[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 16, 1897. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 907. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
A BOAT AND A BOY.
BY JOHN HABBERTON.
Some boys, like some men, have greatness thrust upon them. Bruce Marvel
became one of these boys one day to his own great surprise.
Bruce was a good shot with either rifle or shot-gun; he could pitch,
catch, or strike a ball as well as any other boy of his age, and he
could handle a horse better than some men who travel with circuses.
Still, he had spent most of his life in an inland village where the
largest body of water was a brook about six feet wide. It stands to
reason, therefore, as boys are very like men in longing most for what
is farthest from their reach, that Bruce's consuming desire, in the
line of sport, was for a sail-boat and for water in which to sail it. He
studied pictures of sailing-craft, which he found in a pictorial
dictionary, until he could redraw any of them from memory; he learned
the names of all the sails of a full-rigged ship, and he delighted in
sea stories of all kinds, while he longed for the day in which he could
see broad water and such boats as were moved by wind, and when he could
sit in a boat and manage the sails and rudder.
Fortune finally seemed to favor him, for in his fifteenth year he was
invited to spend a month at the sea-shore with an aunt of his mother's.
As the aunt's family contained no men, it had no boats, so Bruce was
sadly disappointed. But he was not of the kind that gives up when
disappointment comes; he spent most of his waking hours in walking the
beach of the little bay about which the town was built, looking at the
boats, and scraping acquaintance with boys whose fathers owned boats; he
kept up his spirits by hoping that in the course of time some one would
invite him out sailing, and perhaps to take part in the management of a
craft of some sort, Bruce cared not what, so that it had sails.
But sailing was anything but sport to the boys whom Bruce came to know,
for most of these boys were fishermen's sons, to whom sailing meant
hard, every-day work, of which they did not care to do more than was
absolutely necessary for business purposes.
Yet Bruce learned some things about sailing, thanks to sharp eyes. He
observed the fishing-boats and other small craft until he learned that
almost anything that sailed would "go over" very far without capsizing.
He thought he learned a lot about steering, too, although it puzzled him
greatly that different vessels would sail in different directions while
the wind blew from but one point of the compass. He determined to clear
this mystery for himself, for nothing comes harder to a spirited boy
than the displaying of ignorance by asking questions about matters which
every one else seems to understand.
One day he climbed into a fishing-boat which a receding tide had left
lying upon the sand. The little three-cornered sail in front of the
mast, which Bruce knew was called a jib, had been left loosely flapping,
as if to dry, while the owner sought refreshment and company near by. As
many another man has done before him, the owner remained longer than he
had intended; meanwhile the tide came up until it floated the vessel, so
Bruce had rare fun at "trimming in" the jib-sheets, first on one side
and then on the other, and in seeing the boat strain at her anchor,
which was a big stone with a long rope attached.
Suddenly the wind began to come from the shore in hard puffs. Bruce
trimmed in the jib very close, upon which the boat tugged furiously at
her anchor; but she did the same when the sail was hauled close on the
other side, so the make-believe sailor eased the sheet until the wind
was directly abaft. Still the boat continued to strain; the anchor rope
was old, so finally the friction caused by rubbing against the rail made
the strands part suddenly; then the boat started for sea "on the wings
of the wind," as Bruce afterward said.
The boy sprang to the rudder. At last he was really sailing! It was
through no fault of his, either, as he carefully explained to himself,
for how could he have known of the rottenness of that rope? He had some
misgivings, for he was sure that he did not know how to turn the boat
and sail back again against the wind; still, he was resolved to have a
little fun before asking assistance from some passing boat. He had been
in the village and along the shore long enough to know that the offing
was usually alive with fisher-craft coming in or going out, and he had
frequently seen boats towed by others; so he had no doubt that he would
be helped back safely to the beach again.
Within a few moments he learned several facts about sailing; one was
that by "easing" sheets freely while sailing under a jib alone, the sail
will dispose itself at almost a right angle to the wind, so there need
be but little work at the rudder. As to the larger sail, he did not
trouble his mind about it, for not only was he in doubt as to how to use
it, but his craft was going quite fast enough with such canvas as she
was already carrying.
The farther he got from shore the stronger the wind seemed to blow--a
condition which did not impress him favorably, for he was soon out of
the bay and upon the ocean, and although the water was not rough, the
sea appeared to be very large, and the few boats in sight were far from
him; and when he tried to steer toward some of them, his own boat
behaved quite provokingly, as any boat will when asked to change her
course much while the only sail she carries is a jib.
Still, the experience as a whole was great fun, and whenever Bruce felt
a little scare creeping through him, he rallied himself by singing a
selection from "A Life on the Ocean Wave," beginning,
We shoot through the ocean foam
Like an ocean bird set free.
But the wind continued to increase in strength, and to come in hard
puffs, which Bruce had heard were dangerous. How was the boy to get back
to shore? He began to recall some sea stories, which did not now seem as
interesting as when he first read them--stories of boys who had drifted
out to sea and never been heard of afterward. It does not require many
such memories to make a wind-driven boy fearful of what is to come; a
man would feel quite as uncomfortable in similar circumstances--being
driven out to sea, in the latter part of the afternoon, with no sign of
rescue in sight, and he in a boat which he did not know how to manage.
