IN WHICH IS A SAD RECOGNITION.
THE mate did not mistake his position, for the jut of land we
described in the last chapter is but a few hours' ride from Nassau,
and the houses are inhabited by wreckers. With desponding hearts did
our unfortunates approach one of the rude cabins, from the window of
which a faint light glimmered, and hesitate at the door, as if
doubting the reception they were about to receive. The roaring of
the beach, and the sharp whistling of the wind, as in clouds it
scattered the sand through the air, drowned what sound might
otherwise be heard from within. "This cabin seems deserted," says
one, as he taps on the door a second time. "No, that cannot be!"
returns the other, peering through a small window into the
barrack-like room. It was from this window the light shone, and,
being a bleak November night, a wood fire blazed on the great
hearth, shedding its lurid glows over everything around. It is the
pale, saline light of wreckwood. A large binnacle lamp, of copper,
hung from the centre of the ceiling, its murky light mingling in
curious contrast to the pale shadows of the wreckwood fire. Rude
chains, and chests, and boxes, and ropes, and canvas, and broken
bolts of copper, and pieces of valuable wood, and various nautical
relics-all indicating the trade of shipwreck, lie or stand
promiscuously about the room; while in the centre is a table
surrounded by chairs, some of which are turned aside, as if the
occupants had just left. Again, there may be seen hanging from the
unplastered walls numerous teeth of fish, bones and jaws of sharks,
fins and flukes of curious species, heads of the Floridian
mamalukes, and preserved dolphins-all is interspersed here and there
with coloured prints, illustrative of Jack's leaving or returning to
his favourite Mary, with a lingering farewell or fond embrace.
Louder and louder, assured of some living being within they knock at
the door, until a hoarse voice rather roars than speaks-"Aye, aye!
hold hard a bit! I'se bearin' a hand!" The sound came as if from the
clouds, for not a living being was visible. A pause followed; then
suddenly a pair of dingy legs and feet descended from a small
opening above the window, which, until that moment, had escaped
their notice. The sight was, indeed, not the most encouraging to
weak nerves. Clumsily lowered the legs, the feet making a ladder of
cleets of wood nailed to the window, until the burly figure of the
wrecker, encased with red shirt and blue trousers, stood out full to
view. Over his head stood bristly hair in jagged tufts; and as he
drew his brawny hand over the broad disc of his sun-scorched face,
winking and twisting his eyes in the glare, there stood boldly
outlined on his features the index of his profession. He shrugged
his shoulders, gathered his nether garments quickly about him,
paused as if half confused and half overjoyed, then ran to the
fire-place, threw into a heap the charred wood with a long wooden
poker, and sought the door, saying--"Avast heavin a bit, Tom!" Having
removed a wooden bar, he stands in the opening, braving out the
storm. "A screachin nor'easter this, Tom--what'r ye sighted away,
eh!" he concludes. He is--to use a vulgar term--aghast with surprise.
It was Tom Dasher's watch to-night; but no Tom stands before him.
"Hallo!--From whence came you?" he enquires of the stranger, with an
air of anxious surprise. He bids them come in, for the wind carries
the sand rushing into his domicile.
"We are shipwrecked men in distress," says the passenger--the
wrecker, with an air of kindness, motioning them to sit down: "Our
party have been swallowed up in the surf a short distance below, and
we are the only survivors here seeking shelter."
"Zounds you say--God be merciful!" interrupts the hardy wrecker, ere
the stranger had time to finish his sentence. "It was Tom's look-out
to-night. Its ollers the way wi' him--he gits turned in, and sleeps
as niver a body see'd, and when time comes to unbunk himself, one
disn't know whether 'ts wind or Tom's snoarin cracks hardest. Well,
well,--God help us! Think ye now, if wife and I, didn't, in a half
sort of dream, fancy folks murmuring and crying on the beach about
twelve, say. But the wind and the surf kept up such a piping, and
Tom said ther war nought a sight at sundown." With a warm expression
of good intention did our hardy host set about the preparing
something to cheer their drooping spirits. "Be at home there wi'
me," says he; "and if things b'nt as fine as they might be, remember
we're poor folks, and have many a hard knock on the reefs for what
we drag out. Excuse the bits o' things ye may see about; and wife
'll be down in a fip and do the vary best she can fo'h ye." He had a
warm heart concealed beneath that rough exterior; he had long
followed the daring profession, seen much suffering, lightened many
a sorrowing heart. Bustling about among old boxes and bags, he soon
drew forth a lot of blankets and quilts, which he spread upon the
broad brick hearth, at the same time keeping up a series of
questions they found difficult to answer, so rapidly were they put.
They had indeed fallen into the hands of a good Samaritan, who would
dress their wounds with his best balms.
