At eleven o’clock in the forenoon the Oldbury post-office was always
crowded. The easy-going postmaster and his assistant knew that those
waiting in the antechamber were not in a hurry for their mail, and
accordingly took their good time in assorting it; while on the sanded
floor without, the dignitaries of the town talked business and
politics, the clerks skylarked, the old women gossiped, and the young
ones talked of the latest fashions, keeping a demure eye the while upon
the younger men.
At such times bargains were concluded between merchants, underwriters
insured vessels, and young men arranged parties of pleasure with each
other. The advantages of a club, an exchange, and a reception were
all had by the good people who waited for the postmaster to sort the
letters.
In the days of which I write, the talk in the post-office o’ mornings
was stirring enough. A town whose capital was almost exclusively
centred in ship-owning and commerce could not but be excited over the
constant disputes between Great Britain and the United States on the
subject of the impressing of seamen.
The town was just beginning to recover from the paralyzing effects
of the Embargo Act, which had sought to protect our commerce by the
singular method of stopping it altogether.
It had been a hard trial for the inhabitants of the seaport towns to
see their ships rotting at the wharves and their trade destroyed at one
blow, although their ships were saved from the unjust seizures of the
British and French.
The merchants were, as a class, notwithstanding the insolence and
outrages of the British, the most Anglican of Federalists in their
political sympathies; yet they found themselves enduring the loss of
their ships and property through the injustice and wrong-doing of the
British whose cause they had espoused.
The great national parties of that day were not divided upon American
questions, but were swayed by their sympathies with one or the other
of the two great nations, England and France, which had been locked in
deadly conflict for so many years. The Republican party espoused the
cause of France as warmly as the Federalists did that of Great Britain,
and the great nations, the objects of this admiration, vied with each
other to see which could do the most injury to the United States, until
it was impossible for a ship to sail the seas flying the Stars and
Stripes without running imminent danger of being confiscated by either
England or France. And all these years the impressment of American
seamen by British ships was insisted upon as a right by the aggressive
monarchy, and was conducted on an enormous scale, and thousands of
American citizens had been taken from our ships. Some American vessels
were stripped of their seamen to such an extent that they were lost at
sea for want of hands to man them. The impressment of American seamen
was even a surer road to promotion in the British Navy than gallantry
in a sea-fight. And this year the long dispute was coming to a head,
and at the daily assemblage at the Oldbury post-office words were
apt to be warm. A Federal looked upon his Republican neighbor, with
French sympathies, as a red-handed incendiary, and was quite as likely
to tell him so as not; while the abused supporter of Madison regarded
his reviler as a sycophant to the insolent British, a craven, who
cheerfully licked the boots which kicked him. Party spirit ran very
high among our great grandfathers, and never higher than in the spring
of 1812.
Although Captain Woodbury had been a severe loser by the long embargo,
and had been a staunch Federalist, he was at this time so outraged by
the insults of the British to the American flag, that he had a lively
feeling of hatred towards the mother country, which led him to many hot
disputes with the other merchants of the town.
On the morning after the return of the prodigal Cheever to his
native town, the worthy old Captain was walking down the High Street
slowly and deliberately. He was revolving in his mind the unpleasant
experience of the night before, and the necessity which had arisen
for the speedy raising of three thousand dollars troubled him not a
little. His ships had not brought him in an income for some time, and
his new house had made a great hole in his cash. In the troubled state
of public affairs, when men said that war might involve the country at
any moment, purchasers for vessels and real estate in a seaboard town
were rare. The Captain had a horror of debt; yet he could see no way in
which he could speedily raise this sum of money, save by borrowing it
at the bank or of some friend. He soon dismissed the idea of borrowing
from a friend, as he felt sure that no individual whom he could ask
would be able in so short a time to raise for him so large an amount.
The bank was his only resource, that was clear; and unfortunately
he had had high words with Deacon Fairbanks, the president, at the
post-office only the day before, in which neither of the fierce old
gentlemen spared his adversary. It was hard to be compelled to ask the
Deacon a favor after having called him a British parasite, in full
hearing of the assemblage at the post-office, and yet there seemed to
be no alternative. It was necessary that Cheever should be got out of
the town as soon as possible, and the Captain felt an eager desire to
pay him the money and get rid of him at once.
His steps had brought him to the post-office at the same moment that
his thoughts had led him to this conclusion, and the first person he
laid eyes upon, as he came back into the world from his brown study,
was the Deacon.
A puffy and consequential-looking man was Deacon Fairbanks. The mean
lines of his face were not improved by the fat which bulged his cheeks
and jaw. He was smooth shaven, as was the fashion of the day, and his
mouth had the tight, short look, which indicates economy of speech and
closeness in money matters. His eyes were a light green in color, deep
set in his head, and his colorless eyebrows were long and bushy. The
Deacon inclined his head slightly when he saw Captain Woodbury, and
looked at him sharply from beneath the shaggy eyebrows.
I have my doubts whether the Deacon had really been as sound asleep
as his daughter supposed when James was telling the story of the
mysterious sailor who had sent the ring to her from the wicked uncle.
Captain Woodbury felt uneasy under the Deacon’s keen gaze, and he
thought of the unfortunate quarrel with him of the day before.
