It took such a very little while for Courage to feel perfectly
contented and at home on the boat, that she was more than half inclined
to take herself to task for a state of things which would seem to imply
disloyalty to Mary Duff. As for Sylvia, she felt at home from the very
first minute, and was constantly brimming over with delight. Nor was
Larry far below the general level of happiness, for work seemed almost
play with Courage ever at his side. As for Larry's boy, Dick, of a
naturally mournful turn of mind, he too seemed carried along, quite in
spite of himself, on the tide of prevailing high spirits. On more
than one occasion he was known to laugh outright at some of Sylvia's
remarkable performances, though always, it must be confessed, in
deprecatory fashion, as though conscious of a perceptible loss of
dignity. And who would not have been happy in that free, independent
life they were leading! To be sure, there were discomforts. Sometimes,
when the lighter was tied to a steaming Wharf all day, the sun would
beat mercilessly down upon them, but then they could always look forward
to the cool evening-out upon the water; and so happily it seemed to be
in everything--a hundred delights to offset each discomfort. Even for
Larry and Dick, when work was hardest and weather warmest, there was
a sure prospect of the yellow pitcher of iced tea, which Courage never
failed to bring midway in the long morning, and then at the end of the
day the leisurely, comfortable dinner, for they were quite aristocratic
in their tastes, this little boat's company.
[Illustration: 0057]
No noon dinner for them, with Larry in workaday clothes and the stove
in the tiny kitchen piping its hottest at precisely the hour when its
services could best be dispensed with, but a leisurely seven-o'clock
dinner, with the lighter anchored off shore, and when, as a rule, Dick
also had had time to “tidy up,” and could share the meal with them. And
in this, you see, they were not aristocratic at all. Even little black
Sylvia had a seat at one side of the table, which she occupied as
continuously as her culinary duties would admit.
One night, when Larry stood talking to a friend on the wharf, Courage
and Sylvia overheard him say, “They're a darned competent little pair, I
can tell you.” Now, of course, this was rather questionable English for
a respectable old man like Larry, but he intended it for the highest
sort of praise, and the children could hardly help being pleased.
“Larry oughtn't to use such words,” said Courage.
“But den I specs he only mean dat we jes' knows how to do tings,” said
Sylvia apologetically; and as that was exactly what Larry did mean, we
must forgive him the over-expressive word; besides they were, in point
of fact, the most competent pair imaginable.
Early every morning, when near the city, Dick would bring the lighter
alongside a wharf, and Courage and Sylvia would set off for the nearest
market, Sylvia carrying a basket, and always wearing a square of bright
plaid gingham knotted round her head. There was no remembrance for her
of father or of mother, or of much that would have proved dear to her
warm little heart, but tucked away in a corner of her memory were faint
recollections of a Southern fish market, with the red snapper sparkling
in the morning sunlight, and the old mammies, in bandana turbans, busy
about their master's marketing; and as though to make the best of this
shadowy recollection, Sylvia insisted upon the turban accompaniment to
the basket.
[Illustration: 0060]
Then, after the marketing, came the early breakfast; and after that, for
Courage, the many nameless duties of every housekeeper, whether big
or little; and for Sylvia the homelier tasks of daily recurrence; but
fortunately she did not deem them homely. Why should she, when pretty
Miss Sylvester, as perfect a lady as could be, herself had taught her
how to do them, every one? Nor was this work, so dignified by the manner
and method of teaching, performed in silence. Every household task had
its appropriate little song, and the occasions were rare on which Sylvia
did not make use of them.
“Washing dishes, washing dishes, suds are hot, suds are hot,
Work away briskly, work away briskly, do not stop, do not stop,”
was the refrain that would greet the ear first thing after breakfast,
followed by
“First the glasses, rinse them well, rinse them well,
If you do them nicely, all can tell, all can tell,”
and so on _ad infinitum_.
Then, after everything had been gotten into “ship-shape” condition, came
the mending, of which there seemed to be an unending supply. Tarry and
Dick were certainly very hard on their clothes, and when, once a week,
Dick brought the heaping basketful aboard from the washer-woman, who
lived at the Battery, Courage and Sylvia knew that needles and thimbles
would need to be brought into active requisition.
