DEATH OF THE CRADLEBOW.
While Grandpa Keeler dozed peacefully, Emily Gaskell, also "passin' by,"
joined the group of women on the doorsteps of the Ark.
Emily, by the way, was regarded as a hopeful subject of the "awakenin'."
She had been to see a doctor in Farmouth, who told her she could not live
through another winter "with that cough on her." She sat very still in
the meetings, it was said, and seemed "tetched and wonderful," whereas
she had been wont formerly, on occasions of this solemn nature, to evince
many signs of restlessness, and even to engage in droll and sly
diversions for the greater delectation of the "unconsarned."
Emily herself was particularly unreserved on the subject of her spiritual
condition. Her tone had lost none of its former bright vivacity, though I
thought I saw frequently now, while she was talking, a softer shadow
steal over the restless, consuming fire in her blue eyes.
"I know what some on 'em say," said she; "I know what I might 'a'
said, jest as like as not, if it had been somebody else in my place. Oh,
she's afraid she ain't a goin' to git well, and so she's a seekin'
religion. She's scart into it!
"Wall, if folks that know me are a mind to say that, they may; though if
it comes to bein' scart into religion by what the doctors said, I should
'a' jined the church twenty times over!
"It ain't because I'm afraid o' what'll happen to me after I'm all dead
and peaceable. It's because I want a little more comfort while I'm a
livin'. Seems to me there's more comfort needed for the livin'.
"And ever since my Brother 'Lihu died, seems as though them last words o'
hisn have been a ringin' in my ears. 'I know somebody that'll watch. Who?
Jesus will! Jesus will!' over and over again. And when I get to worryin'
about things, and can't see no way through, or whoever's a goin' to
straighten em' out, it keeps agoin', 'Who, then? Jesus will! Jesus will!'
over and over. And 'Lihu wasn't a professor, neither; and maybe he hadn't
no right to take the comfort out o' them words that he did; and maybe I
hain't no right, and it's only like a string o' music that'll keep a
runnin' in a body's head sometimes and they not thinkin' nor meanin' any
thin'.
"I don't see any further into it than I did afore. I don't know as I'm
what you'd call any more believin', but when I've laid till after
midnight with my eyes as wide open as daylight, and no shut to 'em,
thinkin' and worryin' and coughin', I've seen it ag'in, jest the way he
rolled and tossed that night, and then them words come to him, and he
smiled and went to sleep peacefuller nor any child; and so _I've_ said
'em, and faith or no faith, believin' or no believin', they've set me a
cryin', time and ag'in, and they've put me to sleep! thar', they've put
me to sleep!"
"And who else could they 'a' be'n meant for but him and you?" cried
Grandma, in a gush of sympathy; "him and you, and anybody else as you
seen needed them words and could give 'em to 'em to quiet 'em; for, dear
woman! there ain't none on us that see into it, but jest to say it over.
Dear woman! we don't know no more. It's what's a restin' all on us. It's
what's a restin' all on us!"
I looked up and saw tears in Madeline's eyes. I had not heard Madeline
spoken of as among the number of the impressed. There were tears in my
own eyes, I knew; there had grown to be such a pathos in those women's
voices.
A little later, Emily lapsed into a strain of sprightly gossip.
"And who do you think's kitin' around in this region ag'in?" she began.
"Somebody you'd expect least of all, I reckon; wall, it's Dave Rollin,"
and she nodded her head quickly and expressively at the others.
"I don't mean," she continued; "that he's been in Wallencamp, but Levi
was down from Wallen this mornin', and he said they stopped last night in
Wallen Harbor--him and some other fellers, mighty stylish lookin', but he
said it was Dave Rollin's yacht, as fine and fancy-rigged as ever he see,
and there was some that looked like common sailors, and they all come
ashore, and the common ones was the quietest. But he reckoned the
fisherman was off on 'a time,' and stopped there jest for fun, and to
show off, maybe.
"Wall, Levi told me that, and to-day, 'long about the middle o' the
forenoon, my man come up to the house--he's down to shore, you know,
along o' Cap'n Sartell and George Olver and Lute Cradlebow and all the
rest, down there a mendin' up the old schooner, 'cause Cap'n wanted Lute
to see to it afore he went away. My man come up for a wrench, and 'Who do
you think's a scootin' around down on the Bay?' says he. 'Wall, it's Dave
Rollin,' says he; 'in the purtiest little craft, that runs jest like a
picter,' and he said they couldn't see but two men aboard of her then; he
guessed they wan't many. It was jest like Dave Rollin to take a run from
Wallen down this way to show what he could do alone, for he was always
braggin' about bein' so stiddy on his sea-legs, and how't he understood
this shore better'n any o' the old uns.
