Somehow, after that wreck, Captain Pierpoint never cared for the water
again. His nerves were shattered, he said, and he couldn't stand danger
as he used to do when he was younger and stronger. So he went on the
lake no more, and confined his attention more strictly to the "futures"
business. He was a thriving and prosperous person, in spite of his
losses; and the underwriters had begun to look a little askance at his
insurances even before this late foundering case. Some whispered
ominously in underwriting circles that they had their doubts about the
_Fortuna_.
One summer, a few years later, the water on Lake Huron sank lower than
it had ever been known to sink before. It was a very dry season in the
back country, and the rivers brought down very diminished streams into
the great basins. Foot by foot, the level of the lake fell slowly, till
many of the wharves were left high and dry, and the vessels could only
come alongside in very few deep places. Captain Pierpoint had suffered
much from sleeplessness, combined with Canadian ague, for some years
past, but this particular summer his mind was very evidently much
troubled. For some unaccountable reason, he watched the falling of the
river with the intensest anxiety, and after it had passed a certain
point, his interest in the question became painfully keen. Though the
fever and the ague gained upon him from day to day, and his doctor
counselled perfect quiet, he was perpetually consulting charts, and
making measurements of the configuration which the coast had now
reached, especially at the upper end of Lake Huron. At last, his mind
seemed almost to give way, and weak and feverish as he was, he insisted,
the first time for many seasons, that he must take a trip upon the
water. Remonstrance was quite useless; he would go on the lake again, he
said, if it killed him. So he hired one of the little steam pleasure
yachts which are always to let in numbers at Detroit, and started with
his wife and her brother, a young surgeon, for a month's cruise into
Lake Superior.
As the yacht neared Manitoulin Island, Captain Pierpoint insisted upon
being brought up on deck in a chair--he was too ill to stand--and swept
all the coast with his binocular. Close to the point, a flat-topped
object lay mouldering in the sun, half out of water, on the shoals by
the bank. "What is it, Ernest?" asked the Captain, trembling, of his
brother-in-law.
"A wreck, I should say," the brother-in-law answered, carelessly. "By
Jove, now I look at it with the glass, I can read the name, '_Fortuna_,
Sarnia.'"
Captain Pierpoint seized the glass with a shaking hand, and read the
name on the stern, himself, in a dazed fashion. "Take me downstairs," he
said feebly, "and let me die quietly; and for Heaven's sake, Ernest,
never let _her_ know about it all."
They took him downstairs into the little cabin, and gave him quinine;
but he called for brandy. They let him have it, and he drank a glassful.
Then he lay down, and the shivering seized him; and with his wife's hand
in his, he died that night in raving delirium, about eleven. A black
squall was blowing down from the Sault Ste. Marie; and they lay at
anchor out in the lake, tossing and pitching, opposite the green
mouldering hull of the _Fortuna_.
They took him back and buried him at Sarnia; and all the world went to
attend his funeral, as of a man who died justly respected for his wealth
and other socially admired qualities. But the brother-in-law knew there
was a mystery somewhere in the wreck of the _Fortuna_; and as soon as
the funeral was over, he went back with the yacht, and took its skipper
with him to examine the stranded vessel. When they came to look at the
bottom, they found eight holes in it. Six of them were wide open; one
was still plugged, and the remaining one had the plug pulled half out,
inward, as if the persons who were pulling it had abandoned the attempt
for the fear of the rising water. That was bad enough, and they did not
wonder that Captain Pierpoint had shrunk in horror from the revealing of
the secret of the _Fortuna_.
But when they scrambled on the deck, they discovered another fact which
gave a more terrible meaning to the dead man's tragedy. The covering of
the hatchway by the companion-ladder was battened down, and nailed from
the side with five-inch nails. The skipper loosened the rusty iron with
his knife, and after a while they lifted the lid off, and descended
carefully into the empty hold below. As they suspected, there was no
damaged grain in it; but at the foot of the companion-ladder, left
behind by the retreating water, two half-cleaned skeletons in sailor
clothes lay huddled together loosely on the floor. That was all that
remained of Pete and Hiram. Evidently the Captain had nailed the hatch
down on top of them, and left them there terror-stricken to drown as the
water rushed in and rose around them.
For a while the skipper and the brother-in-law kept the dead man's
secret; but they did not try to destroy or conceal the proofs of his
guilt, and in time others visited the wreck, till, bit by bit, the
horrible story leaked out in its entirety. Nowadays, as you pass the
Great Manitoulin Island, every sailor on the lake route is ready to tell
you this strange and ghastly yarn of the foundering of the _Fortuna_.
