All the journeyings I had ever done had been purely in the way of
business. The pleasant May weather suggested a novelty namely, a trip
for pure recreation, the bread-and-butter element left out. The Reverend
said he would go, too; a good man, one of the best of men, although a
clergyman. By eleven at night we were in New Haven and on board the New
York boat. We bought our tickets, and then went wandering around here
and there, in the solid comfort of being free and idle, and of putting
distance between ourselves and the mails and telegraphs.
After a while I went to my stateroom and undressed, but the night
was too enticing for bed. We were moving down the bay now, and it was
pleasant to stand at the window and take the cool night breeze and watch
the gliding lights on shore. Presently, two elderly men sat down
under that window and began a conversation. Their talk was properly
no business of mine, yet I was feeling friendly toward the world and
willing to be entertained. I soon gathered that they were brothers, that
they were from a small Connecticut village, and that the matter in hand
concerned the cemetery. Said one:
“Now, John, we talked it all over amongst ourselves, and this is what
we've done. You see, everybody was a-movin' from the old buryin'-ground,
and our folks was 'most about left to theirselves, as you may say. They
was crowded, too, as you know; lot wa'n't big enough in the first place;
and last year, when Seth's wife died, we couldn't hardly tuck her in.
She sort o' overlaid Deacon Shorb's lot, and he soured on her, so to
speak, and on the rest of us, too. So we talked it over, and I was for
a lay out in the new simitery on the hill. They wa'n't unwilling, if
it was cheap. Well, the two best and biggest plots was No. 8 and No.
9--both of a size; nice comfortable room for twenty-six--twenty-six
full-growns, that is; but you reckon in children and other shorts, and
strike an average, and I should say you might lay in thirty, or maybe
thirty-two or three, pretty genteel--no crowdin' to signify.”
“That's a plenty, William. Which one did you buy?”
“Well, I'm a-comin' to that, John. You see, No. 8 was thirteen dollars,
No. 9 fourteen--”
“I see. So's't you took No. 8.”
“You wait. I took No. 9. And I'll tell you for why. In the first place,
Deacon Shorb wanted it. Well, after the way he'd gone on about Seth's
wife overlappin' his prem'ses, I'd 'a' beat him out of that No. 9 if I'd
'a' had to stand two dollars extra, let alone one. That's the way I felt
about it. Says I, what's a dollar, anyway? Life's on'y a pilgrimage,
says I; we ain't here for good, and we can't take it with us, says I. So
I just dumped it down, knowin' the Lord don't suffer a good deed to go
for nothin', and cal'latin' to take it out o' somebody in the course
o' trade. Then there was another reason, John. No. 9's a long way the
handiest lot in the simitery, and the likeliest for situation. It lays
right on top of a knoll in the dead center of the buryin' ground; and
you can see Millport from there, and Tracy's, and Hopper Mount, and
a raft o' farms, and so on. There ain't no better outlook from a
buryin'-plot in the state. Si Higgins says so, and I reckon he ought to
know. Well, and that ain't all. 'Course Shorb had to take No. 8; wa'n't
no help for 't. Now, No. 8 jines onto No. 9, but it's on the slope
of the hill, and every time it rains it 'll soak right down onto the
Shorbs. Si Higgins says 't when the deacon's time comes, he better take
out fire and marine insurance both on his remains.”
Here there was the sound of a low, placid, duplicate chuckle of
appreciation and satisfaction.
“Now, John, here's a little rough draft of the ground that I've made
on a piece of paper. Up here in the left-hand corner we've bunched the
departed; took them from the old graveyard and stowed them one alongside
o' t'other, on a first-come-first-served plan, no partialities, with
Gran'ther Jones for a starter, on'y because it happened so, and windin'
up indiscriminate with Seth's twins. A little crowded towards the end of
the lay-out, maybe, but we reckoned 'twa'n't best to scatter the twins.
Well, next comes the livin'. Here, where it's marked A, we're goin' to
put Mariar and her family, when they're called; B, that's for Brother
Hosea and hisn; C, Calvin and tribe. What's left is these two lots
here--just the gem of the whole patch for general style and outlook;
they're for me and my folks, and you and yourn. Which of them would you
ruther be buried in?”
