"The Whaler's Haven" was in those days a place of no small pretensions
and of no mean fame among the sailormen of New London, which was then
quite an important shipping town, especially for the whaling interest.
Railroad tracks now cover the ground it then occupied, and the cutting
away of the bluff in that vicinity, to give place for some heavy
industries that require to be near the water and the iron road, has
completely changed the appearance of all the surroundings, even, of
that once favorite resort of the marine element of the population of
the town, so that not one trace of it remains, save in memory. But it
is not of the present we have to treat, or the many changes--some of
them very sad ones--that have been wrought in the maritime interests
of our coast. Our story dates back to a time when a big American flag
floated above a long and wide two-story frame building where those
railroad tracks now lie; a building that was further adorned, as to
its peak, by a carved and painted wooden statue of the goddess of
liberty, that seemed to have been the figurehead of some vessel; and
as to its front, by a very widely-spread and gayly-gilded American
eagle, holding in its beak, over the door, a huge and brilliantly red
scroll, upon the flaming convolutions of which, in brightest blue, one
might read the legend "The Whaler's Haven."
By day, there was little, except its size, to distinguish the Haven,
to the eye of the casual observer, from several other establishments
of kindred character in the vicinity; but at night, in the figurative
language of Jonathan Schoolcraft, its proprietor, "the eagle
screamed." Then, until hours that were at once late and early--late
for revel and early for labor--the fiddle squeaked out jigs and reels;
the thumps and shuffles of dancing feet made the walls vibrate and the
windows jingle; glasses clinked merrily; noisy laughter, cheers, and
sometimes--but not often--sounds of quarrel, broke upon the night. It
was Schoolcraft's boast "that a sailor never was robbed in this
house;" and, truth to tell, he made the claim good, farther than most
men do who keep such establishments and make like affirmations. Over
the little bar, near the front door was a sign in letters so prominent
that they might have been regarded as a sort of painted shout,
commanding patrons of the house: "Have your fun in a decent way;" and
Jonathan was never weary of repeating that counsel to his guests. He
would not let a sailor in his house get too drunk--that is, too drunk
to be able to find his money, when the liquor was to be paid for--and
he was sternly opposed to fights in the Haven; for, as he said, "they
break the peace, and break heads, and sometimes break glasses, which
is worst of all."
One sultry evening in July, when it was too hot to dance and almost
too warm to drink rum, a cloud of dullness seemed to settle down upon
the Whaler's Haven. Jonathan himself went out for a walk, to get cool;
the barkeeper languidly leaned over the bar and yawned; only four or
five sailors--boarders in the Haven when on shore--lounged between the
door and the bar, "swapping yarns" concerning their seagoing
experiences, and all feeling so depressed and spiritless, through the
heat, that they almost stuck to the truth in their narrations; and two
or three of them were talking of going to bed, when a stranger, who
was evidently not a sailor, entered, called for a drink, and invited
all present to join him. A stranger who was not a sailor was always
the object of a little suspicion in the Haven; still none present
cared about offending one who introduced himself so courteously, and
the waiting sailors took their rum just as naturally as if liking, and
not simply complaisance, gave it its relish. Then one of them returned
the stranger's treat and soon another; and another, so that in a
little while the heat was forgotten, tongues began to wag freely, the
yarns became much more spirited, and the impression gained ground that
the stranger was a right good fellow.
And so it was that, without his ever being able to tell exactly how it
came about, Billy Prangle, a stout old sailor, found himself in almost
confidential conversation with the pleasant stranger--a smooth-shaven,
gray-eyed, ruddy man of forty or forty-five years--upon the subject of
his friend and ex-shipmate, Dorn Hackett.
"A nobler, braver lad never signed articles," said he, "nor a better
sailorman. We messed together for three years; and take him by and
large, alow and aloft, I make bold to say that of the sixteen men in
the fo'cas'le,--and all good men, too, mind you--he was the best."
"I'm delighted to hear you speak so highly of him," replied the
stranger, with apparent heartiness, "How long is it since you sailed
with him?"
