Of that meeting with Jimmy Appleby the less said the better. I
believe that, in my wearied and weakened state, I broke down and
cried, but I have no clear recollection. The first thing that I
remember clearly is being well down the lagoon, a passenger in my own
boat. Our new shipmates were doing the pulling, although those of the
regular crew who were able sat on the thwarts beside the fresh men,
and bent their backs with them. Two of our men, severely wounded, lay
on the bottom of the boat, half under the thwarts, and there, too,
was the body of the Prince, covered with the sail. Captain Nelson
stood at the steering oar, his face grave and set, looking out ahead.
I crawled up to my place on the midship thwart beside a stranger, and
got my hands on my oar; and the stranger turned his head and gave me
a smile.
We got safely out of the lagoon to sea, and on board the ship. The
canoes were far down to leeward. They had given the ship a wide
berth, but might come back again, after we had gone, to pick up their
dead. I did not know what customs they practised in that respect. I
know I was surprised to find that it was not yet noon. It seemed to
me that almost a lifetime had passed since we had left the ship that
morning. The wounded were cared for at once. Then the body of the
Prince was passed up, and laid on the hatch cover. I drew near to it,
and found Peter beside me. I had forgotten Jimmy Appleby.
Peter said nothing, but he laid his arm across my shoulders, and we
saw the sailmaker come with a piece of old canvas, and his palm, and
stitch the Prince up carefully, a few links of old chain cable at his
feet. I saw the crew gathering with bared heads, and Captain Nelson
standing {354} with a little book, but I did not hear what he read.
The man in that long white bundle—it shone dazzlingly in the hot
sunshine—would not have been there except for me. I hid my face in my
arm against the rigging, hot tears burned my eyes, and my shoulders
shook; there was a gentle noise of canvas slipping on wood, a splash,
and I raised my head to see Captain Nelson clapping his book shut,
and the men as they turned away.
Peter patted my shoulder. “Don’t ye grieve, lad,” he said. “He ’d
have liked this way of it better. He was a good shipmate, if his skin
was black. Come now, you ’re wanted. A bite of dinner ’ll do you a
world of good.”
At that I am afraid I laughed. It was hysterical, but I was quieted
somewhat, and I went below.
I had not yet had a chance to hear Jimmy’s story. It had to wait
still longer, for the boats were sent ashore again in the afternoon,
with all the new men, and some of ours. They buried the men of the
Battles as well as they could. It was almost impossible to dig in
that beach, for it was all coral below the very surface. Then they
carried their boats across from the ocean side to the lagoon, not
more than three or four hundred feet, but the low summit thickly
grown up with coconut-palms and low bushes and vines. It must have
reminded Captain Coffin of the “haulover” at Nantucket, except for
the growth. The “haulover” is nothing but bare sand, and I believe
the sea had not broken through at that time. These boats which I
speak of were those in which our new friends had come. I should not
speak of them as our new friends, for many of them were old friends.
Captain Coffin, with a boat’s crew, stayed on the Battles that
night, looking her over. Jimmy did not, and I got his story. He was
bursting with it. His ship was the John and Alice. After I left New
Bedford his desire for the same sort of life, always strong, had
become intense. He gave his parents no peace for nearly two years,
finally {355} threatening to run away if they would not let him go.
They gave in at that, and in the summer of 1874 he shipped before
the mast on the John and Alice. They had been out just about a year,
had cruised off the River Plate, doubled the Horn, and covered the
On Shore and Off Shore grounds. They were making their leisurely way
toward Japan when the John and Alice was sunk by a whale in 145° W.,
7° S., carrying their five hundred barrels of oil down with her.
The crew took to the boats. There had been time to stow plenty of
provisions and water in the boats, and they were making for Tahiti,
which they would have reached safely, without doubt. But they sighted
some of these low-lying islands, and went in among them. They had
been sailing through the passages of the archipelago for two days.