Then, in odd hours, there was studying and reading, and whenever they
could manage it, a little visit to be paid to Mary Duff. In addition
to all this, Courage had taken upon herself one other duty, for big,
fifteen-year-old Dick did not so much as know his letters. He one day
blushingly confessed the fact to Courage, who indeed had long suspected
it, with tears in his honest blue eyes. Dick's mother--for that is what
she was, though most unworthy of the name--had shoved him out of the
place he called home when he was just a mere slip of a lad, and since
then it had been all he could manage simply to make a living for
himself, with never a moment for schooling. But a happier day had
dawned. No sooner was Courage assured of his benighted condition than
she won his everlasting gratitude by setting about to mend it. Their
first need, of course, was a primer, and they immediately found one
ready to the hand, or rather to the _eye_, for it could not be treated
after the fashion of ordinary primers.
There were only seven letters in it, five capitals and two small ones,
and the large letters were fully ten feet high. It did not even commence
with an A, but C came first, and then R; then another R, followed by
a little o and a a little f; and after that a large N and a large J.
Indeed, C. R. R. of N. J. was all there was to it, for the letters were
painted on a depot roof that happened to be in full sight on the evening
when Dick commenced his lessons. And so Dick finally mastered the entire
alphabet by the aid of the great signs in the harbor, and do you think
they ever rendered half such worthy service?
This, then, was the story of the uneventful days as they dawned one
after the other, until at last May yielding place to June, and June to
July, Saturday, the first day of August, came in by the calendar, ran
through its midsummer hours, and then sank to rest in the cradle of a
wonderful sunset. It was such a sunset as sometimes glorifies the bay
and the river, and will not be overlooked. Long rays of gold and crimson
shot athwart even the narrowest and darkest cross streets of the city,
compelling every one who had eyes to see and feet to walk upon to come
out and enjoy its beauty; while a blaze of light, falling full upon the
myriad windows of Brooklyn Heights, suggested the marvellous golden city
of the Revelation. Full in the wake of all this glory, and just to the
southeast of Bedloe's Island, Larry had moored the lighter. It was a
favorite anchorage with all the little boat's company.
[Illustration: 0064]
“The Statue of Liberty”, standing out so grandly against the western sky,
and with the light of her torch shining down all night upon them, seemed
always a veritable friend and protector.
To-morrow, perhaps, they would touch at Staten Island, and locking the
cabin, “all hands” repair to a little church they loved well at New
Brighton; or, should it prove a very warm day, they might have a little
service of their own on board instead, sailing quite past the church and
as far down the bay as the Bell Buoy.
But for the present there was nothing to be done but watch the sun set,
so they sat together in the lee of the cabin, silently thinking their
own thoughts as the sun went down. Courage had on the blue coat and hat,
and from the wistful look in her eyes, might easily have been thinking
of Miss Julia. Larry sat looking at Courage more, perhaps, than at the
sunset, and his face was grave and sad. Courage had noticed that it had
often been so of late, and wondered what could be the trouble. After
awhile Larry slowly strolled off by himself to the bow of the boat, and
Courage gazed anxiously after him; then, turning to Dick, she said with
a sigh, “We had better have a lesson now, Dick.”
“Ay, ay,” answered Dick, always glad of the chance.
“It's too dark for a book,” Courage added, “but there's a good sign;”
whereupon Dick set himself to master two large-lettered words over on
the Jersey shore, one of which looked rather formidable.
“Begin with the last word, Dick. You've had it before.”
“D-o-c-k--dock, of course.”
“Now the first word. Try to make it out yourself.”
Dick shrugged his shoulders, for it was rather a jump to a word of three
syllables, but success at last crowned his efforts. “National Docks!” he
exclaimed, with the delight of unaided discovery, feeling as though the
attainment had added a good square inch to his height. Then came another
sign with the one word Storage, but that was easy, for “Prentice Stores”
had been achieved the day before off the Brooklyn warehouses, and it was
only a step from one word to the other. Finally, when there were no new
signs to conquer, Courage began a sort of review, from memory, of all
they had been over. In the midst of it Sylvia suddenly ran to the side
of the boat, arched one black hand over her eyes that she might see the
more clearly, and then flew back again.
