XX

February passed, and, midway in March, the ice broke in the river and

bay, and ships began to move up and down. But while waiting for this

Anthony had gone on with his study of the old books of Rufus Stevens'

Sons; and the deeper he got into them the more thoughtful and puzzled

he seemed, the more elaborate were the notes he took, the more he

frowned as he went about his business during the day, and the more he

felt a desire for some one with whom to talk and compare judgments.

But, also, there was another interest looming during the late winter

and early spring. This was the first of the new ships which Charles had

ordered; all winter the work had gone forward at the Siddons yard in

Shackamaxon; shipwrights, joiners, blacksmiths, worked under the sheds

and in the open; the huge ways were the wonder of the waterfront, and

as the oaken hull grew and began to rear people formed parties of a

Sunday or a holiday and drove up the river road to see it. The work had

reached this stage about the time the ice broke up; and then, with the

sight of the moving shipping to stir his blood, Charles began to urge

haste.

"The _Rufus Stevens_ must be launched, have her masts placed, the

rigging bent, and be in the dock receiving cargo by the last week in

June," said he.

"That will be six months' building time," said Siddons. "I know vessels

have been put into the water in that space, but they were not of this

one's quality and substance, seasoned timbers and excellent joining.

Six months! Why, sir, the like has never been done on this river.

Here we've gone through a severe winter; come wet or dry, cold or

snow, we've not missed a day; if we couldn't work on the structure,

we've worked under the sheds at making ready the timbers or forging

the ironmongery. My calculations were the middle of September at the

earliest, and that was promising much, Mr. Stevens."

But Charles insisted; and so the hum of the Siddons yard increased as

the spring warmed. Such a hammering and sawing as there was; such a

chipping and shaving and boring and fitting the clever old place had

never seen before. It had been Anthony's practice, at least twice a

week, all winter through, to make a visit to the yard, for the growing

might of the _Rufus Stevens_ fascinated him. He had been there the day

the keel was laid--a keel of solid, seasoned, toughened oak, as surely

fitted, as strongly braced as old Rufus' spine had been. And to this

grew the ribs, powerful, graceful, bent cunningly to waste the impact

of the sea and to give space to the ship's cargo. Then the beams went

in to brace the frame--mighty, weighty, strong beams, of live-oak that

was like iron; beams that had been nursed and molded and cut to fit by

shrewd joiners. Live-oak had been Charles's highest demand--live-oak

that had been felled in proper time, and seasoned in the sun and rain

and wind. The stem was made of it--a great, cutting stem that would

throw the seas lightly apart; the stern-post was of it, and also the

transoms, aprons, knight-heads, hawse-timbers, and keelson; and it was

all clean and without defects.

And now, in April, the hull towered like a monster against the

background of low sheds; workmen swarmed eagerly over it; their hammers

_rat-tat-tatted_ like the beaks of woodpeckers; the clean smell of wood

was everywhere. In a dock at one side floated huge round timbers; the

dark mouth of a shed opened down to the water's edge, and here other

timbers of a like kind had been drawn out, and workmen, each with a

deftly used adze, were shaping the new ship's masts.

Anthony would walk among the chips and shavings, breathing in the

fragrance of them: the level drumming from the hollow body of the

making craft filled his ears; the smiths in their dusky forges

fashioned red bars into bolts and clamps and hooks as he stood in their

doorways; and from the depths of the yard he caught the glint of the

full river in the sun; he saw spread sails creeping down to the sea;

the smoke of the city floated across the blue sky; the trees were green

along the shore; and the spring filled his body as it had when he was a

boy. And there was the island, the green, long, narrow island, midway

in the river, with the spur of sand shooting out toward the south,

which the rising tide would cover.

And then as his mind went back he would see the bobbing head of a

youthful adventurer above the water, a naked, white, boyish body

breasting the crosses of the current, drifting to leeward of a

market-seeking sloop, climbing the bow-chains of an anchored schooner;

and then he would see him, slim, exultant, alone, on the rim of the

island, waiting for the tide to turn, that he might slip back with it

to the dock which had been his starting-place.

But, also, the spring brought other things than the new ship and

thoughts and feelings of boyhood. The shackles of winter having fallen

from the port, matters sharpened remarkably. Glum faces gave place to

eager ones; markets were exceedingly active; merchandise flowed in with

gratifying steadiness; cargoes were rich, rare, of unexpected quantity.