At daylight on that morning they saw the topmasts of the Clearchus
showing dimly in the distance, and the topmasts of the Battles and
the coco-palms soon rose. They were making for the ship, passing just
outside the line of surf which fringed the island, when they heard
our tumult, and landed the best way they could. They managed it,
but lost one of their boats in the surf, capsized and pretty badly
stove. The surf had not been heavy, or they would have lost more, and
possibly some men. Captain Nelson had the stove boat brought aboard
for Peter’s surgery.
Of course Jimmy’s narrative was not so briefly told as I have given
it. He was discursive and conversational, and given to embellishment.
I kept him up until late that night, telling me all he knew of
my mother, my father, my brothers, Tom and Josh; and I asked him
about all my friends, ending up with Ann McKim. About Ann he was
enthusiastic, speaking of her in the slang of the day. I forget what
expression he used, but it corresponded to “perfect peach.” I could
well believe it.
Captain Coffin had found the Annie Battles pretty firmly aground, and
the coral had punched a hole in her. {356} It was not a hopeless
hole, although enough to justify any master in abandoning his vessel.
Captain Coffin was not that kind. All the stuff was taken out of her,
and spread on the beach. Then she was hastily patched on the inside,
and pumped out. That was very nearly enough to float her, but not
quite, for the rise of the tide at this point is small. Still there
was that little peak of hard, sharp coral, which they were afraid
would tear out more of her planking when eight boats were fast, with
forty oars pulling at her. Our Kanakas had to go down and cut away
the coral. Then she was beached, and hove down by our cutting-tackles
from her mastheads to coconut-trunks. Her cutting-tackles had
disappeared—probably thrown overboard.
We all helped in this work, and I found that I had more bruises and
unimportant wounds than I had believed possible; but the condition
was common to all who had been in the fight, and I was interested in
the work, which was familiar. We simply had to dispose of the corpses
within a couple of days of beginning the work. That was an unpleasant
job. We took them far down to leeward, and buried them hastily in a
cavern we found in the coral, but that did not entirely get rid of
the stench at the beach. It was probably from the bodies of the white
men buried there—in very shallow graves.
It took two weeks to get the Battles beached and repaired. Then we
got her afloat again, the topmasts and yards sent up, sails bent and
everything shipshape. With all her cargo—mostly trading stuff—piled
on deck, we towed her out through the pass in the reef, and she
was at sea again, where she belonged. She tied up alongside the
Clearchus, and there began a wholesale transfer of cargo.
The Battles first stowed eight hundred barrels of our oil, greatly
relieving us. Most of her cargo of trading stuff had been taken
on the Clearchus, indicating that we were likely to stop at the
Marquesas, and possibly at {357} some other islands. I was gratified
at that, for I wanted to see the Marquesas. The division of water and
provisions was unequal, the Battles being given enough to carry her
home, while the Clearchus would be obliged to fill her water-casks,
at least. At last she was ready to go. She cast off, for the sea,
which had been unusually quiet all through the transfer, began to
roughen. She did not go far, however, but lay hove to, not far from
us. Captain Coffin was in the cabin with Captain Nelson, and I was
sent for.
I had watched the transfer of cargo and the selection of a crew
for the Battles, with a mind at ease. I had taken it for granted
that she would take the new men, and most of their boats. Jimmy was
going, I knew, and I accepted the fact with small regret, for I found
that a separation of three years had severed many of the ties which
had bound us together. I went into the cabin with no small wonder
what they could want of me; probably nothing more than the same old
bluish-white pitcher, with something hot in it.