“I swan, you've took me mighty unexpected, William! It sort of started
the shivers. Fact is, I was thinkin' so busy about makin' things
comfortable for the others, I hadn't thought about being buried myself.”
“Life's on'y a fleetin' show, John, as the sayin' is. We've all got to
go, sooner or later. To go with a clean record's the main thing. Fact
is, it's the on'y thing worth strivin' for, John.”
“Yes, that's so, William, that's so; there ain't no getting around it.
Which of these lots would you recommend?”
“Well, it depends, John. Are you particular about outlook?”
“I don't say I am, William, I don't say I ain't. Reely, I don't know.
But mainly, I reckon, I'd set store by a south exposure.”
“That's easy fixed, John. They're both south exposure. They take the
sun, and the Shorbs get the shade.”
“How about sile, William?”
“D's a sandy sile, E's mostly loom.”
“You may gimme E, then; William; a sandy sile caves in, more or less,
and costs for repairs.”
“All right, set your name down here, John, under E. Now, if you don't
mind payin' me your share of the fourteen dollars, John, while we're on
the business, everything's fixed.”
After some higgling and sharp bargaining the money was paid, and John
bade his brother good night and took his leave. There was silence for
some moments; then a soft chuckle welled up from the lonely William,
and he muttered: “I declare for 't, if I haven't made a mistake! It's
D that's mostly loom, not E. And John's booked for a sandy sile after
all.”
There was another soft chuckle, and William departed to his rest also.
The next day, in New York, was a hot one. Still we managed to get more
or less entertainment out of it. Toward the middle of the afternoon we
arrived on board the stanch steamship Bermuda, with bag and baggage, and
hunted for a shady place. It was blazing summer weather, until we were
half-way down the harbor. Then I buttoned my coat closely; half an hour
later I put on a spring overcoat and buttoned that. As we passed the
light-ship I added an ulster and tied a handkerchief around the collar
to hold it snug to my neck. So rapidly had the summer gone and winter
come again!
By nightfall we were far out at sea, with no land in sight. No telegrams
could come here, no letters, no news. This was an uplifting thought. It
was still more uplifting to reflect that the millions of harassed people
on shore behind us were suffering just as usual.
The next day brought us into the midst of the Atlantic solitudes--out
of smoke-colored sounding into fathomless deep blue; no ships visible
anywhere over the wide ocean; no company but Mother Carey's chickens
wheeling, darting, skimming the waves in the sun. There were some
seafaring men among the passengers, and conversation drifted into
matters concerning ships and sailors. One said that “true as the needle
to the pole” was a bad figure, since the needle seldom pointed to the
pole. He said a ship's compass was not faithful to any particular point,
but was the most fickle and treacherous of the servants of man. It was
forever changing. It changed every day in the year; consequently the
amount of the daily variation had to be ciphered out and allowance made
for it, else the mariner would go utterly astray. Another said there was
a vast fortune waiting for the genius who should invent a compass that
would not be affected by the local influences of an iron ship. He said
there was only one creature more fickle than a wooden ship's compass,
and that was the compass of an iron ship. Then came reference to the
well known fact that an experienced mariner can look at the compass of a
new iron vessel, thousands of miles from her birthplace, and tell which
way her head was pointing when she was in process of building.
Now an ancient whale-ship master fell to talking about the sort of crews
they used to have in his early days. Said he:
“Sometimes we'd have a batch of college students. Queer lot. Ignorant?
Why, they didn't know the catheads from the main brace. But if you took
them for fools you'd get bit, sure. They'd learn more in a month than
another man would in a year. We had one, once, in the Mary Ann, that
came aboard with gold spectacles on. And besides, he was rigged out from
main truck to keelson in the nobbiest clothes that ever saw a fo'castle.
He had a chestful, too: cloaks, and broadcloth coats, and velvet vests;
everything swell, you know; and didn't the saltwater fix them out for
him? I guess not! Well, going to sea, the mate told him to go aloft and
help shake out the foreto'gallants'l. Up he shins to the foretop,
with his spectacles on, and in a minute down he comes again, looking
insulted. Says the mate, 'What did you come down for?' Says the chap,
'P'r'aps you didn't notice that there ain't any ladders above there.'
