The Ferryman

Well, I declare, my grandmother said with a sigh as she finished Aunt Pearl's latest letter, Linc Patterson passed away.  She folder the letter and looked thoughtful.  And here I was thinkin' he was too damn mean to die.

Lincoln the ferryman?  my daddy asked curiously, peering over the top pages of the morning newspaper, Old "Manners" Patterson?

One and the same, Nana said with a small smile in my direction, Ninety-six and never a kind word. I 'spect the devil'l have a time of it now.

When I was growing up, Linc Patterson had been a working ferryman for longer than most islanders had been alive.  A small man - wiry, compactly built and without a shred of humor - he had been known for being gruff,
tactiturn, impatient and volatile.  Especially with drivers who were new to the ferry, especially if happened to be low tide when the slip felt like a long and treacherous ski jump covered in slick seaweed.  The two twin paths of wire mesh leading down to the scow were supposed to provide traction but weren't much reassurance and Linc, standing with his his arms crossed defiantly, scowling and snarling, wasn't much of a guide.  On one particular morning, we were second in line behind a low slung station wagon with New Jersey plates, the back end weighted down with luggage and dog crates, kids hanging from every window and a pair of tourist parents looking nervous.  Nervous turned to outright apprehensive when they began the descent to the scow with Linc violently motioning them forward, shouting directions between curses and stamping his feet.

Gon' drag that back end, sure as shootin', Nana muttered, Ol' Linc gon' have a goddam heart attack.

Exactly as she predicted, the station wagon reached the end of the slip and the back end scraped with a tense shriek.  The driver froze and slammed on the brakes and the heavy car shimmied drunkenly, lurching toward the side of the slip.  Linc howled like a madman, snatched off his cap and threw it to the ground.

Goddam tourists!  he yelled, You there!  Straighten her out and get a move on!

The shocked driver just stared.

Linc retrieved his cap, clamped down on his pipe with a death grip and began walking up the slip toward the station wagon.  There was menace in every step and by the time he reached the car, things had gotten very quiet.   While the shaken driver rolled down his window and began chattering an apology, the ferryman stood impassively, thumbs hooked into his suspenders, eyes glittering.  Finally he took his old pipe out of his mouth and inelegantly spat.   Even from where we sat, second in line, we could see the tourist wife cringe.

Fine day for a crossin', Linc began amiably enough, But only if you kin git this goddam bucket of bolts on the goddam ferry.  

The driver continued to stare.

Now turn yer goddam wheels, the ferryman growled, straighten her out and git yer goddam sorry ass on the goddam ferry.  Or we'll push her over the goddam side!  You hear me, New Jersey?

Somehow this abuse got through and the driver did as he was told.  The station wagon lumbered onto the scow and was positioned - first on, last off - and Linc gave my grandmother a nod and an impatient wave.  The old Continental eased aboard with a grinding but familiar snarl as the back end scraped the slip and bounced free.
An oil truck and a tractor followed suit, each handing the ferryman the fare as they passed.  When he was sure there were no more passengers, Linc nodded to Cap and the little tug began to ease itself away.  The driver of the station wagon, still flustered but now on somewhat solid ground, emerged from his car and confronted the ferryman, wallet in hand.

What's the fare? he asked.

Linc considered the question.  Twenty dollars, he said finally.

The tourist took a step back.  The sign said a dollar for a passenger car! 

The ferryman narrowed his eyes and spat.  'Pears to me, he said finally, if you already know the fare then it's a waste of breath to be askin', you damn fool!

Now look here, fella, I don't know who you think you are....the tourist began but the words died when Linc leaned toward him.

I'm the one who got your sorry ass on this boat, he said quietly but clear as a bell, And I'm the one who can git you off.  That's who I am.  Fella.  Fare's a dollar.

The driver hesitated, then held out a dollar that Linc righteously snatched but it seemed that the driver wasn't done.  It's not right for you to talk to me like that, he said stubbornly.  The ferryman laughed grimly, wadded up the bill and jammed it into the pocket of his oilskins.

They pay me to git fancy city folk across this passage, he said shortly, Not fer my table manners!

And that was how, on a bright blue summer morning between Tiverton and East Ferry, Linc Patterson earned his nickname.  And kept it until the day he died.