PETE, IN QUEST OF REVENGE, COMES TO GRIEF.
“Sam Hadlock,” said his mother, “they say Ben’s gone to Boston on a
raft, all alone. I don’t believe it; but go right over and see what it
all means, and take Sally’s hens on.”
Sam arrived at Elm Island about dusk, with the hens and a crower. The
first thing a rooster does, upon finding himself in a strange place,
is to flap his wings and crow, in order that it may be known he is
round. The next morning, as the daylight shone in between the logs of
the hovel, he raised his cry of defiance to all things in general, and
everybody in particular.
Now, although the squawks had been in possession of the island from
time immemorial, they had never heard a rooster crow, or even seen
one. The instant that shrill, defiant voice rose on the morning air,
saying, “I’m somebody; who are you?” every squawk on the island uttered
his loudest yell. This startled the herons and fish-hawks; the crows
joined the chorus, and Sailor exerted his lungs to the utmost. Sally
woke up in alarm, and was for some time unable to account for the
terrible uproar. It was a week before the Elmites would permit the
rooster to crow, or a hen to cackle, in peace. The moment he attempted
it, the whole community combined to drown his voice, and rebuke his
presumption; but, after a while, they began to recognize him as an
adopted citizen of that of which they had so long been the sole
occupants. It was laughable to see with what gravity they would cluster
on the trees, at the edge of the woods near the house, and, with their
keen eyes, stare at him and his dames. Now and then a great blue heron
would sail lazily overhead, when, the cock raising the cry of alarm,
all would scud for the barn; but they learned, after a while, that none
of the original inhabitants were to be feared, except the eagles.
The next morning, after the arrival of the hens, a calf, bright red,
with a white star in his forehead, and white on his fore legs and the
end of his tail, made his appearance.
Sally was delighted; the birth of the calf opened a prospect not
only of milk, of which they had been deprived for two months, but of
butter. It was also the first domestic animal that had been born on
the island; besides, there are so many pleasant memories of childhood
connected with a “bossy,” that it seemed a great affair to Sally in
her lonely situation. She scarcely ever came in from the barn but her
sleeves were all chewed up, in consequence of stopping to pet the calf.
“How much it seems like home,” said she to Joe, “to have a calf to
pet, and hear it crying for the cow! to hear a rooster crow, and hens
cackle, and have eggs to hunt after! I used to think, when I first came
on here, it would be music to hear a pig squeal.”
“I can give you music,” said Joe, and set up a cry so much like that
of a pig in his last agonies, that Sally was glad to stop her ears. He
then began to make a noise like a calf in trouble, which soon brought
the mother running from the woods, where she had been browsing upon
maples that Joe had cut down for her.
Peter Clash embraced the first opportunity in the spring to ship in a
fishing vessel, being in mortal fear of Uncle Isaac, who, Joe Griffin
had told him, had Indian blood in him, and would carry him into the
woods and roast him alive, as he had been taught to do among the
Indians. But he was determined, before he departed, to revenge himself
upon Uncle Isaac, and inflict some injury upon John Rhines. He hated
John, although he had never injured him, because he was a good boy,
and Uncle Isaac and everybody liked him. Although two years older, he
feared to attack him. He talked with the boys who were most under his
influence, and by ingenious falsehoods contrived to prejudice them
against him, by possessing them with the idea that John helped Uncle
Isaac set the trap, and was in the bushes with him watching them when
it sprung.
“I hate him, too,” said Jack Godsoe, whose mind Pete had completely
warped to his own interest, and who was also older than John, and a
smart, resolute boy.
“He thinks he’s too good to play with us, because his father is
captain, and lives in a big house, and because he goes with Uncle
Isaac; I hate him; let’s lick him, and take some of that grand feeling
out of him.”
They seated themselves on the beach, under a great willow that hung
over the bank, in earnest consultations as to the best means of
revenging themselves upon Uncle Isaac. Jack proposed they should pull
up his corn.
“That,” said Fred Williams, “is too much work, and he could plant it
over again.”
“Let us put his sheep in the well,” said Sam Smikes.
“It’s too near the house,” said Pete; “we shall be caught; besides, it
wouldn’t be bad enough for the ‘old cuss;’ he could get them out, and
would save the wool and the pelts, for they are not sheared. O! I’ll
tell you what we’ll do; we’ll kill his apple trees.”