[Illustration: “A PUFFY AND CONSEQUENTIAL-LOOKING MAN WAS DEACON
FAIRBANKS.”]
The Deacon, however, either from Christian charity or from policy,
seemed to bear no ill-will towards his neighbor on account of the
abusive language which the latter had heaped upon him, and he advanced
to greet the newcomer with more than ordinary politeness.
“Good morning, Captain Woodbury,” said he in his soft, disagreeable
voice. “It’s a fine June morning.”
“It is,” replied the Captain, curtly. He did not like to have a man
whom he had insulted the day before speak to him so civilly. To be
sure, he had intended to be polite to the Deacon, but then he had an
axe to grind. It was his unpleasant necessity to borrow three thousand
dollars that morning of Fairbanks’ bank, and the old fellow did not
imagine for a moment that the other might have an object in being
polite to him.
“Bad news from across the ocean,” observed the Deacon, pointing to his
Boston Atlas, where the news from the European wars were displayed in
modest type. “It looks as if they never would be at peace again.”
“I don’t care how much they fight with each other, if they only leave
our ships and seamen alone,” growled the Captain, who would have
plunged at once into a grand quarrel with the Federalist Deacon, if it
had not been for the loan he expected to make.
“The recall of our minister looks like war with Great Britain,”
observed the Deacon, shaking his head sadly.
“We must fight them, or confess ourselves a nation of slaves,” replied
Woodbury, growing red in the face with his suppressed emotions.
“I fear, friend, that if we pursue the subject farther, we shall renew
our heated discussion of yesterday,” remarked the Deacon, noticing the
gathering wrath on his neighbor’s face. “How is your good sister,
Captain? I hear from my daughter that she has been ill.”
“Elizabeth had a faint turn last night. She is subject to them, you
know,” replied the other. The Captain cleared his throat, hesitated,
and finally said, in a low, constrained tone:
“By the way, Deacon Fairbanks, I have a little business matter which I
wish to talk over with you. Would you mind walking up to your bank with
me?”
The Deacon’s green eyes flashed for a moment, and the lids, with their
colorless lashes, were drawn close together, and an oily smile spread
over his face.
“So, the Captain wishes to talk over some business at the bank,” he
thought; “probably he wants to borrow some money. The old fool has
spent a good deal on that fine house of his, but still he paid as he
went. I wonder what he needs the money for?”
But the Deacon’s face gave no evidence to his companion of what he was
thinking; on the contrary, his smile grew the blander, and he cheerily
accepted the suggestion to go to the bank, and slipped his hand under
the Captain’s arm.
The two men walked slowly down the sidewalk of the Main Street, the
Captain seemingly absorbed in contemplation of the small red bricks
which made up the pavement, while the Deacon talked glibly of the
depressed condition of commerce.
The old book-keeper and the smart young teller of the Liberty Bank,
who were hard at work on their great leather-bound ledgers behind the
iron grating, looked up for a moment and bowed to the two magnates as
they entered the bank, and walked into the directors’ room. The Deacon
politely ushered his customer into that dark apartment and closed the
door softly when he entered himself. The windows of the room looked out
into a narrow alley, on the other side of which was a carpenter’s shop,
built of rough, unpainted wood. There was a large mahogany table in the
centre of the room, and a dozen heavily built leather-cushioned chairs
of the same handsome wood. The room was carpeted with a dark Turkey
carpet. The Deacon stood, from the force of an old habit, in front of
the fireplace, though of course, at that season of the year, no fire
was burning.
There was a silence for a minute or two, when Fairbanks coughed in an
interrogative manner, and said:
“Well?”
The Captain was also standing up, with one hand behind his back, and
the other tugging at the seal which hung from his watch fob. He was
loath to broach the subject he had in hand, and he felt that if he
had not already been brought into the spider’s parlor, he would have
tried to have raised the money elsewhere. He had never before asked the
Liberty Bank for accommodation, and he did not like the way in which
the Deacon looked at him with his small green eyes.
“Well?” questioned the mild voice of the president, again.
“I wished to speak to you on a matter of business,” said Woodbury,
thus aroused from his thoughts of escaping. “I desire to raise a sum
of money to-day for immediate use, and I thought that the Liberty Bank
might accommodate me.”
Fairbanks pursed up the corners of his mouth, and wrinkled his brow as
if to personify cautious capital. After an appearance of thought and a
mental calculation, he asked:
“How much do you wish to borrow, Captain Woodbury?”
“Three thousand dollars.”
“You say you wish it to-day?”
“Yes, I have immediate need of it.”
“For how long a time?”
“Six months, I should say,” replied Woodbury.
“What rate do you expect to pay?” asked the Deacon, again wrinkling his
forehead and lifting his coat-tails with his left hand.
“Not over eight per cent.”
“That is far too low a rate,” objected Fairbanks; “in these troubled
times, I expect to get at least ten per cent for the bank’s money. Why,
we may have war with England any day, and then hard cash will be scarce
enough, I warrant. You had better say ten per cent, Captain.”
“Can you let me have the money this morning?” asked Woodbury.
