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[Illustration: OLIVER OPTIC'S YACHT CLUB SERIES.
LITTLE BOBTAIL.
LEE & SHEPARD, BOSTON]
THE YACHT CLUB SERIES.
LITTLE BOBTAIL;
or,
THE WRECK OF THE PENOBSCOT.
BY
OLIVER OPTIC,
AUTHOR OF "YOUNG AMERICA ABROAD," "THE ARMY AND NAVY STORIES," "THE
WOODVILLE STORIES," "THE BOAT CLUB STORIES," "THE STARRY FLAG SERIES,"
"THE LAKE SHORE SERIES," ETC.
_WITH THIRTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS._
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
1875.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872,
By WILLIAM T. ADAMS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
ELECTROTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
19 Spring Lane.
TO
MY YOUNG FRIEND
_FRANK RICHARDSON_,
OF BROOKLYN, N. Y.,
This Book is Affectionately Dedicated.
The Yacht Club Series.
1. LITTLE BOBTAIL; OR, THE WRECK OF THE PENOBSCOT.
2. THE YACHT CLUB; OR, THE YOUNG BOAT-BUILDER.
(Others in preparation.)
PREFACE.
"LITTLE BOBTAIL" is the first volume of the YACHT CLUB SERIES, each book
of which will contain an entirely independent story, with a hero of its
own, and having no necessary connection with any other story. The author
hopes that this plan will commend itself to those who do not care to
follow a young gentleman through half a dozen volumes in order to know
the issue of his adventures, or to learn whether or not he is faithful
to himself, to God, and his fellow-beings to the end. God's truth is
always the same, and good characters must be very much alike. Little
Bobtail is not very different from any other hero, devoted to Truth and
Duty, though the incidents of his life are various enough to satisfy any
young person's craving for novelty.
The story was suggested by some actual incidents, which occurred during
the brief summer residence of the writer at the locality of the
principal events described. Though there was a "Little Bobtail" there,
he was hardly the character who is the hero of this work. Penobscot Bay,
its multitude of picturesque islands, and its beautiful shores, are the
same in fact as in this fiction, and as for two seasons the author has
lived upon the land and sailed upon the water, amid its beautiful
scenery, he feels quite at home in the localities mentioned.
If Little Bobtail was loose in his ideas of "smuggling" at first, he was
clear in all his other views of duty; and having corrected his wrong
impressions, his example is worthy to be followed. The writer hopes
that, while his stirring experience will be enjoyed by the reader, his
excellent character will be appreciated and valued even more than the
worldly fortune he obtains.
HARRISON SQUARE, BOSTON,
October 10, 1872.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
SIXTEEN YEARS BEFORE 11
CHAPTER II.
THE END OF A SAD STORY 29
CHAPTER III.
LITTLE BOBTAIL 47
CHAPTER IV.
THE JANTY YACHT 65
CHAPTER V.
MONKEY 81
CHAPTER VI.
CAPTAIN CHINKS 99
CHAPTER VII.
IN THE CABIN OF THE SKYLARK 117
CHAPTER VIII.
A CHANCE FOR BUSINESS 135
CHAPTER IX.
THE PENOBSCOT 153
CHAPTER X.
GRACE MONTAGUE 171
CHAPTER XI.
THE FIVE HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL 189
CHAPTER XII.
CAPTAIN CHIVES IS INDIFFERENT 207
CHAPTER XIII.
THE EXAMINATION 225
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DISCHARGE 243
CHAPTER XV.
A TRIP TO BAR HARBOR 260
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CHASE 278
CHAPTER XVII.
THE WRECK OF THE PENOBSCOT 296
CHAPTER XVIII.
ROBERT BARKESDALE MONTAGUE 313
LITTLE BOBTAIL;
OR,
THE WRECK OF THE PENOBSCOT.
CHAPTER I.
SIXTEEN YEARS BEFORE.
