THE VIAL OF WRATH.
I was both amazed and confounded when it was ascertained that the
pocket-book did not contain the money. From the depth of despair
my father and myself had gone up to the pinnacle of hope, when the
treasure was supposed to be found; and now we fell back into a deeper
gulf than that into which we had first fallen. Those with whom money is
plenty cannot understand the greatness of my father’s loss. For years
he had toiled and saved in order to clear the house in which we lived.
He had struggled with, and conquered, the appetite for intoxicating
drinks, in order to accomplish his great purpose.
He had been successful. He had kept away from the drunkard’s bowl, he
had lived prudently, he had carefully husbanded all his resources, and,
at the time my story begins, he felt that the pretty little place
where we lived actually belonged to him. It was always to be the home
of his family, and it was all the more loved and prized because it had
been won by constant toil and careful saving. This was the feeling
of my father, as it was my own, when we started for Ucayga to draw
the money from the bank. We felt like the king and the prince who had
won a great victory, and were to march in triumph into the conquered
possession.
My father was elated by what he had accomplished. The mortgage note for
two thousand dollars would be due the next week, and he had the money
to pay it, with enough to make the coveted improvements. It would have
been better if he had not been elated; for this feeling led him to
believe that, as the battle had been won, there was no longer any need
of the vigilance with which he had guarded himself. He had raised the
cup to his lips, and in a moment, as it were, his brilliant fortune
deserted him; the savings of years were wrenched from his relaxed grasp.
I do not wonder, as I consider how prudent and careful he had been,
that he sank into the depths of despair when he found the money was
really gone. The struggle had been long and severe, the victory sublime
and precious; and now the defeat, in the moment of conquest, was
terrible in the extreme. I trembled for my father while I gazed into
his pale face, and observed the sweep of his torturing emotions, as
they were displayed in his expression.
For my own part, I was intensely mortified at the result of my efforts.
I felt cheap and mean, as I sank down from the height to which I had
lifted myself, and realized that all my grand deeds had been but a
farce. If I had only looked into the pocket-book when Christy returned
it to me, I might have saved this terrible fall. The villain had
probably taken the money from it while he was crouching down by the
fire-box. He had played a trick upon me, and I had been an easy victim.
I was but a boy, while I had felt myself to be a man, and had behaved
like a boy. If I had been smart in one respect, I had been stupid in
another. I blamed myself severely for permitting myself to be duped by
Christy at the moment when he was in my power. I almost wished that I
had shot him; but I am sure now that I should have felt ten times worse
if I had killed him, even if I had obtained the money by doing so.
“I am ruined, Wolf,” groaned my father, as he dropped upon the seat in
the engine-room. “I shall never get the money now.”
“I think you will, father,” I replied, trying to be hopeful rather than
confident.
“No; I shall never see a dollar of it again.”
“Don’t give it up yet, father. Christy has gone off in his every-day
clothes, and left his family at Ucayga. He will come back again, or you
will get some clew to him.”
“I’m afraid not,” said my father, shaking his head.
“But something must be done. Christy isn’t a great way off, and we must
put him through by daylight,” I added.
“What can we do? It isn’t much use to do any thing.”
“Yes, it is. Something can be done, I know.”
“Where are we now, Wolf?” asked my father.
I did not know where we were, for there was no chance to see the shore
from the engine-room. I walked out on the forward deck, and returned
immediately.
“Well, where are we, Wolf?” demanded my father, rather sharply, as he
laid down the glass from which he had just drained another dram taken
from Christy’s queer-shaped bottle.
“We are just off the North Shoe,” I replied, as gloomily as though
another third of my father’s worldly wealth had also taken to itself
wings.
My poor father was drinking whiskey again. In his depression and
despair, the bottle seemed to be his only resource. I have since
learned enough of human nature to understand how it was with him. Men
in the sunlight of prosperity play with the fiend of the cup. Full
of life, full of animal spirits, it is comparatively easy to control
the appetite. But when the hour of despondency comes; when depression
invades the mind; when earthly possessions elude the grasp--then they
flee to the consolations of the cup. It gives an artificial strength,
and men who in prosperity might always have kept sober and temperate,
in adversity are lost in the whirlpool of tippling and inebriation.
Thus it seemed to be with my father. He had begun to drink that day
in the elation of his spirits; he was now resorting to the cup as an
antidote for depression and despair. The dram had its temporary effect;
but, while he was cheered by the fiery draught, I trembled for him.