You see we hadn't any shrouds above the foretop. The men bursted out in
a laugh such as I guess you never heard the like of. Next night,
which was dark and rainy, the mate ordered this chap to go aloft about
something, and I'm dummed if he didn't start up with an umbrella and a
lantern! But no matter; he made a mighty good sailor before the voyage
was done, and we had to hunt up something else to laugh at. Years
afterwards, when I had forgot all about him, I comes into Boston, mate
of a ship, and was loafing around town with the second mate, and it so
happened that we stepped into the Revere House, thinking maybe we would
chance the salt-horse in that big diningroom for a flyer, as the
boys say. Some fellows were talking just at our elbow, and one says,
'Yonder's the new governor of Massachusetts--at that table over there
with the ladies.' We took a good look my mate and I, for we hadn't
either of us ever seen a governor before. I looked and looked at that
face and then all of a sudden it popped on me! But I didn't give any
sign. Says I, 'Mate, I've a notion to go over and shake hands with him.'
Says he 'I think I see you doing it, Tom.' Says I, 'Mate I'm a-going to
do it.' Says he, 'Oh, yes, I guess so. Maybe you don't want to bet you
will, Tom?' Say I, 'I don't mind going a V on it, mate.' Says he 'Put it
up.' 'Up she goes,' says I, planking the cash. This surprised him. But
he covered it, and says pretty sarcastic, 'Hadn't you better take
your grub with the governor and the ladies, Tom?' Says I 'Upon second
thoughts, I will.' Says he, 'Well Tom, you aye a dum fool.' Says I,
'Maybe I am maybe I ain't; but the main question is, do you wan to risk
two and a half that I won't do it?' 'Make it a V,' says he. 'Done,' says
I. I started, him a giggling and slapping his hand on his thigh, he felt
so good. I went over there and leaned my knuckles on the table a minute
and looked the governor in the face, and says I, 'Mr. Gardner, don't you
know me?' He stared, and I stared, and he stared. Then all of a sudden
he sings out, 'Tom Bowling, by the holy poker! Ladies, it's old Tom
Bowling, that you've heard me talk about--shipmate of mine in the Mary
Ann.' He rose up and shook hands with me ever so hearty--I sort of
glanced around and took a realizing sense of my mate's saucer eyes--and
then says the governor, 'Plant yourself, Tom, plant yourself; you can't
cat your anchor again till you've had a feed with me and the ladies!' I
planted myself alongside the governor, and canted my eye around toward
my mate. Well, sir, his dead-lights were bugged out like tompions; and
his mouth stood that wide open that you could have laid a ham in it
without him noticing it.”
There was great applause at the conclusion of the old captain's story;
then, after a moment's silence, a grave, pale young man said:
“Had you ever met the governor before?”
