Gallions Reach
By H. M. Tomlinson.
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Dedicated to
Charles E. Hands
Gallions Reach
I
The steamer moved up river at half-speed, and the sounds of life fell with the sun. The shores grew blurred. The quiet was the dusk. The ship itself was hushed, and her men about their duties appeared at a task spectrally, out of nowhere. She might have been trying to reach her destination unobserved. The tired air spilling over the steamer’s bows hardly reached the bridge. The bridge caught the last of the light, and a trace of anger that flushed the mirk banked in the west, to which the ship was moving, was reflected in the face of an officer there, and gave him the distinction of a being regnant and stern. He was superior, and seemed to be brooding down over some passengers sitting in a group on the indistinct foredeck. They were murmuring in conversation, with a child asleep on a shawl beside one of the chairs.
Yellow glims appeared low down in the shadows that were Kent and Essex. That day of summer had gone. Only the wan river and the sky remembered it. A figure rose from the group on the foredeck, and his voice, surprisingly uplifted, was as if he had been compelled to an important announcement. “There’s the smoke of it. London.”
The child sat up quickly. He stared up and ahead, as his elders were doing. He wanted to see what London meant. He saw only the solid black angle of the bows, and the faint smear of crimson beyond. He heard waters muttering, and edged closer to the shadow of his mother. Her hand sought his bare head, and rumpled his hair.
“Nearly home, Jim.”
The sound of the waters, the quiet that was neither day nor night, and that grave word which announced the unknown, brought the child to his feet. He felt as he did when he heard the old clock talking to itself at night in its case, or saw a star watching him through the bedroom curtains when everybody was asleep, and he was wondering what the clock was saying. He did not know what he expected to see; but if it were there it would be better to look at it. So he stood up. But nothing was there that he knew. It was the world. He did not know what it meant. The ship was going towards a darkness which reached almost to the top of the pale sky. It seemed to have blood in it. “There you are, Jim Colet,” said his father. “See it? London, my boy.” But he could see only a darkness.
He looked at his father. But his elders had forgotten him. They continued their confidential talk.
“You know, I haven’t seen this river since the year of the Princess Alice.”
Who was that princess? It did not look like a place for princesses. Sometimes his father did not mean what he said. He never smiled when he was joking with you. It looked as if the ship were going to where night hides in the daytime. He did not know what they were all talking about.
“Never heard from him afterwards.”
Their quiet words came out of the shadows without being joined together.
“I remember. He was afraid of it, but he went.”
It was nearly as hard to hear the talkers as to see them. Who was afraid? Where did he go?
“Yes, but he was afraid of his own shadow.”
Why were they speaking so quietly?
“Well, his shadow was enough to make any man nervous.”
There was a little laugh. Jim thought they were talking as if they did not want someone to hear them.
“Called it fortune. His luck, or fate, I forget. The same old dream. I suppose we can’t live without dreaming. He didn’t want to go, and yet he never came back. This river has seen a lot of men of that sort. It is a river of dreams.”
A woman’s voice came with more distinction. “Some of them came true, though. There’s London to prove it.”
The ship seemed to have reached the hiding-place of night. It was almost quite