“H’m, let me see; that’s a different matter,” said Fairbanks. “Our
available funds are low to-day. It will be a little difficult to let
you have such an amount. Are you particular to have quite so much?
Perhaps twenty-five hundred would do?”
“I need three thousand dollars to-day, Fairbanks,” said the Captain,
taking up his hat and cane from the table, “and if you cannot let me
have it, I must go elsewhere.” He started to open the door leading into
the main room of the bank, when Fairbanks stopped him by saying:
“Well, Captain, I guess that after all I can manage it for you as
quickly as anybody, that is, if you satisfy me on the matter of
security. ’Tis only a matter of form, you know, with such a name as
yours.” The Deacon’s voice was as silky as ever, and he stretched out
his hand deprecatingly as he spoke.
“I think that there should be no trouble in my borrowing this sum upon
my own bill,” said Woodbury.
“Oh, but it would not be business, my dear Captain, not business at
all. Your note is as good as wheat, but times are bad, and the greatest
caution must be exercised. You will pardon the suggestion, I feel sure.”
“There’s my half interest in the brig _Flying Scud_,” suggested
Woodbury.
“The bank has decided not to loan upon shipping property,” said the
Deacon, who hoped by judicious objection to get a complete inventory of
his neighbor’s possessions.
“I can give you a mortgage on my new house,” said the Captain, after a
few minutes’ consideration. “It cost ten times what I wish to borrow on
it.”
“Oh, but you cannot expect to get back what you have put in there,”
said the bank-president. “Pardon me for referring to the adage as to
the class of men who build houses. But, nevertheless, your house will
be a satisfactory security for the amount you wish to borrow. But it is
pretty short notice you have given me if you wish to borrow the money
on real estate. There’s the title to be looked into. I suppose that it
will make no difference to you if you wait a few days for the money.”
“Certainly, it will make a difference!” exclaimed the Captain. “I wish
the money to-day, and I have told you so. If you cannot arrange the
matter for me, pray let me know at once.”
The Deacon raised his hand as if to deprecate the violence of the
other’s temper. “Oh, really, Captain Woodbury, do not misunderstand me.
I wish to do all in my power to assist you.”
“Assist me! I do not ask for assistance. I came here on a matter of
business which will be as advantageous to your bank as it will be to
me, and judging from the rate of interest which you demand, much more
so.”
“Oh, really, Neighbor Woodbury, how hasty you are!” said the Deacon, in
his exasperatingly sweet voice. “You pick the words out of my mouth. I
did not mean to imply by the word ‘assist’ that I felt that I was doing
an act of charity; far otherwise. It would be much quicker work for
you if you could get an endorser on your note. I would be delighted to
endorse it were it not that it would be improper for me to do so since
I am president of the bank. But it will be very easy for you to get an
endorser.”
“I have never asked a man to endorse a bill for my accommodation and I
never mean to do so.”
“Oh, how much better it would have been here for some men I know if
they had adopted that rule,” said the Deacon; “poor Isaac Wills, for
instance. Oh, that was a sad case!”
“The man was a fool,” said the Captain. “I have laid down this rule
that I _never_ will endorse for another, or ask another to endorse for
me. If you cannot afford to lend the money, you cannot afford to lend
your name.”
The Deacon bowed his head in approbation of this proposition, and
insinuatingly said, “Then we shall say a loan of three thousand dollars
for two years on your house on North Main Street, interest at the rate
of ten per cent per annum.”
“I will pay eight per cent,” said the Captain, obstinately.
“Oh, very well, nine it shall be.”
“I said eight, and I shall pay no more.”
“Ah, I misunderstood you then. We will call it eight per cent, though
there is no one else in town to whom I would lend on such terms. I
suppose that Judge Cushing looked up your title. You might instruct
him to draw the mortgage deed and to send it to young Mr. Baldwin for
approval. I send the bank’s business to Baldwin, as he is a clever
young fellow, and I like to encourage youthful talent.”
The Deacon rubbed his hands together as he spoke, as if to excite the
glow of benevolence by friction.
“And you can let me have the money to-day?” said Woodbury, smiling
at the Deacon’s show of benevolence; for he knew well that the bank
employed the services of young Baldwin because he did his work well and
cheaply.
“I do not see how it can be arranged till to-morrow,” replied
Fairbanks. “Baldwin will have to look up the title since you have been
the owner, and the lawyers will have the management of the affairs now
we have made our bargain, and you cannot hurry lawyers, you know.”
“No, that you cannot! Old Judge Cushing is as slow as a Dutch lugger
beating to windward. But if you will send Baldwin around to his office,
we will see how quickly we can arrange the matter. Good morning, Mr.
Fairbanks.”
“Good morning, Neighbor Woodbury,” said Fairbanks suavely, as he opened
the door for the other, “good morning. Do you desire Boston funds or
cash?”
“Cash.”
“Very well; I am glad to oblige you, very glad. To-morrow at noon at
Judge Cushing’s office. Very well.”
