The annual rain-fall on the lower Columbia River is upward of eighty
inches--often almost ninety; and the greater amount of this fall is
during the winter months, from November to March, generally the least
intermittent in December. I mention this climatic fact, the better to be
understood in attempting to describe a certain December afternoon in the
year 186-.
It lacked but two days of Christmas, and the sun had not shone out
brightly for a single hour in three weeks. On this afternoon the steady
pour from the clouds was a strong reminder of the ancient deluge.
Between the rain itself and the mist which always accompanies the
rain-fall in Oregon, the world seemed nearly blotted out. Standing on
the wharf at Astoria, the noble river looked like a great gray caldron
of steaming water, evaporating freely at 42°. The lofty highlands on the
opposite shore had lost all shape, or certain altitude. The stately
forest of firs along their summits were shrouded in ever-changing masses
of whitish-gray fog. Nothing could be seen of the light-house on the
headland at the mouth of the river; nothing of Tongue Point, two miles
above Astoria; and only a dim presentment of the town itself, and the
hills at the back of it. Even the old Astorians, used to this sort of
weather and not disliking it, having little to do in the winter time,
and being always braced up by sea-airs that even this fresh-water flood
could not divest of their tonic flavor--these old sea-dogs, pilots,
fishermen, and other _amphibia_, were constrained at last to give
utterance to mild growls at the persistent character of the storm.
A crowd of these India-rubber clad, red-cheeked, and, alas! too often
red-nosed old men of the sea, had taken shelter in the Railroad
Saloon--called that, apparently, because there was no railroad then
within hundreds of miles--and were engaged in alternate wild railings at
the weather, reminiscences of other storms, and whisky-drinking; there
being an opinion current among these men that water-proof garments alone
did not suffice to keep out the all-prevailing wet.
"If 'twant that we're so near the sea, with a good wide sewage of river
to carry off the water, we should all be drownded; thet's my view on't,"
said Rumway, a bar pilot, whose dripping hat-rim and general shiny
appearance gave point to his remark.
"You can't count on the sea to befriend you this time, Captain. Better
git yer ark alongside the wharf; fur we're goin' to hev the Columbia
runnin' up stream to-night, sure as you're born."
"Hullo! Is that you, Joe Chillis? What brought you to town in this kind
o' weather? And what do you know about the tides?--that's _my_ business,
I calculate."
"Mebbe it is; and mebbe a bar pilot knows more about the tides nor a
mountain man. But there'll be a rousin' old tide to-night, and a
sou'wester, to boot; you bet yer life on that!"
"I'll grant you thet a mountain man knows a heap thet other men don't.
But I'll never agree thet he can tell _me_ anything about _my_ business.
Take a drink, Joe, and then let's hear some o' your mountain yarns."
"Thankee; don't keer ef I do. I can't stop to spin yarns, tho', this
evenin'. I've got to git home. It won't be easy work pullin' agin the
tide an hour or two from now."
"What's your hurry?" "A story--a story!" "Let's make a night of it." "O,
come, Joe, you are not wanted at home. Cabin won't run away; wife won't
scold." "Stop along ov us till mornin';" were the various rather noisy
and ejaculatory remarks upon Chillis's avowed intention of abandoning
good and appreciative company, without stopping to tell one of his
ever-ready tales of Indian and bear fighting in the Rocky Mountains
thirty years before.
"Why, you ain't goin' out again till you've shaken off the water, Joe.
You're dripping like a Newfoundland;" said Captain Rumway, as Chillis
put down his empty glass, and turned toward the door, which he had
entered not five minutes before. This thoughtfulness for his comfort,
however, only meant, "Stay till you've taken another drink, and then
maybe you will tell us a story;" and Chillis knew the bait well enough
to decline it.
"Thankee, Captain. One bucketful more or less won't make no difference.
I'm wet to the skin now. Thank ye all, gentlemen; I've got business to
attend to this evenin'. Have any of you seen Eb Smiley this
arternoon?"--looking back, with his hand on the door-knob. "I'd like to
speak to him afore I leave, ef you can tell me whar to find him."
"You'll find him in there," answered the bar-tender, crooking his thumb
toward a room leading out of the saloon, containing a tumbled single-bed
and a wooden settee, besides various masculine bijouterie in the shape
of boots, old and new, clean and dirty; candle and cigar ends; dusty
bits of paper on a stand, the chief ornament of which was a
black-looking derringer; coats, vests, fishing-tackle; and cheap prints,
adorning the walls in the wildest disregard of effect--except, indeed,
the effect aimed at were chaos.
Into this apartment Chillis unceremoniously thrust himself through the
half-open door, frowning as darkly as his fine and pleasant features
would admit of, and muttering to himself, "Damme, I thought as much."
