and sartin it are; no ship ever ought to have less canvas than this,
till it blows away, 'cause she's safer with it onto her than with it
off, the reefed foresail supportin' the yard. Well, we'd had gales and
gales, but this here gale beat anythin' that I'd ever seen, and at
seven bells in the first night watch, with a tremendious surge, the
weather leech rope of the foresail giv' way, and in a jiffy away went
the foreyard in the slings--the foresail and fore-topsail goin' into
ribbons. All hands, of course, was busy for'ard, tryin' for to git
some of this wreck stuff tranquillized, when all of a suddint from the
poop come the old man's voice, full and round and clear, and not
shrill and pipin' as we'd heerd it last, and above all the roarin' of
the gale and the din of the slattin' canvas, we heerd him shout:
'Stations for wearin' ship. We must git her head round to the
sou'ard,' he bawled in the ear of the mate, as Mr. Graham struggled
aft; 'the shift will come in less than half a hour, and its goin' to
be tremendious; if it catches us aback it won't leave a stick into
her; but it ain't a-goin' to catch us, sir; I've brung her through
many and many a time like this. I'll bring her through this one, and
then you must do the rest. Now, then,' says he, 'stand by, put your
helm just a few spokes a-weather, don't check her at all with the
rudder, slack a foot or two of the lee braces and check in to
wind'ard; keep your eye constant on that sail, Mr. Clark'--that
were the second mate--'and don't let it shake; keep it good full and
give her away; lay the crochick yard square, and come up to the
main-braces, all of you.' And so, gently, as if she'd been a sick
child, he coaxed her to go off, and she begin to gather way. As soon
as she done so the helm were put hard up, and the main-yard rounded
in, just keepin' the topsail alift, but not permittin' it to shake. As
she went off till she got the sea on the quarter, a mighty wave came
a-rollin' along, boardin' us about the main riggin', floodin' the
decks and dashin' out the starboard bulwarks. The minnit we got the
wind onto the starboard quarter we braced the main-yard sharp up with
the port-braces and bowsed the weather ones as taut as a harp string.
'Now, then,' says the old man, 'never mind that trash for'ard, let
that go; git a jumper on to the main-yard and a preventer main-topsail
brace aloft; lay aloft for your lives, and clap preventer gaskets on
everythin' that's furled; we'll have it soon from the north'ard fit to
take the masts out of her.' He were right. In a short time there were
a instant's lull, and then with a roar that were almost deafenin' came
the cyclone from the north. Thanks to the old man's sagacity and
experience, howsever, we was a-headin' sou'-southeast when it hit us,
and it struck us right aft.
"'Steady as you go,' shouts the old man, and then, a minnit arter, as
she gathered way, he says ag'in to the mate, 'We must let her come to,
Mr. Graham, we can't run her in the teeth of the old s'utherly sea;
ease down the helm and let her smell of it.' It was a powerful whiff
she took, for as she come to and felt the force of the wind, all three
to'gallan' masts went short off at the cap, the main-topsail sheets
parted, and in an instant there wasn't a piece of the sail left big
enough for a lady's handkerchief.
"'That's all it can do,' said the old man to the mate, bitterly; 'git
this trash on deck as soon as possible, and git her a-waggin' once
more; I've brung her through it safe, and am goin' home,' and with
that he dropped onto the poop as dead as mutton. He had come on deck
bare-headed and with nothin' on but his drawers and shirt, just as he
had laid in his bunk for a fortnight, and the exposure had carried him
off. However, he knowed that the shift were so near nobody ever could
tell. There were no doubt, however, but that his gittin' her weared
round were our salvation. If that gust had a-struck us aback our masts
would have gone sartin, and it's a toss-up but what we'd a-gone down
starn fust afore she'd a-backed round. Next day we giv' old Wiggins a
funeral fit for the Emperor of Rooshy, and he well desarved it. I
don't know as ever I seen a prettier sew-up than we done on him,
wrappin' him first in the American ensign and then kiverin' him with
brand-new No. 4 canvas. Considerin' the sails we'd lost and how much
we needed the canvas, I think he must have been satisfied that we done
the handsome thing by him. The day was beautiful and clear, although
the wind still blowed a gale. We hadn't been able to do much with the
wreck stuff, except git lashin's onto it for to keep it from swingin'
about, and we hadn't dared for to try for to send up another
main-topsail. We had set the reefed mainsail for to steady her, and
that were all. The three to'gallan' masts was still a-hangin' over the
side, and the ribbons of the foresail and fore-topsail was still
a-flutterin' in the breeze, when at eight bells, at midday, all hands
was called for to bury the dead. Everythin' that we had in the way of
nice clothes we had put on for to do honor to our captain, and most of
us was able to sport white shirts and broadcloth. We laid the old man
onto a plank and kivered him with the union jack, and all hands
gathered round him, while Mr. Graham read the sarvice. Everythin' went
lovely, and just at the proper time we tilted the plank, and he
slipped off without a hitch of any kind. Arter the mate finished the
readin', he said, 'Men, there's a good man gone arter a long life of
great usefulness. He were a sailor and a gentleman. I don't think as
we ought for to cry over sich a man, and I propose we giv' him three
cheers and God bless him'; and heartier cheers was never giv' than we
giv' that day, arter which all hands got dinner."