There seemed scarcely a day but a ship, home-bound from the East, from

the West Indies, from the Spanish countries, rounded the bend in the

river, her sails full and her decks alive with her company. Each time

one appeared a watching merchant thrilled with opportunity; and this

thrill found its way into the crush and scuffle at the City Tavern, in

Walnut Street, where traders and dealers and merchants met and arranged

their affairs, and bought and sold and drank and smoked. It was a

low-ceilinged place, with wide windows, sanded floors, square-setting

chairs, and oaken tables. It rattled with tableware and glasses; and it

clacked with tongues, offering and accepting, protesting and praising,

promising and rejecting. Captain Weir transacted most of the business

for Rufus Stevens' Sons that was done here, but Anthony frequently

visited the place to get the touch of the market and watch the temper

of the moment.

And so, one day, he went in and sat down on a settle by an open window

with a glass of French brandy and a pipe, and composed himself for

half an hour's comfort. It was a sunny, blowy day with great palisades

of white clouds sweeping over the city toward the sea; a tree growing

near the edge of the pavement was white with buds; old horses tramping

over the stones tossed their heads, and their rekindled eyes seemed to

see the green pastures and bright streams of their youth. The brandy

had a fine, full scent, and was thick and smooth upon the palate; the

tobacco, too, was aromatic and soothing, and Anthony smiled at the day,

at his own feelings, at the world; and he sat back, contentedly, to

listen and see.

A thick-set little man with bandy legs, and a bullet head set

aggressively upon his shoulders, stood near him.

"I understand your brig _Anna and Sarah_ is in," said he to a

Quaker-looking man. "Is she stowing anything that might take my

interest?"

"I have sundry items to offer," said the Quaker-like man. "Rum of

approved quality. And West Indian tobacco. On Clifford's Wharf, just

taken out of the brig, I have Muscovado sugar in hogsheads, excellent

for any common use."

"There's a-plenty of sugar to be had," said the thick-set man,

slapping one of his bandy legs with a whip which he carried. "I could

stock a warehouse with brown or white, in an hour. But of your rum,

now; what's that?"

"It is of Jamaica for the most part; but there's some of Cuba. It's all

of a good age, a rich brown color, excellent strong body, and has been

well kept. It is mostly in barrels--barrels once used for sherry, which

gives that flavor so much desired; but there is a quantity in puncheons

of full ninety gallons, still in the brig, but ready for delivery in a

reasonable time."

To Anthony's right was a hook-nosed man who smoked a pipe in nervous

puffs; money and exchange seemed to trouble him enormously, and he

talked with a stolid, comfortable-looking man across the table from

him, in high exasperation.

"I wouldn't give that for all the beggarly pistareens you could cram

into a sack," stated the hook-nosed man, as he snapped his fingers.

"Such stuff is not money, and should not be recognized as such. And

then your Netherlands guilders, your mark bancos, your florins, francs,

livres, and shillings! What has such rattling metal to do with the

exchanges of civilized peoples? What right, even, have their names to

assume places in the conversations of men of commercial substance?"

"Their place," said the comfortable man, "is small but respectable.

And when gathered together they make great weight in the world. Your

florin, now, is a realer thing to many a man than your pistole, because

it is nearer to his reach. Livres, pistareens, francs, and shillings

turn the balance of the world in a time of stress, sir; and they make

its prosperity in time of peace."

But the hook-nosed man had an eager and indignant soul.

"I contend," said he, "that the very weight of small coin, of which you

seem so proud, is one of the things that hang to the rim of the world

and keep it in check. Human-kind is laboring to-day under a burden

of fractional silver that is as overpowering as the copper currency

of the past. I contend that heavy money, like heavy bread, is killing

to the imagination; and without imagination there is no progress.

What inspiration is there in a cold, white coin stamped with the smug

features of some fat-natured prince? Is it a thing to lift a man out

of the ruck? It is not. Never has the possession of a piece of coined

silver caused a man to raise his head and think a thought above his

fellows; the sight of such a coin has never made a slave to rebel

against his master; a till full of them has yet to make a merchant feel

in a fair way of business."

