a coastwise ship out of Boston, and the affairs of the family began
to look up. From that he was promoted to the captaincy of a little
freighter plying between Montreal and the Labrador; and the next we
knew, he was in command of a large collier sailing out of Sydney, Nova
Scotia. Poor Melina appeared in a really handsome new traveling suit,
ordered from the big mail order house in Montreal; and the young ones
could all go to church the same Sunday, and often did.
For the last year or two we had ceased to make frequent inquiries after
Captain Joe; he had dropped pretty completely out of our life; and the
thought that he might be holding a commission of special dangerousness
had never so much as entered our minds. But poor Melina's calmness in
the face of the news-item surprised everyone. It was like a reproach to
her neighbors for not having acknowledged before the worth of the man
she had married. It had not required a German torpedo to teach her that.
And as for his safety, that apparently caused her no anxiety whatever.
"You couldn't kill the Captain," she repeated, with a quiet, untroubled
smile, which was as much as to say that anything else might happen to a
Pettipaw, but not that.
The rest of us admired her faith without being able to share it. Poor
Melina rarely had leisure to read a newspaper, and she did not know much
about the disasters of the war zone. And so, instinctively, everyone
began to say the eulogistic things about Captain Joe that had never been
said--though now we realized they ought to have been said--while he was
with us.
"He was such a good man," said Mrs. Thibault, the barrister's wife.
"So devoted to his home. I remember of how he would sit there on the
doorstep for hours, watching his little ones at their play. Poor babies!
Poor little babies!"
"Such a brave man, too; and so witty!" said John Boutin, our tailor.
"The stories he would tell, my! my! Many a day in the shop he'd be
telling stories from dinner till dark, without once stopping for breath
as you might say. It passed the time so nice!"
"And devout!" added Mrs. Fougère, the postmistress. "A Christian. He
loved to listen to the church-bells. I remember like it was yesterday
his saying to me, 'The man,' he said, 'who can hear a church-bell
without thinking of religion, is as good as lost, to my thinking.'"
"Not that he went to church very often," said Boutin.
"His knee troubled him," explained Mrs. Fougère.
Early in the evening came the cable message that justified poor Melina's
confidence. Eugénie White--the Whites used to be Le Blancs, but since
Eugénie came back from Boston, they have taken the more up-to-date
name--Eugénie came flying up the street from the railroad station,
waving the yellow envelope and spreading the news as she flew. The
message consisted of only one word: "Safe"; but it was dated Queenstown,
and it bore the signature we were henceforth to be so proud of: Joseph
Pettipaw.
Two days later the _Herald_ contained a notice of the rescue by a
Norwegian freighter of the Captain of the _Maid of the North_; but we
had to wait ten days for the full story, which occupied two columns in
one of the Queenstown journals and almost as much in the Dublin _Post_,
with a very lifelike photograph of Captain Joe. It was a wonderful
story, as you may very likely remember, for the American papers gave it
plenty of attention a little later.
It had been a calm, warm day, but with an immense sea running. Before
entering the war zone Captain Joe had made due preparation for
emergencies. The ship's boats were ready to be swung, and in each was a
barrel of water and a supply of biscuit and other rations. The submarine
was not sighted until it was too late to think of escaping; the engines
were reversed; and when the German commander called out through his
megaphone that ten minutes would be allowed for the escape of the crew,
all hands hurried to the lee side and began piling into the boats. The
mate's was lowered away first and cleared safely.
The Captain was about to give the order for the lowering of his own
boat, when the only woman in the party cried out that her husband was
being left behind. It was the cook, who was indulging in an untimely
nap, his noonday labors in the galley being over. In her first
excitement Martha Figman had failed to notice his absence, but had made
for the boat as fast as she could, carrying her three-year-old child.
"Be quick!" called out the commander of the submarine. "Your time is up!"
"Oh, Captain, Captain, don't leave him," implored the desperate woman.
"He's all I have!"
Then Captain Joe did the thing that will go down in history. He seized
the little girl and held her aloft in his arms and called out to the
Germans:
"In the name of this little child, grant me three more minutes."
"Two!" replied the commander.
Captain Joe leaped to the deck and rushed aft, burst open the cook's
cabin, and hauled Danny Figman, quite sound asleep, out of his berth.
