to the East Indies. She was a good ship, my fellow crew members were
capable, congenial men, many of whom I had sailed with in the past. Our
captain had earned our respect even in the few short days we had been
acquainted with him. All hands and officers were convinced that clear
sailing and a profitable journey lay before all.
I cannot record here in a vivid enough manner, my impressions during
the first three weeks of our sailing. The weather was fair and
mild, good winds had prevailed constantly; the life aboard ship was
especially pleasant. There was no need for any such feeling as I
had found myself indulging in for several days. But it nevertheless
prevailed. Perhaps all I can coherently say is that I had a vague
unrest, a mind-plaguing thought constantly with me, like the shadow of
some dark cloud over my being. This feeling brought with it the still,
subconscious impression of disaster and imminent death which I could
not, try as I would, shake off. I said nothing to my mates about this
feeling. They would perhaps have scoffed at me--if not, my revealing
of such an impression would only serve to disturb the uncommonly
smooth-running life of our close existence on the lonely seas.
It was on a calm, uneventful afternoon, while all hands were engaged
in dilatory activities of repair and small duties, that this feeling
reached its highest peak. I felt a strange compulsion to plunge into
immediate intense activity, for my fears were mounting by the minute,
and, in my youthful mind, I felt vaguely ashamed. I had just left my
post by the starboard boat, where I had been engaged in lashing down
some canvassing, when I glanced up to see the lookout in the crow’s
nest peering intently out to sea. I knew somehow that my fear was about
to materialize. And verily, a moment later, the call came from the
nest, “Ship on far port horizon ho! She bears the Jolly Roger!”
The action over our entire ship was so instant in contrast to the
almost sluggish movements of the minute before that it was as if a
painting had suddenly sprung into life, each of its immobile figures
leaping into definite motion. We clapped on every sail, but the pirate
ship was on us before we could get up enough sail to escape. They sent
a shot straight through our rigging.
The happenings of the next hour remain in my mind only as a confused
jumble of shouts, clashing swords, and hand to hand combat. The pirate
crew were a determined and bloodthirsty lot, not content to merely take
over our monetary possessions. They outnumbered us and overpowered us,
deliberately destroying and ravaging everything upon which they could
lay their hands.
They seemed at last content with what damage they had wrought. The
burly pirate captain ordered us to abandon our ship, which he and his
men then set afire. Before the fire had reached the hold, what few of
our number were left managed to reach some supplies, and with those few
essentials, we rowed away. I will never forget the frustrated agony in
my soul as I watched our valiant ship, strewn with the bodies of our
gallant captain and mates, burn to a charred skeleton, and sink slowly
beneath the waters....
[Illustration]
There were two lifeboats, lost and tiny as pea pods on a pond, drifting
in lone aimlessness on the sea. There were eight of us, including
myself, in one boat, and five in the other. We saw the other boat,
which we could not reach because of the waves, drift farther and
farther away. At last, after it had been hidden from our sight by a
monstrous wave, we saw it again, capsized. We tried valiantly to reach
those who were floundering in the sea. It was hopeless. One by one they
sank beneath the surface, lost forever in the smothering embrace of the
sea.
For a day and a night, the fierce winds and huge waves crashed against
our small craft, and I cannot explain today why we did not meet the
same fate as had our unfortunate comrades in the other boat. Upon the
second day, the rolling sea was changed to a flat, millpond surface,
and the sun was unbearably hot. We had managed to bring with us only
four bottles of water, enough to last but a few days. We did not live,
we merely existed. I felt the gnawing, piercing pangs of thirst and
hunger congest and constrict my being. Within fourteen days, four of
our number had died of thirst, and there were three men besides myself
left, starving.
[Illustration]
My hands, when I reached up to touch my burned, bearded face, were
trembling like a man beset with palsy. My eyes, I knew, were like my
comrades’, empty, vacant, hopeless. I was conscious only of a searing
ache over my entirety, and my mind was skipping and sliding over
disjointed thoughts. We looked at each other, and still did not see;
we were conscious only of hunger and heat and thirst. When we spoke,
it was as if in a dream. Jackson had managed to hook a small fish, but
had not the strength to pull it into the boat. I believe we realized
the helplessness of our plight, and began at that moment of realization
to get crazed. It was not long before we began to talk of drawing lots
to see which of us should be killed to provide food for the others.
