Tough yarns, vol. 2 (of 2) — Background and Themes

Fathers, Sons, and the Supernatural

The opening tale, “Ghost Stories,” uses a family anecdote to probe the nature of courage. The father’s body is a catalogue of war wounds—missing eye, arm, calf—yet he fears no spirit. The boys, by contrast, “would tremble at every noise after dusk” and scream in the dark. Barker draws a line between physical bravery and psychological vulnerability, suggesting that the sea breeds a particular kind of fearlessness, while the domestic hearth fosters imagination. The father’s defiance is almost comic: “a thought of frightening him never could have entered the mind of any supernatural being,—at least, of any rational one.” This wry tone recurs throughout the volume, undercutting the very ghost stories it introduces.

The Bracelet and the Ring: Objects of Memory

In the second tale, “Frere du Diable,” a young Englishman at a farm in South America receives a bracelet of hair from Mariqueta and gives her a plain gold ring. These objects become emblems of an attachment formed under threat of separation. The narrator reflects: “Upon an enthusiastic mind, nothing fixes an impression more deeply than the danger attendant upon an enterprise.” Barker uses these tokens to bridge the gap between the sea voyage and the land interlude. The bracelet and ring are not mere sentimental props; they are evidence of a plot that turns on secrecy and trust. The guide’s note, written on a piece of paper, carries the weight of a confession: “my life is now in your hands.”

Movement Between Sea and Shore

Barker’s tales shift rapidly between shipboard and coastal settings. In “The Fisherman’s Family,” the action moves from a storm at sea to a humble cottage; in “The Red Flag at the Fore,” a naval engagement gives way to a prize court. The transitions are often abrupt, mirroring the sailor’s own dislocation. The narrator of “Ghost Stories” notes that his father “had braved the wind, and the storm, and the howling tempest,” yet the most unsettling moments occur in quiet rooms or on foreign soil. This structural pattern—from open water to enclosed space, from action to reflection—gives the collection a rhythm that feels deliberate, even when the plots themselves are loose.

Disguise and Deception in the Yarns

Several tales hinge on concealed identities. The guide in “Frere du Diable” is an Englishman who speaks Spanish and passes as a native; the convict’s note reveals a man hiding from his past. In “The Prisoner” and “The Convict,” characters are trapped by false accusations or mistaken loyalties. Barker’s sailors are often not what they seem: the brave father who fears no ghost is also a man who has been “plundered” by death. The recurring motif of disguise—whether through language, dress, or silence—suggests that the sea itself is a place of transformation, where a man can shed one life and take up another. Yet the stories also warn that such transformations come at a cost: the guide’s secret, once shared, becomes a burden.

Readers approaching this volume should expect a collection that values atmosphere over plot, and that moves between the eerie and the sentimental without warning. Barker’s narrators are often unreliable or incomplete, leaving gaps that the reader must fill. Pay attention to the objects—a bracelet, a ring, a written note—that recur across tales, for they often carry more weight than the characters themselves. The sea is never far off, but the most telling moments happen when the sailors come ashore.

My father never told ghost stories, only the truth he’d seen at sea. Reading Barker’s narrator recall his father’s defiance reminded me of that quiet courage. Then I thought of Sonnie-Boy's People — A Reader’s Guide, which once made me feel that same hush—not of fear, but of memory settling like dust on a shelf, warm and old.