"An' now I tak it ye must be famished; so my old woman must get up
an' help mak ye comfortable," says he, bringing forth a black
tea-kettle, and filling it from a pail that stood on a shelf near
the fire-frame. He will hang it on the fire. He had no need of
calling the good dame; for as suddenly as mysteriously does the
chubby figure of a motherly-looking female of some forty years shoot
from the before described opening, and greeting the strangers with a
hearty welcome, set about preparing something to relieve their
exhaustion. A gentle smile pervades her little red face, so simply
expressive; her peaked cap shines so brightly in contrast with the
black ribbon with which she secures it under her mole-bedecked chin;
and her short homespun frock sets so comely, showing her thick knit
stockings, and her feet well protected in calfskin laces, with heels
a trooper might not despise; and then, she spreads her little table
with a heartiness that adds its value to simple goodness,--her
invitingly clean cups and saucers, and knives and forks, as she
spreads them, look so cheerful. The kettle begins to sing, and the
steam fumes from the spout, and the hardy wrecker brings his bottle
of old Jamaica, and his sugar; and such a bowl of hot punch was
never made before. "Come now," he says, "ye're in my little place;
the wrecker as don't make the distressed comfortable aneath his ruf
's a disgrace to the craft." And now he hands each a mug of steaming
punch, which they welcomely receive, a glow of satisfaction
bespreading his face, telling with what sincerity he gives it. Ere
they commenced sipping, the good dame brought pilot bread and set it
before them; and while she returned to preparing her supper the
wrecker draws his wooden seat by their side, and with ears attentive
listens to the passenger as he recites the disaster.
"Only two out of twenty-seven saved-a sorry place that gulf!" he
exclaims; "you bear away, wife. Ah, many a good body's bones, too,
have whitened the beach beside us; many 's the bold fellow has been
dashed upon it to die unknown," he continues, with serious face.
"And war ner onny wemen amang ye, good man?" interposes the good
dame.
"Seven; they have all passed into eternity!" rejoins the seaman,
who, till then, had been a mute looker-on.
"Poor souls! how they mun' 'ave suffered!" she sighs, shaking her
head, and leaning against the great fire frame, as her eyes fill
with tears. The wrecker must needs acquaint Tom Dasher, bring him to
his aid, and, though the storm yet rages, go search the beating surf
where roll the unfortunates. Nay, the good dame will herself execute
the errand of mercy, while he supplies the strangers with dry
clothes; she will bring Tom hither. She fears not the tempest while
her soul warms to do good; she will comfort the distressed who seek
shelter under her roof. With the best his rough wardrobe affords
does the wrecker clothe them, while his good wife, getting Tom up,
relates her story, and hastens back with him to her domicile. Tom is
an intrepid seafarer, has spent some seven years wrecking, saved
many a life from the grasp of the grand Bahama, and laid up a good
bit of money lest some stormy day may overtake him and make the wife
a widow.
"This is a hard case, Stores!" says Tom, addressing himself to our
wrecker, as with sharp, hairy face, and keen black eyes, his
countenance assumes great seriousness. Giving his sou'-wester a
cant back on his head, running his left hand deep into the pocket of
his pea-jacket, and supplying his mouth with tobacco from his right,
he stands his tall figure carelessly before the fire, and in a
contemplative mood remains silent for a few minutes.
"Aye, but somethin' mun' be done, Tom," says the first wrecker,
breaking silence.
"Yes; as my name is Tom Dasher, there must. We must go to the beach,
and see what it's turned up,--what there is to be seen, an' the like
o' that." Then, turning to the strangers, he continued, "Pity yer
skipper hadn't a headed her two points further suthard, rounded the
point just above here a bit, and made a lee under the bend. Our
craft lies there now,--as snug as Tompkins' wife in her chamber!"
"Yes, but, Tom! ye dinna think as the poor folks could know all
things," speaks up the woman, as Tom was about to add a few items
more, merely to give the strangers some evidence of his skill.
"Aye, aye,--all right; I didn't get the balance on't just then,"
returned Tom, nodding his head with an air of satisfaction.
A nice supper of broiled fish, and toast, and tea, and hot rum
punch-of which Tom helped himself without stint-was set out, the
strangers invited to draw up, and all partook of the plain but
cheering fare. As daylight was fast approaching, the two wreckers
dispatched their meal before the others, and sought the spot on the
beach described as where the fatal wreck took place, while the good
dame put the shipwrecked to sleep in the attic, and covered them
with her warmest rugs and blankets.
Not a vestige of the wreck was to be seen-not a fragment to mark the
spot where but a few hours before twenty-five souls were hurried
into eternity. They stood and stood, scanning over the angry ocean
into the gloom: nothing save the wail of the wind and the sea's roar
greeted their ears. Tom Dasher thinks either they have been borne
out into the fathomless caves, or the men are knaves with false
stories in their mouths.
