Thanksgiving dinner with us to-night."
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER V.
THE LION'S GREED.
So we ran on with the wind holding fair until late in the evening,
steering northeast by east. I had overcome a great deal of my timidity
already, and had asked so many questions and paid such close attention
to the way the brig was being handled, that by nightfall I thought I
knew not a little about the working of a ship.
Captain Morrison, seeing my interest was so real, and put in a
good-humor, as I have said, by the escape from the 74, explained to me
something about steering by compass, and the wherefore of several
orders.
The planter's wife had so far recovered from her indisposition as to
take a seat at the swinging-table in the cabin, and we made a very jolly
party at supper.
The skipper, warmed by a bottle of port which Mr. Chaffee had set upon
the table, began to tell tales of the sea. I have heard many stories in
my life, but I do not think that I have ever been thrilled or excited by
any in the way that I was that evening.
Mrs. Chaffee must have noticed it, for she closed her hand over mine
(that were tightly gripping the edge of the table), and stroked them
gently in a motherly way. I resented this (although I am glad I did not
show it), for was not I at that very time employed with the Captain in
repelling an attack of a Barbary corsair? and Mrs. Chaffee's kindly
touch recalled me to myself, and reminded me that I was but a boy, after
all, who a few hours before had been almost in tears for the lack of
what she had shown me--a little sympathy and the comfort of a kindly
glance and touch.
The Captain had not finished his yarn-spinning--in fact, he was but in
the middle of it--when the first mate thrust his head down the
companionway.
"Will you come on deck, sir, and take a look at the glass on the way
up?" he asked.
To my surprise, the Captain cast his tale adrift without an apology and
hurried out, pausing for an instant only for a hasty glance at the
barometer, which hung against the bulkhead at the foot of the ladder.
"It's evidently fallen calm," said Mr. Chaffee.
"And very glad am I that it has," answered his wife. "I think any more
of that pitch and toss and I should have died."
For the last three-quarters of an hour, indeed, the _Minetta_ had been
stationary, heaving a little now and then, but in such a small way and
keeping on such an even keel as scarcely to move the coffee in our cups.
The Captain had been gone but a few minutes when we all went up on deck.
The seas were round and oily, and the brown sails hung in lazy folds
against the masts. The man at the wheel now and again gave the spokes a
whirl this way and that, and he was forever casting his eye aloft as if
by some motion of his he might catch a stray breath of wind.
It was past sundown, and there was a strange, suffused glow everywhere,
more like dawn than the twilight of evening. But off to the northwest
towered a black tumble of clouds that were edged with a fringe of
lighter color. They were stretching upwards and peering grandly above
the horizon-line like a range of growing mountains.
Suddenly a quiver of light flashed all around, and then a streak of
forked lightning ripped horizontally, like a tear in a heavy curtain,
against the pit of the cloud. The Captain went below at this, to look at
the barometer again.
"It's falling, Mr. Norcross," he said, raising his head. "Shorten sail,
sir, and be lively!"
The men tumbled out from the deck-house. The top-sails which we had
carried all the afternoon were taken in, and a reef put in the foresail
and mainsail.
I watched all this bustling about with much delight, and then my
attention was drawn to the sky. The clouds had now spread so that they
were almost over us; a few big rain-drops fell and made little splotches
on the surface of the water and spattered the deck in spots as big as
dollars. They could be heard falling in the stillness against the dry
sails overhead. Then, without a warning, there came another flash of
lightning and a deafening thunder-roll. A slight puff of wind trailed
the heavy blocks on the main boom rattling across the deck. The yards
swung about with a complaining, creaking noise.
The Captain seized the glass and pointed to the westward; then he jumped
to the wheel, jammed it over, and immediately began shouting orders to
close the hatches, haul in the main-sheet, and make all snug. Every eye
had followed the aiming of the telescope--a line of white below a wall
of gray was coming toward us on the rush! A few more drops of rain fell
softly, and then the thunder began to crash and roar on every hand.
Warned by the Captain, Mr. Chaffee and his wife went down to the cabin,
both pale with fright. I, however, kept the deck, and in some way (I
cannot account for it) was overlooked. And here nearly comes an ending
to my story.