Uncle Isaac had an orchard in full bearing, that he valued very highly,
having, at a great deal of labor and expense, obtained the trees of the
Rev. Samuel Deane, of Portland. They were most of them grafted,--a rare
thing in those parts at that day,--as Dr. Deane understood the art and
mystery of grafting. They determined to girdle all these trees, which
would be a most severe blow to Uncle Isaac, as he had watched over
them for twenty years; and they were now in full bearing, having been
planted on a burn among the ashes, and had thriven apace in the new,
strong soil. It could also be accomplished without risk of detection,
as the orchard was at a distance from the house. The meanness of the
act seemed greater, because of the generous nature of the owner, who
was not a niggard of his fruit, but gave the boys all the apples
and cider they wanted. The fact that this villanous plan was eagerly
assented to by the rest, shows to what an extent the example and
influence of Pete had corrupted these boys. They thought themselves
secure from interruptions, as they commanded from the place where they
sat a view of the whole beach, and, becoming excited, talked in a
louder tone than they were aware of.
“I’ll set a trap for him that will make him ache as much as his trap
did me,” said Pete, chuckling. But doubtful things are uncertain.
John’s mother had sent him on that morning after some willow bark,
to color with. He directed his steps to the great willow, and coming
upon the party before they were aware of it, heard the latter part of
their conversation. Pete espied him, and jumping up, in a pleasant tone
invited him to come down among them, when John, who had not heard that
portion of the consultation which related to himself, complied: they
all, at a wink from Pete, surrounded him, who now thought proper to
change his tone.
“You heard what we were saying about?” he inquired, pointing in the
direction of Uncle Isaac’s.
“Yes.”
“And you’ll tell him of it?”
“Yes.”
“Ain’t that just what I told you?” said he, turning to the other boys;
“just such a mean, low-lived fellow as he is; go and peach on his
playmates!”
“I should think if anything was mean, it was barking a man’s apple
trees in the night.”
Now, Pete was more anxious to bark the apple trees than he was to lick
John; so he replied,--
“Well, if we will promise to give it up, will you promise to say
nothing about it?”
Pete’s design in this was to prevent Uncle Isaac being put on his
guard, to bark the trees that night, and go off the next morning,
leaving the other boys to take the consequences. He knew if John gave
his word he’d keep it. But John fathomed their design; and although
_they_ could trust _him_, _he_ would not trust _them_, and refused.
At this Pete said, “You’re a mean fellow; I’ve owed you a hiding this
long time, and now you’ll get it.”
“You can’t begin to do it.”
“We all can,” cried Jack.
John, seeing there was no help for it, determined to have the first
blow, and before the words were fairly out of Jack’s mouth, knocked
him down; but as the ground was descending, and the sand afforded
poor footing, he fell forward with the force of his own blow, and
came upon one knee. They all piled on top, but John threw them off.
By a well-directed blow he sent Fred yelling from the conflict, and
would have gained his feet and handled the whole of them, had not Jack
recovered, and, catching him by the hair, pulled him down again.
“Now,” cried Pete, as cruel as he was cowardly, “let’s lick him within
an inch of his life.”
Finding he was to receive no quarter, John began to shout for aid. Tige
was sleeping in the sun before the door, as dogs always sleep, with one
ear open. The instant he heard the cry, he got up, stretched himself,
gaped, and listened. It was repeated. He leaped the front yard fence
at a bound, and in a moment was running full speed in the direction of
the noise. Captain Rhines, who recognized John’s voice, followed him. A
narrow path led down the bank to the beach, where the scuffle was going
on, and which was hard trodden and polished by the frequent tramping of
the boys, who resorted there to swing on the great willow, whose limbs
hung over the beach, and to make whistles. So headlong was the speed
of the dog, that, his feet slipping upon the smooth path, he turned a
complete somerset from the top to the bottom of the bank, and came down
upon his back among these little fiends, while employed in their work
of torture, thus affording them a moment’s respite while he was picking
himself up. With all the speed the fear of instant death could inspire,
they fled along the beach, with the exception of Smike, who, with great
presence of mind, catching a limb of the willow, was in a few moments
among its topmost branches, screaming with all his might. Pete was the
hindmost. With a horrible growl, Tige sprung upon him and crushed him
to the earth. He bit through both his hands, with which he strove to
defend his throat, tore away half of his chin, and, taking him by the
back, shook him as he would a woodchuck.
The dog now pursued Fred, whom he bit through both thighs and arms,
and, as the others were out of sight, would have killed him, had not
John compelled him to desist by cramming his cap into his mouth, and
coaxing and scolding him.
