BLOWS AT THE HEART
Revere spent the next morning in a thorough inspection of the ship. It
was a duty enjoined upon him in the carrying out of his orders, and he
had felt somewhat guilty in having neglected it the day before. His
Naval Academy course had included instruction in wooden
ship-building,--iron ships were only just beginning to be at that
date,--and he therefore viewed the _Susquehanna_ with the eyes of an
expert. At his own request, he had been attended in this survey by the
sailor Barry, although it is more than probable that, in any case, the
old man would have insisted upon accompanying him.
With what jealous pain the veteran seaman dogged the footsteps of the
young sailor and watched him examine his beloved ship! Nothing escaped
Revere's rigid scrutiny. Barry himself, after his years of familiarity
with the old hulk, could not have made a more exhaustive
investigation. There was but one spot which Revere did not view. That
was the private locker which the old seaman had made for himself in
the one habitable portion of the ship.
"What's this?" Revere had asked, pausing before the closed, locked
door. "Your traps, eh? Well, I guess we have no need to inspect them,"
he continued, smiling, and passing on.
Yet, had he known it, behind that closed door lay his fate, for the
lost letters and papers--which Barry had not yet read--were there.
The keen, critical examination of the old ship by the young lieutenant
enhanced the growing animosity of the sailor. His cool comments seemed
like a profanation. Barry felt as if his enemy were appraising the
virtues of his wife; as if, examining her in her old age, he were
disappointed and surprised at not finding in her the qualities and
excellencies of her youth. Every prying finger touch, crumbling the
rotting wood, was a desecration. Every blow struck upon the timbers to
test their soundness was an added insult.
Had the young man been less intent upon that task he would have seen
in the clouded brow, the closed lips, the stern expression upon his
companion's face something of the older man's exacerbated feelings;
but, engrossed by his inspection, he noticed nothing. Indeed, like
many very young naval officers of the time, he thought but little of
the sailor at best. He was a part--and a very essential part--of the
vast naval machine, of course, but otherwise nothing. When Revere grew
older he would learn to estimate the value of the man upon the
yard-arm, the man behind the gun, and to rate him more highly; but at
present his attitude was more or less one of indifference.
It was true that Barry, equally with Emily, had saved his life; but by
a perfectly natural trick of the mind--or heart, rather--all the
heroism of that splendid achievement had focussed itself about the
woman, and to Revere the man became an incident rather than a
cause,--merely a detail. Just as the captain who leads the forlorn
hope gets the mention in the despatches and enrolls his name upon the
pages of history, to the exclusion of those other men, perhaps no less
brave than he, who followed him, so Emily stood to the fore, and
Barry's part was already half forgotten. This carelessly oblivious
attitude of mind, which he divined even in the absence of any very
specific outward evidence of it, added to the exasperation of the
sailor, and he fairly hated the officer.
"There are certain categories of the mind which must be true, else
would reason reel and totter on its throne." As an illustration, we
cannot think of love without thinking of hate, and perhaps the
capacity for one may be measured by the ability for the other. The man
who loves high things, burns with corresponding hatred for the
base,--or else something is lacking in his love; and, as is the case
with all other antitheses of sentiment, both feelings find lodgment in
the normal mind.
Barry had loved through years. He had loved the admiral, he had loved
the ship, and, above all, he had loved the girl. The peaceful, quiet,
even tenor of his life had offered no lodgment for antagonisms. To
love, to serve,--that had been his happy existence. Living alone on
Ship House Point, attending to his simple duties, wrapped up in his
devotion, he had found neither cause nor reason for hatred, and when
that awful passion found a lodgment in his bosom, it came so suddenly,
so violently, that it destroyed the mental and spiritual balance of
the man. The faculty of hating had years of disuse to make up for, and
the feeling swept over him like a tidal wave, uncontrollable,
appalling. The swiftness with which it developed had but added to his
confusion. There is love at first sight, but there is antipathy as
well. He was a living illustration of the latter fact.
So perverted had become the sailor's mind, under the influence of this
rising feeling, that in his bewilderment he sometimes fancied that his
antipathy was universal,--that he hated the admiral, the ship, Emily,
himself! Yet this could not be; and in calmer moments, although
without the power of analysis, he realized dumbly that these griping
emotions were but the concomitants of his obsession.
