THE BASKET-MAKER.
IT was a glad day to Ned, when he had so far recovered that the
surgeon, yielding to his solicitations, told him he might go on board
the vessel, spend most of the day, and come back at night.
The fisherman’s house was not far from the pier. Walter and Peterson
made a chair, by taking hold of each other’s wrists, and Ned, seated on
it, with an arm round each of their necks, was taken on board.
The weather was warm, and some blankets from Walter’s berth were spread
on the hen-coop, and a pillow placed so that Ned could lie down or sit
up, as he chose, see what was going on, and chat with his shipmates,
who were all rejoiced to see him on board again. Peterson prepared his
dinner, but Ned wanted to eat with the rest, it seemed so much more
sociable, having been compelled for so long a time to eat alone.
It was just after dinner; Ned was sitting, propped up with pillows,
the captain seated near by, watching him, when he noticed an old man,
apparently over sixty years of age, in seaman’s dress, coming along the
gangway plank. His hair, where it came outside his tarpaulin, was gray;
he stooped very much, appearing feeble, and bore on his back a large
number of articles manufactured of willows, and strung together by a
cord.
Approaching the captain, he deposited the bundle on the deck, evidently
much fatigued, and asked, in English, if he would like to buy any
of his work—market-baskets, knife-baskets, table-mats, ladies’
work-baskets, and many articles, merely ornamental, of superior
workmanship and most beautifully stained.
There was something in his whole demeanor that was both modest and
prepossessing—quite the reverse of street-venders in general.
“There,” said he, “is a market-basket that would be very handy on board
ship; and here,”—producing a basket nearly square, and with partings
in it for tumblers,—“is an article that would be very convenient on
a cabin table, or in a ship’s pantry. Many of my articles are made for
vessels’ use, as I deal much with seafaring men.”
Arthur Brown, who was of quick sympathies, was interested in the old
gentleman, and touched by seeing a man of his years, apparently infirm,
thus employed, felt inclined to converse, especially as he spoke
English.
“This is beautiful work,” he observed. “I have seen a great deal of it
in England and Germany, where excellent work is made, but never any
superior to this. You are surely master of your business.”
“I should be, considering I have been at it for the greater part of my
life since I was twelve years old, and we have no knowledge that any of
our ancestors were ever anything but weavers of sallies,—that’s what
we call the rods the baskets are made of.”
“You seem infirm. Have you been sick?”
“No, captain; I am worn down with wounds and hardships, but, most of
all, with a sore heart.”
“Then you’ve been a soldier?”
“No, sir; a sailor. I was born in Lincolnshire, England, in the fens.
There my forefathers all lived and followed their trade. A happier
man, sir, the sun never shone upon than myself. I had an affectionate
wife,—a right godly woman, and thrifty,—and three children. I
employed four, sometimes five men. My oldest child was a boy. He worked
in the shop. We paid our rent easy, and were getting along nicely,
when, in the midst of all this happiness, I was pressed, torn from my
family, and put aboard a hulk. Wouldn’t you think, sir, that would
break a man down?”
“I should, indeed, my friend,” replied Captain Brown, greatly moved,
“and I feel for you, from the bottom of my heart.”
The tears were running down little Ned’s cheeks as he sat propped up on
the hen-coop.
“It must have been long ago,” continued the captain.
“Not so very long, sir. Only about ten years.”
“Indeed!”
“How old might you take me to be, sir?”
“Sixty, or thereabouts.”
“I am but forty-seven. Ought to be in my prime. But O, sir, to have a
wife and family, and be forever separated from them, in a strange land,
and not know whether they are dead or alive, or whether they are in
distress or not,—only to know that they are dead to you, and you to
them,—it keeps gnawing at the heart-strings.”
“It must, indeed. But how did you get clear from the navy?”
“It was near the close of the American war. The frigate I belonged
to was in action with a French seventy-four. I was wounded and flung
overboard for dead. The cold water revived me, and I clung to the
wreck of our spars, which were shot away. The French vessel won the
battle, being a much heavier ship. I was picked up, brought ashore at
Toulon, and lay a long time in the hospital, wishing for death; but
I recovered, and since then have, though feeble, made a living by my
trade. The people here are very kind.”
“What is your name, my friend?”
“Bell—John Bell, sir.”
“Why, that is the name of the man who built this vessel, and is part
owner.”
“Indeed, sir, I hope he is a happier man than I am.”