On the wooden settee reclined a man thirty years his junior--Chillis was
over sixty, though he did not look it--sleeping the heavy, stupid sleep
of intoxication. The old hunter did not stand upon ceremony, nor
hesitate to invade the sleeper's privacy, but marched up to the settee,
his ragged old blanket-coat dripping tiny streams from every separate
tatter, and proceeded at once roughly to arouse the drunken man by a
prolonged and vigorous shaking.
"Wha'er want? Lemme 'lone," grumbled Smiley, only dimly conscious of
what was being said or done to him.
"Get up, I say. Get up, you fool! and come along home. Your wife is
needin' ye. Go home and take care of her and the boy. Come along--d'ye
hear?"
But the sleeper's brain was impervious to sound or sense. He only
muttered, in a drowsy whisper, "Lemme 'lone," a few times, and went off
into a deeper stupor than before.
"You miserable cuss," snarled Chillis, in his wrath, "be d----d to you,
then! Drink yerself to death, ef you want to--the sooner the better;"
and, with this parting adjuration, and an extra shake, the old mountain
man, who had drank barrels of alcohol himself with comparative immunity
from harm, turned his back upon this younger degenerate victim of modern
whisky, and strode out of the room and the house, without stopping to
reply to the renewed entreaties of his friends to remain and "make a
night of it."
Making directly for the wharf, where his boat was moored, half filled
with water, he hastily bailed it out, pushed off, and, dropping the oars
into the row-locks, bent to the work before him; for the tide was
already beginning to run up, and the course he had to take brought him
dead against it for the first two or three miles, after which the tide
would be with him, and, if there should not be too much sea, the labor
of impelling the boat would be materially lessened.
The lookout from a small boat was an ugly one at three o'clock of this
rainy December afternoon. A dense, cold fog had been rolling in from the
sea for the last half hour, and the wind was rising with the tide. Under
the shelter of the hills at the foot of which Astoria nestled, the wind
did not make itself felt; but once past "The Point," and in the exposed
waters of Young's Bay, the south-westers had a fair sweep of the great
river, of which the bay is only an inlet. One of these dreaded storms
was preparing to make itself felt, as Chillis had predicted, and as he
now saw by the way in which the mist was being blown off the face of the
river, and the "white-caps" came instead. Before he arrived off the
Point he laid down his oars, and, taking out of his coat-pocket a
saturated yellow cotton handkerchief, proceeded to tie his old soft felt
hat down over his ears, and otherwise make ready for a struggle with
wind and water--neither of them adversaries to be trifled with, as he
knew.
Not a minute too soon, either; for, just when he had resumed the oars,
the boat, having drifted out of her course, was caught by a wave and a
blast on its broadside, and nearly upset.
"Steady, little gal," said Chillis, bringing his boat round, head to the
wind. "None o' your capers now. Thar is serious work on hand, an' I want
you to behave better'n ever you did afore. It's you an' me, an' the
White Rose, this time, sure," and he pressed his lips together grimly,
and peered out from under his bent old hat at the storm which was
driving furiously against his broad breast, and into his white, anxious
face, almost blinding and strangling him. His boat was a small one--too
small for the seas of the lower Columbia--but it was trim and light, and
steered easily. Besides, the old mountaineer was a skilled oarsman,
albeit this accomplishment was not a part of the education of American
hunters and trappers, as it was of the French _voyageurs_. Keeping his
little craft head to the wind, he took each wave squarely on the prow,
and with a powerful stroke of the oars cut through it, or sprang over
it, and then made ready for the next. Meanwhile, the storm increased,
the rain driving at an angle of 45°, and in sheets that flapped
smotheringly about him like wet blankets, and threatened to swamp his
boat without assistance from the waves. It was growing colder, too, and
his sodden garments were of little service to protect him from the chill
that comes with a south-wester; nor was the grip of the naked hands upon
the oars stimulating to the circulation of his old blood through the
swollen fingers.
But old Joe Chillis had a distinct comprehension of the situation, and
felt himself to be master of it. He had gone over to Astoria that day,
not to drink whisky and tell stories, but to do a good turn for the
"White Rose." Failing in his purpose, he was going back again, at any
cost, to make up for the miscarriage of that effort. Death itself could
not frighten him; for what was the Columbia in a storm to the dangers he
had passed through in years of hunting and trapping in the Rocky
Mountains? He had seemed to bear a charmed life then; he would believe
that the charm had not deserted him.
But, O, how his old arms ached! and the storm freshening every minute,
with two miles further to row, in the teeth of it. The tide was with him
now; but the wind was against the tide, and made an ugly sea. If he only
could reach the mouth of the creek before dark. If he could? Why, he
must. The tide would be up so that he could not find the entrance in the
dark. He worked resolutely--worked harder than ever--but he did not
accomplish so much, because his strength was giving out. When he first
became aware of this, he heaved a great sigh, as if his heart were
broken, then pressed his lips together as before, and peered through the
thick gray twilight, looking for the creek's mouth while yet there was a
little light.