“Dat horrid statue boy is comin',” she cried excitedly; “I thought
it looked like him, an' if onct he gets a foot on dis boat he'll keep
comin', he will; I knowed him.”
“I don't see that you can help it, though,” laughed Courage; “you can't
tell him that we just don't want to have anything to do with him.”
Sylvia looked perplexed, but only for a moment; then, indulging in one
of those remarkable pirouettes with which she was accustomed to announce
the advent of a happy thought, she ran back again to the boat's edge.
Meanwhile every dip of the oars was bringing the objectionable boy
nearer, and a horrid boy he was, if one may be permitted to speak quite
honestly. Dick and Sylvia had made his undesirable acquaintance one
evening when Larry had sent them to the island to learn the right time.
He was the son of one of the men employed to care for the statue, and
was, alas! every whit as disagreeable in manners as in looks, which is
not to put the case mildly.
“Hello, Miss Woolly-head!” he called, bringing his boat to the lighter's
side, and tossing a rope aboard, which Miss Woolly-head was supposed to
catch, but didn't, so that the boat veered off again.
“What's the name of your little missus?” called the boy, apparently not
in the least nonplussed by his rather chilling reception. The knowledge
that Sylvia had a little “missus” had been obtained by means of several
leading questions which had characterized the young gentleman's first
interview with Sylvia and Dick, and which they had regarded as the very
epitome of rudeness.
“Dis yere lighter is called for my missus,” said Sylvia, “so you kin
jes' read her name dere on de do' plate,” pointing to the lettering at
the bow of the boat, “an den again, mebbe you can't,” she chuckled.
It looked as though the statue boy “couldn't,” for he did not so much
as glance toward the bow, as he added, “Well, it's your missus I want to
see, and not you, you little black pickaninny.”
“Dat's all right, sah,” and Sylvia folded her arms aggressively, “but
you can't see her.”
“Ain't she in?”
“Yes, she's in, but she begs to be excuged.” This last in the most
impressive manner possible.
Dick and Courage, who were sitting just out of sight, looked at
each other and almost laughed outright. What remarkable phrases
Sylvia seemed always to have at her tongue's end! Indeed, Dick did
not know at all what was meant by the fine phrase, but fortunately the
statue boy did--that is after a moment or two of reflection.
“So she don't want to see me,” he said, sullenly adjusting his oars with
considerable more noise than was necessary; “well, no more then do I
want to see her. I ain't no mind to stay where I ain't wanted, but I
reckon it's the last time you'll be 'lowed to anchor your old scow over
the line without there being a row about it,” and with this parting
rejoinder their would-be caller beat a welcome retreat.
“Oh, Sylvia, how did you happen to think to say that?” laughed Courage.
“Why, dat's what you must allers say when anybody calls. Dey teached it
in a game in de Kitchen Garden. We all stood up in a ring, an' a girl
came an' knocked on yer back and axed, 'Is Mis' Brown to home?' Den you
turn roun' an' say, 'Mis' Brown are to home, but begs to be excuged,'
and den it was yer turn to be de caller and knock on some other girl's
back.”
“But, Sylvia, if Mrs. Brown wanted to see the caller what would you
say?”
“I don' prezachly recommember. I mos'ly likes de excuged one de bes'.”
Meantime Dick made his way to Larry.
“Did you know we were anchored inside the line?” he said. Larry stood
up to take his bearings. “Why, so we are,” with evident annoyance, for
Larry prided himself on his observance of harbor rules.
[Illustration: 0071]
“And I guess we've done it before,” added Dick; “the boy from the island
there said it would be the last time we'd be 'lowed to do it.”
“And it ought to be,” for Larry was thoroughly out of patience with
himself; “we'll show 'em we meant to obey orders anyway. Let go her
anchor, Dick,” and then in a moment the big sail, that had been furled
for the night, was spread to the wind once more, and the Courage
Masterson was running out upon the bay, that she might swing in again
and anchor at the proper distance from the island.