After some hard sailing Bruce determined to let down the jib if it would
consent to fall, turn the boat's head toward shore with an oar that lay
in the bottom, and then paddle back to the bay; fortunately he had
learned paddling on the brook in his native village. Whether he could
force the boat against such a wind he did not know, but he had strong
arms; besides, the tide certainly would help him, for it was setting
shoreward, otherwise it would not have lifted the boat from the beach an
hour or two before. He succeeded in getting down the jib, although it
hung loosely and caught much wind. He found paddling, in the
circumstances, much harder than propelling a narrow raft on the still
water of a brook; although the sea was not exactly rough, the deck was a
very unsteady platform for his feet, and the wind caused the craft to
wildly change direction from time to time; once the rail bore so heavily
upon the oar that Bruce had to choose between letting go or going
overboard, so of course he let go, and a moment later the boat was again
hurrying seaward.
"This," said Bruce, as he went gloomily aft and took the tiller, "must
be what the stories mean when they tell about scudding under bare poles.
There can't be any doubt about it, although I greatly wish there could."
Up to this time the wind had been freshening Bruce's appetite, but now
the boy would have promised to fast a week for the certainty of getting
ashore. The sun was steadily declining; not a sail was in sight on the
course over which he was drifting. Steamers and other vessels
occasionally went up and down the shore, in plain sight of the bay, but
what chance was there of his sighting one of them before dark; and what
pitiful stories he had read of shipwrecked men whose signals had been
unseen or disregarded.
Suddenly he saw, a mile or two out to sea, and in the course he was
sailing, something which appeared to be a row-boat containing men who
were waving hats and handkerchiefs.
"Hurrah!" shouted Bruce. "They want to get back without rowing. Perhaps
some of them will know how to manage this contrary craft. I hope they
will have sense enough to row towards me, for if I steer a bit wrong
nothing can keep me from running out to sea and missing them."
He quickly got the jib up, so as to sail faster; he knew he could get it
down again should he find himself in danger of passing the other boat.
Under canvas, Bruce got over the water rapidly, but to his surprise and
consternation the men did not attempt to row toward him. Suddenly he
exclaimed.
"That isn't a row-boat! It is bigger, and of a different shape. It's a
sail-boat, and on its side, and the men are sitting on the edge of the
hull.' They're wrecked! I wonder why their boat doesn't go over
entirely? Oh, I see!--the mast and sail are lying on the water, and
keeping it on its edge. Oh, if I were a good sailor! See the poor
fellows signalling to me! I suppose they're wild with excitement and
fear, although they can't be more so than I."
In the next few moments Bruce steered very carefully; he also did some
earnest thinking. How should he stop his own boat entirely when he came
abreast of the wreck? He knew of no way but that of letting down the
jib, which had not worked very successfully when already tried, for the
mast and hull had caught the wind with alarming success. Should he shout
to the men, explain his ignorance, and ask what he should do? If one of
the men would swim out to him when he neared them, and take charge of
his boat, Bruce did not doubt that all would go well; so he assured
himself that no false pride should prevent him confessing that he knew
nothing about sailing, should he fail to lay his craft alongside of the
wreck.
Meanwhile his boat kept exactly the proper course. The shipwrecked men
began to shout, but the wind was against them, so Bruce could not
distinguish a word. He hoped that they were hailing him as their
deliverer; he also hoped that they would be able to deliver him from the
worst trouble in which he had ever found himself. The shouting
continued, but Bruce was now too near to pay attention to anything but
the tiller, which had seemed to become a thing of life and intelligence.
When he got within about a hundred feet of the wreck he heard:
"Isn't it time to drop your jib? And throw us a line, if you please."
Bruce quickly let go the jib-halyard, but in his excitement he forgot to
ease the sheet, so the sail declined to fall; the wind kept it in place.
A few seconds later the young amateur was thrown from his feet by the
shock of his boat striking and breaking the mast of the capsized boat.
The force of the collision tumbled the three shipwrecked men into the
water; but they quickly scrambled out, and one of them shouted,
"Hurrah! Now throw us a line, before we drift apart."
Bruce responded by tossing a coil of the main-sheet, and begging the man
who caught it to keep tight hold of it.
"Count upon us for that, young man," was the reply. "We know our last
chance when we see it, and we aren't going to let go of it."
In a moment the line was made fast to a cleat just under the rail of the
wrecked boat, while Bruce said,
"I'm very sorry that I broke your mast, but my jib wouldn't come down."
"Don't mention it, young man, don't mention it! 'Twas the best thing you
could have done for us, next to coming out to our rescue, for otherwise
we never could have got our boat righted. Of course we couldn't get the
hull on its bottom again without unshipping the mast--a job we've been
attempting ever since we went over. Although we've cut all the stays,
the mast sticks in its step as if it was fastened there or at the deck.
We'd have cut the mast ourselves if we'd had anything to do it with, and
risked getting back with the oars, which we've kept lashed."