The thought is horrible and distasteful now, as I sit with my belly
full of good warm food, but then the thought meant only one thing--the
lessening of the most terrible of pains--Hunger.
We resisted this impulse as long as humanly possible. But at last the
time came when we must destroy one of our number, or fall upon each
other like crazed wolves. We cast lots, and it fell upon me to be the
victim. I prepared to die so that others might live.
I cannot give my reader any searing recollection of faith or impression
that come to a man about to die, for I had none. I knew only that my
breast was bared, and that one of my mates, with arm raised, was about
to plunge his knife into my vitals. I believe that I wanted to die.
But the shining knife did not come sweeping down, for at that moment,
we heard a gunshot in the distance, and, looking in the direction from
which the sound came, saw a white sail on the horizon.
This ship had seen our distress signal--my own shirt which hung from a
propped up oar--and had fired a shot to let us know we had been seen.
Death, under such horrible circumstances, breathes hotly down on few
men.
I lived to see the pirate captain who had been the cause of our agony
hanged from his own yardarm in the harbor of Calcutta.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
... The Enchanted Mouse
In the early days of Eastham, when the menfolk were concerned with the
business of the sea, there lived a Captain Jed Knowles and his young,
lovely, and devoted bride. The captain was a fine figure of a man. Mrs.
Knowles, for all her beauty and sweet womanliness, was strange indeed,
for they said that she had strange supernatural powers.
Mrs. Knowles was devoted to her sailing husband, and, as did many of
old time Cape wives, sailed with him on several of his voyages. When
love was young, and absence unbearable, Captain Knowles liked to have
his wife along with him, but the objections of the crew, who, according
to the best sea superstition, believed that a woman aboard was bad
luck, soon added to his misgivings about taking her along. Besides,
time was not kind to the temper of Mrs. Knowles, and she soon became
not a pleasure to have along, but rather a bother. The captain soon
decided that such companion voyages must cease.
For several voyages now, Captain Knowles, under great opposition and
argument from his good wife, had succeeded in sailing without her.
On one occasion, however, when the captain was to leave for an
extensive voyage, his wife once more requested that she be allowed
to accompany him. The answer was a firm negative, and much to the
captain’s surprise and delight, Mrs. Knowles did not demur, and offered
no argument to his decision. And this quick change about fooled the
unsuspecting seaman, for he underestimated the power of a woman,
especially the strange power of his own wife.
On the day of departure, Mrs. Knowles bade her husband a fond goodbye
at the door of their home. The captain went down to the docks, weighed
anchor, and was on his way. He did not know, however, that a tiny mouse
had followed him aboard close at his heels.
Three days out at sea, the captain got a report from the cook that
cheese and other like supplies were being nibbled upon by what was
certainly a mouse. The captain, who prided himself on a clean and
rodent-free ship, directed him to set poison for the scavenger, and
thought no more of the matter.
But the captain did not rest easy. His sleep was disturbed upon many
occasions by a rustling, scampering noise in his cabin. When he arose
and lit his lamp, he was stunned to see, sitting on the foot of his
bunk, a tiny mouse, seemingly unafraid and serene, looking straight at
him. This happened night after night, and the captain became quite fond
of the little creature. But when upon one occasion, he found that the
mouse had eaten up a midnight supper, and gnawed upon his log book, as
well as starting to scamper up and down the bed while the captain was
asleep, he changed his mind. Taking up his whip, he struck the little
mouse with it, killing it, and tossed it out of his porthole.
When the captain returned home, he opened the door to find his wife
dead on the floor in a pool of sea water with the mark of a whiplash
across her face.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
... Ole Bill Hardy
Cal’late I never seed the likes of Ole Bill Hardy. Yep--he was a
humdinger alrite. Thar were a heap of shrewd peddlers ’round about in
my day, young feller, and b’lieve me, they were the cagiest bunch of
fellers y’ ever see. Y’ had ter watch yer step when y’ were bargainin’
withum, yesseree sir, else ye’d find yerself holdin’ the shy end of the
stick. But the feller that uster drive the sharpest dickers was Ole
Bill Hardy. ’Twa’nt many wimmin, or men folks either, ’round here that
hadn’t been spliced at one time or nuther by Ole Bill.
