"HARVEY BARTH, HIS DIARY."
Harvey Barth stood on the high cliff and wept; not in a poetical sense,
but cried like a little child, and the hot tears burned on his cold,
thin pale cheeks. Captain 'Siah had always used him well; the rough mate
had been kind to him; and the seamen, most of whom, like himself, were
farmers' sons, had been friendly during the three months they were
together. Even the passenger often seated himself in the galley to talk
with him, as he smoked his pipe. Now they were all gone. So far as
Harvey knew, every one of them, from the captain to the humblest seaman,
had perished, either by the bolt from the clouds or in the mad waters.
It was barely possible that the mate or passenger had escaped from the
wreck on which they had taken refuge, as they had the whale-boat with
them.
Harvey Barth, who had often told his shipmates that he had not much
longer to live, was the only one saved from the whole ship's company. It
seemed to him very strange that he should be spared while so many
stronger men had been suddenly swept away. He dared not believe that any
one else had been saved, and he could not but regard himself as a
monument of the mercy, as well as of the mysterious ways of Providence.
He thanked God from the depths of his heart that he was saved, and he
was almost willing to believe that he might yet escape the fate to which
his malady had doomed him.
The hurricane subsided almost as suddenly as it had commenced; the sea
abated its violence, and the booming thunder was heard only in the
distance. The black clouds rolled away from the westward, and the stars
sparkled in the blue sky. The steward was wet to the skin, and he
shivered with cold. Where he was he had not the least idea. On the
distant shore he could see the light-houses, but what points of land
they marked he did not know. He was on the solid land, and that was the
sum total of his information. He was well nigh worn out by the
exertions and the excitement of the evening, but, turning his back to
the treacherous ocean which had swallowed up all his friends, he walked
as rapidly as his strength would admit, in order to warm himself by the
exercise. From the cliffs the land sloped upward, but he soon reached
the top of the hill, on which he paused to take an observation. From the
point where he stood there was a much sharper descent before him than on
the side by which he had come up. At the foot of the hill he saw two
lights, then a sheet of water, and beyond a multitude of lights
indicating a considerable village.
The nearest light appeared not to be over half a mile distant, and the
pale moon came out from behind the piles of black clouds to guide his
steps. The cold north-west wind had begun to blow, and it chilled the
wanderer to his very bones. He quickened his steps down the declivity,
and soon reached a rude, one-story dwelling, at the door of which he
knocked. He saw the light in the house, but no one answered his summons,
and he repeated it more vigorously than before. Then a window was
cautiously thrown open a few inches.
"Who's there?" asked a woman.
"A stranger," replied Harvey, shivering with cold, so that he could
hardly utter the words.
"My husband's over to the village, and I can't let no strangers in at
this time of night," added the woman.
"I've been cast away on the coast, and I'm really suffering," drawled
the steward, in broken sentences.
"Cast away!" exclaimed the wife of the man who was over at the village,
as she dropped the sash.
The terrible storm which had spent its fury upon sea and land was enough
to convince her that men might have been shipwrecked; and this was not
the first time that those treacherous ledges off High Rock, as the cliff
was called, had shattered a good vessel. The woman hastened to the door,
and threw it wide open. The pale, shivering form of Harvey Barth, the
overcoat he wore still dripping with water, was enough to satisfy her
that the visitor had no evil intentions.
"Come in," said she; and when the steward saw the comfortable room in
the house, he required no second invitation. "Why, you are shivering
with cold!"
"Yes marm; I'm not very well, and getting wet don't agree with me,"
replied Harvey, his teeth still chattering.
The room to which he was shown was the parlor, sitting-room, and kitchen
of the cottage. On the hearth was a large cooking-stove, in which the
woman immediately lighted a fire. She piled on the dry wood till the
stove was full, and in a few moments the room was as hot as the oven of
the stove.
"It's no use," said the housekeeper, who had seated herself to rock the
cradle; "you are wet through to your skin; and you can't get warm till
you put on dry clothes."