The poor rascal was only partly dressed, but there was no time to make
him presentable. A blanket and a sou'wester had to suffice. Still
bewildered, he was dragged on deck and ordered to run for his life.
A few seconds later the boat lowered away with its full quota of
passengers; the men took the oars, cleared a hundred yards safely; and
then there was a snort, a white furrow through the waves, an explosion;
the _Maid of the North_ listed, settled, and disappeared. The submarine
steamed quickly out of sight; and the two boats were all that was left
as witness of what had happened.
On account of the terrible seas that were running, the boats soon became
separated; and for sixty-two hours Captain Joe bent his every energy
to keeping his boat afloat, for she was in momentary danger of being
swamped, until on the third morning the Norwegian was sighted, came to
the rescue, and carried the exhausted occupants into Queenstown.
Three Rivers, you may depend, had this story by heart, and backward
and forward, long before Captain Joe returned to us; for not only did
it appear in those Irish journals, but also on the occasion of the
Captain's arrival in New York in several metropolitan papers, written
up with great detail, and with a picture of little Tina Figman in the
Captain's arms.
"This is the Captain," ran the print under the picture, "who risked his
life that a baby might not be fatherless."
You can imagine how anxious we were by this time in Three Rivers to
welcome that Captain home again; not one of us but wanted to make ample
amends for the injustice we had done him in the past. But we had to
wait several weeks, for even after the owners had brought Captain Joe
and his crew back to New York on the St. Louis, still he had to go to
Montreal for a ten days' stay, to depose his evidence officially and to
wind up the affairs of the torpedoed ship. But at last he was positively
returning to us; and extensive preparations were undertaken for his
reception.
As he was coming by the St. Lawrence steamer, _Lady of Gaspé_, the
principal decorations were massed in the vicinity of the government
wharf. If I tell you that well nigh three hundred dollars had been
collected for this purpose from the good people of Three Rivers, you
can form some idea of the magnitude of the effort. A double row of
saplings had been set up along the wharf and led thence to the Palace
of Justice; and the full distance, an eighth of a mile, was hung with
red and tricolor bunting. Then there were three triumphal arches, one
at the head of the wharf, one at the turn into the street, and one in
front of the post-office. These arches were very cleverly built, with
little turrets at the corners, the timber-work completely covered with
spruce-branches; and each arch displayed a motto. Mrs. Fougère and
Eugénie White had devised the mottoes, little John Boutin had traced
the letters on cotton, and Mrs. Boutin had painted them. The first
read: "Honor to Our Hero." The second was in French, for the reason that
half our population still use that language by preference, and it read:
"Honneur à notre Héro"; and the third arch bore the one word, ornately
inscribed: "Welcome."
All the houses along the way were decorated with geraniums and flags;
and as the grass was already very green (it was June) and the willows
and silver-oaks beginning to leave out, it may fairly be said that Three
Rivers was a beauty spot.
Seeing that no one can tell beforehand when a steamer is going to
arrive, the whole town was in its best clothes and ready at an early
hour of the morning. The neighbors trooped in at poor Melina's, offering
their services in case any of the children still needed combing,
curling, or buttoning; and all through the forenoon the young people
were climbing to the top of St. Anne's hill to see if there was any sign
of the _Lady of Gaspé_; but it was not till three in the afternoon that
the church-bell, madly ringing, announced that the long-expected moment
was about to arrive.
I wish I could quote for you in full the account of that day's doings
which appeared in our local sheet, the Bonaventure _Record_, for it
was beautifully written and described every feature as it deserved,
reproducing _verbatim_ the Mayor's address of welcome, Father Quinnan's
speech in the Palace, and the Resolutions drawn up by ten representative
citizens and presented to Captain Pettipaw on a handsomely illuminated
scroll, which you may see to-day hanging in the place of honor in his
parlor.
But let my readers imagine for themselves the arrival of the steamer,
the cheer upon cheer as Captain Joe came gravely down the gang-plank;
the affecting meeting between him and poor Melina and the nine little
Pettipaws, the littlest of whom he had never seen, and several of whom
had grown so in these last four years that he had the names wrong, which
caused happy laughter and happy tears on all sides. Then the procession
to the Palace! There was an orchestra of four pieces from Cape Cove; and
a troop of little girls, in white, scattered tissue-paper flowers along
the line of march.
