INTRODUCING BRANDON TARR AND UNCLE ARAD
LEADING from the village of Rockland, Rhode Island, a wide, dusty
country road, deeply rutted here and there, winds up to the summit of a
long ridge, the highest land in that portion of the State, which past
generations have named Chopmist.
It is a drizzly, chilly spring day, the showers pattering down in true
April style, the sun promising to show his face every few minutes,
and then, when you are expecting his warming rays, down falls another
shower and Sol hides his face in despair.
Near the highest part of the ridge, on the easterly side of the road,
stood an old, gambrel roofed, weather beaten house, its end facing the
road and its front door at the side as though it, like its present
owner, had turned sourly away from the world, refusing even to look out
upon the highway which passed socially near it.
The rain dripped steadily into the moss covered water butt at the
corner of the house, and a bedraggled chicken, who seemed not to
possess enough energy to get under better cover, sat humped up in a
most dismal manner under the lilac bush at the other corner of the
house.
It was well nigh as dismal inside the house as out. A miserable little
fire of green wood sputtered and hissed in an even more miserable
stove, and the faded yellow cambric curtain at the little window, did
its best (with the aid of the dirt, which was considerable) to keep the
light from penetrating the panes.
At one end of the kitchen was a square deal table littered with soiled
dishes left from the morning meal; the two or three chairs about the
room were in a state of great dilapidation; and even the old clock on
the mantel shelf ticked with a sort of rasping groan, as though every
stroke put its rheumatic old wheels and springs in agony.
Before the stove, in a sadly abused, wooden bottomed armchair, and
with his back humped up a good deal like the chicken under the lilac
bush outside, sat an old man with weazened, wrinkled face, eyes like a
hawk’s, a beak-like nose, and a sparse settlement of gray hairs on his
crown and chin.
He leaned forward in his seat, and both claw-like hands clutching the
arms of the chair, seemed to be all that kept him from falling upon the
stove.
At the window, just where the light fell best upon the book in his
hand, sat a youth of sixteen years--a well made, robust boy, whose
brown hair curled about his broad forehead, and whose face was not
without marks of real beauty.
Just now his brows were knit in a slight frown, and there was a flash
of anger in his clear eyes.
“I dunno what’s comin’ of ev’rything,” the old man was saying, in a
querulous tone. “Here ’tis the first o’ April, an’ ’tain’t been weather
fit ter plow a furrer, or plant a seed, yit.”
“Well, I don’t see as it’s _my_ fault, Uncle Arad,” responded the boy
by the window. “_I_ don’t make the weather.”
“I dunno whether ye do or not,” the old man declared, after staring
across at him for an instant. “I begin ter believe yer a regular
Jonah--jest as yer Uncle Anson was, an’ yer pa, too.”
The boy turned away and looked out of the window at this mention of his
parent, and a close observer might have seen his broad young shoulders
tremble with sudden emotion as he strove to check the sobs which all
but choked him.
Whether the old man was a close enough observer to see this or not, he
nevertheless kept on in the same strain.
“One thing there is erbout it,” he remarked; “Anson knew _he_ was born
ter ill luck, an’ he cleared out an’ never dragged nobody else down ter
poverty with him. But your pa had ter marry--an’ see what come of it!”
“I don’t know as it affected _you_ any,” rejoined the boy, bitterly.
“Yes, ’t’as, too! Ain’t I got you on my hands, a-eatin’ of your head
off, when there ain’t a sign of a chance o’ gittin’ any work aout o’
ye?”
“I reckon I’ve paid for my keep for more’n _one_ year,” the other
declared vehemently; “and up to the last time father went away he
always paid you for my board--he told me so himself.”
“He did, did he?” exclaimed Uncle Arad, in anger. “Well, he----”
“Don’t you say my father lied!” cried the boy, his eyes flashing and
his fists clenched threateningly. “If you do, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Well--I ain’t said so, hev I?” whined Uncle Arad, fairly routed by
this vehemence. “Ain’t you a pretty boy to threaten an old man like me,
Brandon Tarr?”