She went to a closet and took out her husband's Sunday clothes a woolen
undershirt, and a pair of thick socks. Harvey thought of Paradise when
he saw them, for he was so chilled that to be warm again seemed to him
the climax of earthly joy. The woman laid them on the bed in an
adjoining chamber, and then begged him to put them on. He needed no
urging, and soon his trembling limbs were encased in the warm, dry
clothes. The coat and pants were much too short for him, but otherwise
they fitted very well. When he came out of the chamber, with his wet
clothes in his hands, he found a cup of hot tea on the table waiting for
him.
"Now drink this," said his kind host. "It will help to warm you up; and
I will put your things where they will dry."
Harvey drank the tea, and the effect was excellent. A short time before
the stove restored the warmth to his body, and he began to feel quite
comfortable.
"I feel good now," said he, with a sickly smile. "I'm really a new man."
"Now I wish you would tell me about the wreck," added the woman, as she
rocked the cradle till it was a heavy sea for the baby, which threatened
it with shipwreck.
"Certainly; I'll tell you all about it," replied Harvey.
He started his story at the West India Islands; but, with his drawl and
his hacking cough, he made slow progress. He had not reached the coast
of Maine when the woman's husband arrived. Of course he was astonished
to find a stranger so comfortably installed in his house; but when his
wife explained who the steward was, he became as hospitable and friendly
as his wife had been.
"This is my husband, John Carter," said the woman, as the man of the
house seated himself at the stove.
"My name is Harvey Barth," added the shipwrecked. "I was cook and
steward of the brig Waldo; but she is gone to pieces now."
"Sho! you don't say so!" exclaimed John Carter. "Why, I made a voyage to
Savannah myself in the Waldo, before I was married!"
"You will never make another in her. She broke into two pieces, which
rolled over and went to the bottom," added Harvey.
"You don't say so! Was Captain Barnwood in her?"
"Yes, he was. Cap'n 'Siah, as we all called him--"
"So did we," interposed John Carter, with a smile.
"Cap'n 'Siah was as nice a man as ever trod a quarter-deck."
"So he was."
"He's gone now," sighed Harvey.
"Was he lost?"
"Yes sir; he was knocked stiff by the lightning, with half a dozen
others."
"Sho! Was the brig struck by lightning?"
"She was. It came down the mainmast and knocked the wheel into a
thousand pieces. When the steering-gear gave out, we couldn't do
anything more. I'm the only one of twelve men and a passenger that was
saved."
Harvey Barth commenced his story anew, when the astonishment of John
Carter had abated a little, and gave all the particulars of the voyage
and the wreck and all the details of his personal history since he kept
school in "York State." It was midnight when he had finished, and the
details were discussed for an hour afterwards. Mrs. Carter had brought
on more hot tea, with pie and cheese, and other eatables, which the
steward had consumed in large quantities, for one of the features of his
malady was a ravenous appetite. John Carter, who had been detained at
the village by the violence of the storm, was as hospitable as any one
could be, and Harvey slept that night in the best bed in the house.
After breakfast the next morning he brought out the oil-cloth which
contained his diary. He had carefully concealed it when he changed his
clothes, and he was now anxious to know whether it had escaped serious
injury in the storm. He unfolded the oil-cloth before John Carter and
his wife. To his great satisfaction, he found it unharmed by the floods
of water which had drenched him. The water-proof covering had secured it
even from any dampness.
Harvey opened the book at a certain place, and exhibited between the
leaves a thin pile of bank notes--the whole of his worldly wealth, for,
as the Waldo was a total loss, the wages that were due him on account of
the voyage were gone forever. But there was fifty-two dollars between
the leaves of the diary. He had come from home with a good stock of
clothing, and had saved nearly all he had earned, including his advance
for the West India voyage. At Havana Mr. Carboy had the misfortune to
lose his watch overboard, and, as he needed one, Harvey had sold him
his--a very good silver one--for twenty-five dollars.
"Now Mr. Carter, I want to pay you for what I've had," drawled Harvey,
as he opened the diary, and exposed his worldly wealth.
"Pay me!" exclaimed John Carter, with something like horror in his tones
and expression; "take any money from a brother sailor who has been
wrecked! I don't know where you got such a bad opinion of me, but I
would starve to death, and then be hung and froze to death, before I'd
take a cent from you!"