When Woodbury was well out of the bank, Fairbanks shut the door of the
directors’ room again. “Ah, so you need this money as soon as you can
get it, do you?” he said to himself, as he stood at one of the back
windows gazing out over the alley into the carpenter’s shop, where
the carpenter’s apprentice was whistling over his wood-butchery. “You
want three thousand dollars, do you, Captain Woodbury? And you never
borrowed a ninepence before in this town. Yes, and you come to me to
borrow it, even after quarrelling with me yesterday. You evidently want
it quick and for a purpose. You didn’t need the money then.”
The carpenter’s apprentice looked up just then from the board he was
planing and caught sight of the Deacon’s fat face in the window, and
the boy, with the frank criticism of youth, stuck his tongue out at
the old gentleman; for children and animals instinctively disliked the
Deacon, though his manners always appeared to be gentle and his smile
was perpetual.
“Darn the old hypocrite!” exclaimed the apprentice, who wasted on the
wharves too much of the time which he owed his master. “I wonder what
mischief he is up to now. Going to foreclose Widow Hapgood’s mortgage,
I guess. The old spider.”
The Deacon, all unconscious of the hostile presence across the alley,
continued his train of reasoning.
“Let me see, last night when I was dozing after supper, that young
Woodbury came in to see my daughter. I was nearly asleep, but the sound
of their voices woke me up, and he told her that cock and bull story
about the sailor down at the wharves who gave the lad the ring which
Tom Cheever, on his death-bed, had entrusted to the sailor. The boy was
not telling the truth, I could see that. It was strange that the name
should have turned up again. Let me see; it was fifteen years ago last
March that Cheever broke into my house, the villain. I always suspected
John Woodbury of helping the rascal escape. Then they got up that story
of his dying in South America. _I_ never believed it, though the old
Parson did put up that headstone in the burying-ground. The chances are
that the thief has come to town again, and that he sent the boy with
the message to my daughter. I have got it; that’s it; and now he is
bleeding the Captain for money, and, like as not, claiming his share of
the Parson’s estate; and Woodbury wants the money so quickly in order
to get rid of him. That’s it.”
The Deacon’s green eyes blazed so brightly that the apprentice felt
certain that the widow’s mortgage was to be foreclosed and her
furniture moved into the street that very day. Fairbanks opened the
door into the bank again, and said:
“Mr. Sharp, has any vessel entered the harbor within a day or two?” Mr.
Sharp, the smart young teller, answered, that a schooner from Havana
had entered on the day before and that she was lying in the stream off
Titcomb’s wharf.
The Deacon rubbed his smooth, oily chin with his fat hand for a moment:
“Mr. Sharp, go and tell Constable Hallett that I should like to see him
at my house at noon. I am going out, Mr. Sharp. I shall be at lawyer
Baldwin’s office for an hour.”
V
The low stone-wall of the burying-ground on the hill back of Captain
Woodbury’s house had for many years been a favorite meeting-place for
young lovers. Many of the silent majority sleeping in the enclosure had
plighted their troths, seated on that low stone-wall, and to this day,
happy young people watch from this trysting-place the magical changes
of light, as the darkness steals silently over the earth, and gaze with
a romantic awe at the distant low hills, dark and impressive against
the gorgeous colorings of the sky, or down upon the slumberous old town
wrapped in its coverlid of leafy trees. Beyond, flows the tidal river,
and far off to the east is the sea, flashing back like a mirror the
last rays of the sun.
As James sauntered up the hill to meet Alice on the evening of his
father’s interview with the Deacon in the bank, the western sky was
aglow with orange fire, the fleecy clouds dyed with delicate pink and
gray by the wonderful alchemy of the sunlight. The boy’s old hound,
Major, trotted along at his master’s heels, tired with the long tramp
the two had taken in the afternoon, through the woods and meadows,
between Oldbury and Dummer in search of woodchucks. Alice had been
seated on the wall for fully half an hour before James appeared, and as
soon as she saw him she jumped down and ran to meet him.
[Illustration: ALICE.]
“I thought that you would never come, James; where have you been all
the afternoon?”
“Oh, Major and I have been over at March’s woods after woodchucks. He
starts them up, and we bring them to bay in a stone-wall. How they do
fight, when they are put to it.”
“What cruel sport! I do not see how you can enjoy it!”
“Well,” he answered a little shame-faced, “we didn’t find any
woodchucks to-day.”
“I have been looking everywhere for you,” said Alice, in a low voice.
“I am afraid that something dreadful will happen unless we can prevent
it.”
“What can it be?” asked James.
“I will tell you all I know about it, but you must first answer a
question. Did a strange man come to your house last night?”
The boy’s heart began to beat the quicker as he remembered his promise
to his uncle; he hesitated for a moment, and then answered, “Well, yes,
there did.”
“Now, I will tell you what troubles me. I was dusting china in the
china-closet this noon when grandfather and Constable Hallett came into
the dining-room. Grandfather closed the door leading into the front
entry and parlor, but he did not shut the china-closet door. I kept on
dusting and did not pay any attention to their conversation until I
heard your name.”
“My name! Have they any charge to bring against me?”
“No, not against you; grandfather said that you came to our house
last night to see mother, and that you gave her a small package. He
said that he was just dropping off to sleep in the parlor, when he
was awakened by hearing your voice; and he heard you tell her that
the package had been given to you by a sailor to give to her, and
that the sailor had told you to say that it had been entrusted to
him by Tom Cheever, when he was dying in the hospital at La Guayra.