The Newfoundland dog is very slow to wrath, but ferocious enough when
once aroused. Tige’s rugged temper, excited by the strongest possible
provocation,--injury to the person of his friend,--was now thoroughly
up; his eyes were green with rage, his lips covered with foam; his
great tearing teeth stood out, and every hair on his body was erect.
As Captain Rhines came up, the blood was spirting in jets from Fred’s
right leg. “God o’ mercy!” cried he, “the arter is cut;” and, clapping
his thumb on the place, stopped the flow of blood in a moment.
“John,” cried he, “take off my garter and put it twice round his leg,
above the bite, and tie the ends together.”
John did as he was directed.
“Now get a stick and twist it.”
John twisted.
“Twist harder; twist with all your might. Now run to Dr. Ricker’s, and
tell him to come to our house with tools to tie an arter, as quick as
he can.”
“Will he die, father?”
“No; I hope not; but he would have been dead in two minutes more, if I
had not stopped that blood.”
He now took the boy in his arms, and carried him to his own house,
while Tige lay down at the foot of the willow to keep watch of Smike.
The doctor said that the boy must not be moved; and his mother came to
take care of him. John now went down, called off Tige, and liberated
Smike from the tree.
“John,” said the captain, after the excitement was over, “did you set
the dog on those boys?”
“No, father; they had me down on the ground, beating me; I screamed for
help, and Tige came and went right at ’em. I got him off of Fred as
soon as I could, but he wouldn’t mind me; and he was so savage I was
afraid of him myself.”
“What did they beat you for?”
“They were all sitting on the beach, planning out to pull Uncle Isaac’s
corn up, throw his sheep in the well, and girdle his apple trees;
because I overheard ’em, and wouldn’t promise not to tell him, they
pitched into me. I believe I could have whipped the whole of them, if I
hadn’t fell down.”
“I wouldn’t have believed that of boys raised round here; it’s a pity
Tige hadn’t finished that Pete; he was at the bottom of it.”
When Pete recovered from his wounds he left the place. The parents of
the others gave them a severe whipping, in consequence of which Jack
Godsoe ran away from home, but the others left off their tricks, and
became steady, industrious boys.
“On deck there!” cried Captain Rhines, from the roof of the house,
where he was stopping a leak.
“What is it, father?” said John.
“Tell your mother Ben has just come round Birch Point in his canoe, and
is going across to the island; I guess he wants to kiss Sally, for he’s
making the canoe go through the water like blazes.”
The next morning they saw him coming off in the canoe.
“Well, Ben,” said his father, after the greeting had passed, “when I
was young, folks didn’t go to sea without bidding their folks good by.
Now, give an account of yourself.”
Ben, who knew his father, old sailor like, would want to know the
details of the passage, said, “By twelve o’clock the first night I was
up with Purpooduck, right off the pitch of the cape; the wind was very
strong and steady from sunrise till midnight.”
“I know it was; for I was up watching it.”
“It then died away to a flat calm; and as the flood tide was drifting
me into Portland Sound, I anchored and made a fire.”
“What on?”
“A flat stone I carried; made a cup of tea, and slept till daylight,
when the wind, blowing the smoke in my face, woke me. The wind held,
and plenty of it. I run her all day and all night, and by eight o’clock
the next morning I was up with Cape Ann, when it fell calm. It was
flood tide; I went to sleep and let her drift. When I woke up, the tide
had carried me, with a little air of wind there was, up to East Point;
and, in the course of the day and night, I tied her to Long Wharf,
Boston--not much sorry.”
“What did Mr. Welch say?”
“He was somewhat astonished. There were hundreds of people on the
wharf to look at me or the raft, I don’t know which. I got there in a
good time. There were a great many vessels there, from Europe, after
spars--especially big masts. I sold enough to pay for half the island,
and I haven’t cleared a quarter of it; but that is not the best of it.”
“I should think that was good enough; what can be any better?”
“I sold all the timber that I used to confine the raft (and that was
full of holes) for wharf stuff--the cable, sail, everything but the
compass, canoe, and tea-kettle. I got a chance to pilot a French ship,
that was bound to Portland for lumber and horses, and got a round price
for it. They took the canoe on the ship’s deck. In Portland I found a
schooner bound to Nova Scotia; they took me to Gull Rock, and I rowed
home. Thus I got mighty good pay for doing my own work.”
“Well, Ben, at that rate I would cut every stick off the island, and
sell the island for whatever anybody, who is fool enough to live there,
will give, and come on to the main land, and buy a place among folks.”