"If you do, Edward, you are no son of mine," said the Honorable Peter
Montague, wrathfully, to the young gentleman who stood before him with
bowed head. "If you connect yourself in any manner with the family of
Richard Medway, I will disown you; I will never speak to you; I will
never permit you to come into my presence again!"
"But, father--"
"I won't argue the matter," interposed the irate old gentleman. "You
know that Medway and I are sworn foes; that he has injured me in my
prospects, in my name, and reputation. I wouldn't forgive him if he
went down on his knees and sued for my pardon. He has injured me in that
manner and to that degree that there is no possibility of
reconciliation."
"But Mr. Medway has no such feelings towards you. He respects you, in
spite of your differences," added Edward Montague, in the gentlest of
tones.
"I don't care what his feelings are towards me. After injuring me as he
has, he can afford to be magnanimous. After robbing me of my hopes and
my reputation, he can talk very flippantly about burying the hatchet. I
tell you again there must be no relations of any kind between his family
and mine. I am astonished and indignant, Edward, to think that you
should allow yourself to be caught in any such trap."
"Trap, father!" exclaimed the young man, a slight flush of indignation
spreading over his handsome face.
"Yes, a trap, Edward," stormed Mr. Montague. "I am a rich man,--all the
world knows it,--and you are my only son. I am worth a million of
dollars, at the least,--not in book accounts and bad debts, but in real
estate, stocks, bonds, and mortgages. You are a prize in the lottery,
Edward."
[Illustration]
The old man looked at his son with a sneer on his face, which was called
forth by the thought that any one, least of all his bitter personal
enemy, should aspire to hold any relations with this paragon of wealth.
"I do not think that Sara Medway or her father covets your wealth,"
added Edward, in a very mildly deprecatory tone.
"You are nothing but a boy! you don't know the world. You have been at
your books till you are twenty-one years old, and now you are as
innocent of all knowledge of the ways of men as a child in its cradle."
"But, father, I know that Sara Medway is not an adventurer," added
Edward, who was more anxious to defend the lady implicated than himself.
"You don't know anything about it," raved the old gentleman, angered
anew by the protest of the son.
"She is as gentle as she is beautiful; and I am sure she is not capable
of thinking a mercenary thought."
"Stuff! You talk like a baby, that knows nothing of the world--that's
all."
"But you don't know her," suggested Edward, who was actually so simple
as to believe that this consideration ought to have some influence upon
the sentence of his father.
"I know her father, and that's enough. The chances are, that she is like
him. But, whether she is like him or not, there can be no relations
between his family and mine. Do you understand me, Edward?" demanded the
Honorable Mr. Montague, sternly.
"I think I do, sir."
"You think you do, you puppy!" thundered the old gentleman.
"I was not aware that you were prejudiced against Miss Medway," added
Edward, musing, as though he did not desire to understand his father.
"I hate the whole race of them, and I will have nothing to do or say to
any of them; and you shall not, either."
The young man made no reply; and silence is sometimes more impudent, and
sometimes expresses more firmness, than speech. At any rate, at this
time and under these circumstances, it indicated that Edward Montague
had a mind, a will of his own, and that, though he did not wish to
provoke his father to wrath, he intended to follow his own inclination,
rather than consult the unreasonable prejudices of his father. Whether
this was a correct interpretation of the son's purposes or not, the
father so regarded it, and his wrath increased accordingly.
"If I haven't spoken plainly enough, I will leave you no chance of
misunderstanding me. If you marry the girl, I will disown you. Can you
understand that? If you marry her, I will never see you or speak to you
again. Do you think you can understand that? If you marry her, not a
dollar of my property shall ever be yours. Do you fully comprehend me? I
mean all I say, literally and exactly. I won't leave you even the hope
of breaking my will when I am dead. I will give away every penny before
I die. I will found a hospital, or an insane asylum for just such
lunatics as you are, and every dollar I possess shall be in its coffers
before I am put in the ground. I hope you understand me, Edward."
"I think I do, sir," replied the young man, sadly.
"You _think_ you do!"