Brandon relapsed into sullen silence, and the old man went on:
“Mebbe Horace _thought_ he paid your board, but the little money he
ever give me never more’n ha’f covered the expense ye’ve been ter me,
Don.”
His hearer sniffed contemptuously at this. He knew well enough that
he had done a man’s work about the Tarr place in summer, and all the
chores during winter before and after school hours, for the better part
of three years, and had amply repaid any outlay the old man had made.
Old Arad Tarr was reckoned as a miser by his townsmen, and they were
very nearly correct. By inheritance the farm never belonged to him,
for he was the youngest son of old Abram Tarr, and had been started in
business by his father when he was a young man, while his brother Ezra
had the old homestead, as the eldest son should.
But reverses came to Ezra, of which the younger brother, being
successful in money matters, took advantage, and when Ezra died at last
(worked to death, the neighbors said) the property came into Arad’s
hands. There was little enough left for the widow, who soon followed
her husband to the grave, and for the two boys, Anson and Horace.
Anson was of a roving, restless disposition, and he soon became
disgusted with the grinding methods of old Arad, who sought to get
double work out of his two nephews. So he left the farm, and, allured
by visions of sudden wealth which led him all over the world, he
followed from one scheme to another, never returning to the old place
again, though his brother, Horace, heard from him occasionally.
The younger lad was not long in following his brother’s footsteps (in
leaving home, at least), and went to sea, where he rose rapidly from
the ranks of the common sailor to the post of commander.
He married a girl whom he had known in his boyhood, and Brandon, the
boy who was now left to the tender mercies of the great uncle, was
their only child.
By patient frugality Captain Tarr had amassed sufficient money to
purchase a brig called the Silver Swan, and made several exceptionally
fortunate voyages to South and West African ports, and to Oceanica.
But after his wife’s death (she was always a delicate woman) his only
wish seemed to be to gain a fortune that he might retire from the sea
and live with his son, in whom his whole heart was now bound. There was
a trace of the same visionary spirit in Horace Tarr’s nature that had
been the _motif_ of his brother Anson’s life, and hoping to gain great
wealth by a sudden turning of the wheel of fortune, he speculated with
his savings.
Like many other men, he trusted too much in appearances and was wofully
deceived, and every penny of his earnings for a number of voyages in
the brig was swept away.
His last voyage had been to Cape Town, and on the return passage the
good Silver Swan had struck on a rock somewhere off Cuba, and was a
total loss, for neither the vessel itself, nor the valuable cargo, was
insured for a penny’s worth.
This had occurred nearly two months before, and the first news Brandon
and Uncle Arad had received of the disaster was through the newspaper
reports. Two surviving members of the crew were picked up by a New York
bound steamship, from a raft which had been afloat nearly two weeks,
and but one of the men was in a condition to give an intelligible
account of the wreck.
From his story there could be but little doubt of the total destruction
of the Silver Swan and the loss of every creature on board, excepting
himself and the mate, Caleb Wetherbee, who was so exhausted that he had
been taken at once to the marine hospital. Captain Tarr had died on the
raft, from hunger and a wound in the head received during the wrecking
of his vessel.
It was little wonder, then, with these painful facts so fresh in his
mind, that young Brandon Tarr found it so hard to stifle his emotion
while his great uncle had been speaking. In fact, when presently the
crabbed old man opened his lips to speak again, he arose hastily, threw
down his book, and seized his hat and coat.
“I’m going out to see if I can pick off that flock of crows I saw
around this morning,” he said hastily. “If you _do_ get a chance to
plant anything this spring, they’ll pull it up as fast as you cover the
seed.”
“We kin put up scarecrows,” said Arad, with a scowl, his dissertation
on the “shiftlessness” of Don’s father thus rudely broken off. “_I_
can’t afford you powder an’ shot ter throw away at them birds.”
