Boon Island - Kenneth Roberts [139]
Page 357
The Last Chapter
I waked, the next morning, to the sound of jingling, faint and far off, couldn't remember where I was, and sat up straight on my hay-stuffed mattress, half frightened by not hearing the unending roaring of those Boon Island breakers: bewildered by my flannel nightgown, smelling of lavender. Lavender, of all things, instead of the stenches of our Boon Island tent! The jingling sound went on and on.
Captain Dean spoke up from the adjoining stall. "Sleigh bells! People moving around! Probably there'll be a few of 'em come to see us today. Probably they'll want to know all about us. We'd better decide on what we'll tell 'em about Neal."
"That's simple enough, isn't it?" I asked. "He learned to read and write while working for my father. And my father got to know him because Neal's father was in the Naval Hospital."
"Yes," Captain Dean said. "That's close enough. Are you listening, Neal?"
From a third stall Neal politely said he was.
Page 358
"Probably," the captain went on cheerfully, "we won't have occasion to say much. Shipwrecked sailors aren't a novelty nowadays, considering how our good country-men in Devon and Cornwall make a business of getting them wrecked. These New Hampshire people aren't much different, probably."
Probably! Probably!
How little Captain Dean knew about America, in spite of the high opinion he'd expressed to us in the harbor of Killybegs concerning the people of Portsmouth.
How little anyone, anywhere, knows about America! About its insatiable curiosity concerning the welfare of others! About its generous eagerness to help strangers achieve the same health and happiness that its own citizens enjoy! About its limitless resources: its enormous latent strength! And above all, about its friendliness to those who deserve its friendship: its implacable detestation of false men and evil measures!
Captain Furber came banging at the door that led from the barn to the woodshed, which in turn opened into the kitchen. With him he carried a kettle of fish chowder, three bowls, a ladle and three spoons.
"Haddock!" Captain Furber said portentously. "The Woman"and I took The Woman to be Mrs. Furber"cooks the heads and bones in one kettle, and the onions and potatoes and fish in another. Then she makes a mess of pork scraps, and breaks up some ship's bread, and mixes 'em all up with the liquor from the bones. Every sea captain in Portsmouth claims his wife makes the best fish chowder in the world, but I'll put The Woman's up against any of 'em. It's the liquor from the heads and the backbones that grows hair on your chest!''
Page 359
He ladled the stew into the bowls; then discoursed while we rolled that hot and fragrant chowder over our tongues, crunching the pork scraps through the soft and savory ship's bread, the tender haddock and the melting potatoes. My toes, what there were left of them, would have curled, if that had been possible, at the life-giving sweetness that trickled down my throat.
"The Woman," Captain Furber said, "makes fried pies that would stand a dead Indian right up on his feet. Doc Packer's in there now, eating fried pies. The Woman wanted me to take in a few for you, but Doc Packer said No. There's a couple of nurses coming overGovernor Wentworth authorized 'emand Doc Packer says maybe you can have one fried pie apiece along about four bells."
As a seeming afterthought he said, "There's been people coming around with stuff already, but Doc Packer says they can't come in till after he's looked at you. He says maybe some of 'em can come in after you have your dinner."
"What sort of stuff?" Captain Dean asked.
"Oh, knitted small clothes," Captain Furber said. "Linen shirts. Woolen stockings. Big parcel from Mrs. John Brewsterthe one that was scalped. Good woman. Got a silver plate in her head to close up a hatchet hole. Hair never grew back, so she wears