So suddenly and so fair abeam did the wind strike us that it was almost
a knockdown then and there, and the first thing I knew I slid across the
deck over against the lee bulwarks. The scuppers were running so full
that I went under from head to foot; I thought surely I was going to be
drowned--in fact, I think I took a few strokes and imagined myself
overboard. The masts were extending over the water so far that the
yard-arms almost dipped, the crew were hanging on by anything they could
lay hand to, and the wind raised such a screeching in the rigging that
the Captain, who was bawling at the top of his lungs, might as well have
held silence; his voice apparently blew down his throat. Nevertheless,
some of the crew must have understood him, for they clambered into the
shrouds. This I noticed as I tried to crawl up the slope of the deck.
Then there came a loud report; the foresail blew out into tatters, and
the brig righted. A turn of the wheel, and she was put before it,
crashing down into the sea (that came tumbling under her quarters), and
now and then lifting her stern as if she would roll over like a
ball--any which way.
I managed with difficulty to make the head of the after-ladder, and
stumbled down it head first, some one slamming the sliding-hatch with a
bang almost on my heels as they went over the combing. Looking about me,
I found Mr. Chaffee and his wife engaged in prayer. They were much
bruised from having been flung about the cabin, and were in great fear
that we were about to founder.
But the _Minetta_ was going so much steadier now that we all three
sought our bunks, and managed to stay in them, and I had so much
confidence in the Captain and crew, and was so unfamiliar with terror,
that probably I did not recognize the nearness we had come to disaster,
so after an hour or so I went to sleep.
When I awakened the sunlight was pouring in at the transoms, and we were
gently heaving up and down. There was nothing to give me an idea of the
time of day, but I could smell the brewing of coffee, and dressed
hastily. No one was in the cabin, and the breakfast was untasted on the
table; so, hearing the sounds of conversation, I went on deck. We were
hove to, and within an eighth of a mile of us another vessel was coming
up into the wind. She was very trim to look at, and I saw that a boat
was being lowered over her side, and that she had the weather-gage of
us.
The Captain was walking up and down with his arms folded, and our crew
were gathered in the waist, muttering in surly and half-frightened
voices.
"We are in for it this time, Master Hurdiss," said Mr. Chaffee, casting
a bitter look over the taffrail at the stranger, from whose peak was
flying the British Jack. "We are under the lion's paw, and no mistaking
it."
Norcross, the mate, leaned over the rail and spoke to one of the men on
the deck below him.
"Dash, do you know that vessel, my man?"
"Indeed I do, sir," was the reply from the light-haired seaman who had
appeared so elated at the escape of the previous day. "It's his
Majesty's sloop-of-war _Little Belt_, if I'm not mistaken, and she is a
little floating hell, sir; that's what she is!"
Nevertheless, as I have said, she was a trim-looking craft, and I could
not but admire the way the men tumbled into the boat and the long,
well-timed sweep of the oars as they pulled toward us. When alongside,
within a few yards, a young man in a huge cocked hat stood up in the
stern-sheets.
"What brig is that?" he asked, brusquely.
Captain Morrison answered, giving our name and destination.
"I will board you," was the short reply of the cocked-hatted one, and he
gave orders to the bowman, who was ready with his boat-hook, to make
fast to the fore-chains.
The English seamen, a sturdy-looking set, were all armed with cutlasses,
and four or five of them followed their officer over the bulwarks.
The young Britisher's insolence must have been hard to stand.
"Muster your crew and let me see your papers," he ordered, with a toss
of his head; "I would have a look at both of them."
Our Captain's politeness in replying, however, was quite as insulting.
"You have only to mention your wish, my courteous gentleman," he
sneered. "Here are my papers and there are my crew. Will you help
yourself to the cargo also? And pardon my not firing a salute, but we
have a lady with us who objects to noise."
At this the English Lieutenant lifted his great hat, but he glared at
the Captain as if he would have liked to lay hands on him; then he
ordered two of the crew to rout out the forecastle (in a lower tone of
voice), and two of them to give a look into the cabin and deck-house. He
waited until they had returned, and then taking the papers that had been
extended to him, he called off the names of the American seamen. Each
one stepped forward in turn, but without saluting, and replied to the
Lieutenant's questioning; apparently they all hailed from New England.
Two of them, however, he told to stand over to the larboard side.
The men obeyed, and I have never seen such hate on any faces as they had
on theirs.