"I am willing to pay for what I've had, and I shall be very much obliged
to you besides," added Harvey.
"Not a red. Put up your money. I don't feel right to have you offer it,
even," said the host, turning away his head.
"I've always paid my way so far; but I don't know how much longer I
shall be able to do so. I'm very thankful to you and Mrs. Carter for
what you've done, and I shall write it all down in my diary as soon as I
get a chance."
"You are welcome to all we've done; and we only wish it had been more,"
replied Mrs. Carter.
"I don't think I shall go to sea any more," added Harvey, gloomily. "I
have friends in York State, and I have money enough to get back there.
That's all I want now. If you will tell me how I can get to New York,
I'll be moving on now. I haven't got long to stay in this world, and I
mean to spend the rest of my days where I was born and brought up."
"A steamer comes over to the village about three times a week, and she
will be over to-day or to-morrow. I will row you over if you say so; but
I shall be glad to take care of you as long as you will stay here."
"I'm much obliged to you; but I think I had better go over this
forenoon."
Half an hour later the steward shook hands with Mrs. Carter and bade her
adieu. John pulled him across the river, as it was called,--though it
was more properly a narrow bay, into which a small stream flowed from
the high lands farther inland. The village was called Rockhaven, and was
a place of considerable importance. It had two thousand tons of fishing
vessels; but the granite quarries in the vicinity were the principal
sources of wealth to the place Latterly Rockhaven, which was
beautifully situated on high land overlooking the waters of the lower
bay, had begun to be a place of resort for summer visitors.
The western extremity of the village extended nearly to the high cliffs
on the sea-shore, and the situation was very romantic and picturesque.
The fishing was the best in the bay, and the rocks were very attractive
to people from the city. The harbor had deep water at any time of tide.
For a summer residence, the only disadvantage was the want of suitable
hotels or boarding-houses. Of the former there were two, of the most
homely and primitive character, and not many of the inhabitants who had
houses suitable for city people were willing to take boarders.
John Carter pulled his passenger across the harbor, and walked with him
to the Cliff House, near the headlong steeps which bounded the village
on the west. He introduced him to Peter Bennington, the landlord, and
told his story for him.
"I am sorry for you," said Mr. Bennington.
"O, I've got money enough to pay my bill," interposed Harvey Barth, who
had a sufficiency of honest pride, and asked nothing for charity's sake.
The landlord showed him to a room, after he had shaken hands with and
bidden adieu to John Carter, it was not the best room in the house, but
it was neat and comfortable. Harvey inquired about the steamer to
Rockland, and was told that she would probably come the next day, and
return in the afternoon. The steward made himself comfortable, and ate a
hearty dinner when it was ready. In the afternoon he borrowed a pen and
ink, and began to write out a full account of the wreck of the Waldo. He
wrote a large, round hand, which was enough to convince any one who saw
it that he was or had been a schoolmaster. He worked his pen slowly and
carefully, but he entered so minutely into the details of the disaster
that he had not half finished the narrative when the supper bell rang.
Harvey did not resume the task again that day; he was too weary to do
so. That night he was ill and feverish, and in the morning had an attack
of bleeding at the lungs. The landlord sent for the doctor, but the
patient was not able to leave in the steamer, which went in the
afternoon. The landlord's wife nursed him carefully and kindly, and in a
week he began to improve. He had no further attack of bleeding, and he
began to hope that he should live to get home. As soon as he was able to
sit up in the bed, he resumed the writing up of the diary.
But we must leave him in his chamber thus occupied, to introduce the
most important character of our story.
He was a rather tall and quite stout young fellow of sixteen. He was
dressed in homely attire, what there was of it, for he wore no coat, and
his shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, in order, apparently,
to give his arms more freedom. He was as tawny as the sailors of the
Waldo had been, tanned by the hot suns of the West Indies. He had just
come down the river from the principal wharf, at the head of which was
the fish market--a very important institution, where the product of the
sea formed a considerable portion of the food of the people. The boat in
which he sailed was an old, black, dingy affair, which needed to be
baled out more than once a day to keep her afloat. The sail was almost
as black as the hull, and had been patched and darned in a hundred
places. The skipper and crew of this unsightly old craft was Leopold
Bennington, the only son of the landlord of the Cliff House, though he
had three daughters.