_THE BACKSLIDER._
There was much stir and commotion on the night of Thursday, January the
14th, 1874, in the Gideonite Apostolic Church, number 47, Walworth Lane,
Peckham, S.E. Anybody could see at a glance that some important business
was under consideration; for the Apostle was there himself, in his chair
of presidency, and the twelve Episcops were there, and the forty-eight
Presbyters, and a large and earnest gathering of the Gideonite laity. It
was only a small bare school-room, fitted with wooden benches, was that
headquarters station of the young Church; but you could not look around
it once without seeing that its occupants were of the sort by whom great
religious revolutions may be made or marred. For the Gideonites were one
of those strange enthusiastic hole-and-corner sects that spring up
naturally in the outlying suburbs of great thinking centres. They gather
around the marked personality of some one ardent, vigorous,
half-educated visionary; and they consist for the most part of
intelligent, half-reasoning people, who are bold enough to cast
overboard the dogmatic beliefs of their fathers, but not so bold as to
exercise their logical faculty upon the fundamental basis on which the
dogmas originally rested. The Gideonites had thus collected around the
fixed centre of their Apostle, a retired attorney, Murgess by name,
whose teaching commended itself to their groping reason as the pure
outcome of faithful Biblical research; and they had chosen their name
because, though they were but three hundred in number, they had full
confidence that when the time came they would blow their trumpets, and
all the host of Midian would be scattered before them. In fact, they
divided the world generally into Gideonite and Midianite, for they knew
that he that was not with them was against them. And no wonder, for the
people of Peckham did not love the struggling Church. Its chief doctrine
was one of absolute celibacy, like the Shakers of America; and to this
doctrine the Church had testified in the Old Kent Road and elsewhere
after a vigorous practical fashion that roused the spirit of
South-eastern London into the fiercest opposition. The young men and
maidens, said the Apostle, must no longer marry or be given in marriage;
the wives and husbands must dwell asunder; and the earth must be made as
an image of heaven. These were heterodox opinions, indeed, which
South-eastern London could only receive with a strenuous counterblast of
orthodox brickbats and sound Anglican road metal.
The fleece of wool was duly laid upon the floor; the trumpet and the
lamp were placed upon the bare wooden reading desk; and the Apostle,
rising slowly from his seat, began to address the assembled Gideonites.
"Friends," he said, in a low, clear, impressive voice, with a musical
ring tempering its slow distinctness, "we have met together to-night to
take counsel with one another upon a high matter. It is plain to all of
us that the work of the Church in the world does not prosper as it might
prosper were the charge of it in worthier hands. We have to contend
against great difficulties. We are not among the rich or the mighty of
the earth; and the poor whom we have always with us do not listen to us.
It is expedient, therefore, that we should set some one among us aside
to be instructed thoroughly in those things that are most commonly
taught among the Midianites at Oxford or Cambridge. To some of you it
may seem, as it seemed at first to me, that such a course would involve
going back upon the very principles of our constitution. We are not to
overcome Midian by our own hand, nor by the strength of two and thirty
thousand, but by the trumpet, and the pitcher, and the cake of barley
bread. Yet, when I searched and inquired after this matter, it seemed to
me that we might also err by overmuch confidence on the other side. For
Moses, who led the people out of Egypt, was made ready for the task by
being learned in all the learning of the Egyptians. Daniel, who
testified in the captivity, was cunning in knowledge, and understanding
science, and instructed in the wisdom and tongue of the Chaldeans. Paul,
who was the apostle of the Gentiles, had not only sat at the feet of
Gamaliel, but was also able from their own poets and philosophers to
confute the sophisms and subtleties of the Grecians themselves. These
things show us that we should not too lightly despise even worldly
learning and worldly science. Perhaps we have gone wrong in thinking too
little of such dross, and being puffed up with spiritual pride. The
world might listen to us more readily if we had one who could speak the
word for us in the tongues understanded of the world."
As he paused, a hum of acquiescence went round the room.