I ’member one time in partic’lar--happened right here in the village,
it did. ’Twas quite a spell ago, when you were no more than a twinkle
in the divil’s eye. Wal, seems the folks ’round here were gittin’
some purty high flyin’ idees. Th’ town had a hearse--and a durn good
one too--that’d bin used for buryin’s for near thuty years. And some
uv these folks begun t’ think that mebbee the old mariah ’twa’nt quite
toney enuff for ’em, so they sashayed over to town meetin’ and voted to
buy a new one.
One day Ole Bill was a’ drivin’ by the old hearse house. Fust S’lectman
Bijah Gibbs was loafin’ round the doorway and spied Bill a’comin’.
Thought he’d see ifen he could get Ole Bill’s goat. He hollered out,
“Say thar, Bill, what’ll y’ give us fer the old hearse?” But Bill
didn’t bite. He jest looked Bijah rite in th’ eye and said, “Wal, I
dunno. Don’t seem rightly that yer ought ter sell the mariah. Some
folks in town ain’t even had a chanct ter ride in it yit. But if ye be
of a mind ter sell it, dunnor ifen I might give five dollars fer it.”
And sure nuff, Bill bought the old hearse, hitched it onter hind end of
his wagon and druv off.
He wuz drivin’ along, proud as yer please, when he passed Miz Tizra
Small. Miz Small was alus collectin’ and buyin’ old stuff--antiques,
she called ’em. Ole Bill pulled up near her and hollers, “Here’s nuther
antique for ye, Miz Small.” Miz Small didn’t think much of the hearse
hitched onto the hind end of his wagon. She wuz mad as a wet hen. “Shet
up, you old fool,” she says, and sallied off down the street. Bill jest
kinda chuckled.
Wal the next thing y’ know, Ole Bill was using the old hearse for a
peddler cart, and the women folk were so scandalized they got up a
meetin’ to complain about it. Seems they thought it kinda improper that
the hearse thetud carried their mothers and fathers to the grave was
bein’ used to cart old brooms and tinware. So they raised twenty-five
dollars and bought it back from Ole Bill. He didn’t care a mite. He’d
made twenty dollars. The old hearse was put back in the hearse house,
and stayed there ’til it rotted apart.
’Member nuther time too. Evryone knew Ole Bill would sell anythin’. One
day he was drivin’ along and met two young scalawags who thought they’d
have a bit o’ fun with him. They up an’ asked him what he’d take for
the pants he was wearin’. “Two dollars,” says Bill, ’thout winkin’ an
eyelash. And durned if he didn’t peel ’em right off and hand ’em over
to the two young fellers, who were kinda taken back, I can tell ye.
“Geeyap,” says Bill, and off he druv down the road, all wrapped up in
an ole hoss blanket.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
... How Sophie
Got A Husband
Sometimes a good deed done on the spur of the moment by a well-meaning
philanthropist can do more harm than good, and lead to exceedingly
comical and unexpected complications. For instance, take the case of
Squire Nickerson of Orleans, who never knew the repercussions that
resulted from a spontaneous act of kindliness to two strangers.
First of all, let me introduce the principals in this little drama:
Squire Nickerson, well-to-do, prominent, kindly; a school marm from
Boston whom we shall call Sophie, spinster, acid tongued, parched,
and taken to drinking lemon juice, which probably accounted for her
parchment-like appearance; and Seth, prominent, well-liked and friendly
as the Squire, but in very different circles. To be blunt, Seth was an
amiable old reprobate. Good people, all of them, but when they were
thrown together, they were stirred around in the darndest stew you ever
heard of.
Squire Nickerson was driving, one night long enough ago so we can
spare embarrassment to those involved, back from a business meeting in
Hyannis. The road from Hyannis to Orleans on the backside route is, and
was then, winding and dark. Squire Nickerson was dozing in the back
of his carriage when he was bumped from his seat by its sudden stop.
Looking around, he saw that he was halted not at his home, but in the
dip bend of the road by Pleasant Bay.
“What’s wrong Silas?” he asked his driver.
“Well, sir,” replied Silas puzzledly, “There seems to be someone lying
smack in the middle of the road!”
