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WOVEN WITH THE SHIP
_By the Same Author_
WHEN BLADES ARE OUT AND LOVE'S AFIELD
Buff buckram, eight illustrations by E. Plaisted Abbott, with colored
border decorations and head-pieces by Edward Stratton Holloway, $1.50
Mr. Brady's novel is full of fighting, gallant deeds and the surprises
and alluring uncertainties of love-making. It has the vivid setting of
Virginia and Carolina in 1781
"As a romance it is delightful."--_Boston Transcript_
"A perfect gem of a volume. One of the daintiest that ever came to the
_World's_ table."--_New York World_
[Illustration: "Oh, Captain Barry, you must do something!"
See page 35]
WOVEN WITH THE SHIP
A NOVEL OF 1865
TOGETHER WITH CERTAIN OTHER VERACIOUS TALES OF VARIOUS SORTS
BY
CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY, LL.D.
Author of "When Blades are Out and Love's Afield," "For the Freedom
of the Sea," "Hohenzollern," "The Quiberon Touch," "Border Fights
and Fighters," etc.
WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY, FRANK
X. LEYENDECKER, W. GLACKENS, WILL
CRAWFORD, AND H. L. V. PARKHURST
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1902
Copyright, 1902, by
THE CROWELL & KIRKPATRICK COMPANY
Copyright, 1902, by
THE CROWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
Copyright, 1902, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
_Published October, 1902_
_Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A._
Lovingly Dedicated
to
Margaret and Katharine
Whose chief pleasure during one seashore
summer lay in listening to their
father while this romance was
"WOVEN WITH THE SHIP"
PREFACE
Prefaces remind me of a certain text of Scripture,--_i.e._, "the
last shall be first,"--for they are things written after which go
before! Whether or not they serve a useful purpose is hard to say. I
have several thousands of them in my library, most of which I have
read, and perhaps the fact that I am a reader of prefaces may mark me
as unique. And the mark may be accentuated to the gentle reader--if
this preface should have any--when I say that I am also one of the few
remaining authors who write them. Only one of my books is without a
preface,--though some of them are disguised as notes, or forewords, or
afterwords,--and I hereby apologize for the acephalous condition of
that volume.
I am determined that this book shall be amply provided, and though I
write the preface while I am sending back the proof galleys, yet I will
begin at the beginning. Beginnings are sometimes interesting, although
the interest of a beginning largely depends on the ending thereof. I
shall hope that this book in the end may commend itself sufficiently to
my indulgent readers to make the story of the beginning worth while.
"The years are many, the years are long," since a happy young sailor,
fresh from his graduation at the United States Naval Academy, spent
some of the pleasantest days of his life in the shadow of the old ship;
for there was a ship, just such a one as I have described, and in just
such a condition. There was a white house on the hill, too, and a very
old naval officer, who took a great interest in the opening career of
the young aspirant who passed so many hours lying on the grass amid the
mouldering ways, with the huge bulk of the ship looming over his head
and the sparkling waters of the bay breaking at his feet.
There were girls, too, and a sailor, and soldiers galore across the
harbor in the barracks, and back of all the sleepy, dreamy, idle,
quaint, and ancient little town. The story, of course, is only a
romance; but the setting at least is actual, and there is this touch of
realism in the tale: when the old ship was torn down to be made into
kindling-wood, a part of it fell upon one of the destroyers and crushed
the life out of him,--stern protest against an ignoble ending!
The idea of the story came to me twenty years ago. Indeed, in a brief,
disconnected way I set it down on paper and forgot it until I chanced
to resurrect it last year, when I threw aside the old notes and wrote
the story _de novo_.
I intend it as a character sketch of the old admiral, the veteran
sailor, the young officer, the innocent woman they all loved, and--dare
I say it?--the mighty ship. Here are contrasts, surely.
When I wrote "Hohenzollern," I thought it would be perfectly plain to
every one that it was not an historical novel. Vain hope! Yet I am not
discouraged by the lack of perception on the part of the critics.
Therefore I put this novel forth with a stronger confidence that it
will not be considered in that category. Save for what I have admitted,
there is not one word of history in it. Indeed, I have deliberately,
and because it was my fancy, chosen to appropriate the name of Admiral
Charles Stewart, "Old Ironsides,"--who did indeed live well into the
Civil War period, but who died under very different circumstances,--for
the name of the ancient captain in the white house on the hill. I
apologize to his _manes_, his descendants, and his friends for the
liberty.