"Only a little better than four months ago. We came off the cruise
together, fishing in the North Pacific."
"Fishing? I thought you said he was in a whaling vessel?"
"Well, so I did, my hearty. We calls whales fishes. When we speak of
taking a whale we always says taking a fish."
"Ah, excuse me. I didn't understand. And where is your friend now?"
At this moment one of the old sailors called him aside and said to him
in an undertone:
"Mind your eye, Billy. I've been a listenin' to you and that lubber
that doesn't know a whale's a fish, and it looks squally to me. As I
make him out, he's been a leadin' you on to talk about Dorn Hackett,
and maybe it ain't for Dorn's good he means it."
"If I thought he meant the boy any harm he'd get his nose rove foul in
the shake of a fluke."
"Well, just keep your weather eye skinned on him."
"But, shipmate, it's as good as saying that Dorn may be in some sort
of a scrape to be afraid to talk about him."
"And so he may; and small blame to him, either, bein' a likely young
fellow as he is. Shore is a mighty dangersome place for a good-looking
young fellow like him."
"Right you are, shipmate," assented Billy, solemnly shaking hands
before returning to his conversation with the stranger. From that time
he did watch carefully; and having a little natural cunning of his
own, managed to evade the numerous and artfully-put inquiries with
which he was plied, and still to draw the stranger on, with hope of
information, until he satisfied himself that his comrade's warning was
not uncalled for.
While this was going on the drinks were call on freely, and the
stranger unconsciously was falling a victim to the fiery potency of
the rum--a beverage to which he was not accustomed. He had tried to
evade anything more than a mere show of drinking it, but believed that
this was looked upon with such suspicion by all about him, that it was
better for him to drink and trust to the hardness of his head to carry
the liquor off safely. Little he knew how much he lacked of being a
match for that tough old tar, Billy Prangle, in the consumption of
that seductive but treacherous fluid. Gradually he lost his customary
caution; and finding himself baffled in all his attempts to "pump" the
old sailor, conceived that it would be a good idea to offer Billy a
hundred dollars if he would conduct him to and point out Dorn Hackett.
"That sum," he thought to himself, "would tempt a man like him to do
almost anything to gain it." So he made the proffer. Billy heard the
proposition gravely, and even feigned to view it favorably; but
manifested a great deal of curiosity as to why his ex-shipmate was in
such demand.
The stranger felt that he had gone too far for any reticence to be of
service, now, and that perhaps a confidence might make him more secure
of this valuable ally; so he replied: "I'll tell you; but mind you're
not to say a word about it to any living soul until we have captured
him."
"Would I be likely to throw away a chance to make a hundred dollars?"
exclaimed Billy.
That answer, critically considered, could hardly have been deemed a
promise; but the stranger took it for one, and continued in a
confidential tone:
"He's wanted for murder and robbery."
"Murder and robbery! Dorn Hackett?"
"Yes, the murder and robbery of an old man near Easthampton, Long
Island, where he has been going to see his sweetheart, a girl named
Mary Wallace."
"And you tell me that Dorn Hackett is suspected of a thing like that?"
"Yes, indeed, he is. He was in the neighborhood on the night of the
murder, and everything points to him; and I bet my head--"
"That you are a lying, landlubberly--" broke out Billy Prangle, in a
torrent of quite unreportable expletives, the unregenerate lingo of
the fo'cas'le; and before the stranger recovered from his
astonishment, the indignant tar had commenced to make good that threat
with reference to his nose.
Mr. Turner--for the stranger, now rolling on the floor with Billy, was
no other than that experienced professional detective--was a sturdy
fellow, well able, ordinarily, to take care of himself, and made as
good a fight as he could; but even had he been entirely sober he would
hardly have been able to cope with this sinewy son of the sea who
smote him so suddenly. While they struggled on the floor, Billy's
friends looked on with placid interest; interfering not, nor
questioning, and seemingly cheerfully confident of the result. The
barkeeper--Schoolcraft being away--seemed to enjoy the excitement, and
leaned over the bar to get a better view, while he shouted
encouragingly: "Go in, Billy! Wade in, old man!"