He was now in the very worst part of the bay, where the current from
Young's River was strongest, setting out toward the Columbia, and where
the wind had the fairest sweep, blowing from the coast across the low
Clatsop plains. Only the tide and his failing strength were opposed to
these; would they enable him to hold his own? He set his teeth harder
than ever, but it was all in vain, and directly the catastrophe came.
His strength wavered, the boat veered round, a sudden gust and roll of
water took it broadside, and over she went, keel up, more than a mile
from land.
But this was not the last of Joe Chillis--not by any manner of means. He
had trapped beaver too many years to mind a ducking more or less, if he
only had his strength. So, when he came up, he clutched an oar that was
floating past him, and looked about for the boat. She was not far
off--the tide was holding her, bobbing up and down like a cork. In a few
minutes she was righted, and Chillis had scrambled in, losing his oar
while doing it, and regaining it while being nearly upset again.
It had become a matter of life and death now to keep afloat, with only
one oar to fight the sea with; and, though hoping little from the
expedient, in such a gale--blowing the wrong way, besides--Chillis
shouted for assistance in every lull of the tempest. To his own intense
astonishment, as well as relief, his hail was answered.
"Where away?" came on the wind, the sound seeming to flap and flutter
like a shred of torn sail.
"Off the creek, about a mile?" shouted Chillis, with those powerful
lungs of his, that had gotten much of their bellows-like proportions
during a dozen years of breathing the thin air of the mountains.
"All right!" was returned on the snapping, fluttering gale. After this
answer, Chillis contented himself with keeping his boat right side up,
and giving an occasional prolonged "Oh-whoo!" to guide his rescuers
through the thickening gloom. How long it seemed, with the growing
darkness, and the effort to avoid another upset! But the promised help
came at last, in the shape of the mail-carrier's plunger, her trim
little mast catching his eyes, shining white and bare out of the dusk.
Directly he heard the voices of the mail-carrier and another.
"Where be ye? _Who_ be ye?"
"Right here, under yer bow. Joe Chillis, you bet your life!"
"Waal, come aboard here, mighty quick. Make fast. Mind your boat; don't
let her strike us. Pole off--pole off, with yer oar!"
"Mind _your_ oars," returned Chillis; "I'll mind mine"--every word
spoken with a yell.
"What was the row, out there?" asks the mail-carrier, making a trumpet
of his hand.
"Boat flopped over; lost an oar," answered Chillis, keeping his little
craft from flying on board by main force.
"Guess I won't go over to-night," says the carrier. "'Taint safe for
the mail"--The wind snatching the word "mail" out of his mouth, and
scattering it over the water as if it had been a broken bundle of
letters. "I'll go back to Skippanon"--the letters flying every way
again.
"Couldn't get over noways, now," shouts back Chillis, glad in his heart
that he could not, and that the chance, or mischance, favored his
previous designs. Then he said no more, but watched his boat, warding it
off carefully until they reached the mouth of the creek and got inside,
with nothing worse to contend against than the insolent wind and rain.
"This is a purty stiff tide, for this time o' day. It won't take long to
pull up to Skippanon, with all this water pushin' us along. Goin' home
to-night, Joe?"
"Yes, I'm goin' home, ef I can borrer an oar," said Chillis. "My house
ain't altogether safe without me, in sech weather as this."
"Safer 'n most houses, ef she don't break away from her moorin's,"
returned the mail-carrier, laughing. "Ef I can git somebody to take my
place for a week, I'm comin' up to spend it with you, an' do some
shootin'. Nothin' like such an establishment as yours to go huntin'
in--house an' boat all in one--go where you please, an' stay as long as
you please."
"Find me an oar to git home with, an' you can come an' stay as long as
the grub holds out."
"Waal, I can do that, I guess, when we git to the landin'. I keep an
extra pair or two for emergencies. But it's gittin' awful black,
Chillis, an' I don't envy you the trip up the creek. It's crooked as a
string o' S's, an' full o' shoals, to boot."
"It won't be shoal to-night," remarked Chillis, and relapsed into
silence.
In a few minutes the boat's bow touched the bank. "Mind the tiller!"
called out both oarsmen, savagely. But as no one minded it, and it was
too dark to see what was the matter, the mail-carrier dropped his oar,
and stepped back to the stern to _feel_ what it was.
"He's fast asleep, or drunk, or dead, I don't know which," he called to
the other oarsman, as he got hold of the steering gear, and headed the
boat up-stream again. His companion made no reply, and the party
proceeded in silence to the landing. Here, by dint of much shouting and
hallooing, the inmates of a house close by became informed of something
unusual outside, and, after a suitable delay, a man appeared, carrying a
lantern.