“Not yet, father; that is, if Sally likes to live there. I wouldn’t
swap it for the best place and house in town.”
Ben was now reduced to a single yoke of oxen, as those he had hired
were needed at home, and without them he could not handle spars, which
must be hauled some distance; but on the eastern side of the island was
a place where the rocks, undermined by the frosts and sea, had fallen
into the water. He cut the trees around it into mill-logs that were not
fit for spars, rolled them down the chasm into the water, towed them to
the mill, bringing back the boards, and sticking them up on the shore
to season. Thus they worked all through the summer, despite of black
flies and mosquitos.
They then cut a lot of cedar, and piled it up to dry with the boards.
“What are you going to do with all this cedar?” said Joe; “and why
don’t you sell your boards at the mill, instead of bringing them back
here?”
“I won’t tell you,” said Ben; “so you needn’t ask me.”
In September, Joe, who had agreed to go on a fishing trip with John
Strout, left, and Ben was once more alone.
Let us now see how matters are going with Fred, who, by fright, wounds,
loss of blood, and remorse of conscience, was brought well nigh to
death’s door. For a long time he was so reduced, and in such a state of
stupor, as not to know where he was; but as he regained strength and
perception, it mortified and stung him to the quick to find himself in
the house, and the object of care and solicitude to those whom he had
so recently injured; for, notwithstanding the mean, cowardly treatment
John had received from Fred, he was unremitting in his attentions to
him,--sleeping in the same room, and ministering to all his wants. It
is wonderful to what lengths a boy of a naturally kind and generous
nature may be induced to go in wickedness,--and mean wickedness,
too,--through the influence of evil examples and companionship.
Such a boy was Fred; and this kind treatment was perfect torture. At
length he could bear it no longer; but upon a night when he had been
feverish and very restless, and John had been up great part of the
night, bathing his head, and giving him drink and medicines, he said,
while his voice was choked with sobs, “O, John, I don’t deserve all
this kindness at your hands; I don’t see how I could ever have gone in
with that miserable Pete, and those boys, to hurt you. If I ever get
well, I’ll be a better boy, and try to show you and your folks that I
am not ungrateful.”
He had made promises of amendment to John before, especially when
suffering under the smart of the fish-hook. They came from the lips
then--a repentance in view of consequences; but Tige’s teeth went
deeper than the fish-hook, and this time they came from the heart.
Little Fannie now came down to see her brother. The first thing she
did, upon entering the house, was to put both arms round Tige’s neck,
and tell him he shouldn’t be whipped if he did do naughty things, for
Captain Rhines said so.
Fred’s father was a stern, passionate man, who did not secure the
affections of his children. His mother was a fretful, teasing woman;
thought she had to work harder, and had more to try her than anybody
else in the world; didn’t see what she had so many children for; when
the window was down she wanted it up, and when it was up she wanted it
down; was never suited. She was a great deal more inclined to scold
her children for doing wrong, than to praise them for doing well. The
doctor said Fred would never get well, if his mother took care of him,
she kept such a fuss, and made him uneasy; so Mrs. Rhines told her
there were a good many of them, and they could take care of him as well
as not, and had plenty of room; that she had a great family, with much
to do, and young children; their dog did the harm, and they would take
care of him.
As Fred began to mend, Mrs. Rhines would take her work and sit down
by him in the afternoon, and talk with him as she did with her own
children; in her kind, motherly way, tell him of the results of vice,
and the inducements to a virtuous course; and, as the tears ran down
his cheeks, wiped them away, soothing and encouraging him, till the
boy’s inmost soul responded to her teachings. His eyes would light up
with satisfaction when he saw her take her knitting work to sit by his
bedside.
Not long after Fred had given vent to his feelings, John, meeting Uncle
Isaac on the beach, said to him, “I believe Fred would be right glad to
see you, but don’t like to say so.”
“Well, I’ll happen in.”
So he happened in. What passed between them was never known; but the
next day Fred said to John, “Uncle Isaac’s a good man--ain’t he?”
“Good! He’s the goodest man that ever was.”
Not many days after he happened in again, when Fred said to him, “I
have an uncle in Salem that’s a tanner and shoemaker. He and I were
always great friends; he wants me to come and live with him, and learn
the trade. Father has said a great many times that I am such a bad boy,
and plague him so much, that he should be glad if I was there. I’ve
been thinking while on this bed, that since I have got such a bad name
round here, it would be a good thing to go where nobody knows me, or
what I have done, and begin brand fire new.”
