IN WHICH EBENEZER CAPEN IS SURPRISED
Before sunset that afternoon the San Jose was anchored behind the point
by the inlet. The fishing boats changed moorings and moved farther
up, for not a single one of their owners would trust himself within a
hundred yards of the stricken brigantine. As soon as the anchors were
dropped, the volunteer crew was over side and away, each of its members
to receive a scolding from his family for taking such a risk and to have
his garments sulphur-smoked or buried. Charlie Burgess, whose wife was
something of a Tartar, observed ruefully that he “didn't take no comfort
'round home nowadays; between the smell of brimstone and the jawin's
'twas the hereafter ahead of time.”
The largest of the beach shanties, one which stood by itself a quarter
of a mile from the light, was hurriedly prepared for use as a pesthouse
and the sick sailor was carried there on an improvised stretcher.
Dr. Parker and Ellery lifted him from his berth and, assisted by old
Ebenezer Capen, got him up to the deck and lowered him into the dory.
Ebenezer rowed the trio to the beach and the rest of the journey was
comparatively easy.
The shanty had three rooms, one of which was given up to the patient,
one used as a living room, and, in the third, Capen and the minister
were to sleep. Mattresses were procured, kind-hearted and sympathizing
townspeople donated cast-off tables and chairs, and the building was
made as comfortable as it could be, under the circumstances. Sign
boards, warning strangers to keep away, were erected, and in addition
to them, the Trumet selectmen ordered ropes stretched across the lane on
both sides of the shanty. But ropes and signs were superfluous. Trumet
in general was in a blue funk and had no desire to approach within a
mile of the locality. Even the driver of the grocery cart, when he left
the day's supply of provisions, pushed the packages under the ropes,
yelled a hurried “Here you be!” and, whipping up his horse, departed at
a rattling gallop.
The village sat up nights to discuss the affair and every day brought
a new sensation. The survivors of the San Jose's crew, a wretched,
panic-stricken quartette of mulattos and Portuguese, were apprehended
on the outskirts of Denboro, the town below Trumet on the bay side,
and were promptly sequestered and fumigated, pending shipment to the
hospital at Boston. Their story was short but grewsome. The brigantine
was not a Turks Islands boat, but a coaster from Jamaica. She had sailed
with a small cargo for Savannah. Two days out and the smallpox made its
appearance on board. The sufferer, a negro foremast hand, died. Then
another sailor was seized and also died. The skipper, who was the owner,
was the next victim, and the vessel was in a state of demoralization
which the mate, an Englishman named Bradford, could not overcome. Then
followed days and nights of calm and terrible heat, of pestilence
and all but mutiny. The mate himself died. There was no one left who
understood navigation. At last came a southeast gale and the San Jose
drove before it. Fair weather found her abreast the Cape. The survivors
ran her in after dark, anchored, and reached shore in the longboat. The
sick man whom they had left in the forecastle was a new hand who had
shipped at Kingston. His name was Murphy, they believed. They had left
him because he was sure to die, like the others, and, besides, they knew
some one would see the distress signals and investigate. That was all,
yes. Santa Maria! was it not enough?
This tale was a delicious tidbit for Didama and the “daily advertisers,”
but, after all, it was a mere side dish compared to Mr. Ellery's
astonishing behavior. That he, the minister of the Regular church,
should risk his life, risk dying of the smallpox, to help a stranger
and a common sailor, was incomprehensible. Didama, at least, could not
understand it, and said so. “My soul and body!” she exclaimed, with
uplifted hands. “I wouldn't go nigh my own grandfather if he had the
smallpox, let alone settin' up with a strange critter that I didn't
know from Adam's cat. And a minister doin' it! He ought to consider the
congregation, if he done nothin' else. Ain't we more important than a
common water rat that, even when he's dyin', swears, so I hear tell,
like a ship's poll parrot? I never heard of such foolishness. It beats
ME!”
It “beat” a good many who, like the Widow Rogers, could not understand
self-sacrifice. But there were more, and they the majority of Trumet's
intelligent people, who understood and appreciated. Dr. Parker, a man
with a reputation for dangerously liberal views concerning religious
matters and an infrequent attendant at church, was enthusiastic and
prodigal of praise.