Upon examination, the someone proved to be a rather battered elderly
gentleman of indeterminate age, and this gentleman was sound, dead,
absolutely asleep in the middle of the road. With a few suspicious
sniffs, the Squire and Silas determined with surprise that the man was
in a state not of intoxication, but of unusual fatigue.
“Pick him up, Si, and put him in the carriage.”
“But Sir--”
“In the carriage, Si. We can leave him at the Inn, poor fellow. It’s a
damp night, and surely in this state he can do us no harm.”
And so the unsuspecting somnambulist was transported from the road to a
fine carriage.
The Squire’s carriage, with its new occupant, had not rolled down the
road more than a few paces, when it stopped again.
“I say, Sir. This ’eres a thing!” said Silas. “There ’pears to be a
lady, sir, at the side of the road!”
“A lady? At the side of the road? Walking--why, no, she’s asleep, too!”
cried the Squire, peering out of the carriage window. “Why this poor
old couple! Probably didn’t have the coppers to pay for carriage to
their destination, meant to camp out tonight, and were separated in the
fog! We’ll bring both these poor souls to the Inn.” And so they did.
Squire Nickerson made suitable arrangements for food and lodging at
the Inn. The old gentleman and lady were put to bed in a fine room,
and orders left by the Squire to give them a good breakfast. Leaving
extra money with the innkeeper for the two sleepers, and brimming over
with self-satisfaction of a good deed well done, Squire Nickerson
drove to his home, leaving his newly acquired but unconscious friends
snoring peacefully side by side, and never dreaming that there was a
possibility that he had joined a pair whom convention and law had not
made one.
The fact was, the old man and the old woman were perfect strangers to
one another, and their being found in similar situations was purely
coincidental. Seth, who by now you know was the old gentleman in
question, was very accustomed to spending the night wherever he might
be, and Sophie, the lady in the picture, traveling by stage from
Boston, had become annoyed and frightened at the antics of a rather
tipply driver, and under the impression that it was but a few short
miles to Orleans, had left the stage and started to walk. When found by
the Squire, she had just stopped at the side of the road to rest, and
had fallen into a deep and sound sleep.
And so passed the night. The newly united pair snored and wheezed
peacefully beside one another until the early sunlight broke into the
room to disclose the shocking and amazing situation. Sophie was the
first to awake, stirred from sleep by a sound she had never heard
before--that of a man snoring.
Imagine the consternation of the proper spinster when she awoke to
find herself side by side in a strange bed with a man! Where she was,
or how she got there, she didn’t know. It was clear that she was in
bed with a man, and that was an event that had never happened to her
before, and undoubtedly never would. She let out a scream that would
wake the dead. Old Seth mumbled in his sleep, opened one eye, and
then sat bolt upright in bed, staring at Sophie, who, cowering at the
bed post, with purple face and tight shut eyes, screamed with the
continuous wail of a fire siren. First shock turned to dumb amazement.
Sophie stopped her caterwauling and turned her head toward Seth, who
by now fully awake, sat frozen with apprehension. She sat bolt upright
on one side of the bed, he on the other and, with eyes riveted on one
another, and there they sat, transfixed with amazement and shock.
“Madame,” began Seth, remembering his manners even in a situation such
as this one, “My name is--”
“Make me an honest woman, you wretch!” cried Sophie, interrupting Seth
loudly. It had at last struck her that this was some monster of a man
who had succeeded in some horrible design upon her honor. “Make me an
honest woman, villain that you are, or I will be the death of you!”
Meanwhile, attracted by Sophie’s first screams, the other occupants of
the Inn were peeping in at the door where they saw this amazing scene:
An elderly lady, keeping up a continuous stream of gesticulations,
vindictive assertions and loud pleas for aid, was busily dressing
herself more suitably for a meeting with a stranger. And in bed,
cowering and trembling, and attempting to interject the lady’s hollers,
an old man valiantly denied any knowledge of what had occurred.
The Innkeeper at last interfered with the authority of his station. On
inquiry, it was found that no breach had been made that could not be
easily repaired. Even when told the true story, Sophie would not keep
still. The old gentleman, Seth, was then asked if he had any objections
to taking his fair bedfellow for a helpmate during the remainder of
this life. What else could he do? He stammered out his consent as well
as he could, the enraged virgin smoothed down her anger and ruffled
feathers, since satisfaction had been made to her injured honor. The
bargain was made, a gay but strained pre-nuptial breakfast was held
at the Inn, and the happy pair were bundled off to church, amidst the
laughing shouts of the strange bridal party and uninvited guests. There
the parson waited to make good a match too precipitously formed by the
charitable Squire who never knew the outcome of his good deed.