Of all this the lieutenant was yet blithely unconscious. It is said
that but a single object can engross the mind at one time, and that
concepts of other objects, even if simultaneous therewith, are merely
auxiliary thereto. Emily filled Revere's mental horizon to the
exclusion of everything else. It was with difficulty he kept his mind
away from her when, in pursuance of his duty, he inspected the ship.
To Barry he paid but little attention, noticing him, if at all, in the
most perfunctory way. Disassociated from Emily, the sailor counted for
nothing.
To his relief and Barry's, presently the long task was over. The duty
discharged, the two men scrambled down the battens which Barry had
nailed to the side of the hulk to enable him to pass to and from the
deck, and stood on the grass in the shadow of the ship.
"Well," said Revere, "she has been a fine ship in her day, Barry."
"Ay, sir; none better."
"See how sharp she is in the lines of her bow; look at the graceful
swell forward. See how she fines down in her run aft, yonder. She
should have been a good goer. The ship was built for speed as well as
strength; and probably she was laid out by the rule-of-thumb, too," he
continued, reflectively. "We don't build better to-day, with all our
boasted science. Yes, she was a fine ship. I should like to have
commanded her; but she is worthless now."
"Worthless!" exploded the old sailor, darkly; "worthless!"
"Absolutely. There is hardly a sound plank in her. The iron bolts,
even, are rusted. I wonder how she holds together. The habit of years,
perhaps; nothing else, surely. She's a positive danger. Some day
she'll fall to pieces, and, if I were you, I'd sleep elsewhere."
"My God, sir!" exclaimed the old man, wrathfully, his face changing;
"you don't know what you're sayin'! You can't mean it! Me leave the
ship! I've slept on her for twenty-five years. You're wrong, sir!
She's good for many a year yet. Some of the planks is rottin', I grant
you, but most of the frames is good yet, an' she's sound at the heart.
She'll weather many a storm, you'll see. Sound at the heart! Leave
her! I'll leave her when she falls, and the admiral, too. He's an old
man. My father sailed with him; he was a man when I was a boy; yet
he's alive still, an' he'll live as long as she does, too."
"Nonsense, man!" said Revere; "you are dreaming! The ship ought to be
broken up. She might be worth something as stove-wood of inferior
quality," he continued, carelessly, and ruthlessly, too; "but I tell
you she's a menace to every one who comes here."
"Broken up, sir!" gasped the man, forgetting duty, courtesy,
everything, in his anger; "by heaven, I'd rather set fire to her with
my own hands an' burn her down! Burn the life out of the admiral, an'
out of me, too, than a timber on her should be touched! I tell you,
I've lived on her. I know her. I love her! Don't dare to----"
"Look here, Barry," said the young man, quickly, but with great
firmness, "you are rated a boatswain's mate in the United States navy,
I believe, and as such I will have to caution you not to address me in
this imperious way. There, man, hang it all, I oughtn't to have said
that, perhaps," he continued, as he saw the man's face working with
grief and rage. "You saved my life, you know, and the ship, I suppose,
is dear to you, and I can well understand it. We'll say no more about
it."
"I wish to God I hadn't," muttered the sailor, entirely unmollified.
"Well, now, that's rather ungracious of you; but, never mind, you did,
and I can forgive an old salt a good deal; only there is one thing I
must say: Miss Emily must not go aboard the ship any more. You can
risk your life if you want to, but I won't have her risk hers; it's
dangerous."
The old man noted the cool, proprietary note in the voice, and broke
into fury; difference of rank and station quite obliterated from his
perturbed mind.
"Mustn't, sir! Mustn't! I may be a bo's'n's mate, sir, an' you can
command me, but you've got no call to say 'mustn't' to Miss Emily."
"Of course not; but I shall speak to the admiral. There, now, that
will do. Keep cool. No harm's done. I have inspected the ship and
shall report on her."
"What are you goin' to report, sir?"
"Well, by George! If you are not the most extraordinary blue-jacket I
ever saw! What I report will be sent to the Secretary of the Navy. I
do not publish it to the ship's crew. What's the matter with you, man?
Pull yourself together. You seem to be in a dreadful state."
"What are you goin' to do with the ship?" insisted Barry, savagely.
"I'm not going to do anything with her. I have been sent here to
report on her, and I shall report."
The situation had become tense. The young officer felt that he had
humored the sailor long enough; indeed, that he had allowed him far
more freedom in his address than he would had given any one else.
Ignorant of the mainspring of the man's apparent antipathy to him,
possessing no clew to the cause of it, unable to divine Barry's mental
condition, he had been greatly surprised by his insolent and insulting
conduct. It seemed to the lieutenant that his forbearance had reached
its limit, and that something would have to give way. In another
second there would have been trouble.