"Let's clear away now," said another. "It's going to take a lot of time
to right the hull, and get the water out, and get the wreckage aboard,
so we'll have as little as possible to pay for. We'll have to get our
young friend to tow us in, if he will, and 'twill be slow work, beating
all the way."
"Let me help you all I can," Bruce replied, "for you will have to help
me get my own boat back to the bay."
"I should think so," said one of the men, as he hauled Bruce's boat
close and sprang into it. "'Twas right enough to run out under a jib,
but of course you can't get back that way, and no one man can handle
main-sheet and tiller in a breeze like this. Now, boys, I'll get up sail
on our friend's boat, and see if we can't get some help from it in
righting our own. It will be troublesome work, for our ballast
shifted--the wrong way, of course--as we went over."
"Suppose," Bruce suggested quickly, "that two of you come aboard, if
you're used to working together in a boat? I don't know much about
righting capsized hulls."
"Eh? Well, probably not. You every-day sailors on the coast here aren't
stupid enough to let a boat go over, as we amateurs did when a hard puff
came to-day. We pass for pretty good sailors, too, in our yacht club at
home. Here, Grayden, come aboard. I'll take the tiller, you take the
main-sheet, and if our young friend will 'tend jib--"
"Good!" interrupted Bruce, while a great sense of relief came to him. He
felt well acquainted with that jib.
The mainsail, in which there already was a reef, was hoisted, the
main-sheet of the wrecked boat was taken aboard as a hawser, and after
much shouting and tacking and jerking the capsized hull was righted.
Then sail was dropped on Bruce's boat, the wreck was hauled alongside,
and the three men bailed out the water with their hats, adjusted the
ballast, and dragged the wreckage aboard and stored it. One man was left
on the hull to steer, a tow-line was put out, sail was made once more on
Bruce's boat, and the party started for the bay. When fairly on the
proper course the man who had seemed to take the lead in every thing
said to Bruce:
"My young friend, we've been working and worrying so hard that I'm
afraid we've forgotten our manners, but I want to assure you that we're
the most grateful men in this part of the world to-night, unless three
others have been rescued from drowning. Eh, boys?"
"Yes, indeed," replied one. "I think, too, for a chap as young as our
friend to dash out to sea in such a breeze to save some men whom he
never saw before was a remarkably plucky deed. I'm proud to know you, my
friend, and I'd like to do something great to prove it."
"So would I," said another.
"You're very kind," Bruce replied, "and you may begin at once, if you
like. You would be doing a great thing for me if you would teach me
something about sailing."
"Wha--a--a--at?" drawled one, while the other opened his eyes very wide.
"Why--you came out in splendid style."
"I'm glad of it, but, really, I couldn't help it; the wind did it all. I
never before was out in a boat with a sail on it; I wouldn't have been
out this time if the anchor rope hadn't broken while I sat in the boat
playing with the jib."
"Whew! And through that accident you've saved our lives!"
"And you've saved mine. Still, won't you please try and teach me
something about sailing--right now, while we're at it?"
Two teachers took the boy in hand at once; they made many short tacks,
with Bruce at the tiller, to show how to "put about"; they explained how
the force of a sudden puff could be lessened by quickly heading a little
toward the wind, taught him much more about the management of the jib
than he had yet learned for himself, and had him observe the different
ways in which the mainsail was treated on differing courses. The lessons
continued until they reached the bay, where a new anchor rope was
purchased for the rescuing craft, whose owner, also, had to be reasoned
with and otherwise pacified.
The next day two of the party returned to the city from which they had
come for a day's fishing, but one remained, hired a smaller boat, and
spent half a week afloat with Bruce, doing all in his power to make a
confident yet cautious sailor of the boy. In the mean time there came
out from the city some newspapers, in each of which was a marked article
telling how a brave youth named Bruce Marvel had, at great peril to
himself, saved three men from death by drowning. There also came to
Bruce a little gold watch, suitably inscribed; and when the boy finally
returned to his home, the newspapers and the watch made him the most
noted person in his county, and his honest admission that he really knew
next to nothing about sailing boats when he ran out to sea increased his
fame immensely.
SOME REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES DICKENS.
BY HENRY AUGUSTUS ABRAHAM.
The recent death of Mr. Charles Dickens, the eldest son of the great
author, reminds a schoolfellow of the former, who enjoyed for many years
the friendship of the family, of a few circumstances connected with the
author of the _Pickwick Papers_ that, never having found their way to
paper, may not be without interest at this moment.
It was due probably to Dickens's great regard for the actor Macready
that he selected Dr. King's preparatory school for his son. Macready,
who lived not far from King's, and who had heard of his great success as
a teacher of the classics, informed Dickens of his intention to send his
two boys to the school, and Dickens at once decided to place Charlie, as
his son was always called, at the same institution.
King's was situated near the famous Lords cricket-ground on Maida Hill.
When Douglas Jerrold heard of this he was anxious to know what made her
ill, and trusted that Charlie would be all right.
What Dickens replied "deponent saith not," but at a later date he
remarked that his boy was in pretty royal company.