The Mayor began his speech by saying that an honor had come to our
little town which would be rehearsed from father to son for generations.
Father Quinnan took for his theme the three words: "Father, Husband,
Hero"; and he showed us how each of those words, in its highest and best
sense, necessarily comprised the other two. And the exercises closed
with a very enjoyable piano duet which you doubtless know: "Wandering
Dreams," by some foreign composer.
People watched Captain Joe very closely. It would have been only natural
if, returning to us in this way, he should have remembered a time,
not so long before, when the attitude of his fellow-citizens had been
extremely cool. But if he remembered it, he gave no sign; and he smiled
at everyone in a grave, thoughtful manner that made one's heart beat
high.
"He has aged," whispered Mrs. Fougère. "But his face is noble. It
reminds me of Napoleon, somehow."
"To me he looks more like that American we see so often in the
papers--Bryan. So much dignity!" This from Mrs. Boutin.
We appreciated the Captain's freedom from condescension the more when
we heard from his own lips, that same evening, a recital of the honors
that had been showered upon him during the past weeks. The Mayor of
Queenstown had had him to dinner; Lady Derntwood, known as the most
beautiful woman in Ireland, had entertained him for three days at
Derntwood Park, and sent an Indian shawl as a present to his wife. On
the _St. Louis_ he had sat at the Captain's right hand; in New York he
had been interviewed and royally fêted by the newspaper-men; and at
Montreal the owners had presented him with a gold watch and a purse of
$250. Also, they had offered him another ship immediately.
"Oh, you're going again!" we exclaimed; and the words were repeated from
one to another in admiration--"He's going again!" But Captain Joe smiled
thoughtfully.
"I told them I didn't mind being torpedoed," he said ('Oh, no! Certainly
not! Mind being torpedoed; you! Captain Joe!') "but--"
"But what, Captain?"
"But I said as I couldn't bear for to see a little child exposed again
in an open boat for sixty-four hours."
"But Captain, wouldn't they give you a ship without a child?"
"They _said_ they would," he replied, doubtfully, shaking his head.
"Then what will you be doing next?" we asked, mentally reviewing the
various fields in which he might add laurels to laurels.
He meditated a little while and then replied: "Home'll suit me pretty
good for a spell."
Well, that could be understood, certainly. Indeed, it was to his credit.
We remembered Father Quinnan's speech. The husband, the father, had
their claim. A little stay at home, in the bosom of loved ones, yes, to
be sure, it seemed fitting and right, after the perils of the sea.
And yet, why was it, as we took down the one-eighth-mile of bunting that
night, there was a faint but perceptible dampening of our enthusiasm.
Perhaps it was the reaction from the strain and excitement of the day,
for it had been, there was no denying it, a day of days for Three
Rivers; a day, which, as Father Quinnan had said, would be writ in
letters of gold in Memory's fair album. This day was ended now, and
night came down upon a very proud and very tired little community.
* * * * *
If this were a fancy story instead of a record of things that came to
pass last year on the Gaspé Coast, my pen should stop here; but as it
is, I feel under a plain obligation to pursue the narrative.
I've no doubt that many other towns in the history of the world have
faced precisely the same problem that Three Rivers faced in the months
following: namely, what to do with a hero when you have one. Oh, if
you could only set them up on a pedestal in front of the Town Hall or
the post-office and _keep_ them there! A statue is so practicable.
Once in so often, say on anniversaries, you can freshen it up, hang
it with garlands and bunting, and polish the inscription; and then
the school-children can come, and somebody can explain to them about
the statue, and why we should venerate it, and what were the splendid
qualities of the hero which we are to try to imitate in our own lives. I
hope that all cities with statues realize their happy condition.
For two or three weeks after the Great Day Three Rivers still kept its
air of festivity. The triumphal arches could be appreciated even from
the train, and many travelers, we heard, passing through, leaned out of
the windows and asked questions of the station agent.
Wherever Captain Joe went, there followed a little knot of children,
listening open-mouthed for any word that might fall from his lips; and
you could hear them explaining to one another how it was that a man
could be torpedoed and escape undamaged. At first no one of lesser
importance than the Mayor or the Bank Manager presumed to walk with him
on the street; and he was usually to be seen proceeding in solitary
dignity to or from the post-office, head a little bowed, one hand
in the opening of his coat, his step slow and thoughtful, while the
children pattered along behind.
