THE MYSTERY IN A STORM.
Tom was perfectly satisfied with his day’s work--it could not have
been better, he thought, even had he desired it; and, as he again
took his stand on the quarter-deck and looked proudly over his cargo,
he began to think that he had at last found the road to fortune.
There were no obstacles in his way now; he thoroughly understood
his business, and, better than all, he had no work to do. The man,
whoever he was, that originated the old saying that “There is no
excellence without labor,” didn’t know any thing about the matter,
for it was sport for him to make bargains, pay out money, and count
his profits. If other people were obliged to work, it was their
own fault. Why didn’t they do as he had done, look about and find
some way of making a living without labor? Following the life of a
trader, even if he didn’t clear expenses, was much easier than going
to school, and poring for six hours in the day over uninteresting
lessons. That was all well enough for those who liked it; but, as
for himself, he would show people that he could get along through
the world without it. In short, Tom was delighted with the success
that had attended his efforts, for the business was still new to
him, and he had not yet found any thing unpleasant in it. He remained
standing on his quarter-deck, now and then turning to the fisher-boy,
who was seated at the helm, to give him some order in a loud voice,
so that the farmer, who stood on the beach watching them, might
understand that he was the captain of the vessel, but, as soon as
the man returned to the house, Tom walked forward to look at his
game chickens. The rooster, ever since he was put into the box, had
crowed most lustily, showing that his was a spirit which could not be
broken by confinement. Seeing Tom approach, he at once put himself
into an attitude of defense; and when the young trader forced his
hand between the bars on the box, he was saluted with a peck, and a
blow from the rooster’s spurs that brought tears to his eyes. But Tom
endured the pain without a murmur. He had received convincing proof
that the fowl was thorough game, and this gratifying knowledge served
as a balm for his wounds. He was, however, very careful not to put
his hand inside the box again; but, wishing to make the rooster give
a few more exhibitions of his pluck, Tom amused himself, for a long
time, by tormenting him with a stick. Finally, growing weary of this
sport, he walked aft, where the fisher-boy was seated, silent and
thoughtful. He was thinking over the events of the day, and wondering
if the results would meet the young trader’s expectations. Bob had
made many and careful calculations concerning the very business in
which they were then engaged, but his conclusions differed widely
from those of Captain Newcombe’s. Although he could not hope to share
in the profits, if the experiment proved a success, or be expected
to bear part of the expenses, if it should be a failure, he was
deeply interested in it. He hoped that Tom’s bright visions would be
realized, but he thought he had good reason to fear that his employer
would lose money. The young trader, however, was not troubled with
any gloomy forebodings. He looked upon what he had done as perfectly
correct, and he was unusually merry over it. He talked, laughed, and
sang; and was so full of his fun that he could not sit still, but
kept walking backward and forward over the boat, stopping now and
then to explain matters to Bob, who, he plainly saw, did not agree
with him. He again gave a full description of the manner in which he
intended to conduct his business, always taking as his starting-point
the assumed fact that he would “be certain to make ten dollars over
and above all expenses every trip;” and, standing on one of the
thwarts, with his hands in his pockets, he was endeavoring, for the
twentieth time, to make Bob “see through his grand scheme,” when the
fisher-boy suddenly pointed seaward, and interrupted him with--
“Just see there, captain!”
Tom looked in the direction indicated, and the sight that met
his gaze drove all thoughts of business out of his head. A thick
milk-white cloud, followed by one as black as midnight, was rapidly
coming into view above the horizon, and, as the young trader looked
up, he heard the low muttering of distant thunder. Captain Newcombe
knew enough about storms to be well aware that the one then coming
up promised to give him ample opportunity to test the sea-going
qualities of his fine sloop. But he had no desire to be caught out
in that storm; and one, to have seen him at that moment, would
have been satisfied that he was wanting in a quality that was very
necessary to enable him to fill the position of commander of a
vessel--namely, courage. He knew that they were in danger, for the
Mystery was fully a mile and a half from the shore, and, if the storm
overtook her with all her sails spread, she would be capsized in a
moment. This knowledge seemed to deprive him of all power of action;
for he stood looking at the clouds, and listening to the peals of
thunder that every instant came more plainly to his ears, as if he
was at a loss to know what course to pursue.