It was here that the schoolfellow and his fortunate companions first set
eyes on Charles Dickens. Charlie, quite unconscious of the flutter that
he would create in the breasts of his schoolmates, quietly informed them
that his father would visit the school on a certain day. Until that
auspicious time the _Pickwick Papers_ became more bethumbed than ever.
The writer was on the tiptoe of expectation and not a little nervous.
What liberties are taken with the names of the great! "Dickens is
coming!" If Jones the lawyer were expected, or Pills the apothecary, it
would have been: "Mr. Jones is coming; Mr. Pills will visit his son."
When Dickens did come it was with a rush. He lovingly embraced his boy,
shook the hands of the fortunate lads who were introduced as Charlie's
particular chums, slipped some money into his son's hand, and was off,
without the almost inevitable allusion to the _pons asinorum_ or the
_hic, haec, hoc_, those _bêtes noire_ of a schoolboy's existence.
But it was while he was talking to Dr. King that an opportunity was
given to study Dickens from a boy's point of view. He was then
considerably under forty, but looked--to the boy, remember--a
comparatively old man. What was young in him were his hair and eyes.
There were not many wrinkles visible, but lines of thought and care
marked features that in repose were deceiving in their sternness. As to
his dress, the writer has since thought that, while it might have been
quite untidy and loud for a butterman's best, it suited Dickens's rapid
motions and easy gait. It would be hard to imagine Dickens in prim
attire. Such apparel would have been out of place.
It was while summering at Broadstairs, a quiet watering-place on the
Kentish coast, that the writer had perhaps the best opportunity to study
Dickens's characteristics--the most notable of which most certainly was
his love for children. Apparently adoring his own, he still had room in
his great heart for other people's darlings. Had it been more generally
known that for several seasons Dickens made Broadstairs his
abiding-place, that pretty little sea-side resort would have been
crowded with visitors. As it was, several of his intimate friends, among
them the artists Stone and Egg, made Broadstairs their summer home.
Those twenty-mile rambles, so frequently alluded to, would alone have
made Dickens interesting to younger people, who were continually
arranging to meet the author and his frequent companion, Miss Hogarth,
on the cliffs or sands between Pegwalt Bay and Margate.
Once Dickens came to the rescue of some children who had been overtaken
by the tide. Miss Hogarth and the writer were of the party. Dickens
summoned donkey-boys from Margate and sent the youngsters home at a
gallop. They arrived just as the tide was washing the white cliffs.
Only once in several years did the writer hear Charles Dickens's voice
in angry tones. This was the occasion, and it was indelibly impressed on
his memory:
"Mamie" (Miss Mary Dickens) and "Katie" (Catharine, named after her
mother, whom Dickens always addressed as Kate) were very pretty and
interesting girls; indeed, they were the little belles of Broadstairs.
They frequently had juvenile tea parties at "Bleak House," as Dickens's
Broadstairs home was called. It was situated on a high bluff, and stood
alone--a very picturesque but mournful and deserted-looking building, as
peculiar in its style as the author's house in Devonshire Terrace,
London. Dickens's library had a seaward and an inland view. He was then
writing _Dombey and Son_, and he had told Miss Hogarth that he must not
be disturbed. But notwithstanding this injunction, the tea party, rather
formidable in numbers, tired of cake and bread and butter, scoured the
house and turned it into a Bedlam, gentle Mamie, however, protesting.
[Illustration: BLEAK HOUSE, BROADSTAIRS.
(From an old print.)]
At a moment when Dickens was evidently very much engrossed, the
children, with a wild rush, broke in on his quietude. The writer,
wittingly, or perhaps impelled by force of numbers, found himself within
a few feet of the desk where Dickens was writing, and was very much
alarmed as Dickens looked angrily on the crowd. But he loved children
too well to be angry with them long. Rising from his seat, the frown
melting into the smile that always endeared him to young people, he
spread his arms and simply shooed us from the room, like the geese that
we were, and bade us seek Miss Hogarth, who never seemed to tire of
entertaining her niece's guests. But on this occasion the abashed
marauders, deeming "discretion" to be "the better part of valor," crept
into the garden, where Charlie was engaged in the innocent though
perhaps dangerous pastime of gathering some very dubious-looking plums
from a tree that had seen better days. Miss Hogarth, having doubtless
been interviewed by Dickens, led the young people to understand, later
in the day, that strangers would not be admitted to Bleak House until
further notice, thus practically breaking up the tea parties. We
subsequently learned that Dickens had frequently been disturbed, and it
was necessary that silence should reign for a season.
Very little has been written, if indeed anything, of this interesting
summer home of the noted author--Bleak House. It was surrounded by high
and gloomy brick walls that gave the old place a dreary and forbidding
appearance. Its very quaintness moved Dickens to make it his temporary
abiding-place. It may have been interesting, but it seemed to the good
people of Broadstairs, as they looked on the most exposed spot in all
the little place, that only courageous hearts could live at Bleak House.