I feared that this was only the beginning of the end--that he needed
prosperity to save him from himself.
“Off the North Shoe,” said he; but he was not able wholly to conceal
his vexation that I had seen him take the glass from his lips. “We
shall be in Ruoara in half an hour, and I will send a sheriff after the
villain. You say Christy went about ten miles, Wolf?”
“Yes, sir; as nearly as I could guess.”
“We’ll catch him yet,” added my father, confidently. “Have an eye to
the engine, Wolf, while I go and see the captain about it.”
My father left the engine-room, which he would not have done if he had
not supposed me entirely competent to run the machine. I determined
to have an eye to something besides the engine. In my father’s present
state of mind, I feared he would drink till he was helpless. I raised
the lid of the seat and took out the strange bottle. It was about half
full. There was mischief enough left in it to rob my father of all his
senses.
Even as a boy I prided myself on my promptness in action. The present
seemed to be a moment when it was my duty to cast out an evil spirit.
I took the bottle to the gangway, where there was a large scupper-hole
to let the water run off when the decks were washed down. Into this
I emptied the contents of the “vial of wrath.” The fiery liquid ran
through and mingled with the clear waters of the lake. Having no spite
against the bottle, I returned it to the locker in the engine-room,
rather to save my father the trouble of looking for it than because I
had any regard for its preservation.
Presently my father returned with the captain of the steamer, who did
not seem to relish the idea of leaving the engine in charge of a boy of
fifteen. They talked about the lost money, and my father was tolerably
cheerful under the influence of the dram he had taken. The captain said
that Mr. Mortimer, the sheriff, was almost always on the wharf when the
steamer made her landing, and that he would be glad to start instantly
in pursuit of the robber. It was a kind of business which he enjoyed,
and if any one could catch Christy, he could. I was quite satisfied
with this arrangement, and so was my father.
When the boat touched at Ruoara, Mr. Mortimer was on the pier, as the
captain had said he would be. He was more than willing to undertake
the task of pursuing the thief, and the steamer was detained at the
landing long enough for him to procure a warrant for the arrest of
the fugitive. He was to cross the lake to the next port on the other
side, from which he was to proceed, by private conveyance, to the
town nearest to the point where Christy had left the locomotive. Mr.
Mortimer came into the engine-room as the boat started, and we gave him
all the information we possessed in regard to the robber.
“Now, Mortimer, won’t you take something before you go ashore?” said my
father.
“Thank you, I don’t care if I do,” replied the sheriff. “I have had a
cold for two or three days and a little of the ardent won’t hurt me,
though I am not in the habit of taking it very often.”
“It will do you good; it does me good,” added my father, as he raised
the lid of the locker and took out the queer bottle.
The “vial of wrath” was empty. My father looked at me--looked uglier
than I had ever seen him look before. He held it over the glass, and
inverted it. My work had been thoroughly accomplished, and hardly a
drop of the fiery fluid answered the summons to appear. My father
looked at me again. His lips were compressed, and his eyes snapped with
anger.
“All gone--is it?” laughed the sheriff. “Well, no matter; I can get
along without it.”
“We’ll take some at the bar,” said my father, as the bell rang to
“slow” her.
When the boat was fast to the wharf, they went to the bar and drank
together. Somehow, it seemed to me that all my calculations were
failing on that day; but still I hoped to accomplish something by the
deed I had done. Mr. Mortimer went on shore, and my father returned to
the engine-room. I hoped he would be satisfied with the dram he had
taken, and that I should escape the consequences of his anger. The bell
rang, and the boat started again.
“Wolf, did you empty that bottle?” asked my father, sternly.
“Yes, sir, I did,” I replied, gently, but firmly.
“What did you do that for?”
“I thought it was best not to have the liquor here,” I answered, with
no little trepidation.
“Best!” exclaimed he. “Who made you a keeper over me?”
I did not dare to say anything. I held my peace, resolved to endure the
storm in silence, lest some disrespectful word should escape my lips.
My father was very angry, and I feared that, under the influence of the
liquor, he would do violence to me; but he did not.
“Get away from here! Don’t let me see you around me any longer,” said
he, at last, when he found that I was not disposed to explain my
conduct, or to cast any reproaches upon him.
I went to the forward deck, and seated myself on the rail at the bow.