“By George!” vowed the doctor. “That's MY kind of Christianity. That's
the kind of parson I can tie to. I'm for John Ellery after this, first,
last, and all the time. And if he don't get the smallpox and die, and
if he does live to preach in the Regular church, you'll see me in one of
the front pews every Sunday. That's what I think of him. Everybody else
ran away and I don't blame 'em much. But he stayed. Yes, sir, by George!
he stayed. 'Somebody had to do it,' says he. I take off my hat to that
young fellow.”
Captain Zeb Mayo went about cheering for his parson. Mrs. Mayo cooked
delicacies to be pushed under the ropes for the minister's consumption.
The parish committee, at a special session, voted an increase of salary
and ordered a weekly service of prayer for the safe delivery of their
young leader from danger. Even Captain Elkanah did not try to oppose
the general opinion; “although I cannot but feel,” he said, “that Mr.
Ellery's course was rash and that he should have considered us and our
interest in his welfare before--”
“Dum it all!” roared Captain Zeb, jumping to his feet and interrupting,
“he didn't consider himself, did he? and ain't he as important TO
himself as you, Elkanah Daniels, or anybody else in this meetin' house?
Bah! don't let's have no more talk like that or I'll say somethin' that
won't be fit to put in the minutes.”
Even at Come-Outers' meeting, when Ezekiel Bassett hinted at a “just
punishment fallin' on the head of the leader of the Pharisees,” Thoph
Black rose and defended Ellery.
Keziah Coffin was, perhaps, the one person most disturbed by her
parson's heroism. She would have gone to the shanty immediately had not
Dr. Parker prevented. Even as it was, she did go as far as the ropes,
but there she was warded off by Ebenezer until Ellery came running out
and bade her come no nearer.
“But you shan't stay here, Mr. Ellery,” vowed Keziah. “Or, if you do,
I'll stay, too. I ain't afraid of smallpox.”
“I am,” confessed the minister, “and I'm not going to let anyone I care
for expose themselves to it unnecessarily. If you try to come in here I
shall”--he smiled--“well, Capen and I will put you off the premises by
force. There!”
Keziah smiled, too, in spite of herself. “Maybe you'd have your hands
full,” she said. “O John, what in the world made you do this thing? It's
dreadful. I shan't sleep a wink, thinkin' of you. I just must come here
and help.”
“No, you mustn't. You can come as far as the--the dead line once in
a while, if Captain Mayo will drive you over, but that's all. I'm all
right. Don't worry about me. I'm feeling tiptop and I'm not going to be
sick. Now go home and make me some of that--some of those puddings of
yours. We can use them to advantage, can't we, Capen?”
“Bet yer!” replied Ebenezer with enthusiasm. Keziah, after more
expostulation, went back to the parsonage, where the puddings were made
and seasoned with tears and fervent prayers. She wrote to Grace and told
her the news of the San Jose, but she said nothing of the minister's
part in it. “Poor thing!” sighed Keziah, “she's bearin' enough already.
Her back ain't as strong as mine, maybe, and mine's most crackin'. Well,
let it crack for good and all; I don't know but that's the easiest way
out.”
The sick sailor grew no better. Days and nights passed and he raved
and moaned or lay in a stupor. Ebenezer acted as day nurse while Ellery
slept, and, at night, the minister, being younger, went on watch. The
doctor came frequently, but said there was no hope. A question of time
only, and a short time, he said.
Capen occupied his mind with speculations concerning the patient.
“Do you know, parson,” he said, “seem's if I'd seen the feller
somewheres afore. 'Course I never have, but when I used to go whalin'
v'yages I cruised from one end of creation to t'other, pretty nigh,
and I MIGHT have met him. However, his own folks wouldn't know him now,
would they? so I cal'late I'm just gettin' foolish in my old age. Said
his name's Murphy, them ha'f-breeds did, didn't they? I know better'n
that.”
“How do you know?” asked Ellery, idly listening.
