“Me an’ your father, Dannie,” he continued, presently, dwelling upon the quiet sunset, now flaring with the last of its fire, “somehow cotched a grip o’ the rock. ’Twas a mean reef t’ be cast away on, with no dry part upon it: ’twas near flush with the sea, an’ flat an’ broad an’ jagged, slimy with sea-weed; an’ ’twas washed over by the big seas, an’ swam in the low roll o’ the black ones. I ’low, Dannie, that I was never afore cotched in such a swirl an’ noise o’ waters. ’Twas wonderful––the thunder an’ spume an’ whiteness o’ them big waves in the dawn! An’ ’twas wonderful––the power o’ them––the wolfish way they’d clutch an’ worry an’ drag! ’Twas a mean, hard thing t’ keep a grip on that smoothed rock; but I got my fingers in a crack o’ the reef, an’ managed t’ hold on, bein’ stout an’ able, an’ sort of savage for life––in them old days. Afore long, your poor father crep’ close, lad, an’ got his fingers in the same crack. ’Twas all done for you, Dannie, an’ ye’ll be sure t’ bear it in mind––will ye not?––when ye thinks o’ the man hereafter. I seed the big seas rub un on the reef, an’ cut his head, an’ break his ribs, as he come crawlin’ towards me. ’Twas a long, long time afore he reached the place. Ye’ll not forget it––will ye lad?––ye’ll surely not forget it when ye thinks o’ the man that was your father.”
I looked at the sward, soft and green with summer, and roundabout upon the compassionate shadows of evening.
“‘Nick,’ says your father,” my uncle continued, “‘does ye hear them men?’
“They was all gone down, poor souls! I knowed.
“‘Nine men o’ the crew,’ says he, ‘drownin’ there t’ le’ward.’
“’Twas o’ Mary Luff’s son I thought, that poor lad! for I’d fetched un on the v’y’ge.
“‘I hear un callin’,’ says he.
“’Twas but a fancy: they was no voices o’ them drowned men t’ le’ward.
“‘Nick,’ says he, ‘I didn’t mean t’ wreck her here. I was ’lowin’ t’ strike the Long Cliff, where they’s a chance for a man’s life. Does ye hear me, Nick?’ says he. ‘I didn’t mean t’ do it here!’