_THE WRECKED SCHOONER_
The great boat lay almost against the road. As the buckboard sped by
she loomed above it in the gathering dusk, menacing and mountainous.
Her broken bowsprit swung over the wagon and creaked in the breeze
that had just sprung up. Directly below the bowsprit was a carved
figurehead, larger than life and clearly outlined against the dull gray
of the ship. Sea and rain had washed away the figure’s paint and worn
the wood bone-white. It represented a demon nailed to the battered
prow, its wide ugly grin and blank eyes peering almost into Ann’s face
as the buckboard passed beneath. Ann was on the side of the wagon which
was closer and could have touched the face if she had reached out her
hand to do so. Helen gave a little shriek of fright at sight of the
thing and Ann felt the cry echoing in her brain as if she had been the
one who called out.
Instinctively she dodged back against Jo, and felt that his muscles
were tense against the tightened reins in his hands.
Jerry needed no urging; with his back flattened down he ran, swinging
his heavy feet swiftly as he mounted the hill toward the house. Ann
glanced up from the strong brown hands holding the reins and saw that
Jo was staring straight ahead as though he had not looked at the
figurehead as he went by and was determined not to turn and look back
at it afterward.
They were past, but as they went up the hill the evening wind suddenly
grew stronger and sighed through the weatherworn boards that covered
the schooner’s hull, and the rattling of their loose ends was like the
sound of clapping hands.
What was this old boat, and why did it impress them so? And yet Ann did
not feel like asking Jo about it. She wished that her father would say
something to quiet this fear that had come over her so suddenly. She
never before had felt anything like this strange impression that the
schooner was more than just a plain ordinary boat cast up on a narrow
strip of beach.
As though Mr. Seymour had read her mind he asked Jo, “Where did that
schooner come from? She wasn’t here last summer when I was down.”
“No, sir.” Jo had trouble in making his stiff lips move. “She came in
on a blizzard the winter past and stove up on the pond rocks.”
“Whose boat was she? What is her name?”
“She had no cargo on board,” said Jo slowly, as if he did not wish to
say anything about it. “She had no log either. And the waves were so
heavy that her name plate was gone and never came ashore.”
“But wasn’t there somebody on board to tell you who she was?”
“A man had no chance to live in the sea the day she came in,” explained
Jo. “Four of the crew were washed ashore the next day, but they carried
no papers and nobody claimed them. None of the folks wanted to bury
them down in the village churchyard so pop and I put them up back of
the barn where grandpop lies. It didn’t seem right not to give them a
bit of ground to lie in, even though we didn’t know what brought them
in here.”
Mrs. Seymour exclaimed indignantly, “I never heard of anything so
inhuman! Do you really mean that the people in the village refused to
bury those poor shipwrecked sailors in the cemetery? Jo! Not here in a
civilized land?”
“You couldn’t blame the folks,” apologized Jo.
But evidently Mrs. Seymour was quite positive that she could, and Ann
agreed with her most thoroughly.
Jerry had stopped running. He was going uphill and besides they were
almost home now, but Jo had time to say, “Nobody ever claimed the boat.
I guess nobody owns her. And not even the sea wants her you can make
that out by the way it threw her away up here by the road, just as if
it wanted to be free of her. Only the flood tides reach her now.”
They had reached the house as Jo talked, and he jumped down from his
seat with his face still grim and set. And then everything changed,
for the house door was flung open with a flood of lamplight over the
doorstep and there stood Fred Bailey, Jo’s father.
“Come right in,” he called, striding to meet them. “Don’t mind that
stuff, Mr. Seymour. We’ll take it in for you.”
Ann liked Fred Bailey almost as much as she had liked Jo. As soon as
she saw him standing there, tall and thin and gangling in his rough
clothes, a fisherman and a farmer, all thoughts of the strange wrecked
ship were forgotten. Here was some one who made her feel at home, some
one who was strong and trustworthy and honest as the good brown earth
and the mighty cliffs.