“'Cause when he's floppin' round on the bed, out of his head, he sings
out all kinds of stuff. A good deal of it's plain cussin', but there's
times when he talks respectable and once I heard him say 'darn' and
another time 'I cal'late.' Now no Irishman says THAT. That's Yankee,
that is.”
“Well, he ought to know his own name.”
“Prob'ly he does--or used to--but 'most likely he don't want nobody else
to know it. That's why he said 'twas Murphy and, bein' as he DID say it,
I know 'tain't it. See my argument, don't you, Mr. Ellery?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Um--hm! Why, land sakes, names don't mean nothin' with seafarin' men.
I've seen the time when I had more names--Humph! Looks kind of squally
off to the east'ard, don't it?”
That night the sick man was much worse. His ravings were incessant. The
minister, sitting in his chair in the living room, by the cook stove,
could hear the steady stream of shouts, oaths, and muttered fragments of
dialogue with imaginary persons. Sympathy for the sufferer he felt,
of course, and yet he, as well as Dr. Parker and old Capen, had heard
enough to realize that the world would be none the worse for losing this
particular specimen of humanity. The fellow had undoubtedly lived a hard
life, among the roughest of companions afloat and ashore. Even Ebenezer,
who by his own confession, was far from being a saint, exclaimed
disgustedly at the close of a day's watching by the sick bed: “Phew! I
feel's if I'd been visiting state's prison. Let me set out doors a spell
and listen to the surf. It's clean, anyhow, and that critter's talk
makes me want to give my brains a bath.”
The wooden clock, loaned by Mrs. Parker, the doctor's wife, ticked
steadily, although a half hour slow. Ellery, glancing at it to see if
the time had come for giving medicine, suddenly noticed how loud its
ticking sounded. Wondering at this, he was aware there was no other
sound in the house. He rose and looked in at the door of the adjoining
room. The patient had ceased to rave and was lying quiet on the bed.
The minister tiptoed over to look at him. And, as he did so, the man
opened his eyes.
“Halloo!” he said faintly. “Who are you?”
Ellery, startled, made no answer.
“Who are you?” demanded the man again. Then, with an oath, he repeated
the question, adding: “What place is this? This ain't the fo'castle.
Where am I?”
“You're ashore. You've been sick. Don't try to move.”
“Sick? Humph! Sick? 'Course I been sick. Don't I know it? The d--n
cowards run off and left me; blast their eyes! I'll fix 'em for it one
of these days, you hear--”
“Sshh!”
“Hush up yourself. Where am I?”
“You're ashore. On Cape Cod. At Trumet.”
“Trumet! TRUMET!”
He was struggling to raise himself on his elbow. Ellery was obliged to
use force to hold him down.
“Hush! hush!” pleaded the minister, “you mustn't try to--”
“Trumet! I ain't. You're lyin'. Trumet! Good God! Who brought me here?
Did she--Is she--”
He struggled again. Then his strength and his reason left him
simultaneously and the delirium returned. He began to shout a name, a
name that caused Ellery to stand upright and step back from the bed,
scarcely believing his ears.
All the rest of that night the man on the bed raved and muttered, but of
people and places and happenings which he had not mentioned before. And
the minister, listening intently to every word, caught himself wondering
if he also was not losing his mind.
When the morning came, Ebenezer Capen was awakened by a shake to find
John Ellery standing over him.
“Capen,” whispered the minister, “Capen, get up. I must talk with you.”
Ebenezer was indignant.
“Judas priest!” he exclaimed; “why don't you scare a feller to death,
comin' and yankin' him out of bed by the back hair?” Then, being more
wide awake, he added: “What's the row? Worse, is he? He ain't--”
“No. But I've got to talk with you. You used to be a whaler, I know.
Were you acquainted in New Bedford?”
“Sartin. Was a time when I could have located every stick in it, pretty
nigh, by the smell, if you'd set me down side of 'em blindfold.”
“Did you ever know anyone named--” He finished the sentence.
“Sure and sartin, I did. Why?”
“Did you know him well?”