"----MAS HAS COME."
BY LEONARD KIP.
_Overland Monthly, January, 1870._
It was called Beacon Ledge fully fifty years before the present
lighthouse had been built upon it. For it was said that long ago, when
wrecking was a profitable trade along the coast, and goodly vessels
were frequently, by false lights, decoyed to their destruction, there
was no more favorable point for the exercise of that systematic
villainy than this rocky, high-lifted bluff. Projecting three or four
hundred feet into the sea, with a gradually curved, sweeping line, it
formed, to be sure, upon the one side, a limited anchorage--safe
enough for those who knew it; but, upon the other side, it looked upon
a waste of shoal, dotted, here and there, at lowest tide, with craggy
breakers, and, at high water, smooth, smiling, and deceitful, with the
covered dangers. Here, then, upon certain dark and stormy nights, the
flaming beacon of destruction would glow brightly against the black
sky, and wildly lighten up the cruel faces of those who stood by and
piled on the fagots, while gazing eagerly out to sea to mark the
effect of their evil machinations. Nor was it until some thirty years
ago that the gangs of wretches were thoroughly broken up, and this,
their favorite vantage-ground, wrested from them, and the tall, white
lighthouse there securely founded--maintaining in mercy what had
before been held as a blighting curse; lifting itself, like a nation's
warning finger, and with its calm, serene glow, pointing out the path
of safety. Then, in the mouths of all the surrounding inhabitants,
Beacon Ledge became known as Beacon Ledge Beacon, and so kept its
name, in spite of tautological criticism, or of different and more
formal christening, by Government authority.
Still, there hung around the place the memories or traditions of past
violence, shipwreck, and murder--partly true, perhaps, but, doubtless,
generally false, having only a few grains of fact or probability
mingled with all kinds of distorted fictions--the deeds of pirates
being supplemented to those of mere wreckers; the imaginations of
fishermen along the coast ever inventing plenteous horrors, and wild
tales of buccaneering rovers, originally written for other localities,
being now wilfully adopted and here located, until, at last, there was
hardly a known crime which could not find its origin or counterpart at
Beacon Ledge, and the whole neighboring shore became a melancholy
storehouse of terrors, disaster, and distress. These tales being
discovered to be very pleasing to most strangers, were carefully
cultivated and enlarged upon by each interested denizen of the place;
and to me, also, for awhile, they had a peculiar charm. I seldom
grew tired of hearing some grizzled, tar-incrusted fisherman reel
off his tissue of improbable abominations. For awhile, I say, since
there came, at last, a day when I cared no longer for such bloody
traditions, forgot the shadowy horrors that flitted about the spot,
and only thought and cared for it as the place where I had met and
loved dear little Jessie Barkstead.