“What's up, I wonder,” said Sylvia, starting to her feet when she felt
the lighter in motion. “Oh, I know; Dick's told Larry we were anchored
too near,” and she settled down again in the most comfortable position
imaginable, on the rug beside Courage.
“Tell me, Sylvia, what is your other name?” Courage asked after a little
pause; “I've been meaning to ask you this ever so long. I think it was
on the medal, but I do not remember it.”
“Sylvester,” said Sylvia complacently, smoothing out her gingham apron.
“Sylvy Sylvester; dose two names hitch togedder putty tol'ble, don't
dey, Miss Courage?”
“Yes, they go beautifully together; that's why you're named Sylvia, of
course.”
Sylvia shook her head. “No, dat's why I'se named Sylvester.” Courage
looked puzzled. “I'se named arter Miss Sylvester, one ob de Kitchen
Garden ladies.”
“But, Sylvia, children can only have their first names given to them;
they're born to their last names.”
“Dis chile wa'nt, Miss Courage; leastways nobody didn't know at de
'sylum what name I was bawn to, cep'n jes' Sylvy, so I picked mine out
mysel'. One day I went to Miss Sylvester an' sez, kind o' mischievous,
'How do yer like yer namesake?' 'Ain't got none, Sylvy,' sez she. 'Yes
you hab,' I done told her. 'It's ten year old an' its black, but I hope
yer don't mind, 'case it's me.' An' she didn't mind a bit, jes' as I
knowed she wouldn't, and she sez some beautiful 'things 'bout as I mus'
'allers be a honor to the name, an' arter dat she gimme two books,
wid Sylvy Sylvester wrote into 'em, from her everlastin' friend an'
well-wisher, Mary Sylvester. Youse done seen dose two books on my
table, Miss Courage. One's called--” but the sentence was not finished.
Something happened just then that made both children spring to their
feet and hold their breath for fear of what was coming. A few minutes
before they had noticed that one of the large Sandy Hook boats seemed
to be bearing down upon them, and that to all appearances they were
directly in her track. But their faith in Larry was supreme. He would
surely manage to get out of the way in time, but alas! they were
mistaken, for the great boat came looming up like a mountain beside
them, and in another second there was a deafening, heart-sickening
crash, and splintering of timbers. Sylvia gave one piercing, terrified
scream, while she and Courage clung as for their lives to the coping of
the cabin roof. And indeed it was a terrible moment. The force of the
collision sent the lighter careening so much to one side that it seemed
for an instant hopeless that she could possibly right herself; and oh!
low frightful to go down, down into that cruel dark water; but then in
another instant she swung violently to the other side, and they knew
that the danger of capsizing was over, though the boat was still rocking
like a cradle. Then they saw the captain of the St. Johns come hurrying
to the deck-rail, and heard him angrily call out, “Man alive there, are
you drunk?”
“No, I'm not drunk,” Larry answered, from where he stood, pale and
trembling, leaning heavily against the tiller.
“Not drunk? Then you're too green a hand to be minding a helm in salt
water. Only for our reversed engines you'd not have a shingle under
you.”
Larry made no reply; Courage, still holding Sylvia by the hand, looked
daggers at the man. To think of any one daring to speak like that to
good old Larry. Of course he was not the one to blame, and but that the
two boats were fast drifting apart, she would then and there have told
the St. Johns' captain what she thought of him. Just at this moment
Courage noticed a lady and gentleman on the rear deck of the steamer.
She saw the lady give a start of surprise and speak hurriedly to
the gentleman, who immediately called in as loud a voice as he could
command, “What is your name, little girl? Tell me quickly.” He meant
Courage, and Courage knew that he did; but Sylvia not so understanding
it, a confusion of sounds smote the air, of which a shrill little Syl
was all that could by any chance be distinguished; then in a second
they were all hopelessly out of hearing of each other, and the big boat
steamed on to her pier, none the worse for the encounter save for a
great ugly scar on her white-painted bow.