To increase Tom’s dismay, he noticed that a vessel, which he had
seen coming toward the harbor, had put about and was standing out
to sea again, while her crew was engaged in taking in the topsails,
and making every thing snug on board. Tom knew, by this, that her
captain, deeming it unsafe to attempt to reach the harbor, which
was a dangerous one to enter during a gale, had started seaward,
intending to “lay off and on” until the storm should abate. When
Captain Newcombe saw this maneuver, he knew that he ought to be
doing something also; but the sight of that black cloud in the west
disconcerted him, and he could not keep his wits about him long
enough to determine what ought to be done. It was an easy thing to be
master of a vessel in calm weather, but when a storm was brewing the
case was different.
“Captain,” said the fisher-boy, “there’s the hurricane you whistled
for this morning.”
“O, no,” drawled Tom; “now, don’t lay that on to me, for I didn’t
whistle for as hard a one as this is going to be; I said I only
wanted a little one.”
“Well,” said Bob, “I believe now that whistling will get up a storm.
We’ll be in a bad fix if we don’t find shelter somewhere very soon.
What shall we do, captain? Give your orders.”
“O, I’m sick,” answered Tom, looking up at the cloud, which seemed to
rise more rapidly. “You be captain, and if any thing happens you can
call me.”
Tom’s terror was great, but his pride was greater. He did not wish to
acknowledge his utter inability to give the necessary orders, so he
resorted to this expedient, to shift all the responsibility on Bob’s
shoulders; and he thought that he was acting in a perfectly honorable
manner; for, while he was on board the Savannah, he once heard the
captain say to the first mate: “I am very unwell, and I wish you
would take charge of the vessel; carry as much or as little sail as
you please. If any thing happens, call me.” The captain then went
down into the cabin, and kept his bed for two days, during which time
the first mate sailed the schooner. So Tom, with this example before
him, thought that he had a perfect right to turn the command of the
Mystery over to his mate, if he chose to do so, and no one could
question his motives.
Bob, at first, did not wish to take charge of the little vessel, but
Tom insisted, saying:
“I will lie down here in the stern-sheets, and if any thing happens,
you can call me.” And, suiting the action to the words, he stretched
himself out at full length, and rested his head on his hands, as if
he were very ill indeed.
“Well, then,” said the fisher-boy, “if I am the captain, I shall
shape her course toward the shore and take in that topsail and
flying-jib.”
“Do as you like,” replied Tom; “carry as much or as little sail as
you please. I’m sick.”
The fisher-boy accordingly headed the Mystery toward the beach, and,
again turning to Tom, said:
“Now, if I am the captain, you must be the crew.”
“O, no,” whined Tom, “I can’t.”
“Well, somebody must be the crew,” said Bob, looking rather anxiously
toward the clouds. “Go aloft and take in that gaff topsail.”
“O, I can’t,” answered Tom. “Suppose the storm should come up before
I got down, it would blow me overboard.”
“Then you steer the boat, and I’ll do it.”
“I can’t do that either; I’m sick.”
Bob was amazed, and utterly at a loss to know how to act. Those sails
must come in, the sooner the better; for the chances were not one in
ten that the Mystery could reach the shore, before the storm would
burst upon them in all its fury. He was the captain of the vessel,
but he was powerless, for his crew would not obey his orders, and
he had no means of enforcing his commands. He could not leave the
tiller, in order to take in the sails, neither could he lash it fast;
for what little wind there was, was shifting, and somebody must be at
the helm, in order to keep the sloop headed toward the shore.
For the first time, Bob felt a little alarmed, and, for a moment, he
sat calculating his chances for reaching the shore, should the boat
be capsized. But he knew that was no time for such thoughts. The
question then was, How to save the vessel and cargo? The fisher-boy
imagined that could be easily done, if Tom would only wake up and
lend his assistance. But how was he to arouse the young skipper, who
was so disgracefully deserting his vessel and crew, at a time when
his services were most needed?
“Captain,” began the fisher-boy.
“O, I am not the captain, now, I tell you,” interrupted Tom. “You are
the master of the Mystery. Do as you please.”
“But I must have help,” said Bob. “I can’t do every thing alone. If
we don’t take in those sails very soon, we shall be swamped.”