That was not what they wanted. I was hardly in the cabin when Captain
Coffin asked me whether I wanted to go with him. He added that he was
going aboard the Battles within a few minutes, and if I wished, he
would take me along. I was too dumbfounded to answer immediately, and
Captain Nelson, taking my answer for granted, sent me out again at
once, saying that I had only time to get my things together, and to
hurry, at that. So I found myself outside the cabin door, stumbling
up the stairs, without having uttered a word. I hurried and got my
belongings into my chest, carried the chest out, and went to bid a
hasty good-bye to Peter, without having come to a decision. There was
a certain reluctance in my actions. I wanted more time; yes, more
time, at least. But still I went. I said half a dozen words to Peter,
and half a dozen words to Mr. Brown, whom I met on my way aft.
If I had known the truth—and been willing to tell it, {358} which
is quite a different matter—and if it had been a question merely
of choosing between Mr. Brown and Jimmy, I should have chosen Mr.
Brown. Of course I was glad to see Jimmy, but he was only a boy, with
a boy’s interest in things, and that did not satisfy me, possibly
because I had been so long without companions of my own age. Mr.
Brown seemed much more of a real companion, with interests which had
come to be my own. I never saw him again.
It is a curious thing how people go out of your life. Here was Mr.
Brown, who, alone of the officers, had admitted me to intimacy. I
had become very fond of him; and he dropped out as suddenly and as
completely as if he had fallen overboard. I do not like it. It is not
right, I cannot reconcile myself to it, and I have never been able to
understand it. For years I kept expecting to see him, but it is not
likely now, for he would be nearly eighty, and probably he is dead
long ago. He left the ship at once upon her arrival in New Bedford,
and vanished. Why? I wish I knew. I found, upon inquiry, that his
share of the voyage—his lay—was sent to an address in New York. I
wrote, but nothing was known of him, and that ended the chapter.
Peter I did see again. He became a frequent and welcome visitor at my
father’s house, and later at my own. Ann McKim liked him, and she,
my father, my mother, and Peter spent many an evening in going over
the events of the voyage, a chart spread out, and all four heads bent
over it. I sat back in the shadows and watched them. But I am getting
ahead of my story. There is not much more to tell, so have a little
patience, and it will be over.
I was still in a sort of daze when I got aboard of the Battles, and
she began to drop the Clearchus. I watched the old ship, with all
sail set, sink below the horizon. When I could no longer make out
even her topgallant yards, I turned, and went slowly below. I was
to bunk in the cabin, I found, as Assistant Navigator, a totally
{359} unnecessary berth. Captain Coffin had two of the mates of the
John and Alice, both good navigators, and he was a good navigator,
of course; but there was room in the cabin for four, and he, in the
kindness of his heart, gave the fourth berth to me. Before we got
home I was made third mate, which was simply ridiculous. Probably
Captain Coffin wished to make it easy for me to get a third mate’s
berth on another voyage, which was kind and thoughtful. The Annie
Battles was much overmanned, with a total of twenty-eight men,
leaving forty-two on the Clearchus. With so many men there was not
much for any one to do, although we managed to keep the men busy
enough.
The run home was without incident worthy of remark. We reached Cape
Horn in January, the middle of the southern summer, and had no great
difficulty and no more bad weather than is always met there. In the
cabin, as I was, although not yet a mate, I could not chum with
Jimmy, who was before the mast, and I found it rather a lonesome
berth. There was nothing for me to do but attend to my duties, which
were light, and watch the schooner sail. She was a very fast and easy
vessel, and very wet in a sea; but she was not in the same class as
the Virginia, Marshall, master. If I had not had that experience I
should have enjoyed the Battles more. But I missed the discipline,
the trimness, the everlasting rightness of the Virginia. Having seen
that, nothing less would ever satisfy me completely.
It was when we crossed the line that I was made third mate. Not
long after, in the latitude of about 15° N., we ran into a gale,
which started the seams of the patch on the bottom. No doubt Cape
Horn weather had something to do with it, but we had had no proper
planking to mend it with, and it was rather weak. That started a
leak which increased from day to day. With our extra men, Captain
Coffin hoped that we could pump her home; but by the time we were
off Hatteras it had increased so much that {360} the men were kept
steadily at the pumps, and we put into Norfolk.
