In the eighties of the last century, on the sparsely settled old country
road north of Yaphank, two mowers were arranging, one August evening, to
go to the Beach next day, and cut the sedge upon a neighbor's meadow.
"We must make an 'arly start," said Raner. "By sunrise we ought 'o be
well through the Gore in the Hills. Arter wants that piece o' sedge all
laid to-morrer, ef we be men enough to do it."
"How be you goin' 'cross?" asked Layn.
"In the ol' hay-boat. I got her ready at Squasux week ago yisterday.
Josh Alibee is to meet us there, so there'll be three on us, you see. A
big day's work, but we'll take suthin' along to brace us up while we're
doin' on it."
The sun next morning was not more than an hour high, when these mowers
had embarked in the hay-boat for the Beach. The light breeze of that
muggy August morning, blowing a trifle on the fore-quarter, carried them
down the river so slowly that in order to gain time they plied the oar.
The scene which lay about them has changed but little in almost the
hundred years which have passed since that morning. The river's course
to the Bay was just as zig-zag then as it is now. Eastward lay the same
broad meadows, skirted by that dense barrier of foliage--the Noccomack
woods. Westward there stood upon the river bank where the Squasux road
came down, a long, low one-story house, and below this the meadows
extended to the distant woodland. As the sunlight fell aslant upon these
meadows, they presented all those lustrous gradations of yellow and
brown that may be seen in the early sunlight of an August morning
to-day.
"There, put away yer oar, Josh; the breeze stiffens," said Raner, as
they neared the mouth of the river.
"Thet ere's warm work," exclaimed Josh, as he finished the stroke and
laid aside the oar. "I'll tek a swaller, I believe."
"No, no," replied Layn; "put that jug back. It's too 'arly in the day to
begin swiggin' at that. You'll hev need o' ev'ry drop o' your share on
the Beach."
"A couple o' swallers 'ill mek no diff'rence one way nur t'other. Not a
sol'try horn hev I hed yet to-day, an' I've pulled the hull way down the
river, whilst you've sot thar, yer elbows on yer knees," replied Josh,
as he tipped the jug and drank.
"Pass it along," said Raner. "Our ends hev all got to be kep' even
to-day."
Raner and Layn each drank, though lightly, and passed the jug back to
Josh, who, remarking, "It took all t'other swaller to wet my throat,"
deliberately tipped the jug and drank continuously as he walked forward
to put it in its place.
The hay-boat went slowly, and the time passed tediously to men who were
ambitious to be at their day's work. Of this Raner himself furnished the
best evidence, as he stood by the tiller, treading from side to side,
and knocking one foot against the other.
The present generation has little notion of what the sailing of those
days was, particularly in the flat-bottomed, square-ended hay-boats.
With a free wind, the course could be pretty well kept, but with the
wind abeam, leeway became almost equal to headway, and wide calculations
and allowances had always to be made. Layn had this in mind when he
said, "Give the Inlet a wide berth or I'm afeard the tide'll ketch us
an' draw us through."
"She'll clear it, an' a plenty to spare," replied Raner.
"You better not be too sure 'bout that. I, for one, don't want 'o fare
ez them Swan Crick fellers did."
"What Swan Crick fellers?" enquired Raner.
"Why, Mott an' a nother young feller--I dun know what his name wuz.
Hain't you heer'd 'bout 'em?"
"No."
"Well, I hed 'em on my mind when I said, 'Give the Inlet plenty o'
room.' You ain't heer'd on it, then? Well, this ere young Mott and
t'other feller started out the Crick to sail their hay-boat somewheres
east o' the Inlet. Ol' man Mott hed built the boat, an' hed put cleats
on the edges under 'er sides, to keep 'er from slidin off to leward. She
sailed smart, an' hung on to the wind purty good, I b'lieve. The ol'
man, though, tol' 'em to look out fur the Inlet, an' give it a rattlin'
good distunce. But, by George, 'fore they knowed it, they wuz goin'
toward the Inlet. They tried might an' main, puttin' out poles an' doin'
ev'ry thing they could, to steer'er to shore, but no use. They couldn't
reach bottom, fur she kep' right squar' inter the middle o' the channel,
an' out she went.
"The poor devils wuz wild. The wind, what thar wuz on it, wuz blowin'
from the nuthard. They lowered sail, but out to sea they kep' on goin'.
Finely, arter they got out sev'ral mile, the wind changed to the
suthard. They histed sail, pinted 'er straight on, an' beached 'er on
the surf-shore off abreas' o' Muriches, an' the ol' man went down thar
an' wracked the very boat he'd jist built."
Josh, who had sat with his gun across his knees during Layn's account of
this mishap, now resumed the work of cleaning his gun, upon which he had
put all his time since clearing the mouth of the river. Priming the
musket, he raised it to his shoulder, took an imaginary aim, and
remarked: "She's in royal trim now fur any bunch o' snipe thet shows up
on the medder."
"Where did you come upon that buster of a fire-arm?" inquired Layn, in
jest.
"Thet ere fire-arm, le' me tell you, hez been proved. She's seen
sarvice, but thet wuz afore I got 'er."
"Hain't she seen sarvice sence you've had 'er, ur plaguey nigh it?"
continued Layn.
"Seen sa--ar--vice sence--I've--hed 'er?"
"Yes, by George, yes."
"You're talkin' to me in riddles."
"Why, Joshua," broke in Raner, "hain't there been orchards girdled, a
barn burnt, an' thirty horses made way with by some on you Punksholers
not a great while back?"
"Exac'ly," said Layn. "That ere hints the matter, Josh. Wuz that ere gun
one on 'em that wuz drawn on Judge Smith, an' would a' done the mischief
on 'im, hedn't his wife happened to keep atween him an' the winder
whilst he wuz ondressin' a-goin' to bed?"
"Thar wuzn't but three on 'em at thet ere bus'ness, an' is it your idee
to hint thet I wuz one on em? Ef it be, thet's hittin' devlish
nigh--_devlish nigh_; an' I'm blasted ef I don't tek thet up," replied
Alibee, spitting in his hands and stepping up to Layn.
"Nay, Joshua, nay; couldn't that flint-lock a been there without you, or
at any rate, afore you owned it?" spoke Raner, to pacify Alibee.
Layn discerned that he had gone too far in his attempt at accusation,
and so in a bantering way, continued, "You said yer musket had seen
sarvice. You wan't in the Rev'lution'ry War, nur even in a skirmish. The
wicked thing some o' you Punksholers meant to do on Judge Smith is known
to the hull Town, an' you wuz a braggin' 'bout the sarvice yer gun hed
seen. What harm wuz thar, by George, in askin' you, straight out an'
out, ef that wuz the sarvice she hed seen?"
"A devlish lot o' harm, when a man wa'n't thar, nur nowheres near thar,
nur never hed an idee o' bein' thar," replied Josh.
"Trim in the sail now, an' quit your sq'abblin'," spoke out Raner.
"There, that'll do. Now she p'ints up better, an' ef she don't slide off
over much, we'll make our landin' spot without a tack. Ah! that's a
strong puff."
Raner looked to windward thoughtfully a few minutes, and then began to
whistle. The breeze, the onward motion of the boat, and the movement of
the waves stirred his feelings, and he whistled on for a full half-hour.