But the barrier between the Captain and his fellow-townsmen was
entirely of their own creation, it transpired, for he was naturally a
sociable man, and now more than ever he craved society, being sure of a
deferential hearing. Once established again in Boutin's tailor-shop and
pool-parlor, he seemed disposed never to budge from it; and as often
as you might pass, day or night, you could hear him holding forth to
whatever company happened to be present. It was impossible not to gather
many scraps of his discourse, for his voice was as loud as an orator's.
"And Lady Derntwood--no, it was Lady Genevieve, Lady Derntwood's dairter
by her first husband and fully as beautiful as her mother, she said to
me, 'Captain,' she said, 'when I read that about the little girl--For
the sake of this little child, grant me three minutes!--the tears filled
my eyes, and I said to my maid, who had brought me my _Times_ on the
breakfast tray, "Lucienne," I said, "that is a man I should be proud
to know!"'--and that's a fact sir, as true as I'm settin' here, for
Lucienne herself told me the same thing. A little beauty, that Lucienne:
black hair; medium height. We used to talk French together."
Or another time you would hear: "And they said to me, 'Captain,' they
says, 'and are you satisfied with the gold watch and chain and with the
little purse we have made up for you here, not pretending, of course,
for one minute,' they says, 'that 'tis any measure of the services you
have rendered to us or to your country. We ask you,' they says, 'are you
satisfied?' And I said, 'I am,' and the fact is, I was, for the watch
I'd lost was an Ingersoll, and my clothes put together wouldn't have
brought a hundred dollars."
So the weeks went by; and the triumphal arches, on which the mottoes
had run a good deal, were taken down and broken up for kindling; and
still Captain Joe sat and talked all day long and all night long, too,
if only anybody would listen to him. But listeners were growing scarce.
His story had been heard too often; and any child in town was able to
correct him when he slipped up, which often happened. The two hundred
and fifty dollars was spent long since, and now the local merchants were
forced to insist once more on strictly cash purchases, and many a day
the Pettipaw family must have "done meagre," as the French say. Unless
all signs failed, they would be soon living again at the charge of the
community. Close your eyes if you like, sooner or later certain grim
truths will be borne home to you. A leopard cannot change his spots, nor
a Pettipaw his skin. Before our very eyes the honor and glory of Three
Rivers, the thing that was to be passed from generation to generation,
was vanishing: worse than that, we were becoming ridiculous in our own
eyes, which is harder to bear, even, than being ridiculous in the eyes
of others.
There was one remedy and only one. It was plain to anybody who
considered the situation thoughtfully. Captain Joe must be got away. So
long as your hero is alive, he can only be viewed advantageously at a
distance. At all events, if he is a Pettipaw.
It was proposed that we should elect him our local member to the
provincial Parliament. It might be managed. We suggested it to him,
dwelling upon the opportunities it would afford for the exercise of his
special talents which, we said, were being thrown away in a little town
like Three Rivers. He conceded that we spoke the truth; "but," he said,
after a moment of thoughtful silence, "I am a sailor born and bred, and
my health would never stand the confinement. Never!"
Next it was found that we could secure for him the position of purser
on the S. S. _Lady of the Gaspé_. But this offer he refused even more
emphatically.
"Purser!--Me!" There was evidently nothing more to be said.
Writing to Montreal, Father Quinnan learned that if he so wished Captain
Pettipaw might have again the command of the little freighter that ran
to the Labrador; and the proposition was laid before him with sanguine
expectations. Again he declined.
"The Labrador! Thank you! They wouldn't even know who I was!"
"You could tell them, Captain."
"What good would that do?"
No answer being forthcoming to this demand, still another scheme had to
be sought. It was the Mayor who finally saved the day for Three Rivers.
He instigated a Patriotic Fund, to which every man, woman and child
contributed what he could, and with the proceeds a three-masted schooner
of two hundred tons burden was acquired (she had been knocked down for a
song at a sheriff's sale at Campbellton); she was handsomely refitted,
rechristened, and presented, late in October, to Captain Joe, as a
tribute of esteem from his native town.
