Eleven
The two men sat before the roaring fire, smoking contentedly. The prisoner put a hand to his stomach, feeling nourished and filled as he had not been for many months. The room was warm; he was safe for the night, at least. And yet something was troubling him. Nothing to do with the man, or the place. It did not even seem to concern himself. But in some remote corner of his mind there was disquiet, as if someone he cared about was in trouble or in danger. He took another deep puff on the pipe that had been given him, unable to work the thought through.
They had remained thus for some time when at last the old man spoke. From his patient movements and steady gaze throughout, and still more from his present silence, the younger man sensed a profound caution and wisdom. So now that he chose to speak, the prisoner deemed it best to leave his disquiet for a time, to listen or to speak as was asked of him, and to learn from the seasoned veteran what was needful.
“I don’t ask you to tell me your name,” he began. “In truth I’d rather not know it, since what I don’t know I can’t tell. But if there’s some name you would be called, near enough the mark to feel it yours, but wide enough to leave safe your parentage, I’d be pleased to learn it.”
The younger man smiled. “Call me Jamie.”
“Well then, Jamie. For the sake of an old man’s curiosity, if nothing else, won’t you tell me something of yourself? The escape and such, and what your plans are now. Needless to say you’ll sleep in a bed tonight, much better than that old crack in the northern cliffs.”
“How did you know about that?” His mind raced; perhaps the hiding place was not as safe as he imagined. “Could you see the smoke, then? Do you think others saw it as well?”
“Nay, lad. Fear not. What smoke there was could hardly be seen: a wisp or two among the rocks, which I saw only when I brought my skiff close in.”
“Then how?” asked the prisoner anxiously.
“T’was the sea hawk that gave you away. She’s got a roost up near the top, and it seems you smoked her out proper. Wouldn’t land all day, just kept circlin’ about and looking down. If there’s one thing a beast won’t abide it’s the smell of smoke. Puts ‘em in a God’s fear, and no mistake.”
“But how did you know about the hiding place? I thought that just myself and my childhood companions.....”
“And of course you thought that I was never young. But truth to tell, I was. Lost the virgin there, I did, and haven’t seen her since.” He let out a grunt of laughter, and broke into a boyish grin. Then slowly returned to the matter at hand. “All in all, I doubt there’s half a dozen as know of it, and none of them English. You’re well enough there, and in the morning I’ll see you safely back.” He paused, relit his pipe. “But right now I’m in the mood for a story. A good one, mind. And I’m obliging you to tell it to me.”
So the man called Jamie began his tale, relating at first only the barest facts of his capture and imprisonment, leading up to the mass escape as they were being transferred from one hell-hole to another.
But as the memories and emotions rose up in their fullness before him, he found that he could no more pass over them quickly than he could forget them. The wounds were too deep, and too many, for that.
So gradually, without himself realizing the change, he spoke in greater length and detail of the trials and fears of that time, and of his desperate struggle not to be broken, or to lose sight of his dreams and yearnings, no matter how black his world became. Even his childhood, and his passionate
love for the girl, found their rightful place in his tale, so much so that his throat often swelled or shut tight, and he was unable for a time to go on.
But go on he did, far into the night, while the old man here and there nodded his understanding, or gave a timely word of encouragement. Until it had all come out, and he slumped back in the chair, exhausted, his face wet with tears.
Then without further speech the old man rose. And taking down a candle from the mantle he showed him to the bedroom, where he gave him his own bed to sleep in. Then with the young man safely at rest, he returned to the fire to think through all that he had heard, and decide what he must do to help him.
Because this same weather-beaten mariner, who was never to be seen making dramatic gestures at the church, or heard to raise his voice in righteous patriotism at the tavern, who himself had so little in the world, was then and there willing to risk it all to restore a single life to fullness. Without being asked, or telling himself that he was good or kind to do so, he felt the simple, organic stirrings of compassion in his aged heart. And expecting no greater reward than the warmth of the feeling itself, he determined to do all he could to guide this lad back to safety and freedom.
Simply put, he had vision enough to see another human soul before him, and courage enough not to turn away. For such was the spirit of his kind.