"My man said they didn't know who 'twas out there, at first, for it ain't
the kind o' vessel often seen, and it skimmed along on the edge o' the
water, Sim said, like a bird, in and out amongst the rocks, so't
anybody'd a thought, not knowin' who they was--and them, maybe, not
knowin' the shore--that they was drunk or gone crazy; and Sim said they
hollered to 'em to look out for the rocks, and they heered a kind of a
laugh on the water, and somebody shouted back:
"'Stow your gab, land lubbers!' and they knew from the voice it was Dave
Rollin.
"He was probably meanin' to put in there, and might 'a' come ashore may
be,--he was wild enough--but he seen our men and that kind o' hindered
him; he didn't want to turn round and put right back neither, lookin'
as though he was scared, so he kep' on, and Sim said they watched 'em
clean out o' sight; 'but,' says he, 'I never seen a man turn whiter'n
George Olver did for a minute, and then he onclinched his fist and went
to work ag'in, harder than ever, for you can allays depend on Jim,
somehow--George Olver--but he's a dreadful close-mouthed fellow!"
During the recital of this narrative, recalling so much to my mind, I
experienced more than anything else a feeling of annoyance, almost of
resentment, that the fisherman should appear, however remotely, to
disturb the serenity of these last few days in which I had to live out
my Wallencamp idyl.
For the others the story seemed to have created a momentary excitement,
but they regarded it, on the whole, as of little consequence.
Aunt Patty had passed on to the doorway of another neighbor, and George
Olver's relations with Rebecca soon constituted the theme of a more
general and lively discourse, in which the remarks concerning Rebecca
were mostly kind and considerate, and the praise of George Olver's
conduct enthusiastic; and, at the close of which, I remember, Grandma
said that "the higher minded folks gits to be, the pitifuller they be
a'most always!"
The fact of the fisherman's transient appearance on the Bay was not again
alluded to, nor do I think the mind of any one present reverted to it,
when Grandpa Keeler, looking up with that utterly dazed and bewildered
air which betokened a decisive awakening on his part, cast his eye along
the horizon, and observed gravely,--
"Storm a brewin', ma."
"You've been asleep, pa," said Grandma, in sweetly mollifying tones; and
Emily Gaskell, almost involuntarily, glanced up at me with a mischievous,
anticipative wink.
[Illustration]
"Asleep, ma," said Grandpa Keeler; "no, I hain't been asleep, neither!
And what if I had, ma? That don't hender a storm's brewin', does it?"
"We've be'n seein' them little wind clouds passin' afore the sun for half
an hour past," explained Grandma Keeler, composedly.
But Grandpa scanned the sky with a dark, keen glance--the air of an old
voyager on stormy and literal seas, and he shook his head, sagely.
"Wall, wall, ma," he said, "it don't make no difference whether it's a
wind-storm or a rain-storm that I know on, but a tempest it's brewin',
sartin sure. I remember once, we'd had a spell o' weather jest like this,
and it begun to gether up in the same way. It was in the same latitude,
teacher, same latitude. I was off cruisin' with Bob Henchy--whew! That
ar' was a singin' gale! I remember it as well as yesterday. I was off
with Bob----"
"Are you sure it was Bob ye was off with, pa," interrupted Grandma. "I
could almost write a book, pa, while you was tellin' a story."
"Wall, wall, ma! Write a book, if ye want to!" exclaimed Grandpa, with
sweeping force. "I'm sure nobody wants to hender yer writing a book if ye
want to, ma!"
Grandma Keeler heeded not those derisive words. Her mind was bent on
pursuits of a far loftier and more engrossing nature. In respect to the
weather--except on Sabbath mornings, when it was impossible to credit
Grandpa with perfect fairness and impartiality of judgment--Grandma, it
must be said, had real faith in the old sea-captain's prognostications.
"It does look like a shower, and a mighty sudden one," said Emily. She
thrust her knitting-work in her pocket, donned her sun-bonnet, and
departed with other chance occupants of the doorsteps. And Grandma, too,
admitted the prospect of foul weather by throwing a handkerchief over her
head and going out to fetch the milk-pans.