“Well's I wanted to. Pretty decent feller one time, but a fast goer, and
went downhill like a young one's sled, when he got started. His folks
had money, that was the trouble with him. Why, 'course I knew him! He
married--”
“I know. Now, listen.”
Ellery went on talking rapidly and with great earnestness. Ebenezer
listened, at first silently, then breaking in with ejaculations and
grunts of astonishment. He sat up on the edge of the bed.
“Rubbish!” he cried at last, “why, 'tain't possible! The feller's dead
as Methusalem's grandmarm. I remember how it happened and--”
“It wasn't true. That much I know. I KNOW, I tell you.”
He went on to explain why he knew. Capen's astonishment grew.
“Judas priest!” he exclaimed again. “That would explain why I thought
I'd seen--There! heave ahead. I've got to see. But it's a mistake. I
don't believe it.”
The pair entered the sick room. The sailor lay in a stupor. His
breathing was rapid, but faint. Capen bent over him and gently moved the
bandage on his face. For a full minute he gazed steadily. Then he stood
erect, drew a big red hand across his forehead, and moved slowly back to
the living room.
“Well?” asked Ellery eagerly.
Ebenezer sat down in the rocker. “Judas priest!” he said for the third
time. “Don't talk to ME! When it comes my time they'll have to prove I'm
dead. I won't believe it till they do. Ju-das PRIEST!”
“Then you recognize him?”
The old man nodded solemnly.
“Yup,” he said, “it's him. Mr. Ellery, what are you goin' to do about
it?”
“I don't know. I don't know. I must go somewhere by myself and think. I
don't know WHAT to do.”
The minister declined to wait for breakfast. He said he was not hungry.
Leaving Ebenezer to put on the coffeepot and take up his duties as day
nurse, Ellery walked off along the beach. The “dead line” prevented his
going very far, but he sat down in the lee of a high dune and thought
until his head ached. What should he do? What was best for him to do?
He heard the rattle of the doctor's chaise and the voices of Ebenezer
and Parker in conversation. He did not move, but remained where he was,
thinking, thinking. By and by he heard Capen calling his name.
“Mr. Ellery!” shouted Ebenezer. “Mr. Ellery, where be you?”
“Here!” replied the minister.
The old man came scrambling over the sand. He was panting and much
excited.
“Mr. Ellery!” he cried, “Mr. Ellery! it's settled for us--one part of
it, anyhow. He's slipped his cable.”
“What?” The minister sprang up.
“Yup. He must have died just a little while after you left and after I
gave him his medicine. I thought he looked kind of queer then. And when
the doctor came we went in together and he was dead. Yes, sir, dead.”
“Dead!”
“Um--hm. No doubt of it; it's for good this time. Mr. Ellery, what shall
we do? Shall I tell Dr. Parker?”
Ellery considered for a moment. “No,” he said slowly. “No, Capen, don't
tell anyone. I can't see why they need ever know that he hasn't been
dead for years, as they supposed. Promise me to keep it a secret. I'll
tell--her--myself, later on. Now promise me; I trust you.”
“Land sakes, yes! I'll promise, if you want me to. I'm a widower man, so
there'll be nobody to coax it out of me. I guess you're right, cal'late
you be. What folks don't know they can't lie about, can they? and that's
good for your business--meanin' nothin' disreverent. I'll promise, Mr.
Ellery; I'll swear to it. Now come on back to the shanty. The doctor
wants you.”
The next day the body of “Murphy,” foremast hand on the San Jose, was
buried in the corner of the Regular graveyard, near those who were
drowned in the wreck of that winter. There was no funeral, of course.
The minister said a prayer at the shanty, and that was all. Ebenezer
drove the wagon which was used as hearse for the occasion, and filled in
the grave himself. So great was the fear of the terrible smallpox that
the sexton would not perform even that service for its victim.