But the scene, which was tragic enough in all conscience, despite the
grinning of the armed man-o'-war's men who stood behind their leader,
was to be broken by a climax as unexpected as a bolt from a clear sky.
"John Dash," read the officer. There was no answer, and he called it
louder again, without result. "Where is this man?" he asked,
impatiently.
The Captain made a low bow. "Thanks to your honor for your kind
inquiry," he replied. "But the man failed to report on the morning of
sailing."
It might have gone well had it not been for the interference of a
low-visaged petty officer, who, with his fingers to his cap, here spoke.
"I saw a man go over the bow as we came up, sir," he said.
Two of the men hurried forward and leaned over the side. I, being near
the rail, looked over also.
There was John Dash, holding on to the bobstay, his frightened face just
above the surface of the water. In an instant he was hauled on board.
"Ah, there's where you've been all the time, Mr. Dash!" said Captain
Morrison, sarcastically. "And how strange I not knowing it! This
gentleman has been asking for you very kindly."
The poor man, dripping wet, was standing erect before the
boarding-officer.
The titter that had run through the English sailors ceased as they saw
the look on his face. He was drawing quick breaths, half-snarling like a
dog, but he was trembling from head to foot.
"Oho!" said the servant of the King, lifting his eyebrows, "and here we
are, eh? I think you know me, as I remember you, Charles Rice! You left
us at the Port of Spain and forgot to return, you may remember. You owe
his Majesty an accounting."
[Illustration: "I AM AN AMERICAN CITIZEN," RETURNED THE SAILOR,
HOARSELY.]
"I am an American citizen," returned the sailor, hoarsely, "born at
Barnstable, Massachusetts! I was impressed from the ship _Martha_ on the
high seas, and owe accounting to no one."
"None of your insolence," cried the Englishman, drawing back his closed
hand. "We'll see about that. You'll come with me, and these other two
fine fellows also."
Dash, or Rice (I understood afterwards the latter was his real name),
gave a leap backward and ran into the deck-house. The officer turned.
"Bring that man out," he said to two of his bullies.
Before they had crossed the deck something happened, and no one who
witnessed it can ever shake it from his memory. The tall sailor appeared
at the doorway. His hands were behind his back, and his blue eyes were
absolutely rolling in his head.
"No, by the God of Heaven, you shall not be served!" he cried. "_There_
is something you cannot command, at least, to do your bidding!" With a
swift motion he drew his left arm from behind his back and flung
something on the deck. _It was his right hand, severed at the wrist!_
Such a horror possessed us all that not a word was said. The planter's
wife went in a heap to the deck, and as for myself, I went sick with the
misery of it, and reeled to the side of the ship. The Lieutenant fell
back as if struck a blow over the heart, and without a word, followed by
his men, he clambered weakly down to his boat and shoved off. Dash
lifted the bloody stump above his head; a curse broke from him, and then
he fell into the arms of one of the black seamen. They carried him into
the deck-house, and all hands followed, even the wheel being left
deserted. As for myself, I crawled below into my bunk and wound the
blankets about my head--Mrs. Chaffee was screaming in hysterics. Then
and there was born in my heart such a hatred for the sight of the cross
of St. George that I have never confounded my prejudice with patriotism,
and this may account for some of my actions subsequently.
No one referred to the happening in our talk after this--it might not
have occurred.
However, in such ways as we could we made the poor fellow comfortable;
but John Dash, seaman, existed no longer; a poor, maimed, half-crazed
hulk of a man was left of a gallant, noble fellow. But he had lived to
teach a lesson.
A day later we sighted Sandy Hook, and beating up the bay, anchored in
New York Harbor, where the planter and his wife and the heroic seaman
were put on shore.
As the wind and tide were ripe to take us up the East River and through
the narrows of Hell Gate into the Sound, we tarried but long enough to
drop anchor and get it in again, and I caught only a panorama of houses
and spires and the crowded wharfs of the city.
The voyage up the Sound was uneventful, and my landing in Connecticut
and what followed I shall make another chapter.
But we passed many coasting-vessels and towns (whose number seemed past
counting on both shores), and at last we entered the narrow sound of
Fisher's Island and crept up close to the wharfs of Stonington. I made
up my mind not to go ashore until the following morning, as it was after
sunset before we had found a berth that suited the skipper.