Grandfather then went on to say that your father had just been to his
bank to borrow a large sum of money in a great hurry, and that he had
heard that a stranger had called at your house last night, and that a
schooner, the _Tempest_, had just arrived in port, and that the mate
was reported to stutter in a peculiar way, just as your uncle Tom
Cheever used to. And--”
“Why do you stop?” asked James, thrilling with excitement.
“You have heard the stories about your uncle, haven’t you?”
“I know that he left the country suddenly, but I never heard what he
did that was wrong. They never speak of him at home, I never heard his
name mentioned till--”
He stopped short, fearing to betray his secret, and Alice continued:
“Grandfather then said that he meant to find out whether the stranger
was Tom Cheever; and if he was, he would have him locked up before
to-morrow noon.”
“Locked up! What can he lock him up for?” asked James. “I wonder what
he did so many years ago, which was so wicked? I must tell you, Alice,
what I know, though I promised not to tell any one; for I think that I
ought to. My uncle Tom Cheever did come back to life last night, and
he is on board of the schooner _Tempest_ at this moment. What could he
have done to your grandfather to make him so vindictive?”
“Then I am afraid that he is in danger, James; for I heard the
constable say that he would serve the warrant of arrest as soon as the
man was identified. Now, we must not let him be arrested; I cannot bear
to have disgrace fall upon your family.”
“What shall I do?” asked James. “I can sail out to the schooner in the
_Scud_, but I suppose that it would not be safe for him to return to
town, and, as he does not command the _Tempest_, he cannot order her to
sail.”
“Run to the wharf as quickly as you can and warn him!” said Alice,
almost pushing him in her eagerness. He jumped down from the stone-wall
and stood in silence for a minute.
“Had I better tell my father?” he asked.
“No, I should waste no time; you may be too late as it is.”
Down the hill he hurried, over across High Street to the bay. He was
strangely excited as he ran along under the arching elms so quickly
that two old ladies, against whom he jostled, turned around, wondering
what mischief the lad was up to. Never before in all his scrapes had
he alighted upon a real adventure, but now there was sombre earnest in
this afternoon’s work; since he should thwart the redoubtable Hallett,
brown-wigged terror to the evil-doer. He made his way to the wharf, off
which lay his boat, by short cuts known only to adventurous youths;
climbing picket fences, stealing through gardens, and clambering over
sheds.
When he reached the end of the wharf and stood by the ladder, covered
with green slime, down which he was to slide into his dory, he was
delighted to see that the north-west wind was growing stronger every
minute, so that there was a chance of a good breeze which would sweep
the cobwebs from the sky. He slipped and crept down the ladder,
holding tight to the sides; for the rungs were treacherous, and
wanting when most expected. He stepped cautiously into his dory and
unhitched its painter. The dory, like all boats owned by boys, was
leaky, so that he had to bail her some few minutes before he could put
his feet in the bottom with any comfort, and during this operation he
expected every minute to see Constable Hallett’s red face, peering over
the edge of the wharf. Finally he bailed out enough water to satisfy
himself, though there was still a good half inch swashing around in
the bottom, and he sculled out to the _Scud_ and began putting a reef
in the mainsail. The _Scud_ was a weatherly keel-boat, about eighteen
feet long, broad in beam, and stoutly built, and she was the pride of
her owner and the envy of every other Oldbury boy; for pleasure craft
were rare in those days, and parents indulgent enough to supply them
to their sons still rarer. Much of James’ time, which should have been
devoted to the study of the dead languages, was expended in painting
the _Scud_, scraping the spars, and setting up her rigging. A few
stout pulls on the throat and peak halliards hauled up the reefed
sail, and a moment after the _Scud_ slipped away from her mooring
towards the _Tempest_ with started sheet, piling up the waves under
her bluff bow and making a good deal of noise, as she ploughed through
the water, even if she was not going very fast. Slow as she would be
considered nowadays, if she was brought back to life to compete with
a modern racer, there was no boat then in Oldbury harbor which would
hold its own with her; and it did not take long to run alongside of
the _Tempest_, on board of which James saw his uncle, in a rough blue
coat and broad-brimmed straw hat, leaning over the rail and puffing
a cheroot. The green and yellow parrot, which James had noticed the
day before, was still hanging in its gilt wire cage from the main-boom
just behind Cheever, and the bird gave a long whistle as if to pipe all
hands to the sides, and hoarsely cried “Boat ahoy!” as the _Scud_ shot
alongside and James threw the painter to his uncle and scrambled on
deck.
“So it is you, young ’un,” remarked Cheever, as James landed on deck.
“What brings you out here? Has the old gentleman sent me a pressing
invitation to partake of fatted calf?”
Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded to make fast the _Scud’s_
painter to a cleat in the overhang of the schooner’s stern.
“_Carramba!_” shrieked the parrot, cocking his head around to look
wickedly with its round eyes, which seemed filled with malicious light.
“Boat ahoy! _Sacré nom!_”
James stood watching the noisy bird and his uncle, equally fascinated
by each of the strange beings.