"It has seemed to me, then," the Apostle went on, "that we ought to
choose some one among our younger brethren, upon whose shoulders the
cares and duties of the Apostolate might hereafter fall. We are a poor
people, but by subscription among ourselves we might raise a sufficient
sum to send the chosen person first to a good school here in London, and
afterwards to the University of Oxford. It may seem a doubtful and a
hazardous thing thus to stake our future upon any one young man; but
then we must remember that the choice will not be wholly or even mainly
ours; we will be guided and directed as we ever are in the laying on of
hands. To me, considering this matter thus, it has seemed that there is
one youth in our body who is specially pointed out for this work. Only
one child has ever been born into the Church: he, as you know, is the
son of brother John Owen and sister Margaret Owen, who were received
into the fold just six days before his birth. Paul Owen's very name
seems to many of us, who take nothing for chance but all things for
divinely ordered, to mark him out at once as a foreordained Apostle. Is
it your wish, then, Presbyter John Owen, to dedicate your only son to
this ministry?"
Presbyter John Owen rose from the row of seats assigned to the
forty-eight, and moved hesitatingly towards the platform. He was an
intelligent-looking, honest-faced, sunburnt working man, a mason by
trade, who had come into the Church from the Baptist society; and he was
awkwardly dressed in his Sunday clothes, with the scrupulous clumsy
neatness of a respectable artisan who expects to take part in an
important ceremony. He spoke nervously and with hesitation, but with all
the transparent earnestness of a simple, enthusiastic nature.
"Apostle and friends," he said, "it ain't very easy for me to
disentangle my feelin's on this subjec' from one another. I hope I ain't
moved by any worldly feelin', an' yet I hardly know how to keep such
considerations out, for there's no denyin' that it would be a great
pleasure to me and to his mother to see our Paul becomin' a teacher in
Israel, and receivin' an education such as you, Apostle, has pinted out.
But we hope, too, we ain't insensible to the good of the Church and the
advantage that it might derive from our Paul's support and preachin'. We
can't help seein' ourselves that the lad has got abilities; and we've
tried to train him up from his youth upward, like Timothy, for the
furtherance of the right doctrine. If the Church thinks he's fit for the
work laid upon him, his mother and me'll be glad to dedicate him to the
service."
He sat down awkwardly, and the Church again hummed its approbation in a
suppressed murmur. The Apostle rose once more, and briefly called on
Paul Owen to stand forward.
In answer to the call, a tall, handsome, earnest-eyed boy advanced
timidly to the platform. It was no wonder that those enthusiastic
Gideonite visionaries should have seen in his face the visible stamp of
the Apostleship. Paul Owen had a rich crop of dark-brown glossy and
curly hair, cut something after the Florentine Cinque-cento fashion--not
because his parents wished him to look artistic, but because that was
the way in which they had seen the hair dressed in all the sacred
pictures that they knew; and Margaret Owen, the daughter of some
Wesleyan Spitalfields weaver folk, with the imaginative Huguenot blood
still strong in her veins, had made up her mind ever since she became
Convinced of the Truth (as their phrase ran) that her Paul was called
from his cradle to a great work. His features were delicately chiselled,
and showed rather natural culture, like his mother's, than rough
honesty, like John Owen's, or strong individuality, like the masterful
Apostle's. His eyes were peculiarly deep and luminous, with a far-away
look which might have reminded an artist of the central boyish figure in
Holman Hunt's picture of the Doctors in the Temple. And yet Paul Owen
had a healthy colour in his cheek and a general sturdiness of limb and
muscle which showed that he was none of your nervous, bloodless, sickly
idealists, but a wholesome English peasant boy of native refinement and
delicate sensibilities. He moved forward with some natural hesitation
before the eyes of so many people--ay, and what was more terrible, of
the entire Church upon earth; but he was not awkward and constrained in
his action like his father. One could see that he was sustained in the
prominent part he took that morning by the consciousness of a duty he
had to perform and a mission laid upon him which he must not reject.
"Are you willing, my son Paul," asked the Apostle, gravely, "to take
upon yourself the task that the Church proposes?"
"I am willing," answered the boy in a low voice, "grace preventing me."
"Does all the Church unanimously approve the election of our brother
Paul to this office?" the Apostle asked formally; for it was a rule with
the Gideonites that nothing should be done except by the unanimous and
spontaneous action of the whole body, acting under direct and immediate
inspiration; and all important matters were accordingly arranged
beforehand by the Apostle in private interviews with every member of the
Church individually, so that everything that took place in public
assembly had the appearance of being wholly unquestioned. They took
counsel first with one another, and consulted the Scripture together;
and when all private doubts were satisfied, they met as a Church to
ratify in solemn conclave their separate conclusions. It was not often
that the Apostle did not have his own way. Not only had he the most
marked personality and the strongest will, but he alone also had Greek
and Hebrew enough to appeal always to the original word; and that
mysterious amount of learning, slight as it really was, sufficed almost
invariably to settle the scruples of his wholly ignorant and pliant
disciples. Reverence for the literal Scripture in its primitive language
was the corner-stone of the Gideonite Church; and for all practical
purposes, its one depositary and exponent for them was the Apostle
himself. Even the Rev. Albert Barnes's Commentary was held to possess an
inferior authority.
