FIDETTE.
I was aroused from my stupor by a voice whose accents I had not heard
before. Its tone was tender and sympathetic, and instantly awakened
in my heart the dormant love of life. Before looking in the direction
of the doorway I knew I was in the presence of a friend--one who felt
for me in my hour of dire despair.
The question of sex did not occur to me--so completely does
misfortune destroy all the impulses of the human heart ordinarily
aroused in the breast of a comparatively young man like myself in the
presence of womankind. With no other thought than that of gratitude
for a gentle word tenderly spoken, I raised my face from my hands and
looked in the direction of the speaker.
Before me I beheld a creature so startlingly beautiful that I felt my
senses leaving me at the apparition. She was a young girl, small in
stature, but perfect in figure, with hazel-brown eyes, and her hair,
radiant, reddish-brown in color, fell ’round her shoulders like a
mantle. Her skin was aglow with health, and her smile disclosed a row
of pearly teeth that glistened in the fading sunlight.
She was clad in a mantle of woven sea grass, of blue and gray, held
together at her shoulders by sharks’ teeth. This robe was belted at
the waist by a leathern girdle, studded with shells of rainbow hues,
and fell loosely about her figure, much as does the costume of the
Greeks, as I have seen it worn at the Piraeus and on the islands
of the Aegean Sea. Her feet were uncovered, and of dainty size. Her
pretty arms were extended toward me in a winning, beseeching way. In
her left hand was a sprig of green and waxen-leafed rhododendron, the
Sargasson emblem, as I divined at once, of a tender of affection. In
her right hand was a small wicker tray of berries, resembling the
wintergreen in color and size.
I gazed spellbound upon the pretty, dainty creature, not daring to
speak, for fear the illusion would end. She was so unreal, so unlike
a thing of flesh and blood, so weirdly picturesque--she was a fay of
the water world!
As she opened the door of my prison cell, she said, in Creole French:
“You must be faint and hungry, monsieur. Do eat these berries that I
have gathered for you, and be refreshed. Come, I will take you where
we may see the sun go down.”
“I thank you very kindly,” was my deferential reply. “Yours is the
first friendly word I have received since my captivity.”
“I know you have been unhappy, and for that reason have I come to
cheer you,” was the frank reply of the graceful girl, as with a smile
she handed me the sprig of bay. “It is the custom of our people
that all captives who suffer the punishment of living shall endure
isolation for five long days and nights, that they may know mental
wretchedness and reconcile themselves to Sargasson life.”
After this the young woman led the way aft, along the main deck, to
a pretty cabin, in which was a large port that gave upon the west.
Through this broad aperture the setting sun, a mass of golden red,
could be seen sinking into the sea.
By my inquiring looks, though not by words, I put the question many
times to this brown-eyed creature as to her identity, and how she
came to be upon the Happy Shark. She took the earliest occasion,
therefore, to explain in simple manner and with graceful gestures,
that she was the daughter of the ship’s Kantoon; that her mother had
been a captive, like myself “accorded the punishment of living,”
merely because her bright eyes and teeth had pleased the fancy of the
master of the Happy Shark. The speaker had been born in Sargasso,
and had never known aught of any other world. To her mother, who
came from New Orleans, she owed the quaint French dialect that she
spoke and the slight acquaintance with the English language that she
afterward confessed.
The young girl’s story of her mother’s life was as romantic as a tale
of fiction. She was the daughter of a place woman, that peculiar
phase of social life existing nowhere else in America except in
Louisiana. Though raised amid surroundings that were not entirely
respectable, she was brought up a devoted member of the Church and
at an early age placed in a school, where she remained for eight
years. She was taught to sew and embroider; to play the harp and
to sing. Because of her pretty face and graceful manners, she was
encouraged in the coquette’s art, and a bright and brilliant future
was predicted for her. To the mortification of the good sisters, who
specially charged themselves with the young girl’s future, and for
whom they hoped to make an eligible match, she escaped one night
from her protectors, as was alleged by bribery of the concierge,
and eloped with a dashing young swell of the Crescent City. He was
the son of one of the few large sugar planters who had saved their
fortunes out of the wreck of the civil war.