Mr. Seymour had rented the Bailey house and Jo and his father had moved
into the barn for the summer. So presently, when the baggage had been
brought in and when Mr. Bailey had shown Mrs. Seymour where things were
in the pantry and the kitchen and the woodshed and where the linen and
blankets were kept, he and Jo went off to their summer quarters leaving
the Seymours alone.
Provisions had been sent from the village store and Ann and her mother
found the shelves well stocked with all kinds of food, with big barrels
of sugar, flour, and potatoes stored under the shelf in the pantry.
After they had studied the workings of the kerosene stove they cooked
the first meal over it, and Ann loved just such an opportunity to show
how much she knew about cooking. Ben was ready to admit that she could
boil potatoes expertly when she didn’t forget and let the water boil
away. As there was plenty of water this time, and as Mrs. Seymour knew
how to cook the steak deliciously in a hot pan, and as Fred Bailey had
left them a batch of soft yellow biscuits, the hungry travelers were
very well off indeed this evening.
Mr. Seymour was already gloating over the work he meant to do this
summer. “That boat is a find I didn’t expect. I’ll start sketching her
the first thing in the morning. Just think of having a cottage with a
wrecked schooner right in the front yard.”
“I don’t like that boat,” said Helen. Her lips twisted as though she
were going to cry. “It has such big round eyes that stare at you.”
Her mother laughed. “You must have been sleepy when you passed the
boat. That was only the figure of a man cut out of wood. The eyes
didn’t belong to anybody who is actually alive.”
“I don’t know about that, mother,” Ben said soberly. “I saw the eyes,
too, and I was wide-awake, for I pinched myself to make sure. Those
eyes made little holes right through me when they looked down at me.
They were looking at me, really, and not at Helen.”
“They were looking at me!” Helen insisted. “And I don’t like that ship!
I want to go home to Boston.”
Mr. Seymour looked at her in astonishment. “Come, come, my dear child,
you mustn’t let a thing like that frighten you. It is strange and
grotesque but that only makes it more interesting. I’ll tell you about
figureheads. The sailors think of the ship’s figurehead as a sort of
guardian spirit that watches over the boat and protects it during
storms. Even if it were alive it wouldn’t hurt you because it was
created only to protect. But it isn’t alive, Helen, it is made out of
wood. I’ll go with all of you to-morrow and let you touch it and then
you will never be afraid of it again.”
“Do they always put figureheads on big boats, father?” asked Ann. She
would not have been willing to admit that she, too, had those eyes upon
her and had thought they seemed very much alive.
“No, not always,” Mr. Seymour explained. “Sometimes the portion over
the cutwater of a ship is finished off with scrollwork, gilded and
painted. Modern steamers don’t have them now, very often, but the
deep-sea men who are on a sailing vessel months at a time like to feel
that they have a figurehead to watch and care for them while they are
asleep. The owners decide what it will be, and give directions to the
builders. That is, if they name a boat after a man they will carve
a statue of him for the bow, or else they will choose a saint or an
old-time god, like Neptune, who was once supposed to rule over the
sea. Sometimes they will have a mermaid, because mermaids are gay and
dancing and will make the ship travel more swiftly; no sea could drown
a mermaid. When a sailing ship makes a safe passage through storm and
peril and brings the sailors home happy and well, they are very likely
to believe that the figurehead has had as much to do with it as the
captain with his real knowledge of navigation and charts.”
“It is a mascot, then?” said Ben.
“Yes, a sort of mascot,” his father assented. “And some of the old
figureheads are beautifully made, real works of art. When he retired,
many a sea captain took the figurehead from his ship and nailed it over
the door of his home, for he felt a real affection for it. Perhaps he
thought that since Neptune had taken such good care of the ship at sea
he was entitled to the same enjoyment and rest ashore that the captain
had earned.”
