A NEW CALAMITY
Perhaps there is no point upon the Carolina coast where there is more
interest shown in weather conditions than at Beaufort, the present
terminus of the great inland water-route from Boston to the Gulf. There
are vital reasons for this. First: a fleet of small fishing vessels
makes this their home port. Hardly a family in the town that has not one
or more of its members going to sea in the little craft. To be caught
off shore in one of the West India hurricanes, which, at irregular
intervals, touch this point, means almost certain destruction. Again:
there is always danger to the low-lying town from a tidal wave. The town
is built on flat ground almost level with the surface of the water.
There is no sea wall to keep off the angry waves. The dwellers in the
town have learned their danger through dear experience in times past
when the waves have swept over it, bringing desolation and death.
Luckily, the storm that brought the strangers to Captain Ichabod Jones
did not blow long enough from the southeast to cause severe damage to
the town. Nor was there loss of life at sea. The masters of the fishing
boats had seen the weather flags--angry red, with sullen black
centers--flying from the signal mast. They had taken warning and
remained in port through the time of tempest.
When Uncle Icky rounded the point of marsh land, and headed his skiff
for Beaufort, the eyes of the storm-bound fishermen and the other
lounging natives gathered at the market wharf quickly espied the
familiar patched rag of sail and were filled with wonder as to what
could have tempted the old man from his snug Island out into the teeth
of the gale. When he sped into the slip, there were many hands ready to
grasp the hawser tossed to them by Captain Ichabod, and make it fast to
a "punchin."
If the loungers had expected to hear something startling, they were
doomed to disappointment. He had no time then to stop and gossip with
friends. He hurried on, with an air of unaccustomed self-importance on
account of the serious nature of his mission. He was in quest of Dr.
Hudson, a great-hearted man, who had spent the best years of his life in
ministering to the ills of these fisherfolk. They, in their turn, looked
upon him with a feeling of grateful fondness, tinctured with awe--so
miraculous to them seemed many of his cures. And, too, they honored him
for the manner in which he did his duty toward them. Never a night too
black, never a storm too high, for him to fare forth for the relief of
suffering. Latterly, however, he had felt the weight of work over much,
had felt perhaps as well the burden of advancing years. He had so
contrived that a young medical graduate opened up a practise in the
neighborhood. He had adroitly used the influence of suggestion so
diplomatically that most of the chronic cases--those that took comfort
in telling of their maladies, in detailing their symptoms to unwilling
listeners--had gladly availed themselves of the new treatment offered by
the young physician. In this way, the old Doctor was spared a tedious
and unnecessary routine of labor, yet was left free for such urgent
calls as might come to him.
Ichabod found the physician at home, and declared:
"Thar's sick folks at my shack what needs ye an' needs ye bad."
The doctor was aware that Ichabod's sole companion in the shack was the
rooster. Knowing also the Captain's fondness for the Dominick, he was
inclined to be suspicious that this call for his services was as a
veterinary.
"I suppose," he said, "your Shrimp has the pip." Then, of a sudden, he
guessed something of the truth. He spoke anxiously. "There hasn't been a
wreck, has there?"
"Right ye air, Doctor, there has been a fool shipwreck on my oyster
rocks. The captain of the ship an' his mate air at the shack this very
minute. He's batty as a toad arter swallerin' shot. An' she's outter her
haid--leastways she ain't got sense 'nough left ter talk."
In answer to questions, Ichabod gave a full narrative of what had
occurred, telling all the events in his own quaint fashion, to all of
which Doctor Hudson listened with the closest attention.
His comment was crisp.
"It sounds like whisky--more likely, morphia. I reckon it's my duty to
go." As a matter of fact, the physician's curiosity had been aroused. He
was professionally anxious to get at a solution of the mystery. He
hurriedly changed his clothes in preparation for the rough voyage to
Ichabod's Island, and equipped himself with the old, worn leather bag
stocked with medicines, which, for years, had been a familiar sight
throughout the whole region in every household where disease came to
terrify and destroy.
"Hurry, Ichabod," the Doctor cried. "We'll shake a leg, or the tide'll
be running against us."
Ichabod's skiff was tailed to the physician's little launch. The motor
power made the voyage to the Island swift, although it was rough, even
to the point of danger on account of the storm-driven waters. When they
had made fast at the landing, the two hurried to the shack. The door was
swinging wide. But to their amazement and dismay not even Shrimp was
there to give them welcome. The place was utterly deserted. The visitors
so strangely cast up from the sea had vanished as mysteriously as they
had come. There was the bed on which the girl had been lying--now it was
empty. Not even a vestige of her clothing remained to prove that she was
more than the figment of a crazed brain. Ichabod stared about him with
distended eyes. He could make no guess as to the meaning of the strange
thing that had befallen. Then, abruptly, his dazed mind was aroused to a
new calamity.... Shrimp, too, was gone!
Presently, Ichabod looked for the yacht's tender, and found it likewise
gone. He was able to understand in some measure what had occurred. The
batteries had been dried by the hot stove in the shack, and--the little
craft thus restored to running condition--the man had undoubtedly fled
with the girl. And with them Shrimp had voyaged. A sudden overwhelming
desolation fell on the old man. He had been through much that day. He
had been strained to the utmost resources of his energies. And he was an
old man. He had small reserves of force with which to meet the
unexpected. Now, he felt himself bewildered over all the strange
happenings. And there was something more. The one constant companion of
his lonely life was Shrimp--and Shrimp, too, had fled from him.
The Doctor, very much puzzled over this absence of an expected patient,
started to leave the shack. He halted at the head of the steps, and
looked down in a bewilderment touched with pity.
For Ichabod was on his knees before the steps of his own house, and his
form was shaken with the sobbings of despair.