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WHEN THE COCK CROWS
By WALDRON BAILY
_Author of "Heart of the Blue Ridge," "The Homeward Trail," etc._
ILLUSTRATED BY
G. W. GAGE
NEW YORK
BEDFORD PUBLISHING CO.
1918
Copyright 1918, by
BEDFORD PUBLISHING CO.
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
TO
Hon. Josephus Daniels
As a token of the author's admiration and respect,
for one who in the greatest crisis in
history has demonstrated to the public
those qualities of courage, determination
and achievement that his
friends have always
known him to
possess.
[Illustration: He bore her with what haste he could to the landing and
gently placed her within the blankets.]
CONTENTS
I. ICHABOD'S ISLAND
II. AMONG THE BREAKERS
III. A NEW CALAMITY
IV. UNDER THE AFTER AWNING
V. A PRISONER OF MORPHIA
VI. HUNTING A CLUE
VII. STORMBOUND
VIII. THE EFFICIENCY OF CLAM-BROTH
IX. ONCE IN A LIFETIME
X. EYES FROM THE DEEP
XI. THE AWAKENING OF ICHABOD
XII. TOWARD THE UNKNOWN
XIII. AMONG THE FISHERFOLK
XIV. GARNET THE HERO
XV. ADRIFT WITH A MADMAN
XVI. THE COMING-OUT PARTY
XVII. STRANGERS AT ICHABOD'S ISLAND
XVIII. THE CALL OF THE DARK
XIX. BOTTLED UP
XX. THE TRUTH UNALLOYED
XXI. SEALED ORDERS
XXII. THE PARTING CROW
XXIII. THE SEARCH UP THE SHORE
XXIV. A GENTLEMAN'S PROMISE
XXV. DOING HIS BIT
List of Illustrations
He bore her with what haste he could to the landing and gently placed
her within the blankets.
She sat down and stared eagerly.
Van Dusen unpinned the note, opened it, and read aloud.
WHEN THE COCK CROWS
CHAPTER I
ICHABOD'S ISLAND
The tide was at ebb. The noisily rushing spume-spotted waters of the sea
were pounding the hard-sand shore of the easterly side of a beautiful
island, nestling as a jewel in its setting just within the Capes, which
form the shores on either side of Beaufort Inlet, but so exposed that
when the winds blow from the sea the full force of the breakers is felt
at this point. As this small bit of land is low-lying, more than once
when a southeaster has raged, the tiny isle has become entirely
submerged.
Man has placed but one habitation upon this toy of the great waters, and
that a fisherman's shack, surrounded with the usual net-drying racks and
other crude tools of the fisherfolk. One would rightly guess that the
occupant of an abode built upon such a tiny bit of old mother earth must
be a hardy customer, who understood the ways of the winds and sea and
who dared combat them.
It is sunrise. The door of the hut swings on its heavy hinges. A
sturdy-looking old fellow with grizzled beard and flowing locks steps
out of the shack, and, as has been his wont for years, he scans the
horizon for a sail or perchance for other more modern craft of the sea.
In his arms, he is tenderly carrying a large Dominick rooster, which,
judging from his length of spurs, and scaly legs, has lingered many
summers. Satisfying himself that there is no boat in sight, to break the
monotony of the view, Captain Ichabod places his only living
companion--as he expresses it, his poultry alarm clock--upon the ground,
and from a pocket produces a handful of corn, which the old cock
greedily devours.
These two have been companions for a long time. Captain Ichabod found
him one morning perched upon the top of a floating crate, washed from
the deck of a schooner that had gone upon the beach in a booming
southeaster. The Captain had proved a life-saver indeed to the proud old
bird. Ichabod, when he first spied Shrimp, as he afterward named this
bit of flotsam, was wildly anxious to save the creature so it might have
a life on shore suited to its nature and desires. Then it flashed upon
him that his antiquated and well-worn alarm clock had ceased to work. It
occurred to him that the rooster's crowing would suffice to advise him
of the hour, and that there would be no need to buy another clock.
The Captain was a woman-hater. This fact accounted for his choosing to
live as a hermit on the bit of sand, which he had grown to love. But
that loneliness was a trial to Shrimp, who naturally desired a harem of
his own. Many times, when the wind was from the mainland, Captain
Ichabod had heard the far-away crow of a barnyard fowl, and had gravely
and criticizingly listened as Shrimp returned the salute in lusty
manner. He had seen the bird swell in rage, and his comb turn red in
jealous envy of the other rooster on the mainland.
Captain Ichabod had now come to busying himself with fishing by hook and
line for blue fish and sheepshead. In addition he set a line of gill
nets in the cove for mullet or any other fish that might become
entangled within their meshes. On all his excursions Shrimp accompanied
his master. He would perch himself proudly upon the center-board box.
More than once, before becoming a seasoned sailor, he had failed to
dodge the boom to which the little leg o' mutton sail was attached, and
had been knocked from his perch when Uncle Ichabod for a joke let the
boat jibe in a flaw of the wind. But Shrimp learned. He learned to dodge
the boom. He became, under stress of circumstances, an expert
sailor--and was never seasick.