"Enough of them can always be exchanged for others of a higher value,"

argued the comfortable man.

This fact seemed to inspire the other to increased resentment.

"It should not be," he declared. "There is never a time that I lay out

a gold piece and get a pallid collection of silver bits in exchange

that I don't feel I've been robbed. I have no grudge against silver as

a metal, mark you; for as such it has its uses. It is only when you put

a stamp upon disks of it and tell me it's money that I rise up against

you. For then it's a cheat; it's a cold unencouraging thing; and for

all its pretense it's not quick; the only life it has is that given it

by the efforts of men like you."

"Might not the same be said of gold?" asked the other man.

"Never," said he of the hook-nose, positively. "Impossible. For gold,

sir, possesses something more than the natural chemistry of its

composition. And, in spite of the general belief, learned men of other

years did not give their minds to transmuting the duller metals only

because of the profit it might bring them."

"What, then, was it?" asked the comfortable man.

"If the truth were known," said the other, "we'd find that they sought

for a life principle which nature had hidden from us, and which gold

possesses. It is a thing which the eye can see and the hand touch, but

for which we have not a proper understanding."

"Ah!" said the comfortable man tolerantly. "You give a kind of magic to

it."

"I do not," denied the man with the hook-nose. "To prove to yourself

that there's rare virtue in gold, you have only to note its effect upon

dulled, whipped, and joyless things. Put a piece of it into the pocket

of a poor man, and it at once begins to warm him; his eyes see things

not visible before; his mind dreams dreams. Many a man has crept,

shabby and ashamed, before the face of day; and the touch of gold has

brought his eyes to a level, and put some of that curl into his lip

that makes life possible."

A number of persons were speaking through the smoke of their pipes at a

round table at Anthony's elbow.

"By God!" said one, "she came racing home, two weeks before her time,

and looking as fit as a queen! And until she let go her anchor in the

stream, opposite my wharf, she'd never taken in a sail."

"What does your master report?" asked another. "Are there many English

or French war-ships in the trade paths?"

"He sighted some sail of them," said the first man, "but they were too

far away to give him any worry."

"Two days out from Antwerp the ship _Huntress_ had her foremast

splintered by a six-pound shot."

"The British are brisk with their shots," grumbled the second man.

"Too brisk," said the third. "And the French are as bad. If they must

cut each other's throats, why can't they do it quietly? Here we are

at peace with the world and making shift to get our fair share of its

trade, and they must set to popping away at each other, and churning

the sea all into a muddle."

"It may be," said a thin voice from the middle of the room, "that I can

get your interest for a moment, sir. I am disposing of the cargo of the

India ship _Bountiful_. There is ginger and indigo; silk, piece-goods,

plain and in patterns; saltpeter, hides, and shellac. All excellent

merchandise and ready for sale, inspection, and delivery."

Anthony felt some one slip into the settle beside him; and, turning his

head he saw Mr. Sparhawk, trim, perky, and pink of face.

"Good morning," said the little man, smiling and nodding. "The fine

spring days are doing you no harm, I see."

"I'm glad enough to see them come. The winter seemed a long one," said

Anthony.

"It was," agreed Mr. Sparhawk. "And severe. Exceptionally severe. I do

not recall a winter like it in many years." He smiled about the room,

with its eddies of tobacco smoke, its reek of spirits and ale, its

lifting voices and earnest merchants. "You like this hurly-burly, I

think?" said he.

"Yes," answered Anthony.

"Young men always crave conflict," said Mr. Sparhawk. "If it's not

of one sort it's of another. Some like to take themselves away to

strange places and collect merchandise in perilous ways; others covet

the uncertainties of the sea in bringing the goods home; but you, it

seems, are the kind who like to measure wits with the sharpers in the

exchanges, after the ship is in and the cargo on the wharf."

"While I like the attacks and defenses, the doublings and turnings of

merchandizing," said Anthony, "I will not say it is an object with me.

I'd much rather be your collector of good in foreign ports, or your

shipman who carries them home."

Mr. Sparhawk laughed pleasantly.

"And yet Dr. King tells me you've lately refused the _General Stark_,

when your uncle would have made you master of her."

Anthony nodded; but his eyes were fixed upon the earnest traffickers

about him. Mr. Sparhawk put his finger-tips together with precision.

