The island of the stairs

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

As it was, I drew myself up and waited while she sent for good old Captain Matthews and, vouchsafing no explanations, imperiously bade him stow me below as a prisoner in my cabin. He didn’t relish the job but went about it forthwith. Indeed, I did not wait for further orders after her look and glance. I stalked below as haughtily as you please. It was her ship, as she had said and as she certainly believed, and had it not been, who could deny her anything? Not I, forsooth. I could steal a kiss but not balk her will.

So here I was, the mate of The Rose of Devon—and but for my own renunciation I had been her captain—engaged in this wild goose chase, this foolish search for treasure, for so it seemed to me then, locked up below like any mutinous dog at the behest of a woman that I could have broke between my thumb and finger. And after all I had done and sacrificed for her, too.

The hot blood came into my cheeks again. I remember I raised my arm and shook it toward the door and then let it fall. What was the use? I was her prisoner. I loved her, fool that I was. I thought then and I think now I had rather be her prisoner than be free and away from her, than be free and know her not. No lovesick boy could have been more foolish than I about her—and, in your ear, I am so yet.

Come to think of it, I had always loved her, ever since those days when I, the gardener’s boy, had been her faithful and devoted slave. And through the long years when I had been far voyaging in distant seas I had kept her memory fresh and sweet and true. I had been in many rough places, I had seen life from the seamy side, the common lot of a sailor of my day had been mine. I was not what you would call a religious man; no, not nearly religious enough, but the thought of her and my mother had kept me a clean man. In that respect, at least, I was worthy of her; doubtless, I dare say, more worthy of her than Arcester and Luftdon and all the young gallants who had paid court to her before her father lost his all and had blown out his brains, leaving her but the parchment and enough gear with my aid to charter and equip the ship.

Such as it was, my heart was hers, and my life had always been. As often as I could I had come back to the old cottage where I was born and for old time’s sake she had been kind to me. I had craved even her condescension, although it made me mad to see her surrounded by the other men and women, so that I would fling myself away and take the first ship that offered to the farthest port. Yet, I always came back—to her.

And I had been so glad that I was there when Sir Geoffrey had killed himself and that I had bought the ship and fitted it out and had been able to do so much for her. As I said, she would fain have given me command of the saucy little Rose of Devon had I willed it—and sometimes, now for instance, I cursed myself that I had not taken it rather than insisted that she should have an older man, not a better seaman, than I. There are no better seamen in narrow seas or broad than I, if I do say it myself, who should not.

I had worked my way up through the forecastle to the quarter-deck. I had a natural gift for figures. I could take a sight and work out a position as well as any book-taught navigator, and I had been a great reader, too. My private cabin was crowded with books. A goodly portion of my earnings was ever spent that way. I had wit enough to choose good books, too, and perseverance enough to study them well. And they stared at me then from shelves built in the bulkhead. What fond dreams I had indulged in while I had pored over them, turning their thin pages with my tarred, blunt fingers! I walked over to them that night and struck them with my fist in impotent rage. What was the use of it? The stain of tar was on me forever in her eyes.

And yet I knew more than she. Oh, much more about everything but the usages of good society, and I had at least learned something of good manners in her company since her father’s death. Many a time I have caught her tripping as to facts of knowledge, not daring, not even caring to tell her; or, perhaps I had better say, not wishful to humiliate her by showing her that she was wrong, content to know that much myself, and hugging my poor little superiority to my heart. I knew more than she and more than most of the men with whom she associated. My shipmates used to laugh at me for being a book delver, a worm, they were wont to call me. Well, they didn’t laugh very long. There was nothing physical for which I need stand aside for any man. I was over six feet high and built in proportion. I could unaided, and alone, hold the wheel of the best ship in the fiercest storm. I had matched myself against man and against storm, not once but many times, and neither the one nor the other had ever made me back down.

Now I was a prisoner. I said I didn’t feel that blow on the cheek, but as I thought on it, it fairly seared me. I hated her, I hoped that—no, I might as well be honest with myself—I didn’t care how she treated me, how disdainful were her words, how unjustly she punished me, I loved her. I couldn’t help it, I didn’t want to help it. I would fain kiss the deck planks she hallowed with her footsteps.

There was another side to my confinement and I presently took thought on that. I swear that I was not thinking of myself but of her. I was ever thinking of her. I could see dangers that beset her as perhaps no one else could, and my confinement added to her peril. She didn’t realize that; nobody aft on the ship realized it. I did not see any present way to make her understand the situation. I had not cared to alarm her before, and any attempt on my part to set it forth now would be looked upon as a personal plea, and yet there was a peril, imminent, menacing, about to break, I feared.