But alas! for Larry's lighter. Although she was still sound as a nut
below the water's edge, above it she looked as though a cyclone had
struck her. And so it was a subdued though a thankful little company
that stowed themselves away in their berths an hour or so later, after
the boat had again been brought to anchor, and they had had time to talk
everything over. But there was one pillow that lay unpressed that night.
With his mind full of anxiety, bed was out of the question for Larry,
and for hours he slowly paced the deck; at least, it seemed hours to
Courage, as she lay awake in her little state-room, counting his steps
as he went up and down, until she knew precisely at just what number
he would turn. She had first tried very hard to go to sleep. She had
listened to the water quietly lapping the boat's side, imagining it a
lullaby, but the lullaby proved ineffectual. At last she pulled back the
curtain from the little window over her berth, so that the light from
the statue might stream in upon her, entertaining a childish notion
that she might perhaps sort of blink herself to sleep; but all in vain.
Finally she heard Larry come into the cabin and apparently stop there.
Why didn't he go on into his state-room, she wondered. When she could
stand it no longer, she put on her wrapper and slippers, and stole out
into the cabin. The little room, lighted by Liberty's torch, was bright
as her own, and Larry sat at the table, his head bowed upon his folded
arms. Courage went close to him, and putting out one little hand, began
softly to stroke his gray hair. Larry did not start as she touched him,
so she knew he must have heard her coming.
[Illustration: 0076]
“Do you feel so very sorry about the lighter, Larry?” she asked
anxiously; “will it take such a great lot of money to mend it?”
Larry did not raise his head, but it seemed to Courage that a sob, as
real as any child's, shook his strong frame.
“Please, Larry, speak to me,” Courage pleaded, and feeling her two hands
against his face, Larry suffered her to lift it up. Yes, there were
tears in his eyes. Courage saw them and looked right away--even to
the child there was something sacred in a strong man's tears--but she
slipped on to his knee, nestled her head on his shoulder, and then
said, in the tenderest little voice, “It isn't just the accident, is it,
Larry? Something's been troubling you this long while. Please tell me
what it is. Don't forget about my name being Courage, and that p'r'aps I
can help you.”
The words fell very sweetly upon Larry's ear, and he drew her closer to
him, but she could feel him slowly move his head from side to side, as
though it were hopeless to look for help from any quarter. Suddenly
a dreadful possibility flashed itself across her mind, and sitting
upright, she said excitedly, “You're not going to die, Larry? Say it
isn't _that_, quick, Larry!”
“No, darling, it isn't that,” Larry hastened to answer, deeply touched
by the agony in her voice, “but it's almost worse than dying;
I'm going--” and then the word failed him, and he passed his hand
significantly across his eyes.
“Not _blind_, Larry?” yet instantly recalling, as she spoke, many a
little incident that confirmed her fears.
“Yes, blind, Courage; that's the way it happened to-night. It was all my
fault. I couldn't rightly see.”
“But, Larry, hardly any one could see, it was getting so dark.”
“Courage, darling,” Larry said tenderly, “it's been getting dark for me
for a year. I shall never sail a boat again. They told me in the spring
that I wasn't fit for it, but then I found you'd set your heart on being
on the water with me, and so, with Dick's eyes to help, I thought I
could manage just for the summer; but it's all over now, and it's plain
enough that I've got to give in.”
And so Larry has done all this for her. At first Courage cannot speak,
but at last she contrives to say, in a tearful, trembling voice, “Try
not to mind, Larry. If you'll only let me take care of you, it won't
matter at all whether we live on the water or not. I can be happy
any-where with you.”
And Larry is in no small degree comforted. How could it be otherwise
with that loyal child-heart standing up to him so bravely in his trial!
And finally he tells Courage of a plan, that has come into his mind, to
spend the remainder of the summer in the queerest little place that
ever was heard of, and he proceeds to describe the little place to her.
Courage is delighted with the scheme, and they talk quietly about it
for ever so long, till after awhile, right in the midst of a sentence,
Courage drops asleep on Larry's shoulder. Then, rather than disturb
her, Larry sits perfectly motionless, and at last the noble gray head,
drooping lower and lower, rests against the red-brown curls, and Larry
is also asleep, while across them both slants a band of marvellous light
from the torch of the island statue.