I left the Battles at Norfolk. I was anxious to get home, and could
not even wait for the boat, which would have been cheaper. I went by
train, and got in at the old wooden station on Pearl Street—“deepo’ ”
we called it, early Egyptian architecture—with less than a dollar in
my pocket. It was only a few blocks from my home, however, and what
use had I for money? I ran all the way.
As I turned the last corner, I stopped with a gasp. I had barely
escaped running into a girl—and such a girl! I knew her at once,
although she had blossomed since I went away, and she was wearing no
ostrich plume in her hat. Jimmy had not exaggerated.
She had stopped, too. She had to, for I brought to directly in front
of her.
“Oh,” she said, with a little smile, “I beg your pardon.”
“Ann!” I said breathlessly. “Ann McKim, don’t you know me?”
I put out my hand, and her hand came slowly forward to meet it, while
she looked up at me doubtfully. I watched the changing expression of
her eyes. Recognition came into them suddenly, and she clasped my
hand warmly.
“Goody gracious!” she cried. “It ’s Tim, I do believe! It ’s not
strange that I did n’t know you! How you ’ve grown and broadened! I
might have taken you for your father. You ’re as big as he is.”
“Am I?” I grinned, holding to her hand as if it were my mooring. “Am
I, Ann?”
“And you ’re the color of new copper,” she added. “Have you been home
yet?”
I shook my head. “I was just going there when I nearly ran you down.”
“Well, go along, Timmie, for mercy’s sake, and let your mother get a
sight of you.” She freed her hand {361} gently, and gave me a little
push. “Do they expect you?”
“No, I came by train. It ’ll be a surprise.”
“Why did n’t you let them know?”
“Did n’t think of it. We—but I ’ll tell you all about it—”
“To-night. I ’ll come in pretty late—nearly nine o’clock. Good-bye.”
She was gone around the corner before I could say a word. I gaped at
the corner, then ran on again. Our house was only a little way up the
street. Nobody locked their doors in those days, and dashing up the
steps without stopping, I threw open the front door. I stood for a
moment, with my hand on the doorknob, listening for a sound to let
me know where anybody was. How often I had done just that! My mother
might be in the kitchen, or upstairs in her room, sewing. I heard
nothing but a faint humming.
“Mother!” I called.
The humming continued. “Who ’s that?” my mother answered, as if she
was busy. “Tom or Josh? I never can tell you apart by your voices.
What are you home for now? Is anything the matter?”
I snickered nervously. “It ’s me, mother. It ’s Tim.”
The humming stopped suddenly. “What! It ’s who?”
I snickered again. I knew so well just how she looked, stopping her
sewing, her foot on the treadle, and her head up, listening.
“It ’s Tim. I ’m coming up.”
There was a shriek, and the sound of a chair falling. I bounded up
the stairs, and met her. At sight of me she stopped for an instant.
“Mercy!” she cried. “Is that my little Tim?”
Then her arms were around me, and she was laughing and crying on my
shoulder.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
Original spelling and grammar have been generally retained, with
some exceptions noted below. Original printed page numbers are shown
like this {52} in the text edition, and are hidden in the html,
epub, and mobi editions. Original small caps are now uppercase.
Italics look _like this_. Illustrations have been moved from within
paragraphs to nearby locations between paragraphs. The transcriber
produced the cover image and hereby assigns it to the public domain.
Original page images are available from archive.org—search for
“sheblowssparmatt00hopk”.
Page 103. A full stop was added after _beat out and disgusted_.
Page 123. A full stop was added after _faster than the Clearchus_.
Page 214. Changed _Reunion_ to _Réunion_.
Page 250. Changed _and we quartered the gounds_ to _and we quartered
the grounds_.
Page 310. Changed _lasily_ to _lazily_.
Page 360. Changed ‘“deepo ” we called it’ to ‘“deepo’ ” we called it’.