And Billy followed the advice so well that it was not long until the
detective cried "enough," and was allowed to get up; when Billy led
him to the door and dismissed him with a parting kick.
Self-reproachfully, and much humbled in spirit by his defeat, Richard
Turner left the Haven. But it was not in his nature to give up a chase
for one defeat. If he had not genius, he at least had that which is
sometimes almost as good--persistence. He did not even waste time in
thinking about the whipping and the kicking he had received, but he
did reflect that it was something singular that a poor old chap like
that sailor should have thrown a chance away whereby he might have
gained one hundred dollars so easily--merely by selling a friend,
perhaps to the gallows. Would he, Richard Turner, have been so stupid?
"Hardly," he said to himself. But he had to accept facts as he found
them, however strange they might seem, and the two most prominent ones
claiming his attention were: first, that he had made a blunder;
second, that he must work all the more rapidly to forestall the
possible chances of his indiscretion leading to the escape of the man
he hunted. Fortunately, the whipping had sobered him completely; and
having repaired as well as he could the damages he had sustained in
person and raiment, he continued until late at night, in other
sailor's haunts, his pursuit of information, but took care to give a
wide berth to the "Whaler's Haven." Before daylight he left the place
in a fast sloop and with a fair wind, bound for New Haven. There
fickle fortune made him amends for her unkind humor at New London, and
facts that seemed to go far toward establishing Dorn Hackett's guilt
came readily to his knowledge. The most important were these:
On the afternoon preceding the murder of Jacob Van Deust the young man
went over to Long Island on Mr. Hollis's sloop. Nobody but himself
knew why he went. The men on the sloop expected him to return to New
Haven with them that night, but he did not do so. They left the Long
Island shore about the hour that it was supposed the murder was
perpetrated and, presumably, before he could have run from Van Deusts'
to the cove where the sloop laid. When he re-appeared in New Haven the
next morning his clothing was dabbled with blood; and his hands,
though he had evidently tried to wash them, still showed sanguinary
stains. He said that the blood was his own; that he had a severe fall
while running through the woods on Long Island. That he had fallen
seemed probable, since he had a bad cut on his head and one ankle was
lame; but that the blood was all his own, at least admitted of
question. Why he had been running through the woods he did not say;
but it was natural to suppose that he had been trying to reach the
sloop and get to New Haven as quickly as possible, to make ground for
claiming an alibi in case he should be suspected of the murder.
The other significant discoveries that the detective made, and what he
did in New Haven, will be noted in their proper place. Suffice it here
to say, that the agent of justice felt that he had reason to
congratulate himself upon a triumph.
Billy Prangle, when he had kicked out the tempter, lost no time in
fully imparting to his comrades the excellent cause he had for his
suddenly violent conduct, and was heartily censured by all for not
hammering the stranger twice as much.
"What?--Dorn Hackett guilty of murder and robbery?"
They who had known him for years; sailed with him; messed with him;
faced death by his side in the tempest and the perilous chase of the
monsters of the deep, knew how absurd such a charge must be. Every man
of them had belonged to the same crew with Dorn for three years, and
there was not one of them who did not groan to think that he had not
had Billy's chance at the stranger. In consultation among them, it was
unanimously resolved that it was plainly their duty to take the matter
in hand.
"Jerry Slate has got a fast little sloop," said Billy Prangle, "that I
can borrow to take me over to Napeague. I'll go there and see that
girl of Dorn's that he spoke of--Mary Wallace, he called her. Here,
you barkeep', log that on a bit of paper for me, so that I won't let
it go adrift. You, Sam, go down by Wainright's packet in the morning
to New Haven, which it was the last place I heard of Dorn hailing
from, and see that you find him and tell him all about it."
Thus the jolly tars arranged it among themselves to serve their friend
as best they could. And so it was that, on the afternoon of the
succeeding day, a weather-beaten old sailor--Billy Prangle
himself--after various inquiries in the neighborhood, "ranged
alongside" of Uncle Thatcher's house, asking for "a gal by the name of
Mary Wallace."
