice children,” responded Uncle William, “and I hope they won’t hurry a mite about getting round the earth.... The rate they’re goin’ now—when they wrote—I reckon it ’ll take just about twenty-five years,” he said reflectively.... “They don’t say how far North they plan to make, but I kind o’ reckon they ’ll cut across from here—from Battle Harbor to Disco, and then skirt along down the Cape, and up,”... His finger followed the course with slow touch and the smoke curled about his head with deep, contemplative puffs. His eye ran back over the course and lingered on a bit of clear water to the North. “It does seem a pity not to go up there—when they’re so near,” he said regretfully, “and best kind of weather, too.”... His eye grew dreamy—“It was along ’71, I sailed there—along with Captain Hall—You know that last voyage of his? We had one eye on whales and one on the Pole, I reckon... and the Polaris, she edged and edged, up and up. Some days I didn’t know but she would strike the Pole—run smack into it.... We ’d got up here through the Strait and up Smith’s Sound... and on beyond—the farthest of anybody’t that time—and Captain Hall, he was for pushing on—and all of ’em, except Buddington—he was sailing master and that slow, cautious kind—no sort o’ timber to go after the North Pole with—but he said we ’d winter right there—’twas somewheres along in August then—and we run back a little to a good place—and that’s where it got its name now, ’Polaris Bay’—we was the ones that named it.” Uncle William looked at it, with the pride of possession, and rubbed his finger on it. “Well, we stayed there.... But Captain Hall—you couldn’t hold him still, and he was all the time sledgin’ off, one way and another—to see what the earth was doin’ up that way—and it run along into October—the last of the month—It all seems like yesterday,” said Uncle William slowly.... “I was a young fellow, you see—not more ’n twenty-two-three, and I’d left Jennie down here, and gone up there—so’s to make money faster.”—His eye traveled about the red room... and came back to the map... “and there we was, settin’ down up there—waitin’ for winter and not a whale in sight—and then, all of a sudden, before you could say Jack Robinson—Captain Hall died.... There was whisperin’s around among the crew about the way he was took and the Navy went into it later—but nothin’ was proved... and Captain Buddington wa’ n’t the kind of man you could stand up to—captain or sailin’ master, or what, he ’d have his way... and we stayed there best part of a year. Then he said we was goin’ home—I remember,’. if it was yesterday, the day we got wind what he was plannin’ for. I’d been out off from the boat all day.... and when I came in George Pelman, he whispered to me we was goin’ home—and then, all in a minute, out there in the snow, I see Jennie’s face looking to me and smilin’, and my eyes kind o’ blurred—with the snow and all that—and that was the last time I see her—” said Uncle William slowly. “She died that winter.... When we got home, along in the spring, they told me she had waited—seems ’s if she kind o’ made her body wait till I’d come—They said it was like her spirit died out, faint, till it just wa ’n’t there.... So that’s the way I come to be here alone... and it seemed pretty good when Benjy come back so, one day, all out o’ nothin’—and there he was standin’ in that door....”
The tall man went to the window and stood with his back to the room looking out. When he turned about, his eyes were shining—like the lights across the water. “It was like getting home,” he said.
“Yes,’.was home,” said Uncle William contentedly. “Of course, any place where you happen to be is home,—but if there’s somebody there waitin’ for ye and needin’ ye, it’s more homier than any of ’em.” Andy got slowly to his feet. “Harr’et’s waitin’ for me,” he said, “and I might’s well go—” He cast a lingering look at the table. “You boys going to sit up all night, talking and gabbling!”
“Why, no, Andy. I do ’no ’s we ’ll light up,” responded Uncle William. “I was thinkin’ of going down to look after the boats a little and then we ’ll go to bed—like enough.”
“Well, good night,” said Andy, “I’ve got to go,”
“Good night, Andy.” They sat listening to his footfalls on the rocky path below. “He’s a good boy,” said Uncle William. “He ’ll stan’ a lot—without whimpering—but he don’t know it—no more ’n that cat there.”
Juno rose and stretched her back, yawning. Then she walked indifferently to the door and passed out—as if a summons had come to her from the night out there.