Since early spring Grandma Keeler had put her milk-pans to dry in the sun
on a bench half-way up the "Pastur-Hill." Why she should choose to place
them at such a seemingly capricious and unnecessary distance from the
house, for it was really no inconsiderable journey for Grandma, taking
into account her peculiar style of locomotion; whether she considered
that the rays of the morning sun visited them more directly on that
plane, or that the elevation exposed them to peculiar atmospheric
advantages; these were questions which the curious mind was left to solve
for itself, for the grave office of carrying out and bringing in the
milk-pans was performed by Grandma with an air of mysterious calm, which
admitted of no profane comment or speculation.
Madeline laughed, watching her, the musical notes ringing out with a
touch of insane gayety.
"If ma knew it was Judgment Day," said she, "she'd carry those milk-pans
up the hill to dry, and if she knew it was Judgment Hour she'd go to
fetch 'em."
The scene grew rapidly weird as the sky darkened. A low sigh, like a
premonition, crept through the heavy atmosphere and shivered among the
peach-blossoms.
The first gust of wind seized Grandma, returning with the milk-pans. It
was a zephyr compared with the blasts that followed, but it had the
effect of giving to that good soul's usually composed and reassuring
presence, something of the appearance of a crazy and dismantled ship,
rolling in a high sea.
Grandpa was quick at detecting the resemblance, and hailed her approach
in thrilling nautical terms, such as: "Why didn't ye reef yer topgallant,
ma!" when the handkerchief was torn off her head; and "hang to the
main-royal, ma," as Grandma's apron was caught up and borne, wildly
fluttering, about her ears; and "keep your ballast, ma," with frequent
ejaculations of "Lor', how she pitches! how she pitches!"
These were not thrown out as light shafts of ridicule. It was no occasion
for such. There was an awful earnestness in Grandpa Keeler's eye and in
his tone, that invested his words with due solemnity. Grandma, struggling
with the wind, had not heard them. She entered the Ark, however, cheerful
though panting.
"Bijonah Keeler," said she, in accents of real affection, "I wouldn't
have you out in that wind for no money--not for no money, nor our
teacher, neither. Why, no stronger than she is now, it 'ud take the
breath right out of our teacher's body! Why, ef it hadn't been for the
cargo I had on board, pa," continued Grandma, naturally falling into the
same train of ideas we had followed, while watching her battle with the
elements, "I should 'a' slipped moorin's, sure!"
A casual listener might have smiled at this, in view of Grandma's
substantial physique.
Presently she said, as though the thought had just struck her; "I hope
fisherman's got back to Wallen Harbor, pa."
"And if he ain't, ma," replied Grandpa Keeler, sententiously, "he'll know
what it is to be out in a squall! but I reckon he's looked out for
himself."
The old Captain's face grew graver; his eyes, in that closed room, which
had grown so suddenly dark, took on an intensely solemn look. He did not
attempt the narration of any stormy adventures of old. Perhaps the scenes
of the past rose too vividly before his eyes. But, as the fiercest gusts
came, he kept muttering:--
"I knew what it meant--mild winter on the Cape! There's the devil in the
old Cape weather, teacher, and he never skipped four seasons yit! If it
ain't one time, it must be another. Yis, yis! mild winter on the Cape,
and no March to speak on, and a hurricane in summer! Wall, we're both on
us right, ma, and we're both on us wrong. It ain't neither wind ner rain,
but the heavens let loose, and God A'mighty's own power a blowin' of it.
Yis, yis! I had my misgivin's all along; thinks I, better a little more
weather now, than to blast every livin' thing by and by; but I hadn't no
idee o' this! The Lord ha' mercy! The Lord ha' mercy!"
For all that one could see through the windows was a great black sheet of
driving rain, and the roar of the storm was terrible. The Ark shook. It
seemed, at each successive blast, as though the walls would fall in over
our heads. One could easily imagine the whole crazy structure borne
onward before the resistless tempest, to take a final wild leap from the
cliffs.
"Wallencamp's a gittin' all mixed up," said Grandpa, without the faintest
tinge of humor, now. "We sha'n't know where to find ourselves when we git
out o' this 'ere, ef we ever do git out on't. Lord ha' mercy!"
Madeline sat very white and still, resting her chin on her hands, her
great eyes staring out.
Grandma held the two frightened children in her lap. She was rocking and
singing to them in a low, crooning tone. Though she was pale and her lips
trembled, there was still about her a soothing atmosphere of peace.
I was frightened, like the children. I longed to cry out as they had
done; to bury my head away from the terrors somewhere, as they did in
Grandma's lap.
"That was the blackest squall," said Grandpa Keeler, afterwards; "that
ever swep' across the Cape!"