Now, I do not write this because I wish to make any apology for the
historical novel. Not at all. The thing is slightly overdone at
present, but that is proof of its goodness. So far as I am concerned I
will stand by my guns. I love to read historic romances when they are
good, and I love to write them--even when they are as my own. I expect
to write more of them, too; but this really is not one. It is a war
story without any war, a sea story without any sea; yet it exhibits a
great struggle and rings with a great victory. The reader may
characterize it further at pleasure.
As for the second part of the volume I have called it Veracious Tales
advisedly, for all of these stories are founded upon facts in one way
or another. Some of them have been suggested to me by incidents with
which I am familiar because in them I bore a small part. The substance
of one of them came from a young English traveller who told a romantic
incident at a delightful dinner at the New York University Club. A real
diary suggested another. An historical mystery as to what became of a
certain cargo of slaves captured by Decatur in the Mediterranean evoked
a third. Neglected chapters in history and biography are responsible
for some of the others, as the Martinique tale, for the Diamond Rock
was once a ship! Sir Henry Irving's marvellous rendition of Matthias in
_The Bells_ so possessed me with its power that after I came home
from the theatre I could not sleep until I had written the story. All
of these tales represent real incidents, therefore, or are founded upon
them in some way.
Writing a short story, with me at least, is very different from writing
a novel. I can invent plots of novels without the slightest difficulty,
but the making of a short story is different. The making is a case of
birth! The single incident, the brief condensed plot, or the vivid
character sketch which is necessary to a proper short story has to come
to me from outside. The short story is the product of inspiration, the
long story the result of labor. Perhaps, therefore, there is more truth
in the short story than in the long--from my point of view.
At any rate, in this volume are two kinds, and the readers may decide.
If they have half as much pleasure out of the book as I had, they will
thank me for having written.
C. T. B.
THE LAKE PLACID CLUB,
ADIRONDACKS, NEW YORK,
June 16, 1902.
CONTENTS
PART I
WOVEN WITH THE SHIP
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 9
II.--HIS LAST COMMAND 16
III.--THE WOMAN AND THE MAN WHO LOVED HER 23
IV.--CAST UP BY THE SEA 28
V.--THE RESCUE 36
VI.--THE WATER-WITCH 40
VII.--THE HOME OF THE SEA-MAIDEN 50
VIII.--"OLD IRONSIDES" 57
IX.--THE SWORD OF THE CONSTITUTION 65
X.--FACING WORLD-OLD PROBLEMS 74
XI.--BLOWS AT THE HEART 80
XII.--BROKEN RESOLUTIONS 91
XIII.--LOVE HOLDS THE YOKE-LINES 103
XIV.--IN THE SHADOW OF THE SHIP 117
XV.--FORGIVENESS THE FIRST LESSON 123
XVI.--A CLOUD ON THE HORIZON 130
XVII.--FREED! 136
XVIII.--"BUT YET A WOMAN" 143
XIX.--THE USUAL COURSE 147
XX.--RIVALS MEETING 152
XXI.--A HAPPY CONSUMMATION 160
XXII.--"SAMSON AGONISTES" 168
L'ENVOI 180
PART II
VERACIOUS TALES OF VARIOUS SORTS
COUPS DE THEATRE
A VAUDEVILLE TURN 187
Comedy
THE LAST TRIBUTE TO HIS GENIUS 195
Tragedy
OUT OF THE WEST
IN OKLAHOMA 205
An Idyl of the Prairie in Three Flights
PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN 231
The End of a Frontier Tell
WITH GREAT GUNS AND SMALL
THE FINAL PROPOSITIONS 245
A Drama of the Civil War
THE CAPTAIN OF H. B. M. SHIP DIAMOND ROCK 259
The Tale of a Strange Ship off Martinique
"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY" 278
The Fate of a Coquette of 1815
SAVED BY HER SLIPPER 293
A Romance of the Border
"SONNY BOY'S" DIARY 315
An Incident of the War in China
EXTRAVAGANZAS
THE AMAZING YARN OF THE BO'S'N'S MATE 331
An Account of an Unusual Prize
THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT 346
The Story of a Wandering Sensation
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
BY MR. HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
"Oh, Captain Barry, you must do something!" Frontispiece
BY MR. H. L. V. PARKHURST
The girl boldly sheered the boat into the whirlpool 38
Presently the man was stretched out upon a blanket
thrown upon the floor of Emily's room 43
For the preliminary stages in the making of love there
is scarcely anything that is so delightful ... as a
boat just large enough for two 91
They were formally presented to the old admiral 152
BY MR. W. GLACKENS
"Papa! Papa!" she cried, "take me home!" 190
BY MR. HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
The surprised horse bounded into the air with a sudden
access of vigor 224
"Say, you cowboy, have you been making a woman cry?" 228
BY MR. FRANK X. LEYENDECKER
"One!" said the old soldier, his voice ringing
hollow through the apartment 289
BY MR. WILL CRAWFORD
"The cap'n he chose fer Mr. Parbuckle, ... an' a mad
young officer he was, too!" 343
_Part I_
WOVEN WITH THE SHIP
CHAPTER I
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
Just half a century had elapsed since, cutting down the virgin forest
to make room for the ways, they laid her keel blocks in the clearing.