“I can’t help that,” said Tom, looking up at the clouds with a most
pitiful countenance.
“You must help it. What would you do if you were in the water, a mile
and a half from the shore?”
“O, I don’t know. I’m sick.”
“You must work for your life, if you are sick,” said the fisher-boy.
Tom, however, made no reply, neither did he move from his position.
Bob began to be discouraged. If the fear of losing his life would not
induce the young trader to put forth some exertion, it was probable
that nothing would. But there was one subject still untried, and at
that moment it occurred to the fisher-boy.
“Captain--I mean Tom,” said he, “if we do capsize, what will become
of your eggs, and butter, and your fine game chickens? You’ll have to
look for your ten dollars profit at the bottom of the sea.”
“So I would!” exclaimed Tom, straightening himself up, all his
sickness vanishing in an instant. “I can’t afford to lose those game
chickens. They’re worth more than ten dollars to me. But, Bob, this
is my last trip up the bay, I can tell you.”
The fisher-boy had succeeded in waking Tom up at last. The latter
knew that not only his fine boat, but even his own life was in
danger; but it was not until Bob reminded him of the loss he
would sustain in his game chickens, in the event of the Mystery’s
capsizing, that he got up, ready to lend assistance.
“Now, then,” said Bob, as the young trader took hold of the tiller,
“hold her steady, and I’ll take in that gaff topsail.”
The topsail had formerly been arranged so that it could be spread or
taken in from the deck; but this did not “look enough like a ship”
to suit Tom, who, after considerable trouble, had made it as near
as possible like the topsail of a schooner; so that when he wanted
it taken in, some one had to go aloft to do it. It was sport for
Tom to ascend the mast in fair weather, when the Mystery was made
fast at her wharf; but he did not dare to attempt it at sea, in the
face of a storm; so this duty devolved upon the fisher-boy, who went
aloft, took in the sail, and threw it to the deck. Tom took more
pride in his boat than in any thing else, and he always liked to
see the canvas neatly stowed away; and had it been fair weather, he
would have scolded Bob for not doing the topsail up properly. But an
indistinct moaning sound, which came faintly to his ears, told him
that the storm was rapidly approaching, and he was so terrified, and
so anxious to reach the shore, that he hardly noticed the condition
the sail was in. The fisher-boy then descended to the deck, and, in
a few moments more, the flying-jib was securely stowed away, and a
double reef taken in the mainsail. Then, after placing all the boxes,
baskets, and pails under the thwarts, as much as possible out of the
way, he again took his seat at the helm, which Tom readily gave up to
him.
It was not Bob’s intention to land on the beach; for there, when the
storm came, the Mystery would be in danger of being knocked to pieces
by the waves, which always ran high during a gale. He had resolved,
if possible, to run into a little cove about three miles from the
village, where they could find safe anchorage for their vessel, let
the wind blow never so hard. The fisher-boy thought he should be able
to accomplish his object; for, as he took the helm, a slight breath
of wind--the forerunner of the storm--filled the sails, and the
Mystery began to move more rapidly. Stronger and stronger grew the
breeze, causing the little vessel to careen, until she stood almost
on her beam-ends, and straining the mast until it seemed about to
break. Never before had the Mystery made such an exhibition of speed;
but, fast as she went, the boys saw that the storm gained rapidly,
and presently Bob pointed out a long line of foam in the horizon.
The gale was fast approaching, and a few moments more would decide
whether they would enter the cove--the mouth of which was but a short
distance off--or be swamped on the beach. Nearer and nearer came the
line of foam, stretching away on both sides of them as far as their
eyes could reach; and finally, a strong gust of wind, which seemed
to lift the little vessel fairly out of the water, filled the sails,
and drove her toward the beach with great speed. Tom thought all was
lost, and throwing himself flat in the bottom of the boat, expected
every instant to find himself struggling in the water. He felt the
sloop rise, as she was lifted on the crest of a tremendous billow,
heard the shrieking of the wind through the shrouds, accompanied by
a loud roar, as the wave broke upon the beach, and presently the
Mystery’s keel grated harshly on the sand--Bob having safely piloted
her behind a friendly point, and run her upon the shore, out of reach
of the storm.