"It's you, is it?" he said to the mail-carrier. "I reckoned you wouldn't
cross to-night. Who ye got in there?"
"It's Joe Chillis. We picked him up outside, about a mile off the land.
His boat had been upset, an' he'd lost an oar; an' ef we hadn't gone to
his assistance it would have been the last of old Joe, I guess."
"Hullo, Joe! Why don't you git up?" asked the man, seeing that Chillis
did not rise, or change his position.
"By George! I don't know what's the matter with him. Give me the
lantern;" and the mail-carrier took the light and flashed it over
Chillis's face.
"I don't know whether he's asleep, or has fainted, or what. He's awful
white, an' there's an ugly cut in his shoulder, an' his coat all torn
away. Must have hurt himself tryin' to right his boat, I guess. George!
the iron on the rowlock must have struck right into the flesh."
"He didn't say he was hurt," rejoined the other oarsman.
"It's like enough he didn't know it," said the man with the lantern.
"When a man's in danger he doesn't feel a hurt. Poor old Joe! he wasn't
drunk, or he couldn't have handled his boat at all in this weather. We
must take him in, I s'pose."
Then the three men lifted him upon his feet, and, by shaking and
talking, aroused him sufficiently to walk with their support to the
house. There they laid him on a bench, and brought him a glass of hot
whisky and water; and the women of the house gathered about shyly,
gazing compassionately upon the ugly wound in the old man's delicate
white flesh, white and delicate as the fairest woman's.
Presently, Chillis sat up and looked about him. "Have you got me the
oars?" he said to the mail-carrier.
"You won't row any more to-night, Joe, _I_ guess," the carrier answered,
smiling grimly. "Look at your shoulder, man."
"Shoulder be d----d!" retorted Chillis. "Beg pardon, ladies; I didn't
see you. Been asleep, haven't I? Perhaps, sence you seem to think I'm
not fit for rowin', one of these ladies will do me the favor to help me
put myself in order. Have you a piece of court-plaster, or a healing
salve, ma'am?"--to the elder woman. "Ladies mostly keep sech trifles
about them, I believe."
Then he straightened himself up to his magnificent height, and threw out
his broad, round chest, as if the gash in his shoulder were an epaulet
or a band of stars instead.
"Of course, I can do something for you," said the woman he had
addressed, very cheerfully and quickly. "I have the best healing salve
in all the country;" and, running away, she quickly returned with a roll
of linen, and the invaluable salve.
"I must look at the wound, and see if it wants washing out. Ugh! O,
dear! it is a dreadful cut, and ragged. You will have to go to the
doctor with that, I'm afraid. But I'll just put this on to-night, to
prevent your taking cold in it; though you will take cold, anyway, if
you do not get a change of clothes;" and the good woman looked round at
her husband, asking him with her eyes to offer this very necessary
kindness.
"You'll stop with us to-night, Joe," said the man, in answer to this
appeal, "an' the sooner you git off them wet clothes the better. I'll
lend you some o' mine."
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Chillis, you must get out of these wet things, and put
on some of Ben's. Then you will let me get you a bit of hot supper, and
go right to bed. You don't look as if you could sit up. There!" she
added, as the salve was pressed gently down over the torn flesh, and
heaving a deep sigh, "if you feel half as sick as I do, just looking at
it, you will do well to get ready to lie down."
"Thankee, ma'am. It's worth a man's while to git hurt a leetle, ef he
has a lady to take care o' him," answered Chillis, gallantly. "But I
can't accept your kindness any furder to-night. Ef I can git the loan of
a lantern an' a pair o' oars, it is all I ask, for home I must go, as
soon as possible."
"Ben will lend you a lantern," said the mail-carrier, "an' I will lend
you the oars, as I promised; but what on earth you want to go any
further in this storm for, beats me."
"This storm has only jist begun, and its goin' to last three days,"
returned Chillis. "No use waitin' for it to quit; so, good-night to you
all. I've made a pretty mess o' your floor," he added, turning to glance
at the little black puddles that had drained out of his great spongy
blanket coat, and run down through his leaky boots on to the
white-scoured boards of the kitchen; then, glancing from them to the
mistress of the house--"I hope you'll excuse me." And with that he
opened the door quickly, and shut himself out into the tempest once
more, making his way by the lantern's aid to the boat-house at the
landing, where he helped himself to what he needed, and was soon pulling
up the creek. Luckily there was no current against him, for it was
sickening work making the oar-stroke with that hurt in his shoulder.