Terrible as it had been, it died quickly. The transition seemed
miraculous from the sullen roar of the wind and torrent-fall of rain, to
the renewed chirping of the birds, the quiet dripping of the eaves, and
sunshine over all.
But the young peach-tree that had stood by the window of the Ark, and
sent its fragrance into my little room above, lay prone upon the ground.
When she saw that, Grandma Keeler moaned heart-brokenly, as though it had
been some fair human life stripped suddenly of its promise and left to
wither fruitlessly.
There were traces of the storm everywhere. Trees that had stood isolated
in the fields lay, some of them, with roots exposed; others were broken
off at the trunk, left with only a branch or two, helpless figures with
outstretched arms, to give a weird desolation to the landscape by and by,
I thought with a shudder, when winter should come again to Wallencamp.
The fences--what remained of them from former depredations--had either
fallen utterly to the ground, or assumed a strikingly precarious
position.
Part of the roof of Mr. Randal's house had been blown off, and the
chimneys of several of the Wallencamp houses demolished, and Grandpa's
barn twisted and distorted almost beyond recognition.
That poor old gentleman put on his hat and stepped out of the door
cautiously, looking about him like one in a dream.
The Ark had stood firm, apparently, in its old resting-place. Grandma and
Madeline proceeded to sweep out the rain which had been driven in through
the cracks, and then it was that little Henry G. came running, with a
white face, to the door. He had an air of childish importance, too, as
being the first to bear tidings of some strange and dreadful event, and
eager to hasten to other doors.
"Where's the rest?" he gasped, seeing only me in the room. "You tell 'em,
teacher, Lute Cradlebow's drownded!" and the boy disappeared, without
another word.
I was already faint from the reaction of the excitement incident to the
storm, weak with the effort I had made to "hold myself still." I heard
Grandma calling quickly, "Child! child!" I saw her coming towards me, and
then I lost consciousness.
* * * * *
At evening, while the sun went down over the hill by which the
transfigured river flowed, Captain Sartell sat in the door of the Ark,
and told the story.
The marvellous light was on his face, too. It fell, in shafts of glory,
on the bright foliage of the fallen tree.
Grandma was at Godfrey Cradlebow's, but Grandpa Keeler was within the
Ark, and Madeline caressing her children with a new fondness. There were
a few of the neighbors present; they looked neither frightened nor
curious, but ineffably exalted.
"We'd got our work about done," said Captain Sartell, speaking
mechanically and with little of his customary hesitation of manner. "As
near as I calk'late, there wa'n't a half hour's more work to do on the
old craft, and it had got to be sometime arter noon, but says the boys,
'Let's finish her off, now we've got so near through, and not have to
come back ag'in.' They was always a cheery set--especially _him_--when
they took hold of a job, to put it through.
"We'd seen them sailin' fellows go by a while before; and we knew Rollin
was one of 'em. They wasn't but two, as we could see, managin' the craft;
and they was full sail, clippin' it lively. I calk'late there ain't many
knows this shore better'n me, but I wouldn't 'a' durst skirted along the
adge down thar' at sech a rate, not in the finest day blowin'. First, we
thought it was somebody didn't know what they was about. When we made
out it was Rollin, we knew, if he _was_ drunk, he was tol'able well
acquainted with the rocks along shore, and 'ud probably put further out
when he got through showin' off. We didn't worry about 'em, nor think no
more about 'em, in special. The boys didn't want to talk to rile George
Olver.
"So we kep' to work, and in a minute, cheery ag'in with the hammers
click, clickin'--and every now and then the boys 'ud strike up a singin'
something'. 'Beyond the River,' and 'Homeward Bound.'
"It sounded dredful purty down thar' by the water, with the water and the
wideness all around sorter softenin' of it. It made a man feel curious
and wishful somehow.
"Well, by and by, _him_ and George Olver struck up a song. I've heern 'em
sing it before, them two. As nigh as I calk'late, it's about findin' rest
in Jesus, and one a askin' questions, all fa'r and squar', to know the
way and whether it's a goin' to lead thar' straight or not, and the other
answerin'. And _he_--he was a tinkerin', 'way up on the foremast, George
Olver and the rest on us was astern,--and I'll hear to my dyin' day how
his voice came a floatin' down to us thar'--chantin'-like it was--cl'ar
and fearless and slow. So he asks, for findin' Jesus, ef thar's any marks
to foller by; and George Olver, he answers about them bleedin'
nail-prints, and the great one in His side. So then that voice comes down
ag'in, askin' if thar's any crown, like other kings, to tell Him by; and
George Olver, he answers straight about that crown o' thorns. Then says
that other voice, floatin' so strong and cl'ar, and if he gin up all and
hollered, what should he have? what now?