When the rebellion was seen to be inevitable, he had converted all
his negroes and personal effects into money, which he had transferred
to the care of his London bankers. The plantation, of course, could
not be sold. But thousands of hogsheads of sugar and molasses in his
warehouses were rapidly disposed of, and the proceeds forwarded from
time to time to London. When the war came, he entered into it with
fervor and rose to the rank of brigadier-general. Although wounded
in several fights, he returned to his native city in safety.
His son, who had been a mere lad at the breaking out of the war, grew
up a profligate. So entirely did he alienate his father’s affection
that on his parent’s death the estate was left in such a condition
that he could not lay his hands upon a single dollar. A stated income
was however, paid him, and this he spent in the wildest dissipation.
Getting into the hands of money-lenders, he had, at the time of this
escapade, mortgaged his allowance for several years to come.
When the deluded woman found that she had joined her life to that of
a worthless adventurer, who lived wholly upon his friends, and who
found his only excitement at the gambling table, she was heartbroken;
but she accepted her fate with the same resignation as does the
faithful woman everywhere. It was not long until neglect was followed
by abuse and insult; but, according to the daughter’s narrative, the
mother’s fidelity to the man she had trusted never changed.
In the Summer of 1872, having raised some money, the daring young
gambler decided to visit Saratoga, where, at that time, games of
chance were openly conducted, in the hope that he could retrieve his
fortune. Marie accompanied him. They left New Orleans in a small
steamer bound for New York, and had a pleasant voyage for many days.
One very dark night, however, a terrible storm arose, and it was
announced that the steamer had sprung a leak. The fires were soon
put out by the inflowing water, and when daylight came the vessel
had become a helpless derelict, rolling in the trough of the sea.
Every moment seemed the last. The sailors lost courage, expecting the
water-logged craft to capsize and sink.
The poor little Creole woman, faint with fright and filled with an
inborn terror of the sea, quietly slipped away to her stateroom,
crawled into her bunk and covered her head, desiring to await
death alone, and to meet it in this less frightful form. Thus she
lay for a day and a night, apparently forgotten. And yet death
came not. Evidently the anger of the sea had subsided, and on the
second day, hungry and despairing, she crawled on deck to find the
entire ship deserted and she its sole occupant. All the boats were
gone--officers, crew and passengers had departed, leaving her to her
fate. She had been overlooked; or, if considered at all, it had been
assumed that one of the seas that came aboard had carried her to a
watery grave.
It required little tax of memory to recall the loss of the George
Cornwall, Capt. Timothy Rogers, that had sailed from New Orleans
about the time described, never to reach New York, and whose fate,
beyond the discovery of one of her upturned boats, was never known.
The young girl at my side dwelt with graphic fullness upon the months
that her unfortunate, deserted mother had passed alone aboard the
derelict. Provisions were plenty, and she did not suffer for food
or drink. Vessels were sighted many times, but none of them saw the
signal of distress that she displayed. So wretched and hopeless
seemed her position; so ever present was the prospect of death, and
so appalling was it to her, that she slept little and ate only food
enough to sustain life. Many times she seriously contemplated casting
herself into the sea in order to end her misery.
Months passed. She kept no record of the flight of time. Moonlight,
darkness, fog, fair weather and storm succeeded each other; but
the moon mocked her, and the sun and the fetid breath of the Gulf
Stream parched her throat. Even the stars lost that assurance of
companionship, recognized by every sailor of the ocean.
The forsaken woman, alone upon her rolling, log-like vessel, never
understood by what route she reached the Seaweed Sea. Of course,
my pretty informant, knowing nothing of the geography of the North
Atlantic, could not even offer a surmise, and the probability is
that the derelict, carrying its solitary passenger, skirted the
eastern edge of the Gulf Stream until it reached the latitude of
New York and the longitude of Cape Farewell, when it began a zigzag
course that eventually landed it in Sargasso.
Contrary to theory, the derelicts did not pass around the Azore
Islands and thence southward past the coast of Africa, but, just
before they reach the path of the transatlantic steamers, they are
deflected to the southeastward, and make their way slowly to the
Graveyard of the Ocean--the Port of Missing Ships.
Coming on deck one morning, after fully five months of loneliness,
the solitary woman was surprised to find that during the night, and
under the influence of a strong current, the ship she inhabited
had penetrated far into the heart of the meadow-like expanse. It
had followed one of the large open waterways with which Sargasso
abounds. On all sides were to be seen the vessels of the Community.