He could see by the light of the lantern, which he occasionally held
aloft, that the long grass of the tide-marsh was already completely
submerged, the immense flats looking like a sea, with the wind driving
the water before it in long rolls, or catching it up and flirting it
through the air in spray and foam. His only guide to his course was the
scattering line of low willows whose tops still bent and shook above the
flood, indicating the slightly raised banks of the creek, everything
more distant being hidden in the profound darkness which brooded over
and seemed a part of the storm. But even with these landmarks he
wandered a good deal in his reckoning, and an hour or more had elapsed
before his watchful eyes caught the gleam of what might have been a star
reflected in the ocean.
"Thank God!" he whispered, and pulled a little faster toward that spark
of light.
In ten minutes more, he moored his boat to the hitching-post in front of
a tiny cottage, from whose uncurtained window the light of a brisk
wood-fire was shining. As the chain clanked in the ring, the door
opened, and a woman and child looked out.
"Is that you, Eben?" asked the woman, in an eager voice, made husky by
previous weeping. "I certainly feared you were drowned." Then seeing, as
her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, that the figure still
lingering about the boat was not her husband's she shrank back, fearing
the worst.
"I'm sorry I'm not the one you looked for, Mrs. Smiley," answered
Chillis, standing on the bit of portico, with its dripping honeysuckle
vines swinging in the wind; "but I'm better than nobody, I reckon, an'
Smiley will hardly be home to-night. The bay's awful rough, an' ef I
hadn't started over early, I shouldn't have ventured, neither. No, you
needn't look for your husband to-night, ma'am."
"Will you not come in by the fire, Mr. Chillis?" asked the woman,
hesitatingly, seeing that he seemed waiting to be invited.
"Thankee. But I shall spile your floor, ef I do. I'm a perfect sponge,
not fit to come near a lady, nohow. I thought," he added, as he closed
the door and advanced to the hearth, "that I would jest stop an' see ef
I could do anything for you, seein' as I guessed you'd be alone, and
mebbe afeard o' the storm an' the high tide. Ladies mostly is afeard to
be alone at sech times"--untying the yellow cotton handkerchief and
throwing his sodden hat upon the stone hearth.
"Do you think there is any danger?" asked Mrs. Smiley, embarrassed, yet
anxious. She stood in the middle of the room, behind him, with that
irresolute air an inexperienced person has in unexpected circumstances.
He turned around with his back to the blaze, while a faint mist of
evaporation began to creep out all over him, and occasionally to dart
out in slender streams and float up the wide chimney.
"There's no danger _now_, an' mebbe there won't _be_ any. But the tide
will not turn much afore midnight, an' it's higher now than it generally
is when it is full."
"What's that?" cried Willie, the boy, his senses sharpened by the
mention of danger.
"It's the wind rattlin' my boat-chains," returned Chillis, smiling at
the little fellow's startled looks.
"Your boat-chain!" echoed his mother, not less startled. "Was it your
boat that you were fastening to the hitching-post? I thought it was your
horse. Is the water up so high, then, already?"--her cheeks paling as
she spoke.
"I dragged it up a little way," returned Chillis, slowly, and turning
his face back to the fire. He was listening attentively, and thought he
caught the sound of lapping water.
"Have you just come from Astoria?" asked Mrs. Smiley, approaching, and
standing at one corner of the hearth. The fire-light shone full upon her
now, and revealed a clear white face; large, dark-gray eyes, full of
sadness and perplexity; a beautifully shaped head, coiled round and
round with heavy twists of golden hair, that glittered in its high
lights like burnished metal; and a figure at once full and lithe in its
proportions, clad in a neat-fitting dress of some soft, dark material,
set off with a tiny white collar and bright ribbon. It was easy to see
why she was the "White Rose" to the rough old mountain man. She was
looking up at him with an eager, questioning gaze, that meant, O, ever
so much more than her words.
"Not quite direct. I stopped down at the landin', an' I lost a little
time gittin' capsized in the bay. I left about three o'clock."
"Might not Eben have left a little later," the gray eyes added, "and
have been capsized, too?"
"He wouldn't _try_ to cross half an hour later--I'll wager my head on
that. He can't get away from town to-night; an', what is worse, I don't
think he can cross for two or three days. We've got our Christmas storm
on hand, an' a worse one than we've had for twenty years, or I'm
mistaken."
"If you thought the storm was going to be severe, why did you not warn
Eben, Mr. Chillis?" The gray eyes watched him steadily.
"I did say, there would be a sou'-wester uncommon severe; but Rumway
laughed at me for prophesyin' in his company. Besides, I was in a hurry
to get off, myself, and wouldn't argue with 'em. Smiley's a man to take
his own way pretty much, too."
"I wish you had warned him," sighed Mrs. Smiley, and turned wearily
away. She left her guest gazing into the fire and still steaming in a
very unsavory manner, lighted a candle, set it in the window, and opened
the door to look out. What she saw made her start back with a cry of
affright, and hurriedly close the door.
"Your boat is this side of the hitching-post, and the water is all
around us!"
"An' it is not yet eight o'clock. I guessed it would be so."