"So George Olver, he sings deep o' the trial and the sorrowin'. But that
other voice never shook, a askin', and what if he helt to Him to the end,
what then should it be, what then? George Olver answers: 'Forever-more,
the sorrowin' ended--Death gone over.'
"Then he sings out, like his mind was all made up, 'And if he undertook
it, would he likely be turned away?'
"'And it's likelier,' George Olver answers him; 'that heaven and earth
shall pass.'
"So I'll hear it to my dyin' day--his voice a floatin' down to me from up
above thar', somewhar', askin' them questions that nobody could ever
answer like, so soon, he answered 'em for himself--and when I looked up,
thar' was Harvey, with his hammer dropped, and his mouth wide open, a
starin' up thar', and the tears rollin' down his cheeks like he was a
baby.
"They didn't sing no more, after that. They was still for about five
minutes, I calk'late. Harvey, he was still, too; but pretty soon, he
wakes up and says, 'Gad, boys! Did ye ever see sech a queer look in the
sky? I believe thar's a September gale brewin'."
"'It's a little wind storm, I reckon,' says Bachelder. Bachelder was
settin', with his legs curled up under him, mendin' sail, and he begun to
spin one o' them yarns o' hisn, with his voice pitched up middlin' high,
and the boys, they begun to laugh and cheer.
"Then Harvey says; 'I'll run up to headquarters, and find out about the
weather;' and clim' up the main-mast as limber as a squirrel, and when he
came back, thar' was Tommy's hat stickin' way up top o' the mast; so
Tommy, he promised to pay him--them two was always foolin' together, but
good-natered enough." The captain introduced this little incident, in the
midst of his narration, with a dull, pathetic gravity, "It was the last
thing we thought on, o' bein' fearful, or calk'latin' any danger. We
reckoned it was a brisk little shower comin' up, maybe, and the boys was
runnin' one another about gittin' into the cabin, and runnin' on about
the old craft.
"Then thar' come, all of a sudden, sech a strange feelin', as ef the
'arth and the water was a tremblin', and a dreadful moanin' sound runnin'
through 'em. Seemed as though it came swirlin' across the bay. Then it
bust on us in a fury.
"He was out, sorter lookin' around him, Bachelder was, and the wind took
Bachelder up, and keeled 'im over two or three times runnin'.
"Black it grew as the Jedgement day. Then come no sich rain as ever I
see, even the pourin'est, but the clouds fallin' all to once, and the
wind a scatterin' of 'em, and up on the cliffs, we could jest hear a
creakin' and a bendin' whar' the trees was turned as white as ghosts in
that 'ere blackness, and the old Bay, in sech a minute, was spinnin' into
foam.
"We was shelterin' around the old craft now, sure enough, and nobody
speakin' a word, but jest a holdin' our breaths a waitin', when, in among
them other noises, thar' come, out on the water, sech a low, dull sound
as sent the awful truth on us in a minute, and for a minute, that ar'
right hand of mine was numb.
"Then Harvey, he had hold o' me, a pintin' out, and whether he spoke a
word or not, I seen it--through wind and rain and foam, all in my eyes to
once, I seen--reelin' and tossin' and pitching out thar' on the Bay,
lost, lost for sure--I seen that fancy ship!
"Thar' wa'n't no hand on 'arth could guide it, now. Every second was like
to see it keeled squar' over, or slipped and driv' in, straight on to the
rocks.
"We're used to other'n fa'r weather along this shore. I calk'late we
ain't used to frighten at a little danger, but knowin' the sea so well,
we know the helplessness a'most o' puttin' out in sech a gale as that.
"I heered the sound. It only came but once: and Bede hissed through his
teeth, a cryin' too, a'most: 'Ain't thar' no other way to werry us, but
they must come in here to drown afore our very eyes! A fool's ventur'!
what could ye expect but a fool's end! Ef he must drown, let the
red-haired devil drown!'
"But when they heered it, them two, _him_ and George Olver, I knowed how
it would be. I hardly durst to look. I seen them flash at one another
with their great eyes, as ef it wa'n't enough to do man's work, but when
thar' come a chance, they must go act like God! I seen in jest that
flash, them two agreein' solemnly.