Mr. Seymour seemed to feel that everything was clear now, but Ann was
not satisfied.
“This ship did not get home safely,” she said in a half whisper.
“No, it didn’t,” her father assented. He was perfectly frank in
admitting that even the best of figureheads failed when storms were too
heavy or when sailors made mistakes in calculating the force of wind
and currents. “But that would not be the fault of the figurehead. I am
sure we shall learn that the captain lost track of where he was and
came in too close to shore.”
Ann’s doubts showed in her face. “But the crew and cargo have
disappeared.”
“You mustn’t be superstitious, Ann. There is always a logical
explanation for everything that seems strange and unnatural. There
must be a good reason why that boat had no cargo and probably we shall
learn all about her this summer before we go back to Boston. Some of
the people about here may know more than they care to admit and have
purposely kept it secret from Jo and Mr. Bailey.”
“Wouldn’t it be fun if we could find out all about her!” Her father’s
calm confidence had reassured Ann; her father must be right and she
didn’t want to be silly and timid. Never before had she felt the least
bit afraid of anything.
Ben had been thinking. “Just exactly what does it mean to be
superstitious, dad?” he asked.
“If you try to make yourself believe that the wooden figure out there
is alive, or if you are willing to accept any one else’s belief in such
nonsense, you will be superstitious and not intelligent. For instance,
you may think you see something, or hear something, and not be able to
explain what it is immediately. If instead of working to learn a true
explanation you remember the incident as it first impressed you----”
“Like thinking a mouse at night is a burglar,” Ann interrupted.
“That is it exactly,” said Mr. Seymour. “Take that figurehead of a
demon on the boat; we passed by it just at twilight when it couldn’t be
seen as plainly as in full sunlight, and because the face was leaning
toward us, with shadows moving over it, it gave you the impression that
the thing was alive and watching you. To-morrow when the sun comes out
you will go back to look at it and see that it is only a wooden statue,
while if we should go home to-night, as Helen wishes, you children
would remember it all your lives as something evil. And in that case
you would be permitting yourselves to grow superstitious instead of
taking this as an opportunity for the exercise of honest thinking and
intelligent observation.”
“Is Jo superstitious?” asked Ben abruptly.
“Jo is too sensible to be superstitious,” answered his father.
“But Jo is afraid of that boat! I saw his face when we went past. And
even Jerry was afraid. He ran.”
Mr. Seymour glanced quickly across the table to where his wife sat
between Ann and Helen. Ann saw the look that passed between him and
her mother and realized that they both were worried. They did not want
Helen and Ben to go on thinking about the boat, nor did they want the
children to know that they, too, had felt the strangeness of that gray
broken boat and that grinning face.
Ann believed with her father that this was nothing more than an old
wooden sailing vessel thrown on the shore by a great storm. Where had
it come from, and for what port was it bound? Where were the families
who were waiting for their men to come home to them? Were there
children who thought that their father would come back in a few weeks,
now that good weather had made the seas safe? Were there mothers who
believed that their sailor sons would soon be home? How anxious they
must be, waiting all this time since last winter. Something ought to
be done about letting them know the truth. It was tragic, and it was
romantic, too.
And if there was a mystery attached to the ship that mystery could be
explained by a detective or by any one else who had the courage and
determination to find out what was at the bottom of this strangeness.
Her father had said there was a reason for everything that was queer
and uncanny. If only she were brave enough to face that grinning
demon! Should she be sensible, or should she let herself be weak and
unintelligent? Intelligent, that was what father wanted them all to be,
it was his favorite expression, “Be intelligent.”
The others began to chatter about other things while they were
finishing supper and washing the dishes afterward, but although
Ann took part in the work and the jokes and laughter and all the
anticipations of a great time to-morrow, she could think in the back of
her mind of nothing but the ship. If Jo would help them, she and Ben
would try to find out all about the wreck. It would be much more fun
than hunting imaginary Indians and bears in the woods.