She was the only child of the lighthouse keeper. In a worldly point of
view, therefore, was it wisely done that I should have set my
affections upon her? Possibly not; and it is likely that, had I known
the weakness of my mind, I would have shunned the danger from the very
first. But I was gay and reckless in my poor self-complacency and
deceitful assurance of inner strength; and long before I had fairly
realized how rapidly I was drifting, I found myself whirling down the
swift current, and was lost. Nor was it a marvel that this should have
so happened. To one who sits aloof in his unromantic, distant home, it
is an easy thing, indeed, to moralize about matters of inferior
station and _mesalliance_; but I believe that few could have seen
little Jessie, as she first appeared to me, and not have felt some
secret inclination to give way before those subtile charms of beauty
and manner which invested her. Moreover, let it here be mentioned
that she was not at all of humble birth or education. Old Barkstead
was himself a gentleman by culture and station, and had once been the
master of a gallant ship. In that important position he had been for
many years a pleasant and popular officer; but at length, in an evil
day, through some temporary weakness or neglect, he had lost his
charge, and almost ruined his employers. The world--with what degree
of truth cannot now be told--had charged the loss upon intoxication. A
storm of obloquy and reproach arose. The man, bowed down with
self-abasement and sensitiveness, had yielded to the blast, and
attempted no defence; and, after awhile, obtaining, through some
friendly influence, the custody of the Beacon Light, he had fled, with
his child, to that obscurity, leaving no trace behind him, and caring
only to pass the rest of his life in the quiet of the world's
forgetfulness.
I was myself the occasional tenant of a lighthouse, for, during a few
weeks of the summer, I had been visiting the Penguin Light, some four
or five miles distant up the coast. It was a tall and far-reaching
structure, standing upon a jutting point of rock--almost the duplicate
of the Beacon Ledge; the two lights glimmering at each other across
the little bay between, and only to be distinguished apart at night by
the different periods of their revolutions. Penguin Light was in the
keeping of old Barry Somers, a long-known and valued sailor-friend of
mine, who, in past days, had taught me to swim, and sail a boat, and
now seemed to regard his office more for the opportunity it gave of
entertaining me than for its actual salaried value. Thither,
therefore, I would often repair during the summer months, avoiding the
usual crowded haunts, and giving preference to old Barry's pleasant
talk and my solitary rambles along the shore; occasionally running out
to sea, that I might speak friendly pilots cruising in the distance;
and now and then, by way of change and innocent attempt at usefulness,
taking my turn at keeping up and watching over the safety of the
lantern-lamps.
It was during one of my lonely wanderings along the beach, when, with
gun in hand, I made feeble and unsuccessful attempts against the lives
of the merry little sand-pipers, that I first saw Jessie. She sat upon
a rock, and was gazing out at sea. In her hand was a book, which she
was not reading--who, indeed, could read collectedly, with that fresh
breeze lifting such a pleasant array of dancing white-caps, and
rolling inward those strong bodies of surf, which broke upon the shore
with the ring of sportive Titans? Her handkerchief had fallen off her
head, and her curls were flying wantonly in the breeze. I did not, for
the moment, dream that she had any connection with the lighthouse,
but rather that she was a chance city visitor at some inland
country-house; and so I passed on, not venturing to speak with her.
So, also, the next day, and the next--finding her always there when
I passed, as though that particular hollow in the rock was her own
especial, allotted refuge-place. At last, gaining courage from those
frequent meetings, and, perhaps, from the half smile with which she
began to greet my coming, I addressed her; and so the few words of
salutation gradually lengthened into conversation, and, before we were
well conscious of the fact, had ripened into terms of intimacy.
How swiftly such matters sometimes proceed, when removed from the
stiffness and ceremony of city life! A week only had passed, and I
began to find that all my walks led in that one direction. Jessie was
always at her place, with the uncompleted book in her hands; and I,
going no farther, would seat myself beside her, throw down my useless
gun, let the poor sand-pipers go undismayed, and so prepare for the
comfortable, pleasant conversation of the morning. It was no
unattractive pastime, indeed, to dispose the dry sea-weed for her
seat; and then, placing my head upon another pile, remain half
reclined at her feet, listening to her lively talk, and pretending to
look out upon the blue waves, when, all the while, I was stealthily
gazing into the deeper blue of her eyes. Nor, when I heard her
story--or, so much of it as at first she deigned to tell me--did I
hold her in less respect. The daughter of the lighthouse, indeed! Why,
truly, this should matter nothing at all to me. What interest could I
have in her past or present associations, or how could they, in any
way, detract from her own native grace and loveliness? Were her eyes
less bright, or was her conversation less cheery, or were her
attitudes less picturesque and pleasing, because old Captain
Barkstead, instead of still sailing a fleet merchantman, now mopingly
cleaned his reflectors, and, when strangers came, hid himself in the
lantern? Moreover, had she not brought with her from her former home,
wherever that might be, a wit, and intellect, and intelligence which
might adorn any position? What more could be needful in promotion of a
quiet sea-side flirtation? In a week or ten days I should go away, and
no longer see her. I should carry off with me the memories of a very
pleasant face, that had always brightened up whenever I came near; and
then, as, after awhile, new forms and scenes came between, I would, of
course, forget her. For a time, she might possibly look out longingly
after my return, and, finding that I did not come back, might--well,
not exactly lose memory of me, I hoped. It was to be desired, perhaps,
that a few thoughts of me would always tinge her future life, I argued
with something of man's selfishness. I would not, indeed, that she
should make herself miserable about me; but if, when her face had
faded from my thoughts, some little record of myself should pleasantly
remain with her, and now and then bring a transitory pang of musing
regret, who should say nay?