"Then it was all done in a minute's space, like you'll live yer life
through sometimes, in a dream. They had Bill Barlow's eight-oar ready.
They pushed us back. They'd a' gone alone, them two. I kep' the third
place. Harvey and Tommy scuffled, in a breath, and Harvey, he thrust
Tommy back, and we was off.
"God knows I never expected we'd come back again. You heern the wind. You
can calk'late what it was out thar' with the rain a drivin', and the salt
foam blowed into our eyes. I calk'late we never fetched a harder pull,
no, nor a blinder one.
"And she, the cursed thing, mad with twitchin' at her cable, lay over to
one side. But she was dyin' mad. I tell ye she was dyin' mad. Thar' was
them two a hangin' to her--thar' hadn't be'n but them. So we hauled
Rollin in, but that other one, when he seen us, the chance o' bein'
saved, it crazed him, and he sent up a quick, glad sort of a yell and
throwed his arms out straight, and back he fell, like lead, into the
water. And Rollin, crouchin' thar' and shiverin', 'He couldn't swim! He's
sunk! he's sunk!' he says. Then _he_, he ris up in a flash, and out he
dove into that hell.
"Then come another gust, a blindin', blindin', blindin'. 'He'll weather
it! He'll weather it!' George Olver kep' a mutterin', but his teeth was
set; his eyes shot through me like a tiger's--them two was brothers, and
more'n brothers, always. But when thar' come a half lull so't we could
see, and we looked out and seen him risin' on the wave, grippin' that
other one, in spite o' hope I scurse believed my eyes, and what a shout
they sent up from that boat!
"Ay, thar' they was, for sure, but--God, how fur away! Not much for
common weather, but then they looked as fur to me as 'arth from heaven.
Ef we could reach 'em afore the next sweel come; and every man, it seemed
as though he put his livin' soul into his arms. 'Pull! pull!' says
George, and seemed to git the strength of seven, but still we went too
slow. We missed _him_ at the oar. And _he_, he was the strongest swimmer
that I ever knowed, but who could live in the like o' that? We pulled for
life or death, and that brave head kep' risin' on the wave.
"Ef we could 'a' had another minute afore the next sweel come! George
Olver felt it. He sent the rope out with a giant's throw. Then it was all
and more than we could do to held the boat ag'in the wind. It come so
fast ye scurse could see them next ye in the boat. 'He's grappled it!
he's thar'! he's thar'! says they, and when they pulled it in, thar' was
that other one belt fast, and only him.
"God knows! I calk'late he made sure o' the other first, and thar' wa'n't
jest the breath's time left for him, blinded so sudden maybe, and fell
death faint. I've knowed it be so with the strongest; no wonder thar';
the wonder was in what he done. He was the strongest swimmer that I ever
knowed, the strongest and the fearlessest!
"George Olver never'll be content. He would 'a' gone in after _him_. We'd
be'n driv' a furlong back, I reckon, and every mark was lost. It 'ud be'n
naught but to swaller him, too. He lost his sense. We had to holt him
back. He raved thar', like a madman. It blew a bitter spell, longest of
all, and when it helt a bit so we could take our bearin's some'at, what
hope! What hope!
"But poor George, of a suddint he grew quiet as a lamb, and set a lookin'
out, with his hand light on the oar, as ef 'twas pleasant weather, and he
could see _him_ ridin' in thar' easy on the wave; and his eyes was fur
off and smilin', but they looked as though they died.
"Mebbe--I know no more.
"We found him arterwards. Thar' wa'n't no mark nor stain on him. You
think I talk dry-eyed. Go you and look at him. Somehow it don't leave
ary breath for cryin'. It's like as ef he knowed. It's more than
quietness, seemin' to say, for all he loved his life and fou't so hard
out thar', ter lose his own at last--givin' or losin', he never missed o'
naught! he never missed o' naught!
"I can't tell what's the thought comes nighest to ye when we look at him.
I hain't got high enough for that, but I can tell ye what's the
furderest--weepin' and sorrowin'. Since I seen him and my little Bessie
fell asleep, please God I die a half so trustful or so brave, I make no
fear o' death!"
The Captain sighed a long, ecstatic sigh and rose, the after-glow still
shining on his face. In passing through the room, he pressed something
softly into my hand.
"We found it in the breast-pocket of his coat, teacher," he said. "The
coat lay in the bottom o' the boat, and was soaked with brine. It had
your name on't."
When I unfolded it, it was the little star-fish the Cradlebow had showed
me, days before, still folded close in its delicate vine wreath.