Stores,--for such is our good man's name-turning from the spot, says
daylight will disclose a different scene; with the wind as it is the
bodies will be drawn into the eddy on the point, and thrown ashore
by the under-current, for burial. "Poor creatures! there's no help
for them now;" he adds, sighing, as they wend their way back to the
cabin, where the good dame waits their coming. Their search was in
vain; having no news to bring her, she must be contented until
morning. If the bodies wash ashore, the good woman of the Humane
Society will come down from the town, and see them decently buried.
Stores has several times spoken of this good woman; were she a
ministering angel he could not speak of her name with more
reverence. For years, he tells us, has she been a harbinger of good,
ever relieving the sick and needy, cheering the downcast, protecting
the unfortunate. Her name has become a symbol of compassion; she
mingles with the richest and the poorest, and none know her but to
love and esteem her. "And she, too, is an American lady!" Stores
says, exultingly. And to judge from his praise, we should say, if
her many noble deeds were recorded on fair marble, it would not add
one jot to that impression of her goodness made on the hearts of the
people among whom she lives.
"Ah, man! she's a good woman, and everybody loves and looks up to
her. And she's worth loving, too, because she's so kind," adds the
good dame, significantly canting her head.
Daylight was now breaking in the east, and as there seemed no chance
of making a search on the bank that day, such was the fierceness of
the wind, the two men drank again of the punch, spread their
blankets before the fire, lay their hardy figures down, and were
soon in a profound sleep. The woman, more watchful, coiled herself
in a corner of the room on some sail-cloth, but did not sleep.
At ten o'clock they were aroused by the neighbours, who, in great
anxiety, had come to inform them of an event they were already
conscious of,--adding, however, as an evidence of what had taken
place, that sixteen male and three female bodies, borne to the rips
at the point, had been thrown upon the shore. The denizens of the
point were indeed in a state of excitement; a messenger had been
sent into the town for the coroner, which said functionary soon
spread the news about, creating no little commotion among the
inhabitants, many of whom repaired to the scene of the disaster.
When it became known that two witnesses to the dire misfortune had
been spared to tell the tale, and were now at Stores' house, the
excitement calmed into sympathy. The wrecker's little village
resounded with curious enquiries, and few were they who would be
satisfied without a recital of the sad tale by the rescued men.
Carefully they brought the dead bodies from the shore, and laid them
in an untenanted house, to await the coroner's order. Among them was
the slender form of Franconia, the dark dress in which she was clad
but little torn, and the rings yet remaining on her fingers. "How
with fortitude she bore the suffering!" said the rescued passenger,
gazing on her blanched features as they laid her on the floor: the
wrecker's wife covered her with a white sheet, and spread a pillow
carefully beneath her head.
"Yes!" returns the unfortunate seaman, who stood by his side, "she
seemed of great goodness and gentleness. She said nothing, bore
everything without a murmur; she was Higgins' pet; and I'll lay he
died trying to save her, for never a braver fellow than Jack Higgins
stood trick at a wheel."
The coroner arrives as the last corpse is brought from the sand: he
holds his brief inquest, orders them buried, and retires. Soon,
three ladies-Stores' wife tells us they are of the Humane
Society-make their appearance in search of the deceased. They enter
Stores' house, greet his good dame familiarly, and remain seated
while she relates what has happened. One of the three is tall and
stately of figure, and dressed with that quiet taste so becoming a
lady. And while to the less observing eye no visible superiority
over the others is discernible, it is evident they view her in such
a light, always yielding to her counsels. Beneath a silk bonnet
trimmed with great neatness, is disclosed a finely oval face,
glowing with features of much regularity, large dark eyes of great
softness, and silky hair, laid in heavy wavy folds across a
beautifully arched brow-to which is added a sweet smile that ever
and anon plays over her slightly olive countenance. There, boldly
outlined, is the unmistakeable guide to a frank and gentle nature.
For several minutes does she listen to the honest woman's recital of
the sad event, which is suspended by the passenger making his
appearance. The wrecker's wife introduces him by motioning her hand,
and saying, "This is the kind lady of whose goodness I spoke so last
night." Anxiously does she gather from the stranger each and every
incident of the voyage: this done, she will go to the house where
lay the dead, our good Dame Stores leading the way, talking from the
very honesty of her heart the while. In a small dilapidated dwelling
on the bleak sands, the dead lay. Children and old men linger about
the door,--now they make strange mutterings, and walk away, as if in
fear. Our messengers of mercy have entered the abode of the dead.
The wrecker's wife says, "They are to be buried to-morrow, ma'am;"
while the lady, with singular firmness, glances her eye along the
row of male bodies, counting them one by one. She has brought
shrouds, in which to bury them like Christians.