And during a frightful storm, that sunk fishing-smacks and damaged the
coast, devastating the esplanade and destroying not a few farm-houses,
the frightened residents at morning's dawn looked with pale faces in the
direction of Bleak House, almost expecting to find it in ruins. But in
spite of its exposed position, the house bravely withstood the gale,
although chimney-pots and trees were blown down. The family was
naturally alarmed, and betook themselves to apartments adjoining the
library on the esplanade. The library and assembly-rooms were the public
resort of Broadstairs's quality. But Dickens was rarely if ever seen at
the gatherings.
Dickens remarked a few days later to the writer's father that the gale
had been an alarming and thrilling experience.
[Illustration: DICKENS'S HOUSE IN DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, LONDON.
(From an old print.)]
Soon after the meeting at Dr. King's school Charlie's schoolfellow
visited the family in Devonshire Terrace, just off the New Road. _David
Copperfield_ was then the book of the hour, and because it had been
suggested that the author had his own boyhood in mind while writing the
novel, Dickens was more of a lion than ever to the juvenile mind.
Charlie devoured the pages of the book with avidity. Indeed, all the
novelist's children were charmingly appreciative of their father's
writings--a flattering incentive to Dickens, no doubt.
At the moment of this visit, his own little darlings, as well as some
others, were crawling all over him, reminding one of Gulliver in the
toils. But he at once turned to the somewhat bashful visitor, and, in
renewing the acquaintance, with delightful tact made the schoolboy feel
that he was not _de trop_.
It was at the juvenile birthday parties that Dickens seemed in all his
glory. At the supper table, in helping some little miss to "trifle," he
would assure her with all possible gravity that it was no trifle at all.
When the writer, urged to make a little speech on the occasion of
Charlie's birthday, came to a full stop at the words "I am sure,"
Dickens at once came to his assistance, and enabled him to retire from
the platform, however ungracefully, with the remark, among others,
"Always be sure, my dear boy, and you'll get along all right."
At the little theatrical entertainments Dickens was the alpha and the
omega of the proceedings. He was sometimes author, adapter, condenser,
musical director, manager, prompter, and even stage carpenter. He
overflowed with energy.
Dickens, doubtless remembering his own acute sensitiveness as a child,
could not wittingly wound a child's feelings. He made fun _with_, not
_of_ us. No party ever came off at Dickens's without "Sir Roger de
Coverley" being introduced. Dickens shouted with laughter as some novice
got badly mixed up in "all hands down the middle." Off he darted after
the lost sheep--generally an awkward boy--and turned his blushes to
smiles by saying, "What a dancer this boy will make when he's tackled a
little more roast beef!" or, "Isn't Tommy a nice young man for a small
party?"
There was nothing of the pedagogue about him. No vulgar attempt to pose
as the brilliant "Boz." He was simply a big boy, and he came down the
ladder of his fame to meet his fellows on their ordinary platform--to be
one of them in their own simple way for a time.
A LOYAL TRAITOR.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 888.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XXI.
TAKING A PRIZE.
I had found a little box, that had just room enough for a bunk and a
narrow cupboard, at the foot of the forecastle ladder, and this I took
possession of, as, of course, it would not do for me to mess or bunk in
with the crew. There was a fine ten-knot breeze blowing when I was
awakened the next morning, and the little cutter was dipping into the
waves gracefully like a Mother Cary's chicken. Every one was in high
spirits. All idea of my being a Jonah had faded from the minds of the
crew. Yet I was filled with a huge disappointment. A bitter, miserable
sensation had firm hold of me. I saw what an injudicious and, mayhap, an
unkind thing I had done, and regretted that I had not been more
strenuous in my efforts to keep Mr. Middleton from carrying out his
intentions of leaving the _Cæsar_; but I believe that if I should have
urged strongly against it, the cruise of the _Bat_ would have ended
there and then.
At eight bells in the morning watch I saw Mr. Middleton come on deck. I
noted that he held his wig on with one hand as he approached. I lifted
my hat and bowed politely.
"A word with you," began the old gentleman. "It is evident that you
never had any intention of touching at Dublin."
"That, sir," I returned, "is the truth; I never had. Would you suppose
it possible for an American crew to sail into a hostile harbor in a
captured vessel and get out again?"
"You played the joke well on the Englishmen," he said.
"Yes; but they were Englishmen," I answered. "The Irish might be
quicker-witted."
I knew that he was an Irishman, for he had a genteel touch of the
brogue.
"Look here, my young sir," he rejoined; "I am a wealthy man, and my word
is as good as a written and sworn-to bond. If you will land me on the
coast of Ireland, anywhere, I will give you a thousand pounds."
"No money could tempt me," I replied, "to place the freedom of my crew
in jeopardy; but this I have determined; if I meet a vessel bound for
Europe, and can do so without risk, I intend to place you and your
granddaughter Mistress Tanner on board of her. More than this it is
beyond my power to do."
"You just spoke Miss Tanner's name," said the old man, looking at me
fiercely; "and when we came on board, your forwardness in speaking was
most noticeable. I pray you, do you claim acquaintance?"
"Sir," I returned, "it is as the lady says."
"She says you are a stranger to her," answered the old man, grimly.