Oh, I have forgotten to add that when I returned to my bunk, after being
boarded by the party from the _Little Belt_, I had missed the miniature
which I had left hanging by a nail driven into one of the stanchions.
That one of the British sailors, on the hurried search of the cabin, had
helped himself to it was beyond doubting.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE SONG IN THE NIGHT.
BY JAMES BUCKHAM.
Bleak, barren hills and cheerless plain,
All soaked and sodden with the rain;
No wood to bid the camp-fire glow,
No forest roof against the snow;--
Drear was the dying winter day
When the troops halted at Luray.
Not ev'n the draggled tents went up,
No chance to sleep, no chance to sup!
A few hours' rest upon their arms,
Then--who could tell what wild alarms?
"Halt until midnight," orders read;
"Then, if the storm holds, march ahead."
Tired and disheartened, faint and chill,
The soldiers, scattered o'er the hill,
Lay in their blankets. Scarce a word
In all the width of camp was heard.
Out of heart was the great blue host--
Out of that which they needed most,--
And the General's heart was a heavy load,
For well he knew what that hush must bode.
Forth from the town, as if heaven-sent,
Passed a child; and as on he went
Something moved him to sing a song
His mother taught him, while waiting long
For the loyal husband, who could not stay
When the first blue regiment passed that way!
Sweet, and flutelike, and childish clear,
The boy's voice rang through the valley drear:--
_Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching;_
_Cheer up, comrades, they will come!_
Every soldier along the hill
Felt his heart with the music thrill!
All forgotten the dreary night,
Hunger, and pillow frosted white.
One by one, as the child-voice sang,
Others joined, till the chorus rang
Deep as a mighty organ tone,
By the bellows of the storm-wind blown.
At midnight the order passed along:--
"March!" And they marched with their heart of song!
Needless to say how they fought, that day,
When the sun rose up over far Luray.
And the little singer--the loyal lad
Who gave, unconsciously, all he had
For his country's welfare--let none deny
His sovereign share in the victory!
If not from his song in the dreary night,
Whence came the courage to win the fight?
[Illustration: The Remarkable Adventures of Sandboys
by John Kendrick Bangs]
THE TRUE STORY OF THE MOOSE HEAD.
For a great many years--for as long, indeed, as either Bob or Jack could
remember--there had been over the great fireplace in the office of the
Mountain House, as its chief decorative feature, a huge moose-head, from
either side of which rose up majestic antlers, concerning which Bob had
once remarked that "they'd make a bully hat-rack."
To this sage remark Bob's father had replied that he thought so too; and
he added that he thought it somewhat of a pity that Bob, when he chose
his pets, should choose pug-dogs and rabbits, that were of no earthly
use, instead of an occasional moose, which might be trained to sit in
the hall and allow people to hang their hats on his horns.
"Just to think," he said, "what a convenience a real live walking
hat-rack would be! When you wanted your hat, all you would have to do
would be to whistle, and up the hat-rack would trot; you'd select the
hat you wished to wear, and back would go the moose again to his
accustomed place between the front door and the window."
"I'm willing," Bob had answered. "You buy me the moose, daddy, and I'll
be glad to make a pet of him."
But it so happened that at the moment his father had something else to
think about, and as a result Bob never got the moose.
Curiously enough, up to this particular summer of which I am writing, it
had never occurred to either of the boys to inquire into the story of
this especial moose, who had been so greatly honored by having his head
stuffed and hung up to beautify the office of the hotel. They had both
of them often wondered somewhat as to how it came to lose the rear
portions of its body--that from its shoulders backward--but at such
times it had so happened there had never been anybody about who could be
counted upon to enlighten them on the subject. Now, however, it was
different. Sandboys seemed always at hand, and considering that he had
never failed them when they had asked for an explanation of this, that,
or the other thing, they confidently broached the subject to him one
afternoon during the music hour, and, as usual, Sandboys was ready with
a "true story" for their satisfaction.
"Oh, that!" he said, when Bob had put the question. "Yes, I know all
about it; and why shouldn't I? Didn't my father catch him? I guess!"
The boys were not quite sure whether the guess was correct or not, but
they deemed it well to suppose that it was, and Sandboys went on.