When Shrimp had finished his meal, Ichabod addressed the mangy-looking
bird very gravely:
"Shrimp, thar hain't nary sail nor steamer smoke in sight off the Capes
and I 'low thar has a dozen skippers seen that-thar same mare's tail as
did I last night, and has had the good common sense to haul to in the
hook o' the Cape ter ride out the blow that is sure ter come. May the
sarpants o' Davy Jones' have mercy on him or her as don't take kivver;
me an' you, rooster, 'll have ter do our hook an' linin' in the Spar
Channel on this ebb fer so soon as she hauls a leetle more to the
south'ard thar is goin' ter be hell kicked up in the Inlet an' me and
yo', ole feathers an' comb, had better do our anglin' clost enough that
we can shoot inter this home harbor without loosin' o' our rag."
Captain Ichabod busied himself with getting his leads and lines in
shape. He cut up a half-dozen mullets for bait. Then he picked up the
mast, around which was wrapped a patchwork of canvas, very snugly. It
felt at home there for it had been thus rolled around the mast time and
again through many years. Captain Ichabod now walked to the red skiff.
At his heels Shrimp stalked with great dignity. The Captain stepped the
mast, arranged the halyards, and pushed off. The sail caught the wind
and Captain Ichabod at the tiller was off for the Spar Channel fishing
grounds.
When he had arrived and thrown his anchor overboard, the Captain
addressed Shrimp with much solemnity.
"Shrimp, ye air a heap o' company to the ole man, but ye wa'n't built by
God A'mighty fer a sailin' mate, all he fixed ye fer was to peck an'
scratch an' fight--oh, yes, an' I like ter forgot the crow."
Then nonchalantly he remarked:
"An' thar would be a heap more peace in the world to-day if he had o'
built all kinds o' _Hens_ without thar tarnation cackle."
When Captain Icky mentioned the word cackle he thought he could detect a
dejected look upon the countenance of his feathered friend, and in a
sympathetic voice to ease the rooster's feelings, said:
"Wall, rooster, I must say that yo'r women folks was made with the only
kind of cackle that has done men folks any good, but gosh darned if it
hain't a right-smart bit since I's et an aig!"
Then, having thus relieved himself, Ichabod tossed his heavily sinkered
lines into the swift tide. The fish were hungry, and he was kept busy
hauling them in.
The swell began to increase. The small craft began to rock
uncomfortably. The sun was hidden by a red cloud that banked in the
eastern sky. Captain Ichabod knew the signs. He pulled in his line and
hooks, made sail, and beat across to the point where nestled the
life-saving station. There he would read the barometer, have a chat and
a meal with the men, and afterward make a quick run home before the
wind.
At the life-saving station, he found the barometer indicated storm, as
he had feared.
After a hearty dinner, and a pipe with yarns, Captain Ichabod set sail
for the Island, and made it safely, in spite of the rising storm.
The Captain realized that a gale was brewing. He gathered up his nets
from their racks. He made them snug in the shack, and stowed away
everything movable. He was weather-wise. He would not be caught
unawares. A high tide had more than once taught him the lesson of that
beach. He had the red skiff hauled well up out of harm's way. There was,
too, an extra anchor tied to the painter. Captain Ichabod and the
rooster entered their cottage, for refuge from the wind that was now
blowing dangerously.
The storm reached such proportions that from his window to seaward it
was no longer possible to make out through the rain and spray the broad
crepe-like bands of black and white painted upon the great, towering
lighthouse, at the extreme point of Cape Lookout, a few miles to the
eastward. The shack was fairly shaking in the West India hurricane--for
such it proved to be.... And great was the devastation wrought that
night by both wind and wave.
About midnight, Captain Ichabod, feeling that it was not quite safe to
retire, stood in the open doorway. He little minded the pelting of the
rain as it drove against his weathered cheek. He had donned his
oilskins, hat and slicker, and was peering intently seaward. He had been
to his skiff and had dragged it a couple of rods further up on the sand
as a measure of safety. A yellow flash showed dimly on the black storm
clouds that banked the horizon to the north of the Cape--wherein nestled
a tiny harbor of refuge. Those who knew took advantage of this retreat
in times of tempest.... Woe unto the hapless seafarer, unknowing the
way.
It did not take a second flash for the practised eye of the lone man in
oilskins to recognize that this was the thing he had expected--even
while praying God that it might not be. It was the rocket signal of a
boat in distress. Within sound of the breakers, that could not be seen
in the pitch black, was somewhere a mass of timber and iron, burdened
with cargo and human freight. And that mass, which was a ship, dragged
its anchor, as if that anchor were a toy--foot by foot to sure
destruction on a beach that has known a hundred wrecks.
The rockets continued to flare. Closer and closer to the outer shoals of
the beach they beamed. The ship was swiftly and surely going to its
doom.
Turning his face to the clouded heavens, and raising his voice in a
final appeal, Uncle Ichabod prayed:
"God help the boys in such a surf."
At the point where the ship was making the distress signals, the coast
offered only a narrow strip of sand, running from the Cape to Ocracoke
Inlet--many miles to the northeast.
The old fisherman's face was ashen. There was nothing that he could do
except stand and helplessly watch the final disaster. He realized that
the craft was doomed. He was powerless to interfere, although in despair
over this catastrophe before his very eyes. He turned away, and entered
his little house, and tried to sleep. But he was wakeful, and found
himself murmuring prayers for those who went down to the sea in ships.