Just then, a fearful blast shook the house, and the boat's chain clanked
nearer. Willie caught his mother's hand, and shivered all over with
terror. "O, mamma!" he sobbed, "will the water drown our house?"
"I hope not, my boy. It may come up and wet our warm, dry floor; but I
trust it will not give us so much trouble. We do not like wet feet, do
we, Willie?"
Then the mother, intent on soothing the child, sat down in the
fire-light and held his curly head in her lap, whispering little cooing
sentences into his ear whenever he grew restless; while her strange,
unbidden guest continued to evaporate in one corner of the hearth,
sitting with his hands on his knees, staring at something in the coals.
There was no attempt at conversation. There had never, until this
evening, been a dozen words exchanged between these neighbors, who knew
each other by sight and by reputation well enough. Joe Chillis was not a
man whose personal appearance--so far as clothes went--nor whose
reputation, would commend him to women generally--the one being shabby
and careless, the other smacking of recklessness and whisky. Not that
any great harm was known of the man; but that he was out of the pale of
polite society even in this new and isolated corner of the earth. He had
had an Indian wife in his youth; being more accustomed to the ways of
her people than of his own. For nearly twenty years he had lived a
thriftless, bachelor existence, known among men, and by hearsay among
women, as a noted story-teller, and genial, devil-may-care, old mountain
man, whose heart was in the right place, but who never drew very heavily
upon his brain resources, except to embellish a tale of his early
exploits in Indian-fighting, bear-killing and beaver-trapping. It was
with a curious feeling of wonder that Mrs. Smiley found herself
_tête-a-tête_ with him at her own fireside; and, in spite of her anxiety
about other matters, she could not help studying him a good deal, as he
sat there, silent and almost as motionless as a statue; nor keep from
noticing his splendid _physique_, and the aristocratic cut of his
features; nor from imagining him as he must have been in his youth. She
was absorbed for a little while, picturing this gallant young White
among his Indian associates--trying to fancy how he treated his squaw
wife, and whether he really cared for her as he would for a White woman;
then, she wondered what kind of an experience his present life would be
for any one else--herself, for instance--living most of the year on a
flat-boat housed in, and hiding in sloughs, and all manner of watery,
out-of-the-way places. She loved forest and stream, and sylvan shades,
well enough; but not well enough for that. So a human creature who could
thus voluntarily exile himself must be peculiar. But Joe Chillis did not
look peculiar; he looked as alive and human as anybody--in fact,
particularly alive and human just now; and it was not any eccentricity
which had brought him to her this night, but a real human reason. What
was the reason?
What with his mother's cooing whispers, and the passing of her light
hand over his hair, Willie had fallen asleep. Mrs. Smiley lifted him in
her arms and laid him on the lounge, covering him carefully, and
touching him tenderly, kissing his bright curls at the last. Chillis
turned to watch her--he could not help it. Perhaps he speculated about
_her_ way of living and acting, as she had speculated about his.
Meantime, the tempest outside increased in fury, and the little cottage
trembled with its fitful shocks.
Now that Willie was asleep, Mrs. Chillis felt a growing nervousness and
embarrassment. She could not bring herself to sit down again, alone with
Joe Chillis. Not that she was afraid of him--there was nothing in his
appearance to inspire a dread of the man; but she wanted to know what he
was there for. The sensitive nerves of the man felt this mental inquiry
of her, but he would not be the first to speak; so he let her flutter
about--brightening the fire, putting to right things that were right
enough as they were, and making a pretense of being busied with
household cares. At length, there was nothing more to do except to wind
the clock, which stood on the mantel, over the hearth. Here was her
opportunity. "The evening has seemed very long," she said, "but it is
nine o'clock, at last."
Chillis got up, went to the door, and opened it. The boat was bumping
against the floor of the tiny portico. She saw it, too, and her heart
gave a great bound. Chillis came back, and sat down by the fire, looking
very grave and preoccupied. With a little shiver, she sat down opposite.
It was clear that he had no intention of going; and, strange as she felt
the situation to be, she experienced a sort of relief that he was there.
She was not a cowardly woman, nor was her guest one she would have been
likely to appeal to in any peril; but, since a possible peril had come,
and he was there of his own accord, she owned to herself she was not
sorry. She was a woman, any way, and must needs require services of men,
whoever they might be. Having disposed of this question, it occurred to
her to be gracious to the man whose services she had made up her mind to
accept. Glancing into his face, she noticed its pallor; and then
remembered what he had said about being capsized in the bay, and that he
was an old man; and then, that he might not have had any supper. All of
which inspired her to say, "I beg pardon, Mr. Chillis. I presume you
have eaten nothing this evening. I shall get you something, right
away--a cup of hot coffee, for instance." And, without waiting to hear
his faint denial, Mrs. Smiley made all haste to put her hospitable
intentions into practice, and soon had spread a little table with a very
appetizing array of cold meats, fruit, bread, and coffee.