"Some folks about here will tell you wonderful stories about that
moose," he said. "Some will tell you it came from Maine; and some will
tell you it came from Canady; and some will tell you they don't know
nothin' at all about it; an' generally it'll be the last ones that tell
the whole truth, though it did come from both Canady an' Maine; and,
what's more, if it hadn't come, I wouldn't ha' been here. Nobody knows
that but me, for up to now I haven't breathed a word about it to a soul,
but I don't mind tellin' you boys the whole truth."
"You don't mean to say it got you your position here as a bell-boy, do
you?" asked Jack.
"Yes, I do--that is, it did in a way, as you'll see when I've told you
the whole story," returned Sandboys, and he began:
"My father, when he was a boy, used to live up in Canady. I don't
recollect the name of the exact place. He told me its name lots o'
times, but it was one o' them French-Canadian names with an accent to it
I never could get the hang of. Names of English towns, like London or
New York, I can always remember without much trouble, because I can
spell 'em and pronounce 'em; but the minute they gets mixed in with a
little foreign language, like French or Eyetalian, I can't spell 'em,
pronounce 'em, or remember 'em to save my life. If anybody'd say to me,
'Remember the name o' that town or die,' I think that I'd simply have to
stop breathin' an' die. I do remember, though, that it was a great place
for salmon and mooses. My daddy used to tell me reg'lar slews of stories
about 'em. Why, he told me the salmon was so thick in the river back of
his father's barn, that if you took a bean-shooter and shot anywhere
into the river, usin' pebbles instead o' beans, you couldn't help
hittin' a salmon on the head and killin' it--or, rather, knockin' it
unconscious, so's it would flop over and rise to the surface like it was
dead, after which all you had to do was to catch it by the tail, chop
its head off as you would a chicken's, cook it, and have your marketing
done for two weeks."
"Jiminny!" said Bob. "It's too bad you can't remember the name of that
place. A hotel at a place like that would be good as a mint."
"Oh no--it's all changed now," said Sandboys, sadly. "They've put a
saw-mill in there now, and the salmon's mostly all gone. Sometimes they
tell me they do catch one or two, and they're so big they cut 'em up in
the saw-mill just like planks, and feed on 'em all through the winter."
"I've heard of planked shad," put in Bob, very anxious indeed to believe
in the truth of Sandboys's statement, and searching in his mind for
something in the way of a parallel which might give it a color of
veracity.
"Hyops!" said Sandboys. "Planked shad is very good, but it can't hold a
candle to planked salmon. But, as I was tellin' you, the place was full
of moose too. They used to catch 'em and train 'em to go in harness. I
don't believe anybody up there ever thought of buying a horse or a team
of oxen to pull their wagons and plough their fields, moose were so
plenty, and, when you could catch 'em hungry, so easy to tame. They'd
hitch 'em to the plough, for instance, with ropes tied to their horns,
and drive 'em around all day, and when night came they weren't a bit
tired. But sometimes daddy said they'd strike a fearfully wild one, and
then there'd be trouble. Pop told me he hitched one up to the harrow
once, and the thing got a wild fit on and started across the field
prancin' like a Rocky Mountain goat. He pulled up all the fences in his
way with the harrow's teeth, and before he stopped he'd gone right
through my grandfather's bay-window, into the dinin'-room, out the back
door into the kitchen, takin' all the tables and chiny in the place with
him. Where he went to nobody ever knew, though the harrow was found on
top o' one of the mountains about sixty miles away, three years
afterwards. I'd tell you the name of the mountain, only it had one o'
those French-Canadian names too, so of course I can't.
[Illustration]
"Time went on, and pop got to be a pretty big boy, and on his thirteenth
birthday his father gave him the gun he'd used in the war--the war of
the Revylation, I think it was, when George Washington was runnin'
things. With it he gave him a powder-flask and some bullets, and I tell
you pop was proud, and crazy to go huntin'. His father wasn't anxious to
let him, though, until he thought pop knew enough about fire-arms to
kill something besides himself, and he told him no, he couldn't. He must
wait awhile. So pop tried to be good and obey, but that gun was too much
for him. It kept hintin', 'Let's go huntin'--let's go huntin',' and one
night pop could not resist it any longer. So after everybody'd gone to
bed, he got up, sneaked down stairs into the parlor, took down the gun
from the bricky-brack rack, and set out for the lonely woods.
[Illustration]