After supper had been cleared away and the sweet old kitchen put in
order, all the Seymours trooped through every room in the house,
patting the wide soft feather beds that stood so high from the floor
that a little flight of steps was needed to climb into them.
“A tiny stepladder beside my bed!” exclaimed Helen. “What fun! I love
this house.”
The unaccustomedness of the quaint old furniture, the wide floor boards
polished with age, the small-paned windows, the bulky mahogany chests
of drawers that smiled so kindly as they waited for the children’s
clothes to be unpacked, all these things crowded the ship out of
Helen’s mind. She went to bed perfectly happy.
“Don’t you fall out,” called Ben from his room, “because if you should
you’d break your leg, probably, you’re so high.”
“I couldn’t fall out,” Helen called back. “You wait until you try
your bed. It seemed high before I got in, but I sank away down and
down into a nest; I think I’ll pretend I am a baby swan to-night with
billows of my mother swan’s feathers all about me to keep me warm. I
never slept in such a funny bed, but I like it!”
And then Helen’s voice trailed off into silence.
In each room the Seymours found a lamp trimmed and filled ready for
use, with its glass chimney as spotlessly clear as the glass of a
lighthouse.
“How kind the Baileys are!” exclaimed Mrs. Seymour gratefully. “I don’t
feel as if we were renting this house; Jo and his father seem like old
friends already.”
This time it was Ann and her father who exchanged a quick glance, a
flash of understanding and satisfaction. Impulsively Ann threw her
arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her. Her mother should have a
chance to rest here, if Ann’s help could make it possible, dear mother
who still looked so pale and tired after the long weeks of nursing
Helen and bringing her back to health.
“I knew that you’d like the Baileys,” said Mr. Seymour.
“Jo is an unusually nice boy, isn’t he, father?” Ann had already grown
attached to him.
“He certainly is,” Mr. Seymour agreed heartily. “And I know that you
will like him even better as you become better acquainted. His father
couldn’t get along without Jo. He does a man’s work on the farm and
helps bring in the lobsters every morning.”
“I’m going to be just like him,” Ben called from his bed in the next
room. Jo’s sturdy strength and the simple unconscious way the boy used
it had fired Ben’s imagination.
“Nothing could make me happier than to have you as well and strong as
he is, when we go away next fall,” answered Mr. Seymour.
With supper and the lamplight and the homely charm of the old house,
the atmosphere of uncanny strangeness had vanished, but after Ann had
blown out her lamp, just before she was ready to climb the steps to her
bed, she went to the window and peered through the darkness toward the
wrecked ship.
And as she looked a flickering light passed across the deck.
She must be mistaken. It was a firefly. No, there it was again, as
though a man walked carrying a swinging lantern with its wick no bigger
than a candle flame. He passed the bow, and the glow swung across the
figure of the demon.
Was it Jo or his father? That was Ann’s first thought, but she wanted
to make sure. From a second window in her room, across a corner, she
could see the windows of the barn which the Baileys had made into a
living room, and she leaned far out to see clearly. Jo was there. He
was talking to some one at the back of the room.
If Jo and his father were talking together, who could be prowling
around the boat? She crossed the room to look again at the schooner.
And as she watched, the bright pin prick of light disappeared; the
lantern had been carried behind some opaque object that hid it.
“What’s up, Ann?” Ben stirred restlessly in the adjoining room. “It
will be morning before you get to bed.”
“Oh, I was looking out of the window. The stars are so bright in Maine!”
“Ann! What do you think about that ship? I feel as if ghosts lived on
her.”
Ann climbed her little flight of steps and slid down between upper
sheet and feathers.
“Nonsense,” she called to Ben. “Ghosts don’t carry lanterns.”
“What?” Ben’s voice sounded much more awake. “What did you say, Ann?”
“I said I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Ann slid farther into her feather nest and promptly went to sleep.