"I would have thought," said he, "that to a youth of your active habit

of mind that would have been an unusual offer. The _Stark_ is an able

vessel, I'm told, and a lucky vessel, which means even more."

"I have no wish to go to sea just now," said Anthony.

Mr. Sparhawk was exceedingly good-humored; he nodded and smiled and

agreed with the young man's frame of mind.

"I think I can quite understand what you mean," said he. "There are

none of us desire to do a thing which we feel is not important. And

it was your putting the ship aside and showing an interest in the

counting-room and the exchange that made me hold _them_ as the things

important to you."

Anthony said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk took out a snuff-box; after offering

it to the young man, he took a pinch and sat tapping the lid with one

finger.

"It is a most interesting thing," said he, "to take note of what

different men regard as important. Now, there was your grandfather, a

careful, far-seeing man, and who gave a deal of attention to all the

small matters of the firm. Then here is your uncle, who would not turn

his head to look at one of them."

"Do not results tell when we are right?" asked Anthony.

"They should," said Mr. Sparhawk, "and probably they do. In your

grandfather's day," with a nod of the head, "the house worked like a

clock. It was regularity itself. One could count upon it absolutely."

"You don't find it so now?" said Anthony, and he looked at the little

man keenly.

"Don't mistake my meaning," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It is still a steady

house; it is still one to hold to with respect. But the steadiness is

not of the same quality. Great strokes are made; fine things are done;

but, between them, other things fail most singularly. There seem to be

pitfalls, so to speak, where in old Rufus's day all would have been

solid ground."

There was a short pause; Anthony laid his pipe upon the window-sill and

studied the smiling, perky little man beside him. Then he spoke.

"Mr. Sparhawk," said he, "I wonder do you recall the night last fall

when we met at the house of Dr. King."

"Very well," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite well. It was a pleasure, and a

surprise."

"Whitaker was there," said Anthony, "and he spoke of several losses

Rufus Stevens' Sons had had at sea."

"He did," said Mr. Sparhawk. "I think I could name the very ships."

"They were the _Sea Mew_ and _Two Brothers_."

"Right," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Stout, able vessels; well found and

competently mastered."

"They were lost, I hear, within a few months of each other," said

Anthony.

"Let us say three," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It was less, I think, but, to

be quite sure, we'll put it at three."

"And the loss of each was noted at the time as singular, I believe?"

said Anthony.

"Unusual," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite unusual."

"During these past months," said Anthony, "I have been going into the

books of the house for some years back."

"Dr. King mentioned that," said Mr. Sparhawk, and there was a pleasant

interest in his face.

"I find in my searching there were other losses before the two we've

mentioned," said Anthony. "And there were some after."

Mr. Sparhawk nodded.

"Your grandfather never had a complete loss," said he. "No matter how

desperate the mischance, something was always saved from the wreck.

And, with his ships, disaster was always written in terms a sailorman

could understand: wind or wave, shoal or rock."

"I see what you mean," said Anthony. "None of his vessels foundered in

the night, like the _Two Brothers_, and left their companies adrift in

small boats on a sea as quiet as a lake."

"That was odd," said Mr. Sparhawk. "That was very odd."

"And the _Sea Mew_?" said Anthony.

Mr. Sparhawk crossed his worsted-clad legs and sat back at his ease.

"Of the two," said he, "the _Sea Mew's_ case was perhaps the most

singular. There were goods in her to the amount of a half-million

dollars, American."

"She sailed from Calcutta, and never made her next port of call," said

Anthony. "There was a good breeze, well able to further a ship on her

journey, but no more; and yet she was never seen again."

"Nor her crew," said Mr. Sparhawk.

"Nor her crew," said Anthony. "Poor fellows."

"Down into the sea they went with her," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Forty of

them, in all."

"That were a worse fate than the _Two Brothers_," said Anthony. "For

there, at least, the ship's company was saved and stood by until the

vessel sank."

"They were saved," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Yes, that's true. But," and he

cocked his head to one side with the motion that so made him look like

a small, old, and very wise bird, "they did not stand by until the ship

sank. I call that point to mind very distinctly. She was still afloat

when they bent sails to the small boats and put away for the French

coast, and so dropped her out of sight."