Leopold carried the anchor of his boat far up on the rocks above the
beach, and thrust one of the arms down into a crevice, where it would
hold the boat. Taking from the dingy boat a basket which was heavy
enough to give a considerable curve to his spine as he carried it, he
climbed up the rocks to the street which extended along the shore of the
river for half a mile. On the opposite side of it was the Cliff House.
His father stood on the piazza of the house as the young man crossed the
street.
"Well, Leopold, what luck had you to-day?" asked Mr. Bennington, as his
son approached.
"First rate, father," replied the young man, as his bronzed face lighted
up with enthusiasm.
"What did you get?" asked the landlord.
"Mackerel."
"Mackerel!" exclaimed mine host, his face in turn lighting up with
pleasure.
"Lots of them, father."
"We have hardly seen a mackerel this year yet. I never knew them to be
so scarce since I have been on this coast."
"There hasn't been any caught before these for a month, and then only a
few tinkers," added Leopold, as he removed the wet rock-weed with which
he had covered the fish to protect them from the sun. "They are handsome
ones, too."
"So they are--number ones every one of them, and some extra," said the
landlord, as he raised the fish with his hand so that he could see them.
"They were the handsomest lot of mackerel I ever saw," continued the
young fisherman, his face glowing with satisfaction. "I brought up three
dozen for you, and sold the rest. I made a good haul to-day."
"Three dozen will be all we can use in the house, as big as those are.
Two dozen would have been enough; we don't have many people here now.
But where did you get them?"
"Just off High Rock, where the Waldo was wrecked. I fished within a
cable's length of the Ledges. I don't know but the sugar and molasses
from the brig drew the mackerel around her," laughed Leopold, as he took
an old black wallet from his pocket.
"Were there any other boats near you?" asked the prudent landlord.
"Not another one; folks are tired of trying for mackerel, and have given
it up. I didn't expect to find any, but I happened to have my jigs in
the boat; and for an hour I worked three of them as lively as any fellow
ever did, I can tell you."
"Did they ask you at the fish market where you got them?"
"They did; but I didn't tell them," laughed the young man. "The mackerel
fetched a good price. I counted off three hundred and twenty-four at ten
cents apiece, and wouldn't take any less. They are scarce, and I saw
them selling the fish at twenty cents apiece; so they will make as much
as I do. Here is the money--thirty-two dollars and forty cents."
[Illustration: HARVEY BARTH, HIS DIARY. Page 65.]
"Keep it yourself, my boy. You shall have all you make, as long as you
don't spend it for candy and nonsense. Now go up and see the sick man.
He may want something, and all the folks have been busy this afternoon."
The landlord took the basket of fish and put them on the ice, while
Leopold went up to Harvey Barth's chamber. The sick man did not want
anything. He was sitting up in the bed, with his diary and a pen in his
hands, while the inkstand stood on the little table with the medicine
bottles.
"There," said Harvey to Leopold, who had been a frequent attendant
during his sickness, "I have just finished writing up this date; and it
contains the whole story of the wreck of the Waldo, and all that
happened on board of her during the voyage."
"What is it? what are you writing, Mr. Barth?" asked the young man.
Harvey opened the book at the blank leaf in the beginning, and turned it
towards his visitor.
"Harvey Barth. His diary," Leopold read. "I see; you keep a diary."
"I do. I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that book, poor as I am,"
added Harvey, as he closed the volume and laid the pen on the table.
"Shall I put it away for you?" asked Leopold.
"No; thank you; I'll take care of it myself," he replied as he proceeded
to fold the book in its oil-cloth cover.
When Leopold had left the room, Harvey Barth enclosed the book in an old
newspaper, and, getting out of bed, thrust the package up the flue of
the little fireplace in the room, placing it on some projecting shelf or
jamb which he had discovered there. He was very careful of the book, and
seemed to be afraid some one might open it while he was asleep.
Doubtless the diary contained secrets he was not willing others should
discover; and certainly no one would think of looking in the flue of the
fireplace for it.