It is not for me to say just how grateful the Captain was, at heart; but
he accepted the gift with becoming dignity; and before the winter ice
closed the Gulf (so expeditiously had our plans been carried out) the
_Gloria_ was ready to sail with a cargo of dry fish for the Barbadoes.
The evening previous to her departure there was a big farewell meeting
in the Palace of Justice, with speeches by the Mayor and Father Quinnan,
a piano duet, and an original poem by Eugénie White, beginning:
_Sail forth, sail far,
O Captain bold!_
It was remarkable to see how all the enthusiasm and fervor of an earlier
celebration in that same hall sprang to life again; yes, and with a
solemnity added, for this time our hero was going from us. He sat
there on the platform by the Mayor, handsome, square-shouldered, his
head a little bowed, a thoughtful smile on his lips under the grizzled
moustache: he was every inch the noble figure that had stood unflinching
before the gates of death; and we realized as never before what a debt
of gratitude we owed him. At last our hero was our hero again.
There is but little more to tell. The next morning, bright and early,
everybody was at the wharf to watch the _Gloria_ hoist her sails, weigh
anchor, and tack out into the bay. There were tears in many, many eyes
besides those of poor Mrs. Pettipaw. The sea had a dark look, off there,
and one thought of the dangers that awaited any man who sailed out on it
at this time of the year.
"Heaven send him good passage!" said Mrs. Thibault, wiping her eyes
vigorously.
"Yes, yes, and bring him safe home again, the brave man!" added Mrs.
Boutin, earnestly; and all those who heard her breathed a sincere amen
to that prayer.
It was sincere. We had wanted Captain Joe to go away; we had actually
forced him to go away; yet no sooner was he gone than we prayed he might
be brought safe home again. Yes, for when all is said and done, a town
that has a hero must love him and cherish him and wish him well. Because
we have ours, Three Rivers will always be a better place to live in and
to bring up children in: a more inspiring place.
Only, perhaps, if Mrs. Boutin had spoken less impulsively, she would
have added one or two qualifying clauses to her petition. For instance,
she might have added: "Only not too soon, and not for too long at once!"
But for my part, I believe that will be understood by the good angel who
puts these matters on record, up there.
[Illustration: A FISHERMAN'S HOUSE]
FLY, MY HEART!
FLY, MY HEART!
They called her Sabine Bob--"S'been Bob"--because her real name was
Sabine Anne Boudrot; and being a Boudrot in Petit Espoir is like being
a Smith or a Brown in our part of the world, only ten times more so,
for in that little fishing-port of Cape Breton, down in the Maritime
Provinces, practically everybody belongs to the abounding tribe.
Boudrot, therefore, having ceased to possess more than a modicum of
specificity (to borrow a term from the logicians), the custom has arisen
of tagging the various generations and households of Boudrots with the
familiar name of the father that begat them.
And thus Sabine Anne Boudrot, "old girl" of fifty, was known only as
Sabine Bob, and Mary Boudrot, her friend, to whom she was dictating
a love-letter on a certain August evening, was known only as Mary
Willee--with the accent so strongly on the final syllable that it
sounded like Marywil-Lee. Sabine Bob was in service; always had
been. Mary kept house for an invalid father. But there was no social
distinction between the two.
Mary Willee bent close over the sheet of ruled note-paper and
laboriously traced out the words, dipping her pen every few seconds with
professional punctiliousness and screwing up her homely face into all
sorts of homely expressions: tongue now tight-bitten between her teeth,
now working restlessly in one cheek, now hard pressed against bulging
lips. There was agony for both of them in this business of producing a
love-letter: agony for Mary Willee because she had never fully mastered
the art of writing, and the shaping just-so of the letters and above
all the spelling brought out beads of sweat on her forehead; agony for
Sabine Bob because her heart was so burstingly full and words were so
powerless to ease that bursting.
Besides, how could she be sure, really, positively _sure_, that Mary
Willee was recording there on that paper the very words, just those
very words and none others, which she was confiding to her! Writing was
a tricky affair. Tricky, like the English language which Sabine Bob
was using, against her will, for the reason that Mary Willee had never
learned to write French. French was natural. In French one could say
what one thought: it felt homelike. In English one had to be stiff.
"Read me what I have said so far," directed Sabine Bob, and she held to
the seat of her chair with her bony hands and listened.