While her guest, with a few words of thanks, accepted and disposed of
the refreshments, Mrs. Smiley sat and gazed at the fire in her turn. The
little cottage trembled, the windows rattled, the storm roared without,
and--yes, the water actually lapped against the house! She started,
turning to the door. The wind was driving the flood in under it. She
felt a chill run through her flesh.
"Mr. Chillis, the water is really coming into the house!"
"Yes, I reckoned that it would," returned the old man, calmly, rising
from the table and returning to the hearth. "That is the nicest supper
I've had for these dozen years; and it has done me good, too. I was a
little wore out with pullin' over the bay, agin the wind."
Mrs. Smiley looked at him curiously, and then at the water splashing in
under the door. He understood her perfectly.
"A wettin' wouldn't hurt you, though it would be disagreeable, an' I
should be sorry to have you put to that inconvenience. But the wind
_and_ the water may unsettle the foundation o' your house, the chimney
bein' on the outside, an' no support to it. Even that would not
certainly put you in danger, as the frame would likely float. But I
knew, ef sech a thing should happen, an' you here alone, you would be
very much frightened, an' perhaps lose your life a-tryin' to save it."
"And you came up from the landing in all this storm to take care of me?"
Mrs. Smiley exclaimed, with flushing cheeks.
"I came all the way from Astoria to do it," answered Chillis, looking at
the new-blown roses of her face.
"And Eben----" She checked herself, and fixed her eyes upon the hearth.
"He thought there was no danger, most likely."
"Mr. Chillis, I can never thank you!" she cried, fervently, as she
turned to glance at the sleeping child.
"White Rose," he answered, under his breath, "I don't want any thanks
but those I've got." Then, aloud to her: "You might have some blankets
ready, in case we are turned out o' the house. The fire will be 'most
sure to be put out, any way, an' you an' the boy will be cold."
Mrs. Smiley was shivering with that tenseness of the nerves which the
bravest women suffer from, when obliged to wait the slow but certain
approach of danger. Her teeth chattered together, as she went about her
band-box of a house, collecting things that would be needed, should she
be forced to abandon the shelter of its lowly roof; and, as she was thus
engaged, she thought the place had never seemed so cosy as it did this
wild and terrible night. She put on her rubber overshoes, tied snugly on
a pretty woollen hood, got ready a pile of blankets and a warm shawl,
lighted a large glass lantern (as she saw the water approaching the
fireplace), and, last, proceeded to arouse Willie, and wrap him up in
overcoat, little fur cap, and warm mittens; when all was done, she
turned and looked anxiously at the face of her guest. It might have been
a mask, for all she could learn from it. He was silently watching her,
not looking either depressed or hopeful. She went up to him, and touched
his sleeve. "How wet you are, still," she said, compassionately. "I had
forgotten that you must have been uncomfortable after your capsize in
the bay. Perhaps it is not too late to change your clothes. You will
find some of Eben's in the next room. Shall I lay them out for you?"
He smiled when she touched him, a bright, warm smile, that took away ten
years of his age; but he did not move.
"No," said he, "it's no use now, to put on dry clothes. It won't hurt me
to be wet; I'm used to it; but I shall be sorry when this cheerful fire
is out."
He had hardly spoken, when a blast struck the house, more terrific than
any that had gone before it, and a narrow crack became visible between
the hearth-stone and the floor, through which the water oozed in quite
rapidly. Mrs. Smiley's face blanched.
"That started the house a leetle," said Chillis, lighting his lantern by
the fire.
"Could we get to the landing, do you think?" asked Mrs. Smiley,
springing instinctively to the lounge, where the child lay in a
half-slumber.
"Not afore the tide begins to run out. Ef it was daylight, we might, by
keepin' out o' the channel; but the best we can do now is to stick to
the place we're in as long as it holds together, or keeps right side up.
When we can't stay no longer, we'll take to the boat."
"I believe you know best, Mr. Chillis; but it's frightful waiting for
one's house to float away from under one's feet, or fall about one's
head. And the tide, too! I have always feared and hated the tides, they
have been a horror to me ever since I came here. It seems so dreadful to
have the earth slowly sinking into the sea; for that is the way it
appears to do, you know."
"Yes, I remember hearin' you say you were nervous about the tides, once,
when I called here to see your husband. Curious, that I often thought o'
that chance sayin' o' yours, isn't it?"
Mrs. Smiley's reply was a smothered cry of terror, as another
blast--sudden, strong, protracted--pushed the house still further away
from the fire-place, letting the storm in at the opening; for it was
from that direction that the wind came.