“Nobody asked you to pay for it,” returned the boy gruffly, and
buttoning the old coat about him, and seizing his rifle from the hooks
above the door, he went out into the damp outside world, which, despite
its unpleasantness, was more bearable than the atmosphere of the farm
house kitchen.
The farm which had come into Arad Tarr’s possession in what he termed a
“business way,” contained quite one hundred acres of cultivated fields,
rocky pastures, and forest land.
It was a productive farm and turned its owner a pretty penny every
year, but judging from the appearance of the interior of the house and
the dilapidated condition of the barn and other outbuildings, one would
not have believed it.
There was sufficient work on the farm every year to keep six hired
hands beside Brandon and the old man, himself, “on the jump” every
minute during the spring, summer, and fall.
In the winter they two alone managed to do the chores, and old Arad
even discharged the woman who cooked for the men during the working
season.
As soon as the season opened, however, and the old man was obliged
to hire help, the woman (who was a widow and lived during the winter
with a married sister in the neighborhood) was established again in
the Tarr house, and until the next winter they lived in a manner that
Brandon termed “like Christians,” for she was a good cook and a neat
housekeeper; but left to their own devices during the cold weather, he
and his great uncle made sorry work of it.
“The frost is pretty much out of the ground now,” Brandon muttered as
he crossed the littered barnyard, “and this drizzle will mellow up the
earth in great shape. As soon as it stops, Uncle Arad will dig right in
and work to make up for lost time, I s’pose.”
He climbed the rail fence and jumped down into the sodden field beyond,
the tattered old army coat (left by some hired hand and used by him in
wet weather) flapping dismally about his boots.
“I wonder what’ll become of me now,” he continued, still addressing
himself, as he plodded across the field, sinking ankle deep in the wet
soil. “Now that father’s gone there’s nothing left for me to do but to
shift for myself and earn my own living. Poor father wanted me to get
an education first before I went into anything, but there’ll be no more
chance for that here. I can see plainly that Uncle Arad means to shut
down on school altogether now.
“I’ll never get ahead any as long as I stay here and slave for him,” he
pursued. “He’ll be more exacting than ever, now that father is gone--he
didn’t dare treat me _too_ meanly before. He’ll make it up now, I
reckon, if I stay, and I just _won’t_!”
He had been steadily approaching the woods and at this juncture there
was a rush of wings and a sudden “caw! caw!”
Crows are generally considered to be endowed with a faculty for knowing
when a gun is brought within range, but this particular band must have
been asleep, for Brandon was quite within shooting distance as the
great birds labored heavily across the lots.
The rifle, the lock of which he had kept dry beneath his armpit, was
at his shoulder in a twinkling, there was a sharp report, and one of
the birds fell heavily to the ground, while its frightened companions
wheeled with loud outcry and were quickly out of view behind the woods.
Brandon walked on and picked up the fallen bird.
“Shot his head pretty nearly off,” he muttered. “I believe I’ll go
West. Knowing how to shoot might come in handy there,” and he laughed
grimly.
Then, with the bird in his hand, he continued his previous course, and
penetrated beneath the dripping branches of the trees.
Pushing his way through the brush for a rod or two he reached a plainly
defined path which, cutting obliquely across the wood lot, connected
the road on which the Tarr house stood with the “pike” which led to the
city, fourteen miles away.
Entering this path, he strolled leisurely on, his mind intent upon the
situation in which his father’s death had placed him.
“I haven’t a dollar, or not much more than that sum,” he thought, “nor
a friend, either. I can’t expect anything but the toughest sort of a
pull, wherever I go or whatever I take up; but it can’t be worse than
’twould be here, working for Uncle Arad.”
After traversing the path for some distance, Don reached a spot where
a rock cropped up beside the way, and he rested himself on this, still
studying on the problem which had been so fully occupying his mind for
several weeks past.
As he sat there, idly pulling handfuls of glossy black feathers from
the dead crow, the noise of a footstep on the path in his rear caused
him to spring up and look in that direction.