With the cunning brain of Henry Eckford, one of the greatest of our
shipbuilders, to plan, and the skilful hands of the New England
shipwrights to execute, with timber cut by the sturdy woodsmen from
where it stood in the forest, the giant frames rose apace, until
presently, in an incredibly short time, there stood upon Ship House
Point a mighty vessel ready for the launching.
Ship House Point--so called from the ship--was a long ridge of land
sloping gently down from a low hill and extending far out into Lake
Ontario. It helped to enclose on one side a commodious lake haven
known in that day, and ever since, as Sewell's Harbor, from old George
Sewell, a hunter, fisherman, innkeeper, and trader, who had settled
there years before.
Thither, in the busy warlike days of 1813-14, had resorted dashing
naval officers in their ruffled shirts, heavily laced blue coats, with
their huge cocked hats, skin-tight kersey pantaloons, and tasselled
half boots. In their wake rolled ancient tars in blue shirts and
flowing trousers, their mouths full of strange oaths and tales of
distant seas; some of the older veterans among them still wearing
their hair in the time-honored pigtail of an already disappearing age.
On the bluff across the harbor mouth, and just opposite to Ship House
Point, a rude log fort had been erected in 1812, a central block-house
and a surrounding stockade, mounting a few inconsiderable pieces of
artillery. From a tall staff on the parade the stars and stripes
fluttered in the wind, and nodded in amicable salute toward a similar
ensign which the patriotic builders had hoisted on the Point.
Government storehouses filled with munitions and supplies of various
kinds, both for the naval forces on the lakes and for the armies
designed for the long projected invasion of Canada likewise, stood
back of the wharves crowded with the miscellaneous shipping of the
suddenly thriving little town. Soldiers from the fort, therefore, in
blue and gray uniforms mingled with the ship-carpenters, wood-cutters,
pioneers, sailors, and traders, and the spot speedily became one of
the busiest in the then far Northwest.
Sometimes in the offing the white sails of the English or American
squadrons could be seen, and on the summer days from the distant
horizon might have been heard the dull boom of cannon telling a tale
of some spirited engagement. And more than once thereafter a
melancholy and shattered ship brought in a ghastly cargo of dead,
dying, and wounded, the care of which heavily taxed the resources of
the community; and the women of the village--for there were women
there from the beginning--had grim lessons, learned sometimes through
breaking hearts, that war was a more serious business than the gay
officers, the bright uniforms, the beautiful flags, and the brave
ships had indicated.
The town had sprung into being around Sewell's store and tavern, amid
all these activities and undertakings, almost as if by magic--quite as
the great ship had risen on the shore, in truth. Men did things in a
hurry in those days, and no one was much surprised when, some thirty
days after the keel was laid, the indefatigable Eckford informed stout
old Commodore Chauncey, the American commander on the lakes, that the
_Susquehanna_--for so the ship-of-the-line which was to establish
finally the American preponderance of force over the British on Lake
Ontario was called--was ready for launching, and great preparations
were made in the very early spring of 1815 for this important and
interesting ceremony.
