Part Second.
Ben Buttles was a real mother boy; that is, he was in his sixteenth
year, yet did not think himself too old to love and obey his mother, or
care for her comfort. It is always a bad sign when a boy begins to
outgrow one or both of his parents.
So, immediately after his arrival in Savannah, Ben borrowed the mate's
writing materials, and wrote to Mrs. Buttles, to relieve the anxiety he
knew she must be feeling, despite his telegram.
Ben's educational advantages had been limited, though I am glad to say
he made the most of such as he had had. Hence I trust that
better-educated boys will excuse the mistakes they may see in his
letter. Poor Ben had never seen such a book as _The Polite
Letter-Writer_ in his whole life. But he had read the late Captain
Buttles's old log-books over and over again, and looking upon them
admiringly as specimens of high literary art, he had, perhaps without
knowing it, imitated their short and pithy sentences in this almost the
first letter he had ever written. And I am not sure that most business
men, particularly editors, would object if some of their correspondents
could tell their story as clearly in as few words. This is a copy of the
epistle:
"SAVANAR, _October_ 29, 187-.
"MY DEAR MOTHER,--I take My pen in hand To ashure you I am safe, et
ceterer. tell Jim Studley i cort a hollibut nigh the braking shole
I gess would way 200. Then got under way for Home about 6 pm with
Thretning wether. It come on to Blow with hevy sqwalls from n,n,w
to n. a terble cross sea Runnin. carried away my Starbord ore and
had to lay to a Drag. at 11 pm Colided with brig _calipso_ laying
to Making a complete reck Of the Dory. got Abord the Brig by the
Main chanils Arriving at savanar Oct 28. Thay are verry Kind. Capn
adams who cent the Tellygraft says there is nothing Bound north and
to stay abord til We are loded for boston. he will pay me saylor
wages when i Go back. The mate has gave Me a starch shirt, a hat
Shoose and socks. And the sekond mate a soot of Blue close wich Is
a little wore. And flanils. i was never Drest so Nice. I am Looking
for a good paing job Ashore while i am hear. perhaps i can Make a
Big strik and Bring home the munny to pay up the Morgige. I must
Now close with love to All inquiring frends Yore duttifle sun
"BEN B."
Having mailed this remarkable document, Ben strolled through the
streets, enjoying the novelty as only a boy can who has never been ten
miles from home in his whole life.
"Why, what a high steeple!" said Ben to himself, as he stopped below the
Cotton Exchange, and gazed admiringly at the lofty but slender spire of
the handsome church directly opposite.
Now it is a curious fact that if you stand still in the street, and
begin to look intently at anything, some one else is sure to stop and
stare in the same direction, as though people generally had an
interrogation point for a sort of mental birth-mark. And Ben had hardly
fixed his gaze on the tall spire, when two gentlemen came to a halt and
began to look the same way.
"I thought you took the contract to regild the ball and arrow up there,
Miles," Ben finally heard one of them say, with a nod of his head toward
the weather-vane.
"So I did," returned Mr. Miles, who was a "boss" painter, "and a nice
fix I'm in about it, too."
"How so?" asked the other, as, bringing his gaze earthward, he leaned up
against the iron fence, and lit a cigar.
"Well," answered Mr. Miles, following his friend's example, "it's this
way: I contracted to have the thing done for so much. I supposed, of
course, that the vane could be sent down, like any other, and gilded,
and had my best man go up to see to it. He worked at the nuts and bolts
that hold it for 'most half a day; then he came down all of a shake, and
says the thing can't be done, everything has rusted so, and that if it
can't be regilded where it is, it can't be done at all. _He_ won't be
hired to go up there again, and I can't find any one hereabouts that
_will_ try it for love or money. I even telegraphed to New York for
Ferguson, the steeple-climber, offered to pay expenses, and give him
seventy-five dollars to boot; but he is engaged two months ahead. I'd
give a hundred and fifty dollars to-day," said Mr. Miles, smoking
vigorously, "to any one who would shin up there and do the job; for
though it isn't an easy thing, I know it _can_ be done."
"Say two hundred, and I'm your man," suddenly exclaimed Ben, who had
been listening, carelessly at first, then eagerly. Two hundred dollars
would clear the incumbrance from the little brown house. Once he had
climbed the pole of the signal-staff on Covert Point, and rove off the
halyards almost a hundred and fifty feet from the ground, and was glad
to get five dollars for doing it. But then, as Mrs. Buttles said, "Ben
was a dretful ventur'some creetur."
Mr. Miles was a man of few words. He eagerly grasped at this unexpected
straw.
"If you mean business," he said, eying Ben's self-reliant face
approvingly, "come to the church to-morrow morning early, and I will
show you what is to be done."
Ben nodded, and made his way back to the _Calypso_.