Capen remained at the shanty another week. Then, as the minister showed
no symptoms of having contracted the disease and insisted that he needed
no companion, Ebenezer departed to take up his fishing once more. The
old man was provided with a new suit of clothes, those he had worn being
burned, and having been, to his huge disgust, fumigated until, as he
said, he couldn't smell himself without thinking of a match box, went
away. The room which the dead sailor had occupied was emptied and sealed
tight. The San Jose was to stay at her anchorage a while longer. Then,
when all danger was past, she was to be towed to Boston and sold at
auction for the benefit of the heirs of her dead skipper and owner.
Ellery himself was most urgent in the decision that he should not go
back to the parsonage and his church just yet. Better to wait until he
was sure, he said, and Dr. Parker agreed. “I'd be willing to bet that
you are all right,” declared the latter, “but I know Trumet, and if I
SHOULD let you go and you did develop even the tail end of a case of
varioloid--well, 'twould be the everlasting climax for you and me in
this county.”
Staying alone was not unpleasant, in a way. The “dead line” still
remained, of course, and callers did not attempt to pass it, but they
came more frequently and held lengthy conversations at a respectful
distance. Ellery did his own cooking, what little there was to do, but
so many good things were pushed under the ropes that he was in a fair
way to develop weight and indigestion. Captain Zeb Mayo drove down at
least twice a week and usually brought Mrs. Coffin with him. From them
and from the doctor the prisoner learned the village news. Once Captain
Elkanah and Annabel came, and the young lady's gushing praise of the
minister's “heroism” made its recipient almost sorry he had ever heard
of the San Jose.
Dr. Parker told him of Grace Van Horne's return to the village. She had
come back, so the doctor said, the day before, and was to live at the
tavern for a while, at least. Yes, he guessed even she had given up hope
of Captain Nat now.
“And say,” went on Parker, “how are you feeling?”
“Pretty well, thank you,” replied the minister. “I seem to be rather
tired and good for nothing. More so than I was during the worst of it.”
“No wonder. A chap can't go through what you did and not feel some
reaction. I expected that. Don't get cold, that's all. But what I want
to know is whether you think I could leave you for a couple of days?
The Ostable County Medical Society meets at Hyannis to-morrow and I had
promised myself to take it in this year. But I don't want to leave you,
if you need me.”
Ellery insisted that he did not need anyone, was getting along finely,
and would not hear of his friend's missing the medical society's
meeting. So the physician went.
“Good-by,” he called as he drove off. “I guess your term is pretty
nearly over. I shall let you out of jail inside of four or five days, if
you behave yourself.”
This should have been cheering news, but, somehow, John Ellery did not
feel cheerful that afternoon. The tired feeling he had spoken of so
lightly was worse than he had described it, and he was despondent, for
no particular reason. That night he slept miserably and awoke with a
chill to find a cold, pouring rain beating against the windows of the
shanty.
He could not eat and he could not keep warm, even with the cook-stove
top red hot and a blanket over his shoulders. By noon the chill had
gone and he was blazing with fever. Still the rain and the wind, and no
visitors at the ropes, not even the light-keeper.
He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep, but though he dozed a bit,
woke always with a start and either a chill or fever fit. His head began
to ache violently. And then, in the lonesomeness and misery, fear began
to take hold of him.
He remembered the symptoms the doctor had warned him against, headache,
fever, and all the rest. He felt his wrists and arms and began to
imagine that beneath the skin were the little bunches, like small shot,
that were the certain indications. Then he remembered how that other man
had looked, how he had died. Was he to look that way and die like that?
And he was all alone, they had left him alone.
Night came. The rain had ceased and stars were shining clear. Inside the
shanty the minister tossed on the bed, or staggered back and forth about
the two rooms. He wondered what the time might be; then he did not care.
He was alone. The smallpox had him in its grip. He was alone and he
was going to die. Why didn't some one come? Where was Mrs. Coffin? And
Grace? She was somewhere near him--Parker had said so--and he must see
her before he died. He called her name over and over again.
The wind felt cold on his forehead. He stumbled amidst the beach grass.
What was this thing across his path? A rope, apparently, but why should
there be ropes in that house? There had never been any before. He
climbed over it and it was a climb of hundreds of feet and the height
made him giddy. That was a house, another house, not the one he had been
living in. And there were lights all about. Perhaps one of them was the
light at the parsonage. And a big bell was booming. That was his church
bell and he would be late for the meeting.