The Sargassons had detected the presence of the new derelict, and,
almost simultaneously with the discovery by the passenger that the
vessel had reached some sort of a haven, boats were seen putting out
in every direction to effect a capture.
The customary law of salvage recognized among wreckers did not
obtain, as the system of government was one of absolute communism.
All goods were held in common, but the keenest rivalry did exist
among the inhabitants of the various vessels regarding their ability
as oarsmen, and the Chief Kantoon always awarded the most precious
article aboard the captured vessel to the Kantoon of the first crew
to reach the side of the derelict.
As happened on this occasion, the Kantoon of the Happy Shark was
first on board, and his gallant companions swung over the derelict’s
side with drawn knives and cutlasses, prepared to destroy any
survivors that might be on board. But when they were confronted
solely by the pretty Creole woman, savage as were their hearts, all
saluted her in their crude fashion.
Solitary as had been her life, she had never for a moment neglected
her dress, and she was so daintily attired that these rude people,
whose blood was as cold as that of the monsters of the sea, felt
their faces glow with delight and admiration as they gazed upon the
beautiful creature. Perhaps they may have felt a pang of remorse at
the thought that their captive would have to suffer the usual penalty
accorded to all such members of the race as came into their clutches.
In a few minutes, of course, the deck of the derelict swarmed with
Sargassons, young and old. All gazed with rapt admiration upon the
pretty captive.
In a bewildered fashion, she had seated herself at her favorite place
upon the after deck, and awaited her fate in silence.
When the Kantoon, who, under the Chief Kantoon, ruled the immediate
cantonments, arrived and took possession of the derelict in the name
of his people, the condemnation of the captive was a matter of course.
She was sentenced to be sewed up in a sack, heavily weighted with
irons, and tenderly dropped over the side of the ship into the sea.
It was the duty of her captor--that is, the Kantoon of the first crew
to take possession of the ship--to acquaint her with her fate.
This sad mission fell to the lot of the master of the Happy Shark.
He delayed the transmission of the message until he should have
claimed his right, as the captor of the vessel, to select the most
valuable article as a trophy of his success.
When the Deputy Chief Kantoon had spoken and demanded of him his
choice, the captain of the Happy Shark did not hesitate an instant,
but approached the pretty captive, took her hand, raised it to his
lips, drew her to her feet, and, leading her forward, replied:
“She is my choice.”
It is needless to say that nearly all the Kantoons of the other
vessels promptly protested against any such departure from the
recognized Sargasson code.
Death was the penalty for intruding into Sargasso, and it should be
meted out with impartial justice to men and women alike. But the
brave master of the Happy Shark stood on his rights.
In vain his confreres, who had rummaged about the ship, heaped up
before him a score of telescopes, chronometers, sextants and massive
silver dishes. He shook his head. His choice was made, and he
demanded that the Deputy Chief Kantoon confirm it.
“Thus came my mother to this strange people, apart from all the
world,” added my pretty companion.
I looked into her face and saw that the golden-red of the setting sun
had imparted such lustrous beauty to her eyes and cheeks as never
was worn by woman before. Her voice, too, seemed more musical as she
continued:
“The Deputy Chief Kantoon stepped to the side of the captive and
her captor, and rejoined their hands, for in her shy timidity the
trembling woman had released her fingers from the bearlike clutch
of the rude though tender-hearted man. He next muttered some
unintelligible words--and so they were married.
“After the ceremony was performed, all the members of the community
present appeared to promptly acquiesce in the will of their chief.
From among the collection of trinkets that had been gathered from
staterooms and cabins, consisting of jewels, money and rich articles
of women’s apparel, each man chose a gift for the bride, presenting
it in each case with a few words expressive of good wishes.
“The Kantoon of the Happy Shark--my father that was to be--returned
in an ecstasy of joy to his vessel, established the mistress of his
heart in the captain’s cabin, and, within an hour appeared on deck
cleanly shaven and wearing a cravat of variegated sea grass most
becoming to his sere and yellow countenance.”
The sun had gone to rest. He no longer watched me across the swaying
meadow. No one stood by to interfere, and so welled my heart with
gratitude to the companion by my side, that, waving sense or reason
far aside, I clutched her in my arms and kissed her fervently.
So nearly akin to gratitude is love!