"So be it," I replied, and turned upon my heel.
I did not see anything of Mary that day, but late in the evening she and
her grandfather came on deck, and, arm in arm, walked up and down the
weather side of the quarter-deck, I giving over to them, and pacing up
and down the opposite side of the mainsail; but my heart was big to
bursting, and I was tempted again and again to step around the mast, and
standing there face to face with the girl that had given me the rose,
demand an explanation. Oh, woman! who can account for your strange
actions or analyze the motives of your inconsistencies?
As they went below, I happened to be standing so close that my presence
could not be ignored, nor could I, without seeming rudeness, avoid
speaking.
"I hope you and the young lady are quite comfortable, Mr. Middleton," I
said, bowing. "If there is anything in my power I can do to add to your
comfort, I pray you to command me."
Purposely I avoided looking at Mary as I spoke, and yet I was conscious
that her eyes were full upon my face. She stood a little apart from her
grandfather, and her little foot was tapping the deck impatiently. Mr.
Middleton acknowledged my salutation, and replied with a certain
peevishness that is shared by the very old or the very young.
"The only thing that you can do is to redeem your promise, and set us on
some vessel bound for Great Britain," he returned.
"I shall endeavor thus to redeem myself," I said. And then the two went
below, leaving me leaning back against the boom with a leaden heart.
We were carrying a great square topsail, and kicking up a great smother
forward that showed that we were travelling well. The man at the tiller
was humming softly to himself, the crew were lolling forward, when I saw
my First Lieutenant approach. I noticed from his expression that he
wished to speak to me.
"Well, Mr. Chips," said I, "and what is it?"
"I beg your pardon, sir," he returned, "but hadn't you better take a
squint at the sun and see where we are? It's near high noon."
I was in a quandary, for, as I have stated previously, I knew nothing of
navigation--that is, the science of it.
"Well, Mr. Chips," I said, "do you suppose I don't know where I am?"
"The sextant is in the cabin, sir. But there is another thing," he
added, touching his cap. "Would you mind calling me by my real name?"
"Why, isn't it Chips?" I exclaimed in surprise, not knowing that this
was the nickname applied to every carpenter afloat.
"My name is Philemon Cutterwaite," he answered, quietly.
As of course I had no intention to hurt his feelings, I repressed a
smile, merely saying, "Very good, Mr. Cutterwaite; I shall endeavor to
remember it."
"Thank you, sir," was the reply. "Shall I get the instruments and take
the time?"
As he spoke he stepped to the head of the companion-ladder and knocked.
I could think of no excuse for the moment for detaining him, and taking
my silence for consent, he obeyed the answer from below to enter, and
disappeared. But in an instant he came on deck.
"Captain Hurdiss," he said, "the chronometer has stopped. We must have
forgotten to wind it, sir--bad fortune!"
"Then there is no sight for to-day," I said, much relieved.
"I suppose not," was the grumbling answer. And then the good fellow went
below.
I messed alone, either on deck or in my box of a cabin; and I had just
finished my evening meal when one of the crew who had been aloft came
down to the forecastle and reported that there was a sail in sight to
the westward. When I came on deck I could just make out a faint spot
against the sunset sky, but what course the vessel was holding I could
not make out even with the aid of a glass. It was dead calm, and the
_Bat_ rolled lazily about, fetching up with a jerk of her heavy boom
that would send an echolike sound rolling up the great mainsail.
In my absence Mr. Cutterwaite, as I shall call him hereafter, had given
some orders, and I saw that some of the crew were making ready to get
rolling tackle on her, as a preventive of the danger of carrying
anything away by the slapping and romping of the vessel. The sea that
was running must have been the aftermath, so to speak, of a heavy blow,
for it rolled from the southward, smooth and round, with not a ripple on
the crest or a dimple to be seen on the sides of the waves.
The sun was going down behind a streaky line of clouds that crossed the
western sky in such a peculiar manner that, as they caught the red
sunset color, the whole west resembled nothing so much as a great
American flag. Even the stars were there, shining in the blue field. I
was standing looking at it in admiration, when I turned suddenly and saw
that Mary Tanner had come on deck, and was regarding the sight with
wide-open eyes. Probably she had not seen me, but I determined to speak
to her, and so came closer.
"It is our flag yonder," I said, pointing.
She gave a little frown, as if I had interrupted some pleasant thought.
"I see it," she answered, turning her head half away; and with this she
descended to the cabin again.
Such a starlit night as this was I can never recollect seeing. The calm
continued, and as it was warm I brought up a blanket to lie on, and
determined to pass the night on deck. As I lay there watching the
topmast sway to and fro against the besprinkled heavens, I fell into
wondering what was going to become of me--what should I do when I
returned to America. I could not imagine; and it seemed to me that it
was impossible that Mary Tanner, whom I had grown to think of as the one
person in the world who might be interested in my life (ah, the beloved
picture of her waiting for me!) was here within sound of my voice; here
in my keeping, as it were; and yet affairs were sadly different from
what I had hoped or supposed they would be.