“The tanner’s trade is a first-rate one, and I should like to have you
learn it; but the place where you have lost your character, Fred, is
the very place to get it again. There was a man lived in Rowley, who
was accused of stealing a sheep. He said he wouldn’t stay in a place
where he was so slandered, and moved to Newbury. He had not been there
a fortnight when the report came that he had stolen three sheep when he
lived in Rowley, and he moved back again.”
“But everybody will scorn me; and when I go to school the boys will
twit me of it, and holler after me when I go along the road.”
“No boy or man, whose opinion is worth minding, will do it when they
see you mean to mend; besides, you ought to be willing to suffer some
mortification on account of the sorrow you have caused your parents and
friends, and for all the mischief you have done, and meant to do.”
“That is true; and I _am_ willing they may say or do what they like;
I’ll _face_ it.”
“That’s right; that’s bravely spoken,” said Captain Rhines, laying
his great hand upon the pale forehead of the sick boy; “you’ll live
it down, and be thought more of for it. You see, my son, building
character is just like building a vessel. We build a vessel model,
fasten, spar, and rig her the best we know how, and _think_ she’ll
prove serviceable; still we don’t know that. But when she’s made a
winter passage across the western ocean, and the captain writes home
that she is tight, and sails and works well in all weathers, then you
see that vessel’s got a character; sailors like to go in her, and
merchants like to put freight in her. That will be the way with you;
people will say there’s good stuff at bottom in that boy; he’s been
through the mill.”
“But,” said the poor boy, “who will believe that I’m going to be a good
boy? and who will go with me at the first of it, while I’m proving
myself?”
“John will go with you, and our girls.”
“I,” said Uncle Isaac, “will get Henry Griffin to go with you. Pete
tried to get hold of him, but he didn’t make out. I’ll get him to come
down and see you to-morrow.”
When the cool weather came on, Fred gained strength, went to school,
and began to help his father in the mill.
It was remarkable how soon people began to notice the change in him,
and to say, “What a smart boy Fred Williams is getting to be! and
how much help he is to his father!” He could not have been placed
in a better position to have his light shine, than in a mill, where
everybody in the whole town came, and were convinced of the shrewd
wisdom of Uncle Isaac’s declaration, that the place to look for a
thing was where you lost it; the place to regain confidence, where you
had forfeited it.
Our readers will recollect the longing for some kindred spirit near his
own age, which John expressed to his mother. That desire was now to
be gratified in a most wonderful manner, as will be seen in the next
volume of “Elm Island Stories,” entitled CHARLIE BELL, THE WAIF OF
ELM ISLAND; and we cannot help thinking it must have been as a
reward for his remarkable conduct towards Fred.
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“Genius comes in with ‘Little Prudy.’ Compared with her, all
other book-children are cold creations of Literature only; she
alone is the real thing. All the quaintness of childhood, its
originality, its tenderness and its teasing,--its infinite,
unconscious drollery, the serious earnestness of its fun, the
fun of its seriousness, the natural religion of its plays,
and the delicious oddity of its prayers,--all these waited
for dear Little Prudy to embody them. Sam Weller is not more
piquant; Hans Andersen’s nutcrackers and knitting-needles are
not more thoroughly charged with life. Who is our benefactress
in the authorship of these books the world knows not. Sophie
May must doubtless be a fancy name, by reason of the spelling,
and we have only to be grateful that the author did not inflict
on us the customary alliteration in her pseudonyme. The rare
gift of delineating childhood is hers, and may the line of
‘Little Prudy’ go out to the end of the earth.... To those
oversaturated with transatlantic traditions, we recommend a
course of ‘Little Prudy.’”
Copies of any of the above books sent by mail on receipt of price.
LEE AND SHEPARD,
PUBLISHERS,
149 Washington Street, Boston.
Transcriber’s Note:
Punctuation has been standardised. Spelling and hyphenation have been
retained as they appear in the original publication. Changes have been
made as follows:
Page 62
I I love you well enough _changed to_
I love you well enough
Page 75
and its all the thing on this earth _changed to_
and it’s all the thing on this earth
Page 198
and all kinds of boy’s sports _changed to_
and all kinds of boys’ sports
Page 244
maltreat our prisoners in their hunks _changed to_
maltreat our prisoners in their hulks
End of Project Gutenberg's Lion Ben of Elm Island, by Elijah Kellogg