"It is not possible to misunderstand you, father; I fully understand
your views."
"Well, what have you to say?" stormed the father.
"I do not see that anything can be said."
"Your intentions?"
"Of course I can only submit."
"You begin to be sensible. You are my son, my only son, Edward," said
the old gentleman, in a milder tone. "All my hopes are in you. I have
never been hard with you."
"You have not, father."
"But I would rather lose every dollar I have in the world to-day, and
begin life anew at the age of sixty, than see you the husband of
Medway's daughter. I mean just what I say, and nothing less. It would
break my heart."
The young man wanted to say that it would break his heart not to be the
husband of Sara Medway; but he had learned to temporize and be insincere
before the unreasonable wrath of his father, and he was silent.
"You are twenty-one now. You have gone through college, and have only to
study your profession. You needn't make hard work of it, for you will
not be obliged to drudge for a living; but you may wish to go into
politics, and as a lawyer you will succeed better. You shall have all
the money you want. I have already decided to give you an allowance of
five thousand a year, and you can check it from the bank as you want it.
Go to Europe for the next year or two, if you wish; travel in your own
country first, if you like. Your health is somewhat shaken by your
confinement in college, and a couple of years' recreation will do you
good. You needn't hurry about your profession. Please yourself, Edward,
in everything except this Medway matter; and don't let me hear another
word about this girl; don't go near her; don't write to her."
The Honorable Mr. Montague, having delivered himself of his harsh
threat, and having smoothed it over in the most gingerly manner he
could, walked out of the library, where the conversation had taken
place. He evidently felt relieved, and, perhaps, thought that he had
bravely met a great responsibility, and had done his whole duty
faithfully to his son. He honestly believed that the Honorable Mr.
Medway was a villain of the blackest dye, not only politically, but
morally and socially; and, this postulate admitted, it followed, by his
narrow reasoning, that Mrs. Medway, Miss Medway, and all that related to
the fountain Medway were, utterly vile and villanous. He hated the
father, and he could not help hating the daughter.
Mr. Montague was a Whig, and Mr. Medway was a Democrat; or, Mr. Montague
was a Democrat, and Mr. Medway was a Whig; we cannot tell just how this
was; it is enough to say that they were on opposite sides in politics.
Mr. Montague was a wealthy man, and Mr. Medway was not; and both of them
were nominated for Congress in the same district, in the State of Maine.
It was a close contest, and party rancor was very bitter. Not only the
public acts, but the private lives of the candidates were criticised in
the severest manner by the opposition; and an unbiassed spectator,
believing all that was said, would have promptly concluded that both of
them were unmitigated scoundrels. Mr. Montague had a skeleton in an
almost forgotten closet, and, somehow, this skeleton stalked out into
the political arena, and perhaps frightened away some of its owner's
adherents. Perhaps it was a forgotten and repented sin; but Mr.
Montague's opponents made the most of it. Now, this gentleman, from
certain circumstances which need not be explained, was satisfied that
Mr. Medway had trotted out this skeleton and held it up as a bugbear to
the people, and he hated his rival with all his mind, heart, and soul.
The election came, and Mr. Montague was defeated by a very small
majority. He had been sure that he should be chosen, and the result
intensified his hatred of his successful opponent to a degree which made
it little short of insanity. Years hardly moderated its fervor, though
it ceased to find frequent expression. The hope of long years was
frustrated; the crown of glory and success was denied him, he firmly
believed, by the villany of his rival in exposing the skeleton in the
closet. He was a defeated candidate. The prestige was against him; and,
in the state of parties, he could not hope to be nominated again. His
enemy had overwhelmed him once and for all.
It is fair to say that Mr. Medway knew nothing about the skeleton, had
not brought it forward, and did not even believe in its existence.
The Honorable Mr. Medway went to Congress, and was once re-elected,
though he did not particularly distinguish himself as an orator or a
blackguard. He was a quiet, sensible man, who always voted on party
lines. He had a wife and one daughter, who endured Washington life for
one term, but after this preferred to spend the winters with Mrs.
