Chapter 23

It was Wednesday morning. For the past hour the Big Fisherman had been down on his knees, industriously caulking the open seams on the deck of The Abigail. He had found that this monotonous manual labour, if he gave himself to it with diligence, temporarily eased his wounded spirit. There was something, too, about being on one’s knees. That helped a little.

Thad had gone ashore for some provisions. The loyal youngster had hardly left Simon’s side since their abrupt departure from Jerusalem until their arrival Sunday evening. As they hurried through Capernaum, Thad had entreated the unhappy skipper to go home and get some proper food and a good night’s rest, but Simon wasn’t ready to face Hannah. No; he would wait until Andrew had had time to come home. Andrew could tell her.

‘I’ll sleep on The Abigail,’ he had said. ‘But I want you to go home tonight, Thad. It’s no more than fair to your parents. You row me out—and then you go home.’

‘But that would leave you without a boat, sir.’

‘That’s the way I want it,’ Simon had declared grimly. ‘If there’s a dory tied up to the ship, it will mean that somebody’s aboard. And I want to be alone.’

Thad had remonstrated, but Simon had been obdurate; and after the little boat had pulled away into the thickening gloom, The Abigail, instead of offering a welcome, seemed aloof and reproachful. The long-unused blankets in the little forecastle were damp and mouldy. Simon had dipped up a bucket of water and washed his dusty feet, trying to pretend that he was back again on familiar ground and repeating accustomed habits, but nothing was quite real. He flung himself down on the cot, hoping his exhaustion would compel sleep; and presently he dozed, only to waken with a start, and the awful thing that had happened to him would engulf him, bringing out the sweat on his forehead. The silence was profound, terrifying. It had been a mistake to let Thad go.

The long, wretched night had eventually ended and a pink dawn came up rapidly from behind the eastern mountains, giving promise of a beautiful early summer day. It was an hour that had always stirred Simon deeply, but this morning his spirit did not rise to sense the oncoming glory. He strolled aft and stood at the rail, dully facing the pageant, and there recurred to his mind a remark of the Master’s—not fully understood at the time, ‘You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt lose its savour…’ That was the trouble. From now on, as long as he lived, Simon’s life, he felt, would be tasteless.

To his immeasurable relief, he saw the dory coming now. Thad pulled up under The Abigail’s bow. Simon lowered a basket and drew it up, well filled with supplies, bread, smoked perch, and sun-cured figs. He leaned far over the rail and grasped one end of the cot that Thad had brought from home, and hauled in a great roll of bedding. It was a comfort to know that he would have company now.