The state of affairs was relieved by the cause of it, for Emily
appeared on the brow of the hill at that moment and called to the
sailor. The old man instantly turned on his heel and, without deigning
to notice the young man, walked toward her. Revere followed him
promptly, and both men arrived at the top of the hill before her at
the same moment.
By a violent effort the sailor had smoothed some of the passion out of
his face, though he still looked white and angry.
"What's the matter, Captain Barry?" she asked, noticing his altered
visage.
The man stood silent before her, not trusting himself to speak,
especially as it would have been difficult to assign a tangible cause
for his feelings, real though they were.
"I think I can tell you, Miss Emily," said Revere, pleasantly. "I have
been inspecting the ship, and the man has not liked my opinion of her,
I fancy."
"Captain Barry is very fond of the old ship, Mr. Revere," said Emily,
quietly, "and I doubt not that any inspection of her hurts him."
The sailor looked at the girl gratefully, as a dog might have done.
The young man's heart went out to her, too, for her kindly
championship of the older man. He was glad, indeed, that she had found
a way to dispel his anger, for the lieutenant was a kind-hearted young
fellow, and would have all others about him happy, especially in this
beginning of his romance.
"Well," he said, generously, "perhaps I did speak rather harshly of
the ship. You see I hardly realized how you all love the old thing,
and indeed 'tis a fine, melancholy old picture."
"It always reminds me of grandfather and Captain Barry--old on the one
hand, strong on the other," responded Emily, divining the instinct of
consideration in his heart that had prompted Revere's words, and
smiling graciously at him.
It was reward enough for him, he thought, as he returned her approving
glance with interest.
"You called me, Miss Emily," said the uncompromising Barry, speaking
at last. "Do you want me?"
"Yes; I am going over to the village, and I wish you to row me across
the harbor."
"By no means, Miss Emily," broke in Revere, promptly. "I claim that
honor for myself."
"Do you think you are quite strong enough to do it?"
"Strong enough!" he exclaimed. "Certainly I am! I should like nothing
better. Besides, I have business in the town myself: I expect answers
to some letters and my man with a portmanteau and some other clothes.
I should be delighted to row you to the village or anywhere."
"Well," said Emily, hesitating, "Captain Barry always rows me and----"
"All the more reason for giving him a rest; he is old and will be glad
of this relief. Let the duty be performed by younger hands. Come,
then, if you will allow me."
Barry stood silent during this little colloquy. His face, when Emily
glanced at it, was as impassive as if he had been a stone image. He
was putting great constraint upon himself, determined not to betray
his feeling. If she could choose Revere, the acquaintance of a moment,
and disregard him, the servant of years, let her do so. He would see.
Not by word or look would he try to influence her. If he had ever
heard of the Spartan with the wolf at his vitals, he would have
realized what the story meant then.
Now, Emily much preferred to have Revere row her; he was a much more
congenial companion than the grim, silent sailor. There was a
sympathy, already an affection, developing between them which made her
greatly enjoy his society. She would not have hesitated a moment,
therefore, but for a certain understanding of the feeling entertained
for her by the sailor. Not a sufficient comprehension, however, to
amount to an assurance, but a deep enough realization to give her
pause. What woman is there without that much comprehension? But when
she saw Barry standing before her, impassive, stern, apparently
indifferent, her hesitation left her for the moment, and, bidding the
sailor inform her grandfather of her departure, she turned and
descended the hill, followed by the lieutenant.
As the two walked away the tension on the man was released or broken.
He stood trembling, looking after them. A flower which Emily had been
wearing had fallen upon the walk. In other days he would have picked
it up and carried it carefully to the ship as a priceless treasure.
Now he ground it brutally under his heavy heel and stared at them,
almost unconscious of his action, quivering with voiceless rage.
Presently he went up to the old admiral, sitting dreaming on the
porch, and, having mastered himself somewhat again, delivered his
message.
Out in the harbor the little skiff, the same by means of which
Revere's life had been saved, danced merrily along.
"I like to see the young people together, Barry," said the old man,
gazing after them. "'Twas a fortunate gale that wrecked him at our
door. We shall be going soon, you and I and the ship, and who will
take care of Emily then? Perhaps----"
He spoke slowly and he did not finish the sentence, yet the concluding
thought was perfectly plain to the sailor.
He raged over it as he returned to the ship.