Medway's sister in Brunswick. This lady's husband was a professor in the
college, and some of the students occasionally visited in his family.
Edward Montague was one of this number.
Sara Medway was a beautiful girl of his own age; and the young man,
having been absent during the political contest, and neither knowing nor
caring anything about its merits or demerits, was stupid enough to fall
in love with the professor's fair guest. He was very attentive to her,
and the affair became town talk, as such affairs usually do. His father
heard of it; but he had no opportunity to remonstrate with him in a
very decided manner until after Edward was graduated. When he went home,
the interview we have narrated occurred. The young man was confounded at
the violence of his father, and astonished to find that the old
gentleman, who had always been indulgent to the last degree, even to his
follies and vices, could be so harsh and implacable. There could be no
mistaking his father's meaning; and Edward was obliged to accept the
issue.
Mr. Medway had finished his second congressional term, and come home
with his family. Edward tried hard to obey his father, and travelled
till October. When he returned he heard with dismay that Sara Medway was
ill, and had some of the symptoms of incipient consumption. He had not
seen her for three months. Though not engaged, he was confident that she
reciprocated his affection; and his conscience smote him as he thought
his abrupt termination of their acquaintance might have affected her
health. But Edward dreaded his father's anger, while he could not wholly
resist his impulses.
One evening he stealthily called at the house of Mr. Medway, and was
cordially welcomed by all, and especially by Sara. More than ever before
he realized the depth of her affection, and traced in her looks, her
tones, and the blushes upon her pale cheek, the triumphal joy with which
she again welcomed him to her presence. He could not tell her that he
should come no more; but, while her mother left the room for a few
moments, he spoke a whole volume in a few words, and she frankly
declared her sentiments towards him. In a word, they were engaged.
Before he bade her adieu for the night, her father came home. Ho knew
his daughter's preference,--not that she had in words betrayed the
secret of her soul,--and was rejoiced to see the young man. He expressed
his satisfaction without reserve. Edward was troubled, not alone at the
prospect of losing his father's fortune, but with the fear of his
father's wrath. He dreaded the rupture that would separate the only son
from his father. Mr. Medway invited him to smoke a cigar in the library.
Edward disclosed what had passed between himself and Sara, and detailed
his interview with his father. Mr. Medway was astonished and shocked at
the unreasonableness of his late rival. He knew that Mr. Montague
disliked him, avoided him, and refused to take part in any enterprise
with him; but he had no suspicion of the depth of his hatred. He was
sorely troubled because his own presumed errors were visited upon his
innocent daughter.
Sara was sad and moody after Edward ceased so suddenly to visit her, and
her parents believed that her health had been impaired by her sorrow.
Her father hoped and believed that the return of Edward would prove to
be the panacea to restore her; and the young man's confession appalled
him. He could not counsel him to forsake fortune and family for his
daughter's sake, even while he feared that his refusal to do so would be
fatal to her. He could give no advice, though the young man asked for
it. He volunteered to conceal the fact of Edward's visit, which was
several times repeated with the same privacy.
Sara's health improved as her cheerfulness returned; but her physician
dreaded the long, cold winter. About this time appeared a volume
entitled Gan-Eden, or Pictures of Cuba, which fell into Mr. Medway's
hands. He read it, and was fully impressed with the desirableness of
Cuba as a winter residence for consumptives. He suggested the thought
to the doctor, and the result was, that Mr. Medway went to the island
with his wife and daughter. Edward saw her before her departure, and
their plighting was renewed, with the hope of meeting in the spring.
When she had gone, he was moody and discontented. A few weeks later Tom
Barkesdale, his chum in college, who resided in New Orleans, came to his
home to spend a few days. Edward and his father were courteous and
munificent hosts, and did all that was possible to make the guest happy.
He was happy, but he could not help seeing that his old college friend
was not.