[Illustration]
... The Orleans Lamplighter
At Rock Harbor lived the old lamplighter of Orleans, Josh Northrup, who
took the job when the good ladies of the church--The Sewing Circle and
Female Samaritan Society--organized the Orleans Street Lighting Club.
For years Josh was a familiar figure, making his rounds up and down
the streets with his ladder, oil, and matches. Josh listened with a
philosophical nod to all the complaints of the townsfolk, and was often
heard to sigh:
“I’d start on one end of my beat quite a while before dark and folks
around there would get all set up by the spectacle of me burning oil
before sundown. By the time I reached the other end, it was after dark,
and durned if the fools down that end didn’t kick cuz they weren’t
getting their money’s worth.”
The lamplighter’s set of rules decreed that the lights were not to be
lit on what the calendar called a “moonlight night” whether the moon
could be seen or not. Thus the most dangerous time to be strolling
along the streets was apt to be on a scheduled moonlight night, for
Josh always stuck religiously to the calendar.
[Illustration]
... The Giant of
Longnook Valley
Truro is on that part of the narrow land that sweeps inward at the
crook of the Cape’s long arm to form Provincetown. Here where the scrub
pines grow tough and scrawny, and the Truro Hills roll from backside to
bayside tangled with a mesh-work of clinging bayberry, wild blueberry,
sturdy beach plum, and coarse hog cranberry, is Long Nook Valley, a
deep hewn wedge carved in the rugged face of the lower Cape ... a
valley that stretches from the broad waters of the Atlantic on one side
of Cape Cod to the deep half-moon waters of Cape Cod Bay on the other.
Straight through the Truro Hills goes Long Nook Valley. The ancient sun
shines down on a place as old as Time, a place primitive, wild, and
strangely beautiful. From the deep floor of the valley, the hills rise
to the sky, silhouetted with the bony-fingered scrub pines. In this
time-scarred gouge through the hills, legends could well have started,
and superstition and folklore have their ancient origin.
The formation of Long Nook Valley is a legend itself and concerns
Meloof, a giant legendary figure who lived in the Cape region even
before the great glacier came down from the north to chew deep paths in
the surface of the earth ... when this earth was filled with mysterious
mists and vapours, rising from a land and sea still in a state of flux
and yet unformed.
With arms as long and mammoth as the towering elms of Yarmouth, and
legs packed with resilient strength of the mast of a great schooner,
with a chest as huge and powerful as the ancient Hercules, Meloof
was no mortal man. His voice could bring the wild rains down from
the skies, his whisper could churn the waters of the sea into white
foam. Meloof could stand in the deepest waters of Cape Cod Bay, and
by stretching out his arms, touch with one fingertip what is now
Provincetown, and with the other, what is now Orleans.
When Meloof got into his fishing craft, the waters all along the Cape
shores rose as if in swift high tide. This boat was immense, its
sides thick and massive, its length enough to hold even the giant’s
tremendously long legs, gargantuan frame, and seven league boots. Out
in the wide, free expanse of the Atlantic, in the mist and haze, went
Meloof for a day of fishing. Where the hot sun shot through the steams
and vapours, Meloof dropped anchor. He lay back in his boat, holding
in his great hands his fish pole, made from the top of a 200 foot pine
tree. These huge trees grew in great profusion at one time over the
Cape, until a tidal wave came and stripped the lower Cape of every
living thing, leaving in its wake the dwarfed, grotesquely scrawny pine
trees now found there. Meloof lolled about on the waters, dreaming
giant dreams, his line slack in his hands.
Meloof was shaken from his lethargy! The fishing line was a lashing
whip in his hands! The pole bent and arched into the water like the
tautly drawn bow of an Indian. It quivered and trembled. It snapped up
and down. It swished to and fro in the air. Meloof’s shoulders were
wrenched with the sudden pull at the line, and his boat was nearly
capsized by the tremendous snap of the line--suddenly, he knew what lay
at the end! The giant, the prize of the deep waters that Meloof had
time and again stalked and hunted, but without success.