"I want to borrow a piece of spare running gear, sir," he said to the
mate on the following morning.
"Take all you want," was the answer.
Long before Mr. Miles had made his appearance at the church, Ben was in
the church tower, with the running gear coiled over his shoulder, and a
coil of spun yarn in the bosom of his blue shirt. Climbing upward over
cobwebbed cross-beams and girders, he found himself under the four
narrow skylights of heavy ground glass that dimly lighted the narrow
interior of the spire. Through one of these, which was partly open, Ben
thrust his neck and shoulders. About twenty feet above him the tapering
spire ended in a great ball, through which rose the tall iron "spindle,"
surmounted by the vane in the shape of an arrow. Two parts of a knotted
rope were twisted around the spindle above the ball, and brought down
through the skylight. This had served Mr. Miles's workman in lieu of
ladder. Ben's head and heart failed for one brief moment, as he looked
upward, and for the first time began to realize the magnitude of his
task. Only for a moment, though.
"It's for mother's sake," he said, softly, to himself, and the thought
strengthened his heart and steadied his nerves.
By this time Mr. Miles had clambered up to a rude scaffolding under the
open skylight with a basket containing a can of oil size and some large
"books" of gold-leaf. He then showed Ben how to apply the leaf to the
size, and cautioned him not to fall, which Ben gravely assured him he
should try very hard not to do.
In one end of his coil of light but strong gear Ben had tied a running
bowline. This he threw over his shoulder, and taking off his shoes,
began his perilous ascent.
It was easy enough to reach the spindle by the knotted rope-ladder. Then
came the tug of war. Up the spindle, which shook and swayed, the
courageous boy crept, until, breathless and almost exhausted, he threw
his arms over the vane itself, and for the first time ventured to look
out and downward.
A toy-city, with Lilliputian people moving through the little streets,
lay beneath him. Beyond, the Savannah River like a narrow ribbon wound
through the low-lying rice fields until it reached the distant sea,
which lay hazily indistinct against the horizon. The view was sublimely
beautiful, but Ben's head began to swim, and he bethought himself of his
task.
[Illustration: BEN AT WORK.]
Casting a few feet of the coil around the spindle and over the vane, so
that the bowline should hang properly, Ben called to Mr. Miles to make
the end well fast. Then lifting himself by his arms, he slipped his legs
through the loop and sat suspended between earth and sky. Lowering his
piece of spun yarn to Mr. Miles, he received a bit of stout ratlin
stuff, with which he rigged a foot-rope (as you see them under the yards
of a ship) on the vane, which was about nine feet long. Mr. Miles then
sent him up a basket with the gilding material, which Ben made fast to
the vane. Then, with great difficulty, getting on to the foot-rope, upon
which he could only _sit_--for he dared not stand--he "squirmed" himself
out to its extreme limit, and began his work.
Ah me! what a terrible task it was! The sun beat down on his head with
terrible force as it rose higher in the heavens. He could only use one
hand to work with, the other being employed in holding on. An occasional
breath of air would set the arrow in motion, and send his heart into his
mouth at the same time. Every bone in him ached, his head was confused
and dizzy--he dared not look directly down for his life. But he kept
doggedly at his work all day long, with the one thought uppermost in his
mind, "It's for mother's sake," and as the watchman in the neighboring
church tower called out, "Six o'clock, 'n' all's well" (for this is one
of the old usages of the city), Ben put the last touch of gilding on the
point of the arrow.
Changing back to the bowline, Ben then cast off the ends of the
foot-rope, while a cheer came faintly up to his ears from the great
crowd which had gathered in the square beneath, as they knew the little
Yankee--as they called him--had completed his work. Hugging the spindle
tightly, Ben drew himself out of the bowline, threw it off from the
vane, and slid rapidly down the swaying rod. Down the knotted rope he
sped, past Mr. Miles, who began to congratulate him, down by beam and
ladder and winding stair, until he reached the solid earth. And then, as
a great shout went up from the lookers-on, Ben for the first and only
time in his whole life fainted away. But a little cold water, and the
touch of the roll of crisp greenbacks which were counted out by the
enthusiastic Mr. Miles, quickly restored Ben to himself, and he returned
to the _Calypso_ a hero.
The city papers made honorable mention of the "gallant young
New-Englander," and one lady, if I remember rightly, immortalized the
daring feat in a poem called "The Arrow and the Ball."
The passage back to Boston was a quick one, and Ben was once more
clasped in his mother's arms, narrating the story of his adventures.
"But I wouldn't undertake such a climb again," said Ben, as he carefully
folded away the cancelled mortgage, with its indorsement of paid-up
principal and interest, "for all the money in Savannah."
"I hope not, Benny dear," returned Mrs. Buttles, with a tearful shake of
her head; "but I should be most afraid to resk it--you're sech a dretful
ventur'some creetur."