The old captain looked steadily at this inquirer awhile, and then got
up and walked aft without making any reply. One passenger after another
stole a furtive glance at the inquirer; but failed to make him out, and
so gave him up. It took some little work to get the talk-machinery
to running smoothly again after this derangement; but at length a
conversation sprang up about that important and jealously guarded
instrument, a ship's timekeeper, its exceeding delicate accuracy, and
the wreck and destruction that have sometimes resulted from its varying
a few seemingly trifling moments from the true time; then, in due
course, my comrade, the Reverend, got off on a yarn, with a fair
wind and everything drawing. It was a true story, too--about Captain
Rounceville's shipwreck--true in every detail. It was to this effect:
Captain Rounceville's vessel was lost in mid-Atlantic, and likewise his
wife and his two little children. Captain Rounceville and seven seamen
escaped with life, but with little else. A small, rudely constructed
raft was to be their home for eight days. They had neither provisions
nor water. They had scarcely any clothing; no one had a coat but the
captain. This coat was changing hands all the time, for the weather was
very cold. Whenever a man became exhausted with the cold, they put the
coat on him and laid him down between two shipmates until the garment
and their bodies had warmed life into him again. Among the sailors was a
Portuguese who knew no English. He seemed to have no thought of his own
calamity, but was concerned only about the captain's bitter loss of wife
and children. By day he would look his dumb compassion in the captain's
face; and by night, in the darkness and the driving spray and rain, he
would seek out the captain and try to comfort him with caressing pats
on the shoulder. One day, when hunger and thirst were making their sure
inroads upon the men's strength and spirits, a floating barrel was seen
at a distance. It seemed a great find, for doubtless it contained food
of some sort. A brave fellow swam to it, and after long and exhausting
effort got it to the raft. It was eagerly opened. It was a barrel of
magnesia! On the fifth day an onion was spied. A sailor swam off and got
it. Although perishing with hunger, he brought it in its integrity and
put it into the captain's hand. The history of the sea teaches
that among starving, shipwrecked men selfishness is rare, and a
wonder-compelling magnanimity the rule. The onion was equally divided
into eight parts, and eaten with deep thanksgivings. On the eighth day
a distant ship was sighted. Attempts were made to hoist an oar, with
Captain Rounceville's coat on it for a signal. There were many failures,
for the men were but skeletons now, and strengthless. At last success
was achieved, but the signal brought no help. The ship faded out of
sight and left despair behind her. By and by another ship appeared, and
passed so near that the castaways, every eye eloquent with gratitude,
made ready to welcome the boat that would be sent to save them. But
this ship also drove on, and left these men staring their unutterable
surprise and dismay into each other's ashen faces. Late in the day,
still another ship came up out of the distance, but the men noted with
a pang that her course was one which would not bring her nearer. Their
remnant of life was nearly spent; their lips and tongues were swollen,
parched, cracked with eight days' thirst; their bodies starved; and here
was their last chance gliding relentlessly from them; they would not
be alive when the next sun rose. For a day or two past the men had lost
their voices, but now Captain Rounceville whispered, “Let us pray.”
The Portuguese patted him on the shoulder in sign of deep approval. All
knelt at the base of the oar that was waving the signal-coat aloft, and
bowed their heads. The sea was tossing; the sun rested, a red, rayless
disk, on the sea-line in the west. When the men presently raised their
heads they would have roared a hallelujah if they had had a voice--the
ship's sails lay wrinkled and flapping against her masts--she was going
about! Here was rescue at last, and in the very last instant of time
that was left for it. No, not rescue yet--only the imminent prospect of
it. The red disk sank under the sea, and darkness blotted out the ship.
By and by came a pleasant sound--oars moving in a boat's rowlocks.
Nearer it came, and nearer-within thirty steps, but nothing visible.
Then a deep voice: “Hol-lo!” The castaways could not answer; their
swollen tongues refused voice. The boat skirted round and round the
raft, started away--the agony of it!--returned, rested the oars, close
at hand, listening, no doubt. The deep voice again: “Hol-lo! Where
are ye, shipmates?” Captain Rounceville whispered to his men, saying:
“Whisper your best, boys! now--all at once!” So they sent out an
eightfold whisper in hoarse concert: “Here!”, There was life in it if
it succeeded; death if it failed. After that supreme moment Captain
Rounceville was conscious of nothing until he came to himself on board
the saving ship. Said the Reverend, concluding:
“There was one little moment of time in which that raft could be visible
from that ship, and only one. If that one little fleeting moment had
passed unfruitful, those men's doom was sealed. As close as that does
God shave events foreordained from the beginning of the world. When
the sun reached the water's edge that day, the captain of that ship was
sitting on deck reading his prayer-book. The book fell; he stooped to
pick it up, and happened to glance at the sun. In that instant that
far-off raft appeared for a second against the red disk, its needlelike
oar and diminutive signal cut sharp and black against the bright
surface, and in the next instant was thrust away into the dusk again.
But that ship, that captain, and that pregnant instant had had their
work appointed for them in the dawn of time and could not fail of the
performance. The chronometer of God never errs!”
There was deep, thoughtful silence for some moments. Then the grave,
pale young man said:
“What is the chronometer of God?”