A few days before the appointed time, however, there came to the
impatient commodore, the persevering builder, and the busy workmen
a messenger bearing a heartrending despatch, long delayed in
transmission, from the Secretary of the Navy. That official announced
that the war was over, that peace with England had been declared at
the close of the preceding year, and directed that the preparations
for launching and completing the vessel must be at once abandoned. It
was a sore grief to Eckford and his fellow-shipwrights, a great
disappointment to Chauncey and his brave seamen, and a terrible blow
to the thriving town. It had grown and flourished in war, and it was
to languish and die in peace--a reversal of natural law apparently!
But there was no help for it. The orders had to be obeyed. The
war-ships on the lakes were broken up, or sold, and a few were laid up
in ordinary, the officers and men were detached to the more congenial
salt-water stations, and the ship-carpenters were withdrawn to the
seaboard towns whence they had been collected. The fort was
dismantled, the garrison mustered out of the service, and the
storehouses emptied and closed.
The young ship-of-the-line, hastily housed over, was left alone with
the abandoned town. The busy place, its reasons for being gone,
speedily sank into a state of public decay. The deserted storehouses
fell into ruin; the once noisy wharves, unvisited by any save an
occasional small vessel, rotted away; the merchants and traders closed
out their stocks and departed; the hunters and pioneers moved farther
westward into the vast wilderness extending its mysterious beckoning
call to their adventurous souls; the grass grew thick in the silent
streets, and it seemed as if the death-sentence of the village had
been written.
But as years sped away some of its pristine life came back to it. The
farmer again speeded his plow and planted his corn in the clearings.
Sheep and cattle once more dotted the fields. A new order took the
place of the old. Country churches rose; little feet plodded
unwillingly toward a small red school-house, where childish laughter
and play at recess mingled with tears over puzzling lessons and
unsolvable problems. The stores were opened one by one, and a few
vessels came back to the harbor. On market days the farmers crowded
the square with their teams, the village awoke from its long sleep and
became a modestly thriving little country town again,--drowsing on
into life once more. And although the very oldest inhabitants,
remembering the busy days forever gone, were not satisfied, the
younger people were content and happy in their pretty little hamlet.
Meanwhile, what of the ship in all these changing years? Time was when
Ship House Point had been covered with a virgin forest extending even
to the water's edge. It was now bare of trees, for the massive trunks
had been wrought into the fabric of the ship, and no others had come
to take their places. There, neglected and unnoticed, she had stood
naked and gaunt for a long time, for the flimsy ship-house covering
her had been the first thing to go. Through the swift years the
burning sunshine of many summers fell upon her green, unseasoned
planks, and the unsheltered wood shrinking in the fierce heat opened
her seams widely on every hand. Upon her decks the rain descended and
the snow fell. The storms of bitter winters drove upon her in
successive and relentless attacks. The rough spring and autumn gales
tore from her huge sections of timber, leaving gaping wounds, while
the drying rot of time and neglect penetrated her very heart.
Rust consumed the bolt-heads and slowly ate up the metal that held her
together. Yet in spite of all she still stood, outwardly indifferent
alike to the attack of the storm or the kiss of the sun,--a mighty
monster towering high in the air, unfinished, incomplete, inchoate,
disintegrating, weaponless, but still typifying strength and power and
war. In spite of her decay, in spite of her age, she looked the
masterful vessel she was designed to be.
The waves broke in winter in icy assault upon the rocky shore on the
seaward side, as if defying the ship to meet them. They rippled on the
shoals, on the other hand, in summer with tender caressing voices,
wooing her to her native element, stretching out white-fingered hands
of invitation. And the air carried the message of the waters into
every hidden recess in the most secret depths of the ship.
In some strange way, to those who grew to know her, the ship seemed to
live; they imbued her with personality, and congenial spirits seemed
to recognize her yearning for a plunge into that all-embracing inland
sea. She hung poised, as it were, like a bird ready for flight, and
watchers standing within her shadow divined her longing for that mad
first rush from the ways.
The ripple of the water had never curled along that ship's massive
keel; her broad bows had never buffeted a way through the thunderous
attack of the storm-waves; she had never felt the ocean uplift; the
long pitch and toss, the unsteady roll and heave which spoke of
water-borne life had never been hers; yet, looking at the graceful
lines, the mighty frames, the most unimaginative would have said that
the old ship lusted for the sea, and, in futile and ungratified
desire, passed her shore-bound days in earth-spurning discontent.