"What do you want?" demanded Aunt Thatcher, who happened to "answer
his hail."
"Be you Mary Wallace?" asked Billy, with an affectation of profound
astonishment.
"No, I ain't. But I'm her aunt, and you can tell me your business."
"Right you are, old gal, I can; but I'll see you furder, first,"
replied the unabashed veteran, who had already been told by some
neighbor that she was a "snorter."
"What do you mean, you impudent fellow?"
"I always does my business with the principals, mum."
Mrs. Thatcher slammed the door in his face and retired. But half an
hour afterward, when she happened to be out in the yard, she saw that
the sailor had lighted his pipe, seated himself on the stone step at
the door, and literally laid siege to the house. She reflected that
Uncle Thatcher would soon be home to his supper; and in view of the
strange way he had acted of late, did not know how he might take it
into his head to look upon her treatment of the visitor. Tartar as she
was, she had a wholesome respect for him when he chose to assert
himself, and deemed it most prudent to avoid an encounter.
With an ill-grace she went to Mary, who was sewing in her room, and
said snarlingly:
"There's an old vagabond at the door who wants to see you."
Mary went out and found Billy calmly puffing his pipe and waiting. He
looked up at the sound of the opening of the door, and seeing the tall
handsome girl who stood there, sprang to his feet, with a beaming
smile and outstretched hand, saying:
"Ah! You're the right one. I thought I'd fetch you."
Mary gave him her hand, smilingly asking:
"Did you wish to see me, sir?"
"Yes; the mate has been out here trying to rig the pump on me, but it
wouldn't draw. What I'm here for concerns nobody but you and Dorn.
Come out to the gate, for she's a listening beside that window. I just
see the curtain shake."
Mary started at mention of her lover's name by this stranger, and
unhesitatingly accompanied him as he requested; while Aunt Thatcher,
who was indeed listening by the window, could almost have torn her
sun-bonnet strings with vexation and rage when they passed beyond
range of her hearing.
Billy, like many other maladroits, flattered himself that he had no
little skill in conducting a delicate mission, and thought it was
rather a neat way of sparing the girl's feelings to affect to be very
busy refilling his pipe, without looking at her, as he put the blunt
question:
"Be you Dorn Hackett's sweetheart?"
Mary blushed and stammered, not knowing what to reply.
"'Cause," continued Billy, "he's maybe in some trouble."
Trouble! Trouble for Dorn! That thought swept away in an instant her
timidity and maiden bashfulness, and anxiously she replied:
"Yes, yes; he is very dear to me. What is it? What has happened to
him? Tell me quickly!"
"Don't get excited. It ain't no great matter. But they are looking for
him to arrest him."
"Arrest Dorn? For what?"
"Murder and robbery."
Mary gave a little cry and would have fallen, had not Billy caught
her; and holding her against the fence, awkwardly enough, but firmly,
adjured her:
"Steady, steady! Brace up! Hold hard!"
In a few moments she regained sufficient control over herself to
listen while the old sailor related to her, with characteristic
circumstantiality of detail, all the events of the preceding evening
leading up to his visit to her. She did not for an instant imagine
that Dorn could possibly have been guilty of such crimes, but the mere
idea of his being suspected of them so horrified her as almost to
deprive her of the power of reasoning. How could he have fallen under
suspicion? How could it come to be known that he was in the
neighborhood on that fatal night? There was but one person, she
believed, besides herself who knew of his visit, and that was Ruth
Lenox. Ah, yes! There was her aunt, who suspected it at least, and who
had questioned her so sharply about him. Ruth Lenox would never have
breathed such a foul calumny against Dorn. But her aunt? "Yes, it
would be just like her," thought Mary.
Billy had no further information to impart, no advice to give, and no
consolations to offer. The latter would have been especially out of
his line. It seemed to him enough to give a person warning to look out
for him or herself, as the case might be; which, he reasoned, would be
all he would require under any circumstances; and so, having
discharged his errand to the best of his ability in the manner we have
seen, he relighted his pipe and "got under way," with a clear
conscience as to having done his duty by a shipmate.