A man was coming down the path--a sinister faced, heavily bearded man,
who slouched along so awkwardly that Brandon at first thought him lame.
But the boy had seen a few sailors, besides his father, in his life,
and quickly perceived that the stranger’s gait was caused simply by a
long experience of treading the deck of a vessel at sea.
He was a solidly built man, not below the medium height, yet his head
was set so low between his shoulders, and thrust forward in such a way
that it gave him a dwarfed appearance. His hands were rammed deeply
into his pockets, an old felt hat was drawn down over his eyes, and his
aspect was generally seedy and not altogether trustworthy.
He started suddenly upon seeing the boy, and gazed at him intently as
he approached.
“Well, shipmate, out gunning?” he demanded, in a tone which was
intended to be pleasant.
“A little,” responded Brandon, kicking the body of the dead crow into
the bushes. “We’re always gunning for those fellows up this way.”
“Crows, eh?” said the man, stopping beside the boy, who had rested
himself on the rock again. “They’re great chaps for pullin’
corn--faster’n you farmers can plant it, eh?”
Brandon nodded curtly, and wondered why the tramp (as he supposed him)
did not go along.
“Look here, mate,” went on the man, after a moment, “I’m lookin’ for
somebody as lives about here, by the name of Tarr----”
“Why, you’re on the Tarr place now,” replied Brandon, with sudden
interest. “That’s _my_ name, too.”
“No, it isn’t now!” exclaimed the stranger, in surprise.
A quick flash of eagerness came over his face as he spoke.
“You’re not Brandon Tarr?” he added.
“Yes, sir,” replied Don, in surprise.
“Not Captain Horace Tarr’s son! God bless ye, my boy. Give us your
hand!”
The man seized the hand held out to him half doubtfully, and shook it
warmly, at the same time seating himself beside the boy.
“You knew my father?” asked Brandon, not very favorably impressed by
the man’s appearance, yet knowing no real reason why he should not be
friendly.
“Knew him! Why, my boy, I was his best friend!” declared the sailor.
“Didn’t you ever hear him speak of Cale Wetherbee?”
“Caleb Wetherbee!” cried Don, with some pleasure.
He had never seen his father’s mate, but he had heard the captain speak
of him many times. This man did not quite come up to his expectation
of what the mate of the Silver Swan should have been, but he knew
that his father had trusted Caleb Wetherbee, and that appearances are
sometimes deceitful.
“Indeed I _have_ heard him speak of you many times,” and the boy’s
voice trembled slightly as he offered his hand a second time far more
warmly.
“Yes, sir,” repeated the sailor, blowing his nose with ostentation,
“I’m an old friend o’ your father’s. He--he died in my arms.”
Brandon wiped his own eyes hastily. He had loved his father with all
the strength of his nature, and his heart was too sore yet to be rudely
touched.
“Why, jest before he--he died, he give me them papers to send to ye, ye
know.”
As he said this the man flashed a quick, keen look at Brandon, but it
was lost upon him.
“What papers?” he asked with some interest.
“What papers?” repeated the sailor, springing up. “D’ye mean ter say ye
never got a package o’ papers from me a--a month ergo, I reckon ’twas?”
“I haven’t received anything through the mail since the news came of
the loss of the brig,” declared Don, rising also.
“Then that mis’rable swab of an ’orspital fellow never sent ’em!”
declared the man, with apparent anger. “Ye see, lad, I was laid up
quite a spell in the ’orspital--our sufferings on that raft was jest
orful--an’ I couldn’t help myself. But w’en your father died he left
some papers with me ter be sent ter you, an’ I got the ’orspital nurse
to send ’em. An’ you must hev got ’em--eh?”
“Not a thing,” replied Brandon convincingly. “Were they of any value?”
“Valible? I should say they was!” cried the sailor. “Werry valible,
indeed. Why, boy, they’d er made our--I sh’d say _your_--fortune, an’
no mistake!”
Without doubt his father’s old friend was strangely moved by the
intelligence he had received, and Don could not but be interested in
the matter.