Some one was speaking to him. He knew the voice. He had known it always
and would know it forever. It was the voice he wanted to hear. “Grace!”
he called. “Grace! I want you. Don't go! Don't go! Grace! oh, my dear!
don't go!”
Then the voice had gone. No, it had not gone. It was still there and he
heard it speaking to him, begging him to listen, pleading with him to
go somewhere, go back, back to something or other. And there was an arm
about his waist and some one was leading him, helping him. He broke down
and cried childishly and some one cried with him.
Early the next morning, just as day was breaking, a buggy, the horse
which drew it galloping, rocked and bumped down the lighthouse lane.
Dr. Parker, his brows drawn together and his lips set with anxiety, was
driving. He had been roused from sleep in the hotel at Hyannis by a boy
with a telegram. “Come quick,” it read. “Mr. Ellery sick.” The sender
was Noah Ellis, the lightkeeper. The doctor had hired a fast horse,
ridden at top speed to Bayport, gotten a fresh horse there and hurried
on. He stopped at his own house but a moment, merely to rouse his wife
and ask her if there was any fresh news. But she had not even heard of
the minister's seizure.
“My soul, Will!” she cried, “you don't think it's the smallpox, do you?”
“Lord knows! I'm afraid so,” groaned her husband. “WHAT made me leave
him? I ought to have known better. If that boy dies, I'll never draw
another easy breath.”
He rushed out, sprang into the buggy, and drove on. At the ropes, early
as it was, he found a small group waiting and gazing at the shanty.
The lightkeeper was there and two or three other men. They were talking
earnestly.
“How is he, Noah?” demanded the doctor, jumping to the ground.
“I don't know, doc,” replied Ellis. “I ain't heard sence last night when
I telegraphed you.”
“Haven't heard? What do you mean by that? Haven't you been with him?”
“No-o,” was the rather sheepish reply. “You see, I--I wanted to, but my
wife's awful scart I'll catch it and--”
“The devil!” Dr. Parker swore impatiently. “Who is with him then? You
haven't left him alone, have you?”
“No-o,” Noah hesitated once more. “No-o, he ain't alone. She's there.”
“She? Who? Keziah Coffin?”
“I don't cal'late Keziah's heard it yet. We was waitin' for you 'fore we
said much to anybody. But she's there--the--the one that found him. You
see, he was out of his head and wanderin' up the lane 'most to the main
road and she'd been callin' on Keziah and when she come away from the
parsonage she heard him hollerin' and goin' on and--”
“Who did?”
“Why”--the lightkeeper glanced at his companions--“why, doc, 'twas Grace
Van Horne. And she fetched him back to the shanty and then come and got
me to telegraph you.”
“Grace Van Horne! Grace Van--Do you mean to say she is there with him
NOW?”
“Yes. She wouldn't leave him. She seemed 'most as crazy's he was. My
wife and me, we--”
But Parker did not wait to hear the rest. He ran at full speed to the
door of the shanty. Grace herself opened it.
“How is he?” demanded the doctor.
“I think he seems a little easier; at any rate, he's not delirious. He's
in there. Oh, I'm so thankful you've come.”
“Is that the doctor?” called Ellery weakly from the next room. “Is it?”
“Yes,” replied Parker, throwing off his coat and hat. “Coming, Mr.
Ellery.”
“For God's sake, doctor, send her away. Don't let her stay. Make her go.
Make her GO! I've got the smallpox and if she stays she will die. Don't
you understand? she MUST go.”
“Hush, John,” said Grace soothingly. “Hush, dear.”
Dr. Parker stopped short and looked at her. She returned the look, but
without the slightest semblance of self-consciousness or embarrassment.
She did not realize that she had said anything unusual, which must
sound inexplicably strange to him. Her thoughts were centered in that
adjoining room and she wondered why he delayed.
“Well?” she asked impatiently. “What is it? Why do you wait?”
The doctor did not answer. However, he waited no longer, but hurried in
to his new patient.