I was lying with my head almost on the edge of the hatch combing, when I
thought I heard the sound of something like a sigh or a long-drawn
breath. I raised myself on my elbow, and there she was standing not
three feet from me. I could have placed my hand over hers if I had so
chosen.
"Mary," I said, softly. She gave a little gasp and turned.
"Pray do not go until you have heard a few words that I wish to say," I
went on, leaning forward. "If my speaking to you is disagreeable, I
shall not repeat the offence a second time. Listen! I had not thought to
carry you away, but I had hoped some day to find you. In prison I
thought of this, and as a free man the hope has been before my eyes.
Now there is nothing left. I have naught to offer you, but some day
there may come a time when I can do so." I was urged to speak thus by I
know not what. "You think that I am but a common sailor. I am--"
"Oh, pray do not explain further, Monsieur le Marquis," she interrupted.
"I suppose that you were going on to speak of your estates and titles."
I started.
"What do you mean?" I said. "What do you know, anyhow?"
"Only what Gaston informed every one in Stonington," she said. "Poor
loon! they would have put him in the mad-house. But you were going on to
say, you are--"
"A plain American seaman," I returned, "who would give his life to serve
you."
I had risen to my feet and stood there looking at her. I thought for a
moment that her look had softened as I spoke, but just then Mr.
Middleton's voice interrupted us from the cabin.
"Mary, child," he called, "where are you?"
"I am here," she answered, and she jumped below, almost into the
frightened old man's arms. I clinched my teeth, and there was no sleep
for me that night.
In the early morning hours it clouded a little, and an intermittent
breeze blew up from the south. At daybreak we discovered the sail that
had been sighted the evening before, about three miles distant, bearing
a few points off our weather bow. She was a small ship, and at the first
glance at her Mr. Cutterwaite pronounced her English. We changed our
course, and at the same moment the vessel did hers also, and when about
a mile distant she broke out her flag.
"A Portuguese, by David!" exclaimed Dugan.
"We'd better try the British Jack, sir," suggested the carpenter.
I acquiesced, and soon the _Bat_'s natural colors were flying over us.
Instantly down went the Portuguese emblem, and up went that of England.
The ship had come up into the wind, and was waiting for us with her
maintop-sail aback and her foresheets fluttering. Suddenly I noticed
that she had dropped four ports, and through the glass I noticed one of
the guns run in and the toss of a sponge handle. Instantly the risk we
were running crossed my mind.
"Stand by to cast loose and provide those guns," I said, holding the
_Bat_ up a few points so as to lessen our speed. "Arm all hands," I
added.
We were a fair bit less than one-third the size of the vessel we were
nearing, and I saw that the men cast rather furtive glances at her as
they set about obeying orders.
"Men," I said, "we do not intend to fight that vessel. I just wish to
speak to her; but be ready."
"If fight we must, why, fight we will," said Dugan, with a grin.
I called down into the cabin.
"Mr. Middleton," I said, "you can get your baggage, sir. I judge we will
soon part company."
In ten minutes we were almost within hailing distance, and the old
gentleman came on deck, followed immediately by Mary. Her eyes were red,
as if she had been weeping. It required all the strength of will I had
to keep my lip from quivering as I raised my hat and wished her a polite
good-morning. There was a strange wistful glance that I could not fathom
that she threw at me, and then she turned her head aside. I had donned
the uniform of my unknown namesake, and leaning against the lee shrouds,
I raised my voice and hallooed,
"What ship is that?"
"The _Lord Lennox_, from Quebec to Liverpool. What cutter is that?"
"His Majesty's sloop _Bat_, from Dublin to Quebec," I answered.
"What do you want of us?" was the inquiry of a short thick-set man in a
beaver hat, who had mounted the rail.
"Can you take two passengers back with you to England?" I replied.
The man on the rail turned as if he were speaking to some one behind
him, and giving no answer to this, jumped down out of sight.
"Look out for treachery," cried the carpenter, suddenly. And no sooner
had he spoken than the forward gun, an 18-pound carronade, roared out,
and the shot plumped through our mainsail.
"Below with you," I cried, dodging under the boom, and hastening Mr.
Middleton toward the cabin with a push. "Below for your dear life," I
cried to Mary as she followed him.
Without orders one of my men had fired the forward 6-pounder into the
hull of the ship, and seeing that our only hope was to get so close that
they could not depress their guns enough to hit us, I jammed down the
tiller, and we shot up close under the vessel's side. Her three other
guns were discharged over our heads, and away went our topmast, and the
tip of our gaff with the colors on it. So close were we that a burning
wad fell on our deck. The other 6-pounder was discharged, and ripped a
great hole in the ship but a few feet above the water-line. And now we
were in for it! With a slight jar we grazed along the ship's side, and
the wounded gaff tangled, in her fore-shrouds.
"There's nothing for it but to board," I cried.
"Boarders away for the spar-deck!" roared Dugan, as he sprang for the
chains, followed by all hands in a wild scramble.
Perhaps the cheer that we gave sounded as if there were many more of us.