"What's the matter with you, Ned?" said Tom, as they sailed in a small
yacht on the bright waters of Penobscot Bay, on one of the soft days of
the Indian summer. "You are as blue as a Yankee whetstone."
"Am I? I was not aware of it," replied Edward, shaking off his moodiness
for the moment.
"Yes, you are. If I stop talking for a moment, you sink away into a
gloomy dream. You seem to me to be half muddled. What ails you?"
"O, nothing."
"I don't believe you. You haven't seemed at all natural since I came. I
hope I'm not in the way of anything."
"Certainly not, Tom. You are never in the way."
"But, candidly and seriously, now, what ails you?"
"Nothing at all ails me, my dear fellow. If anything did, I would tell
you sooner than I would my own father."
"Not in love--are you, Ned?" added Tom, straightening up, and looking
full into the face of his friend. "By the way, where is the daughter of
that member of Congress whom you used to be sweet upon?"
"She has gone to Cuba to spend the winter," replied Edward.
"I see just how the land lies now. She has gone to Cuba for her health,
and you are pining away in solitude in the frozen north. But, Ned,
didn't you write me that the affair had slipped up, fallen through, or
something of that sort?"
"I thought it had; but I didn't know myself," replied the lover, with a
sigh.
"O, ho! I see. She's a beautiful girl. Upon my word, I envy you, Ned.
If you hadn't stepped in before me, my dear fellow, I should have fallen
into that trap myself."
"Don't say anything about a trap, Tom. You make me shudder."
"What ails you, Ned? Isn't it all smooth--the course of true love, and
all that sort of thing? Has she given you the mitten?"
"No, no. Everything is lovely so far as she is concerned."
"Is her father inimical? Does her mother dislike you, or her grandmother
frown upon your hopes?"
"No. Her father and mother are entirely satisfied to let the affair take
its course."
"Then what are you moping about?" demanded Tom.
"The opposition comes from my father," answered Edward, as he tacked the
boat, and stood off on a long stretch, evidently with the intention of
telling his friend all about it.
"What has your father to do with it?" asked Tom.
"He dislikes her father."
"But, if I understand you correctly, you don't purpose to marry her
father."
"There is an old feud, a political affair, between them. The row
occurred while I was away from home, fitting for college," added Edward,
as he proceeded to disclose his present relations with Sara Medway, and
to explain the nature and intensity of his father's opposition to the
match.
"That's awkward, Ned," said Tom. "Your governor is a hard case on a
feud."
"But in everything else he is as indulgent as he can be. I tried to be
dutiful, even in a matter of this kind; and I did not see Miss Medway
for three months. Then I heard she was ill, and my conscience reproached
me. I called to see her. I shall never forget the expression of joy she
bestowed upon me. She is as much attached to me as I am to her, and I
know that if I desert her she will die of grief."
"You have a good opinion of yourself, Ned."
"I am in earnest. I think so. I made the first advances, not she."
"I should hope not," laughed Tom.
"And for that reason I feel a sense of responsibility, in addition to my
devotion to Sara. Now you know all. What can I do?"
"Upon my word, Ned, that's a hard question; and a man must be a Solon to
advise you."
"You are the sole un who can advise me, Tom," replied Edward, with a
sickly smile.
"That's a lovesick pun. You are in a tight place. If you hold on, you
will be frozen to death; if you let go, you will be burned to death. But
I am inclined to think, my dear fellow, from what I have seen of you
since I came here, that there is still a third consideration. If you
obey your governor, the girl will die of grief; if you marry her, you
lose fortune and father; but if you retain fortune and father, you may
die of grief yourself. You are moping now; you look pale, and the
situation is wearing upon you."
"But what can I do?"
"I'll tell you. I'm going to read law this winter with Colonel Bushnel,
in New Orleans. Come with me, and we will read law together. Before
spring we shall be able to solve the problem."
The boat returned to the town. Edward liked the plan, for Louisiana was
nearer Cuba than Maine was. His father did not seriously object; and in
another fortnight both the young men were in the Crescent City.