Therefore, in time, I went away. I did not steal off without farewell.
That would have been but sorry recompense for the many cheery hours
she had given me. But, taking her hand in mine, I gave to her my
heartfelt thanks for all the pleasant past, and my cordial wishes for
the future. I did not know that I should ever meet her again, I said.
I hoped, however, that she would not too soon forget me. It was in my
heart to utter more tender and sentimental words than I had any right
to use, but I repressed the inclination. I cherished, too a secret
hope that she would show some sorrow for my departure; but, if she
felt any at all, she did not allow her expression, or her color, to
betray her. With quiet self-possession, yet with a certain interest,
too--as when one gives up a pleasant, valued friend--she bade me
adieu; and so, lifting from her feet the ever-harmless gun, I passed
away, round the border of the little bay, and returned to the city.
There, however, somewhat to my surprise, I failed to forget her; and
wherever I went, the image of that light, graceful form, seated upon
the rock, began to obtrude itself upon my thoughts. Of course, it was
only a fleeting impression, I reasoned with myself, and would soon
disappear again, as newer scenes and faces forced themselves upon me;
and I plunged rather more wildly than usual into society. But the
proposed remedy did not have its due effect. In fact, it happened that
the routine of gayety and formality seemed, by contrast, to aid the
former impressions, making them seem more real and life-like than
ever. It could not be that I was falling in love! But yet I could not
fail to confess a strange interest; and, while knowing that I was in
danger, was content to let myself drift whither the current might
carry me.
"I will see her once more. There was something I forgot to tell her
when we parted last," I said to myself, trying in vain to establish
and believe in a transparent self-deceit. "It was about a book, or
something. It weighs upon my mind that she should deem me neglectful
of her wishes. Once more, therefore, and then--"
"Where away, so late in the autumn?" inquired a friend, who saw me
starting out.
"Down the bay, blue-fishing!" I exclaimed. "Just the real time for
it."
"Ah? Well, good-by, then! Rather too cold sport for me, though!"
Therefore, I saw Jessie again--and yet again after that. Why should I
not confess it?--or, after what I have already told, what is there
left for me to confess, at all? For now, at last, I began to
acknowledge to myself that it was not mere friendship or esteem I
felt, but, rather, the more overpowering passion of real love. Gone,
like a thin veil of vapor, were all my sophistries about a limited
Platonic interest; my dread of incongruous association; my resolves
against possible rashnesses; my fear of the world or its senseless
gossip; my prudence, or my self-restraint! These all seemed to vanish
in a day; and, yielding myself, slavishly, a willing captive to bright
eyes and silvery tones, upon one fine morning I passed the Rubicon of
safety, and offered her my hand and heart. But, to my sore dismay,
she only softly shook her head.
"You do not love me, then?" I murmured. I spoke not merely with sorrow
and disappointment, but with something of wounded pride--feeling
mortified that she had not at once accepted my devotion. Certainly, it
had seemed to me, all along, that I was not disagreeable to her; and
there was no doubt that in her manner, at least, she had always
cordially welcomed my approach, and taken pleasure in my company.
"I do not know--I hardly yet can tell!" she faintly said, drawing her
hand from mine. "To me, you are my best and dearest friend; perhaps,
the only one whom I can really call my friend. I know how glad I
always feel when you come hither; how lonely I am while you stay away.
But this I do not think is love--the real, true love which I should
wish to feel."
"But can it never be?" I pleaded.
"How can I tell? It might come to that, at last; and yet--" She
ceased, and there came over her face a strange, dead look at the sea
before her--a straining gaze, as though she would fix her eyes far
beyond, in another hemisphere, oblivious of the present.