“Did the Captain send you with the money?” asked Cheever, arising from
his task and laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“No.”
Cheever looked disappointed.
“Why did you come out here then?”
James told him in a low voice what Alice had overheard in the morning,
and his uncle listened attentively.
“So the old hypocrite means mischief, does he? Well, I guess that I can
outmanœuvre him and Hallett and the whole lot of them. I am sorry that
you haven’t the money with you, though. Just step down below with me,
will you? The captain’s ashore and I guess that he will not mind our
going into the cabin, though it’s no kind of a place. We shall begin to
unload to-morrow, and he is at the Custom House, I guess.”
James followed his uncle down the dark and narrow companionway into an
ill-smelling box of a cabin, on each side of which was a bunk, filled
with tumbled and dirty blankets. On a small table was a bottle, a
couple of glasses, a greasy pack of cards, and a handful of cigars, and
the odor of bilge-water pervaded the whole place.
“If you have ever felt inclined to go to sea, as I suppose you have,
you may like to see the way the officers live,” said Cheever, as he
sat down on the port bunk. “It’s growing dark; do you think that old
Fairbanks will come out to-night, with his _posse_--If he’s going to, I
guess I’d better be making myself scarce. There’s one comfort about not
being blessed with this world’s goods, that when I want to move in a
hurry, I can do it. When you are campaigning, you must carry as little
baggage as possible. I packed my whole fortune into my satchel last
night, and I am ready to start for China at a minute’s notice.”
“Is there any reason why you should be afraid of these men?” asked
James, burning with curiosity to hear the story of his mysterious
relative.
Cheever looked at him quizzically for a moment.
“Well, the truth is, James, the Deacon and I never were over-partial to
each other; and while I know a thousand cussed mean things he has done,
none of ’em would get him into trouble with the law, while he knows, or
thinks that he knows, one thing, which I did years ago, upon which the
law doesn’t smile; I will not say what it was-- It’s so long ago now,
that I can hardly remember myself what I did, that night-- I had been
drinking down at the Merrimac tavern, to be sure--but never mind what
happened; I shouldn’t be talking to you about it.”
The sun had set by this time, and the cabin was almost dark, save
near the companionway, which was dimly lighted by the after-glow. The
gathering shadows made the cabin more mysterious and gloomy than ever,
and Cheever was obscured in the darkness.
There was a silence for a moment or so, broken only by the hurtling of
the rudder, as the vessel swayed with the tide, a silence which was
finally ended by the shrill voice of the parrot calling: “Boat ahoy,
_carramba_, _sacré nom_, boat ahoy!”
Cheever grabbed up his leather bag, jumped hastily from the bunk, and
ran up the companionway. James closely followed him and, as he did
so, thought that he saw something gleaming in his uncle’s hand. When
he got on deck, he saw Cheever lying flat on his back by the bulwark,
unfastening the painter of his boat from the cleat; while some fifty
feet from the schooner a large boat was being rowed by two men towards
them. In the stern of the dory sat Constable Hallett and Deacon
Fairbanks. The after-glow of the sun was full in the faces of the men
in the dory, and James stood silhouetted against it.
“It’s the old snake in the grass, James,” hoarsely whispered Cheever.
“Hold them for a minute.”
He was slowly pulling the _Scud_ alongside as he spoke and the dory was
getting nearer.
“Schooner ahoy!” shouted the constable.
James was silent, and the dory came nearer, as the oarsmen were pulling
in good earnest.
“Boat ahoy!” cried out Cheever from the deck, as the row-boat came
alongside and the hands of the crew clutched the side of the schooner.
“Now’s my chance,” he whispered to James; “the schooner is between us.
Don’t let them up yet. I’ll take your boat; tell your father to get you
a new one out of the money and to send the rest of it to Mr. Marks,
Bell-in-Hand Tavern, Boston. Good-by, boy.”
Like a cat he slipped over the rail into the _Scud_ and in a second had
the tiller and sheet in hand and the boat was flying down the harbor.
The men in the dory had by this time scrambled aboard the schooner and
the big hat and red-brown wig of the constable soon followed over the
rail.
“Hi, there!” cried the constable, as he saw the sail-boat running away
before the breeze. “Who are you? Come back here! Come back, I say, you
are wanted.”
“Polly wants a cracker!” observed the parrot, in a hoarse chuckle.
“Guess you’ll have to do without me!” called back Cheever, with a broad
grin. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
By this time Deacon Fairbanks had been hoisted on deck by the two
oarsmen, while one of the crew of the _Tempest_, who had been asleep
under a boat on deck, aroused by the noise, had come aft.
“I say there, stop!” called out the Deacon, as he saw the sail-boat
slipping away. “Mr. Hallett, shoot the man if he doesn’t come back!”
“I don’t think I care about shooting, until you identify him!” said
Hallett, dryly. “After fifteen years, I couldn’t swear that was Tom
Cheever, and if I could, I wouldn’t shoot him.”
[Illustration: “THE BOAT WAS FLYING DOWN THE HARBOR.”]
“What’s all this row about?” asked the _Tempest’s_ seaman. “That man
there is Mr. Marks, our first mate, and I don’t see what call you have
to be talking of shooting him, old man. If you come to that, there are
three or four of the boys asleep down in the forecastle, who will join
in the sport.”