"The Church approves," was the unanimous answer.
"Then, Episcops, Presbyters, and brethren," said the Apostle, taking up
a roll of names, "I have to ask that you will each mark down on this
paper opposite your own names how much a year you can spare of your
substance for six years to come as a guarantee fund for this great work.
You must remember that the ministry of this Church has cost you nothing;
freely I have received and freely given; do you now bear your part in
equipping a new aspirant for the succession to the Apostolate."
The two senior Episcops took two rolls from his hand, and went round the
benches with a stylographic pen (so strangely do the ages
mingle--Apostles and stylographs) silently asking each to put down his
voluntary subscription. Meanwhile the Apostle read slowly and reverently
a few appropriate sentences of Scripture. Some of the richer
members--well-to-do small tradesmen of Peckham--put down a pound or even
two pounds apiece; the poorer brethren wrote themselves down for ten
shillings or even five. In the end the guarantee list amounted to
195_l_. a year. The Apostle reckoned it up rapidly to himself, and then
announced the result to the assembly, with a gentle smile relaxing his
austere countenance. He was well pleased, for the sum was quite
sufficient to keep Paul Owen two years at school in London and then send
him comfortably if not splendidly to Oxford. The boy had already had a
fair education in Latin and some Greek, at the Birkbeck Schools; and
with two years' further study he might even gain a scholarship (for he
was a bright lad), which would materially lessen the expense to the
young Church. Unlike many prophets and enthusiasts, the Apostle was a
good man of business; and he had taken pains to learn all about these
favourable chances before embarking his people on so very doubtful a
speculation.
The Assembly was just about to close, when one of the Presbyters rose
unexpectedly to put a question which, contrary to the usual practice,
had not already been submitted for approbation to the Apostle. He was a
hard-headed, thickset, vulgar-looking man, a greengrocer at Denmark
Hill, and the Apostle always looked upon him as a thorn in his side,
promoted by inscrutable wisdom to the Presbytery for the special purpose
of keeping down the Apostle's spiritual pride.
"One more pint, Apostle," he said abruptly, "afore we close. It seems to
me that even in the Church's work we'd ought to be business-like. Now,
it ain't business-like to let this young man, Brother Paul, get his
eddication out of us, if I may so speak afore the Church, on spec. It's
all very well our sayin' he's to be eddicated and take on the
Apostleship, but how do we know but what when he's had his eddication he
may fall away and become a backslider, like Demas and like others among
ourselves that we could mention? He may go to Oxford among a lot of
Midianites, and them of the great an' mighty of the earth too, and how
do we know but what he may round upon the Church, and go back upon us
after we've paid for his eddication? So what I want to ask is just this,
can't we bind him down in a bond that if he don't take the Apostleship
with the consent of the Church when it falls vacant he'll pay us back
our money, so as we can eddicate up another as'll be more worthy?"
The Apostle moved uneasily in his chair; but before he could speak, Paul
Owen's indignation found voice, and he said out his say boldly before
the whole assembly, blushing crimson with mingled shame and excitement
as he did so. "If Brother Grimshaw and all the brethren think so ill of
me that they cannot trust my honesty and honour," he said, "they need
not be at the pains of educating me. I will sign no bond and enter into
no compact. But if you suppose that I will be a backslider, you do not
know me, and I will confer no more with you upon the subject."
"My son Paul is right," the Apostle said, flushing up in turn at the
boy's audacity; "we will not make the affairs of the Spirit a matter for
bonds and earthly arrangements. If the Church thinks as I do, you will
all rise up."
All rose except Presbyter Grimshaw. For a moment there was some
hesitation, for the rule of the Church in favour of unanimity was
absolute; but the Apostle fixed his piercing eyes on Job Grimshaw, and
after a minute or so Job Grimshaw too rose slowly, like one compelled by
an unseen power, and cast in his vote grudgingly with the rest. There
was nothing more said about signing an agreement.