I saw Dugan's pistol flash as he threw his leg over the bulwark
overhead. It was answered by a volley, and the poor fellow with a cry
fell back into the arms of the next man below him. By almost pushing
those ahead of me out of the way, I had managed to be among the
foremost. Somebody gave me a leg up from behind, and I shot over the
ship's rail on to the forecastle. But I was not alone. To a man the crew
of the _Bat_ were with me, and there before us, gathered in the waist,
were a score or more of seamen who were scrambling forward to meet our
onslaught. They outnumbered us, but we were better armed, and (if I say
it, who should not) we were better fighters. I had felt a sharp twinge
of pain go through my left shoulder when I had fallen forward, but,
getting to my feet, I was soon in the midst of the cutting, shouting,
and firing.
Before me stood a thick-set middle-aged man, who hurled a smoking pistol
full at me. It grazed my head as I dodged, and my cutlass rang against
the weapon he carried in his right hand, an old Scottish claymore with a
basket hilt, and a blade some three inches longer than my own. With an
oath he made a slash at me that would have brought me to my knees had I
not turned it. At the same time, with a sidewise stroke I reached him
beneath the armpit, and almost lifted the limb from his body. He fell
backward with a howl. I had but noticed this when from the side some one
caught me a clip over the head that severed my cocked hat like a pumpkin
and sent my senses flying. I stumbled, for I could not for the life of
me keep my feet, and down I went.
When I came to I was first conscious of a tremendous throbbing in my
temples, and opening my eyes I saw that I was below in the little cabin
with the miniatures on the bulkheads. It was but a glimpse of
consciousness I had, but in that glimpse I felt a soothing touch laid on
my brow. Raising my eyes my heart leaped, for it was Mary bathing my
head with a cold wet cloth. The joy of it may have sent me off again,
for I remembered no more until I was awakened by the sound of
whispering. Looking up, I saw that Cutterwaite and Mr. Middleton were
standing alongside.
"Well," I said, faintly, "how fares it?"
"Another prize, Captain Hurdiss, and a good one," said Chips, bending
over me. "We took the ship, sir and she's in our wake. We're not five
hundred miles off Cape Cod. The wind's fair, and all's a-taunt-o."
Oh, I could have cried for the joy of it, but at this instant the
curtain that had partitioned off the cabin was drawn aside, and I heard
a soft voice ask,
"Is he speaking?"
"Mary!" I said, tremulously.
Mr. Middleton and the carpenter stepped to the other side of the
curtain, and the one whom I had always dreamed of as waiting for me came
near.
There was no pride or anger in her face, and her voice shook as she
said, softly,
"Sh-h-h--you must not speak!"
[Illustration: I PUT OUT MY HAND AND SHE TOOK IT.]
I put out my hand. She took it and sank down at the side of the bunk.
"John dear, forgive me," was all she said; and then--and then-- Well,
what is the use of telling more? Women are strange creatures. But
suffice it. I had, of a truth, taken the fairest prize in all the world.
How she had won the old gentleman to her way of thinking I do not
pretend to tell. I have never asked, nor did he inform me. But some
women have a way with them against which there is no gainsaying. Mr.
Middleton is a wise man, and this may account for it. But I was not the
only one under Mary's care. Dugan and three others were wounded lying in
the forecastle; but I am glad to here record, so far as I know, they are
at this moment well and hearty. On the fourth day I was on deck when
land was sighted. It was my own country that lay off to the westward. I,
the happiest man in all the world, was home again.
Thus ended my adventures. Since then I have made many cruises in my own
vessels, always knowing that there was waiting for me when I returned
the dearest little woman in the world, and were I a nobleman with vast
estates I could be no wit happier, nor could I be so happy as I am at
this very moment. Of that I am sure.
There is just a half-page left of this old ledger. As my story is done,
I can but go over it again; and in looking back, what a strange record I
have made here, for I began as a child without a name and without a
country, who chose both for himself. I had been a mysterious waif in a
Connecticut village, an instructor in small-arms on board a privateer,
an English prisoner of war, a French nobleman among the refugees in
England, a lieutenant of a fine schooner, and the commander of two
vessels, all inside of a week; yes, and had I not been a robber also?
For I robbed an English officer and a scare-crow of their clothes, and
an old man of his granddaughter. (Of the last I am prouder than I can
tell in calm words.) And now I am a prosperous ship-owner, with nothing
in this wide world to wish for, except that I were a better scribe. Oh,
I might set down that I learned, of course, of the death of my uncle,
and found out that Gaston had disappeared with the belongings of Belair;
no one knew whither. I was sorry for this, for there was much that I
would like to have possessed. As for any other title than that of an
American citizen, I care not so much as the snap of my finger; nor would
my sons, I am sure, even if they had but to extend their hands to grasp
it. They may read in this a great deal that their father has not told
them, but it could make no difference, I am sure, in our relations
toward one another.
One thing more--I returned all the personal effects found in the _Bat_'s
cabin to my namesake who lives in Sussex, England.
THE END.
THE PAINTED DESERT.
A STORY OF NORTHERN ARIZONA.
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "RICK DALE," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES,"
"THE MATE SERIES," ETC.