“The man is a burglar under indictment!” cried out Fairbanks, pale with
rage. “He broke into and entered my house and stole my silverware, in
’96.”
“Sixteen years ago!” observed the sailor, rolling his quid around in
his mouth. “I should think you might have forgotten it by this time.”
James stood trembling with excitement, as he watched his boat and
his uncle disappearing down the bay. His emotions were mixed; he was
astounded at hearing the accusation which the Deacon made against his
uncle, pleased at the latter’s escape, mournful over the loss of his
boat, and terrified by the fact that he was mixed up in the escape.
There was the _Scud_, verifying her name by the rate she was travelling
down the bay, and it would doubtless appear to the officer that he was
an accomplice in the escape.
“Whose boat is that?” asked the Deacon, and as he spoke he noticed
James for the first time. “Is it yours, boy?”
James turned crimson and looked down at the deck. The constable,
provoked at being thwarted by the escape of such an important criminal,
interrupted the Deacon.
“Say, men, there’s a spritsail in our boat; can’t you catch that
fellow?”
“A hundred dollars reward to the man who arrests him!” exclaimed the
Deacon, frowning angrily.
“We couldn’t no more catch the _Scud_ in our boat than we could catch a
streak of greased lightning,” replied one of the men. “There ain’t no
faster boat in the bay than her.”
She was out of range of the voice now, and Cheever was sitting quietly
in the stern sheets, heading her for the island, threading the channel
with the skill of a man who knew every mud-flat, sand-bank, and rock in
the harbor.
“I don’t know whether yon is Tom Cheever,” said one of Hallett’s
men, “but I’ll bet that he is an Oldbury boy from the way that he is
handling the boat.”
“But the harbor has changed since ’96,” said Hallett, who was anxious
to retrieve his official reputation by capturing the fugitive. “The
sand-bar by Mark Island has almost filled up the old channel; he may
run ashore there. I guess that we had better follow him on the chance.
Here, tumble into the boat, men! Hurry up! Deacon. Come along with us,
young Woodbury; I don’t like the looks of your performance to-day. I
guess that I must take you in charge.”
The two oarsmen tumbled over the side into the row-boat and the Deacon
followed them more cautiously; then came Hallett, with a grip on James’
shoulder. The men bungled over setting the spritsail, but finally
succeeded in getting it up, and pushed off and set to rowing with all
their might, splashing the water and nearly catching crabs at every
stroke; for the waves were now running high.
James noticed that the _Scud_ was drawing away from them every minute,
despite their violent exertions, and the satisfaction which this gave
him was added to by his noticing that the tail of the Deacon’s coat,
unknown to its eager owner, was soaking in the water, over the stern of
the boat.
“He’s coming near Mark Island bar!” called out the bow-oar, who was
turning his head as he rowed to keep his eye on the chase, “and he’s
headed straight for the shallowest spot.”
“Gosh! I guess that we have got him now!” observed the stroke.
James saw the _Scud_ about half a mile ahead flying before the wind,
headed for the bar. It was a moonless night; the twilight had died
away, and the waves, which had been rosy with the sunset when he had
left the wharf, were now leaden and angry as they swept, crested with
foam, after the overloaded boat; the wind was too strong to carry the
spritsail, so that James thought that it was far more likely to come
to grief than the _Scud_, especially as he remembered that the tide
was only half-ebb, and that there would be enough water in bar for the
_Scud_ to bump over it.
“He’s over the bar,” called out the bow-oar. “’Tain’t no use following
him any more, and I guess that we are in more danger than he is;
it’s blowing harder every minute, the tide’s running out, and we are
overloaded.”
The Deacon saw the white sail of the _Scud_ as she crossed the bar and
came about to make for the mouth of the bay, and he slapped his knee
with anger.
“Well, I guess that we had better put about,” said Hallett. “We have
done all we can, and there’s no need of imperilling our lives.”
There was nothing for the Deacon to say, and as the boat was being put
about and the spritsail taken in he perceived, for the first time, that
his coat-tail had been soaking in the water. For a moment it seemed as
if this partial wetting would soon be made unimportant by the total
immersion of the whole party; for it was no easy task to get the boat
around against the rising waves. As it was, a wave broke over the side,
and when the boat was headed towards the town there were several inches
of water in the bottom, and every wave which she butted into cast a
spray over the whole party. Wet and discomfited and cheated of his
prey, the Deacon’s mind turned towards James, who was seated opposite
to him.
“James Woodbury!” said the Deacon, sternly, “you have behaved in a most
shameful manner! What do you mean by assisting a criminal to escape.
Don’t you know that it makes you an accomplice, an accessory after the
fact? There’s been disgrace enough on your family in the past, without
you adding to it.”
“I never heard of any disgrace to my family in the past, till you made
the charge put now,” stoutly insisted James.
“It looks pretty black for you, that your uncle should escape in your
boat, and that you should be found on board the schooner,” said the
constable. “I am sorry for you, James, but it does look pretty black.”
“There’s bad blood in that Cheever family,” said the Deacon, “and this
boy is the living image of his uncle twenty-five years ago.”