“He is a happy man, and deserves to be, for he tries to make others
happy.”
The captain bought a good many articles of the basket-maker, and then
sent him forward among the crew, who purchased so largely that there
remained but very little to carry away. Peterson bought a work-basket
for Captain Rhines’s wife, and Enoch Hadlock another for old Mrs. Yelf.
Walter was away, for, as he could speak French, the captain had sent
him to make some purchases for him. Walter, indeed, had plenty of
business in this way, being spokesman for all hands.
The captain insisted upon the basket-maker stopping to supper; but
something in his appearance prevented him from offering him money as a
gift,—he felt it might wound his feelings,—but he gave him a cordial
invitation to come on board and eat or sleep, whenever his business
led him in that direction. The next night, when Walter went over to
see Ned, he mentioned the circumstance of the basket-maker’s coming on
board, showed him his purchases, and told him he was an Englishman, and
that his name was Bell. This excited Walter’s curiosity. He inquired
further about it, and Ned, who had been deeply touched by the man’s
pitiful story, repeated the whole conversation between him and the
captain, word for word. When he concluded, Walter sat for a few
moments, with his hands clasped over his knees, as though striving to
recall something.
At length he said, “Ned Gates, as sure as you are lying on that bed,
the basket-maker is our Charlie Bell’s father.”
“Charlie Bell’s father?” said Ned, sitting bolt upright, and then
screaming at the twinge the effort occasioned, because of his wound.
“Yes, Charlie Bell’s father.”
“But the man is an Englishman.”
“So is Charlie Bell.”
“I never knew that before.”
“He was an English boy; came to Elm Island as poor as he could be, with
some bad men,—but he didn’t know they were bad when he started,—that
came to rob; but they came to the wrong place, for Lion Ben most killed
‘em, kept the boy, and brought him up. I’ve heard our Joe and Mr.
Williams tell about it a thousand times.”
“What if it should turn out to be so?”
“I tell you it is so; I’m certain sure it is. His father was a
basket-maker, and was pressed; I heard Mr. Williams say so; and when
they were boys, Charlie, Mr. Bell, and John Rhines used to make
baskets, and Mr. Williams sold ‘em at the mill; and when I first went
to tend store for him, there were some of ‘em in the store.”
“If your Joe or Mr. Williams were only here, we could ask them, and
know all about it.”
“Yes, Joe, they said, used to live on Elm Island half the time before
he was married. I remember another thing Joe said.”
“What is that?”
“He said he made baskets of willows, and colored them red, blue, and
green, real handsome, and said that was the way they did in England.”
“But the basket-maker said, if I remember right, that it was about ten
years ago, and that his son was large enough to work in the shop at
light work. O, Walter, wouldn’t I be glad, and wouldn’t the captain be
glad (when Mr. Bell saved our lives), to be the means of taking his
father home to him?”
“Don’t you think somebody else would be glad too, you little monkey,
you?”
“The boys didn’t sleep much that night, having worked each other up to
such a state of excitement. In the morning Walter went on board, full
of the news, and opened the whole matter to the captain, who was as
much astonished as Ned; being entirely ignorant of the antecedents
of Charlie, he supposed him a native of the country. After patiently
listening with the deepest interest to all that Walter had to say, he
acknowledged that the probabilities were very strong, but, much less
sanguine, did not express a very decided opinion.
“He said he had a wife and three children,” observed the captain; “what
became of them? were they ever at Elm Island?”
Walter had never heard them mentioned; but he was very young when
Charlie came to Elm Island, and might not have heard half that
occurred. Captain Brown turned the matter over in his mind, and
conversed with Walter, who daily recollected some fresh corroborating
circumstance, till at length he determined, the next time the
basket-maker came on board, to broach the matter to him, even at the
risk of exciting unfounded hopes. Day after day they expected his
appearance; but he came not. Walter searched the streets and piers, but
in vain.
The time of year now drew on when periodical gales were expected, and
the vessel would be likely to go to sea.
“He may be sick, Walter,” said Ned; “for he looked pale and half sick
the day he was aboard.”
“He may be dead,” said Walter; “and we never should know it, in this
great city. I wish I had seen him; if he was Charlie Bell’s father, I
could tell; I know I could see something of the look.”
“I saw, when he pulled his hat off,” said Ned, “that his hair, where it
was not gray, is the same color as Charlie’s.”