"Yet tell me, Jessie, have I a rival? This, at least, you might let me
know. I will not go further, nor will I ask his name."
For a moment she did not answer: still sitting, with that strange,
rapt, straining gaze, and with an unconscious, mechanical motion,
rolling the little sand pebbles down the side of the rock.
"There was one," she said, at length. "I hardly know how to tell you
about it. I believe that I cared for him, and yet I never told him so;
nor did he ever tell me that he loved or cared for me, and yet, at the
time, I thought that he did. It was some time ago--a very long time,
it often seems to me; nor do I suppose that he and I will ever meet
again. And now you know almost as much about it as I do myself," she
continued, turning more fully toward me. "Or what more can I say?
There was no pledge given on either side--no uttered words--and, of
course, it has all gone by. But now and then, when I think about it, I
feel regret; and it seems to me as though it were a different and
stronger feeling than that which I have for you. Whether I am mistaken
in my feelings, or how or what I really think, perhaps I cannot well
tell; I am only a simple girl, after all, and know so very little
about love, or what love truly is."
"Yet, Jessie dear," I pleaded, "if you look upon that old matter as
buried and gone--which, doubtless, it must be--why think longer about
it, instead of turning to the new and truer affection which now I
offer you? Believe me, you are letting your mind dwell merely upon a
dream of the past--one of those vain fancies of girlhood, which,
though for the time they may control the mind, have no real, vital
activity or force."
"It may be so," she said, in a sort of saddened, half-regretful tone.
"Indeed, it must be so; and it might be that when the influence has
passed away, I may find that I have cared for you better than I have
imagined. I know that, even now, you seem dear to me as a friend, and
that you are kind to me, making me always happy at your coming; yet,
at the same time, I think that there is something wanting in it
all--something which is not love. You see that I am very plain with
you. Better, then, to leave me; is it not so? For I cannot now give
you my heart; nor do I know whether, in the future, I can better do
so; and it is not right that I should keep you at my side, hoping or
expecting what, after all, may never come."
"Nay, I will not leave you for all that, my Jessie," I said,
impulsively. "I will still remain at your side, and trust even to the
mere chance that, at some future period, you may relent."
Therefore, dropping the subject for that time, I remained, and sought,
by new kindnesses and attentions, to win some final increase of her
favor toward me, but feeling, at the same time, a little sore and
angry with myself. For, how wretchedly was I now maintaining that
proper independence of spirit, which I had always insisted even the
most blinded and devoted of lovers should feel! Had it not been my
cherished theory that no man should surrender his freedom of heart
without obtaining in return the utmost, unlimited, and unselfish
devotion? Yet, here I was giving up my whole soul to a blind passion,
rendered more and more absorbing, doubtless, by the opposition I
experienced, and for response I found myself willing to be content
with even the cinders of a former and only half-dead affection;
trusting, as so many men have vainly trusted, that by earnest care and
assiduity, I might, at last, re-illume the fading spark, and make its
new brightness glow for me.
So passed the autumn, during which I made frequent journeys between
coast and city; striving, at times, with the cares of business to
drive her image from my mind, and finding myself continually drawn
back again to that quiet nook which, gifted with her presence, had
become to me the brightest and only happy spot on earth. These
frequent departures, so contrary to my usual habit, soon began to
excite the inquiries and surmises of my friends. Fishing and shooting
protracted into the season so far as almost to touch the edge of the
winter, no longer served as satisfactory excuses for my absences; and
there were some among my friends, who, in their speculations, came
very near the truth, and hinted suspicions of some rustic passion. But
still, turning off their insinuations with a laugh, I kept my
secret--holding it the more carefully and earnestly, as I now began to
see hope dawning for me in the future.
For now, at last, it seemed as if I was about to prosper in my suit.
Each time that I came, Jessie appeared yet more pleased to see
me--more willing to give me that attractive confidence which can only
exist in full perfection between acknowledged lovers; less disposed to
analyze her mind's emotion with any critical severity, or speculate
whether this or that feeling had, or had not, passed the line between
friendship and love; more ready, at times, to surrender the struggle
and self-examination, confess herself vanquished, and yield up her
whole heart to my keeping. But not quite yet.
"A little longer," she pleaded. "Let me feel somewhat more sure of
myself before--"
"And how much longer, then, Jessie?"