"Them three females is here, ma'am," says Dame Stores, touching the
lady on the elbow, as she proceeds to uncover the bodies. The
passenger did, indeed, tell our Lady of Mercy there was one handsome
lady from Carolina. One by one she views their blanched and besanded
features.
"A bonny figure that, mum; I lay she's bin a handsome in her day,"
with honest simplicity remarks Dame Stores, as, bent over the
lifeless body of Franconia, she turns back the sheet, carefully.
"Yes," is the quick reply: the philanthropic woman's keen eye scans
along the body from head to foot. Dame Stores will part the silken
hair from off that cold brow, and smooth it with her hand. Suddenly
our lady's eyes dart forth anxiety; she recognises some familiar
feature, and trembles. The rescued seaman had been quietly viewing
the bodies, as if to distinguish their different persons, when a
wrecker, who had assisted in removing the bodies, entered the room
and approached him, "Ah!" exclaims the seaman, suddenly, "yonder's
poor Jack Higgins." He points to a besanded body at the right, the
arms torn and bent partly over the breast, adding, "Jack had a good
heart, he had." Turning half round, the wrecker replies, "That 'un
had this 'un fast grappled in his arms; it was a time afore we got
'um apart."
"Was it this body?" enquires the lady, looking at the lifeless form
before her. He says, "That same, ma'am; an' it looked as if he had
tried to save the slender woman." He points to the body which Dame
Stores has just uncovered. The good lady kneels over the body: her
face suddenly becomes pale; her lips purple and quiver; she seems
sinking with nervous excitement, as tremulously she seizes the
blanched hand in her own. Cold and frigid, it will not yield to her
touch "That face-those brows, those pearly teeth, those lips so
delicate,--those hands,--those deathless emblems! how like Franconia
they seem," she ejaculates frantically, the bystanders looking on
with surprise. "And are they not my Franconia's-my dear
deliverer's?" she continues. She smooths the cold hands, and chafes
them in her own. The rings thereon were a present from Marston.
"Those features like unto chiselled marble are hers; I am not
deceived: no! oh no! it cannot be a dream" (in sorrow she shakes her
head as the tears begin to moisten her cheeks), "she received my
letter, and was on her way seeking me." Again she smooths and
smooths her left hand over those pallid cheeks, her right still
pressing the cold hand of the corpse, as her emotions burst forth in
agonising sobs.
The wrecker's wife loosens the dress from about deceased's
neck-bares that bosom once so fair and beautiful. A small locket,
attached to a plain black necklace, lies upon it, like a moat on a
snowy surface. Nervously does the good woman grasp it, and opening
it behold a miniature of Marston, a facsimile of which is in her own
possession. "Somethin' more 'ere, mum," says Dame Stores, drawing
from beneath a lace stomacher the lap of her chemise, on which is
written in indelible ink-"Franconia M'Carstrow." The doubt no longer
lent its aid to hope; the lady's sorrowing heart can no longer
withstand the shock. Weeping tears of anguish, she says, "May the
God of all goodness preserve her pure spirit, for it is my
Franconia! she who was my saviour; she it was who snatched me from
death, and put my feet on the dry land of freedom, and gave me-ah,
me!" she shrieked,--and fell swooning over the lifeless body, ere
Dame Stores had time to clasp her in her arms.
My reader can scarcely have failed to recognise in this messenger of
mercy,--this good woman who had so ennobled herself by seeking the
sufferer and relieving his wants, and who makes light the cares of
the lowly, the person of that slave-mother, Clotilda. Having drank
of the bitterness of slavery, she the more earnestly cheers the
desponding. That lifeless form, once so bright of beauty, so buoyant
of heart and joyous of spirit, is Franconia; she it was who
delivered the slave-mother from the yoke of bondage, set her feet on
freedom's heights, and on her head invoked its genial blessings. Her
soul had yearned for the slave's good; she had been a mother to
Annette, and dared snatch her from him who made the slave a
wretch,--democracy his boast! It was Franconia who placed the
miniature of Marston about Clotilda's neck on the night she effected
her escape,--bid her God speed into freedom. All that once so
abounded in goodness now lies cold in death. Eternity has closed her
lips with its strong seal,--no longer shall her soul be harassed with
the wrongs of a slave world: no! her pure spirit has ascended among
the angels.
We will not longer pain the reader's feelings with details of this
sad recognition, but inform him that the body was removed to
Clotilda's peaceful habitation, from whence, with becoming ceremony,
it was buried on the following day. A small marble tablet, standing
in a sequestered churchyard near the outskirts of Nassau, and on
which the traveller may read these simple words:--"Franconia, my
friend, lies here!" over which, in a circle, is chiseled the figure
of an angel descending, and beneath, "How happy in Heaven are the
Good!" marks the spot where her ashes rest in peace.