"Now she floats!" exclaimed Chillis. "We'll soon know whether she's
seaworthy or not. I had better take a look at my boat, I reckon; for
that's our last resort, in case your ark is worthless, Mrs. Smiley." He
laughed softly, and stepped more vigorously than he had done, as the
danger grew more certain.
"All right yet--cable not parted; ready to do us a good turn, if we need
it."
"We shall not be floated off to the bay, shall we?" asked Mrs. Smiley,
trying to smile too.
"Not afore the tide turns, certain."
"It seems to me that I should feel safer anywhere than here. Unseen
dangers always are harder to battle with, even in imagination. I do not
wish to put you to any further trouble; but I should not mind the storm
and the open boat so much as seeing my house going to pieces, with me in
it--and Willie."
"I've been a-thinkin'," replied Chillis, "that the house, arter all,
ain't goin' to be much protection, with the water splashin' under foot,
an' the wind an' rain drivin' in on that side where the chimney is took
away. It's an awful pity such a neat, nice little place should come to
grief, like this--a real snug little home!"
"And what else were you thinking?"--bringing him back to the subject of
expedients.
"You mentioned goin' to the landin'. Well, we can't go there; for I
doubt ef I could find the way in the dark, with the water over the tops
of the bushes on the creek bank. Besides, in broad daylight it would be
tough work, pullin' agin' the flood; an' I had the misfortin to hurt my
shoulder, tryin' to right my boat in the bay, which partly disables me,
I am sorry to say; for I should like to put my whole strength to your
service."
"O, Mr. Chillis!--say no more, I beg. How selfish I am! when you have
been so kind--with a bruise on your shoulder, and all! Cannot I do
anything for you? I have liquor in the closet, if you would like to
bathe with it."
"See--she moves again!" cried he, as the house swayed yet further away
from the smouldering fire. "I've heard of 'abandonin' one's
hearth-stone;' but I'd no idea that was the way they done it."
"I had best get the brandy, any way, I think. We may need it, if we are
forced to go into the boat. But do let me do something for you now, Mr.
Chillis? It seems cruel, that you have been in your wet clothes for
hours, and tired and bruised besides."
"Thankee--'tain't no use!"--as she offered him the brandy-flask. "The
lady down at the landin' put on a plaster, as you can see for
yourself"--throwing back the corner of a cloth cape the woman had placed
over his shoulders, to cover the rent in his coat. "The doctor will have
to fix it up, I reckon; for it is cut up pretty bad with the iron."
Mrs. Smiley turned suddenly sick. She was just at that stage of
excitement when "a rose-leaf on the beaker's brim" causes the overflow
of the cup. The undulations of the water, under the floor and over it,
contributed still further to the feeling; and she hurried to the lounge
to save herself from falling. Here she threw herself beside Willie, and
cried a little, quietly, under cover of her shawl.
"There she goes! Well, this isn't pleasant, noways," said Chillis, as
the house, freed with a final crash from impediments, swayed about
unsteadily, impelled by wind and water. "I was sayin', a bit ago, that
we could not git to the landin', at present. There are three ways o'
choosin', though, which are these: to stay where we are; to git into the
boat, an' let the house take its chances; or to try to git to my cabin,
where we would be safe an' could keep warm."
"How long would it take us to get to your house?" asked Mrs. Smiley,
from under her shawl.
"An hour, mebbe. We should have to feel our way."
Mrs. Smiley reflected. Sitting out in an open boat, without trying to do
anything, would be horrible; staying where she was would be hardly less
so. It would be six or seven hours still to daylight. There was no
chance of the storm abating, though the water must recede after
midnight.
"Let us go," she said, sitting up. "You will not desert _me_, I know;
and why should I keep you here all night, in anxiety and peril? Once at
home, you can rest and nurse yourself."
"So be it; an' God help us!"
"Amen!"
Chillis opened the door and looked out, placing a light first in the
window. Then coming back for a basin, he waded out, bailed his boat,
and, unfastening the chain, hauled it alongside the doorway. Mrs. Smiley
had hastily put some provisions into a tin bucket, with a cover, and
some things for Willie into another, and stood holding them, ready to be
stowed away.
"You will have to take the tiller," said Chillis, placing the buckets
safely in the boat.
"I meant to take an oar," said she.
"If you know how to steer, it will be better for me to pull alone. Now,
let us have the boy, right in the bottom here, with plenty o' blankets
under and over him; the same for yourself. The lanterns--so. Now, jump
in!"
"The fire is dead on the hearth," she said, looking back through the
empty house, and across the gap of water showing through the broken
wall. "What a horrible scene! God sent you, Mr. Chillis, to help me live
through it."
"I believe he did. Are you quite ready?"
"Quite; only tell me what I must do. I wish I could help you."
"You do?" he answered; and then he bent himself to the work before him,
with a sense of its responsibility which exalted it into a deed of the
purest chivalry.
* * * * *