“It seems to me I can see Tom Cheever now,” said the constable,
“squirming around in the minister’s pew during one of his father’s long
sermons. I never thought that he would come to good, remembering the
proverb about ministers’ sons, but he turned out a good deal worse than
I supposed he would. Let’s see, Deacon, you had a pretty clear case
against him, the time he left the town for good, didn’t you?”
“Enough to swear out this warrant on,” answered the Deacon. “That was
the last I ever saw of the silver; I never knew what he did with it. I
couldn’t trace it anywhere. He was seen around town early the morning
after. It wasn’t till late that day I suspected him.”
The two men were then silent for some minutes and nothing was heard but
the rhythmic working of the oars in thwarts, and sousing of the bow
into the waves. The wind was increasing and was blowing the clouds into
long black shreds, which scurried over the sky seawards.
“I wonder where that fellow will fetch up to-night,” said the bow-oar.
“He will not strike a harbor till Rockport, and it’s a long stretch
over there. I shouldn’t care to be in his shoes.”
“You’ll never see the _Scud_ again, James,” said the stroke, “or your
uncle either, if that was him.”
“He will wish that he had never come back to Oldbury, I guess. When a
man who is wanted for burglary is so fortunate as to have a gravestone
over him, he is a fool to come to life again. Yes?”
It was quite late in the evening when the boat, carrying the Deacon and
his fortunes, bumped against the slimy ladder, down which James had
slid in his haste to warn his uncle, when the strong hand of one of the
oarsmen assisted the boy rather roughly up from the boat. The Deacon
and the constable had climbed up before him and were talking together
in whispers, when he had landed on the wharf. He was anxious to know
what they were saying, feeling sure that his fate was under discussion.
Was he to be sent to the lock-up that night, or would gentler counsels
prevail?
He felt sure that the constable was on his side. His reddish-brown wig
with its respectable curls, twining over his neck, had a benevolent
aspect, and it was impossible to associate truculence with the curving
lines of his rotund figure, while the Deacon’s bowed shoulders and
angular frame armed suspicion in the boy’s breast. As the two men
became more interested in their talk, the whispers grew into loud
conversation.
“I tell you what, Deacon, the boy is a good boy, and there isn’t a
finer man in town than Captain Woodbury, and I’ll be jiggered if I
see what charge you have to bring against him. He couldn’t help the
man’s going off with his boat, and it’s no crime to be found aboard a
schooner, doing nothing.”
“It’s perfectly clear to me that he was aiding in the escape,” insisted
Deacon Fairbanks. “I insist that it is your duty to arrest him.”
“Now, look here; Deacon Fairbanks, I do not propose to have you or any
other man tell me what my duty is. As you cannot prove that the man
who just sailed away from us is Tom Cheever, the evidence that the boy
helped him to escape, is of no account. If you can get the judge to
issue a warrant for James’ arrest, I shall serve it, but I shall not do
anything now. Run off to your home, James.”
The boy did not wait for a second invitation, but walked off, slowly
at first that he might not seem over-glad to be out of their clutches,
but, once around the corner, he took to his heels and made very good
time up High Street. He did not think it safe to stop at the Deacon’s
to see Alice, and he was very anxious to tell his father what had
occurred in the afternoon. As he walked up from the street to the
house, he saw a dark figure standing on the front steps.
His father’s voice called:
“Is that you, James?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where have you been?”
“I will tell you as soon as I get to you, sir.”
Then the two walked together in silence to the Captain’s study and
James told all that happened. The Captain listened with his chin
resting upon his hand; and when James had finished, he said slowly:
“You did right, James, quite right. You have never heard, I believe,
the story of your uncle’s life, but, richly as he deserved punishment,
it was right for a nephew to warn him of his danger. I shall protect
you from the Deacon’s anger. And so he sailed away on your boat, boy; I
do not suppose that you will ever see it again. Well, never mind, you
will not need it in Cambridge. Run down-stairs; your aunt will give you
some supper. She has been saying that probably you were drowned, until
I grew foolishly nervous about you.”
“Shall I tell her about it?” asked James.
“No; ask her to be kind enough to come up here.”
Aunt Elizabeth was seated at the head of her table when her nephew
entered the dining-room. Her thin white hands were laid solemnly on her
lap, and her eyes followed the boy with a silent protest as he walked
to his seat.
“Where have you been all the afternoon?”
“Father will tell you, Aunt Elizabeth; he wishes to see you in his
room.”
“If I had not felt sure that you were not destined to be _drowned_, I
should have felt very anxious about you. I shall go to your father. Do
not scratch the table legs with your boots, and do not spill anything
upon the floor. If you had been my boy, I should not have saved you any
supper, but your father seemed bent upon spoiling you.”
Thus she spoke and walked primly from the room, though, if it had not
been for her Puritan conscience, she would have fallen upon the boy’s
shoulders and wept with joy at his reappearance; she had felt sure that
he had been drowned, and, indeed, she was in the habit of giving him up
for lost whenever he was late to supper.
Safe in his father’s home, with the bulwark of his father’s love to
protect him from the world, the boy felt secure and happy, and he
laughed as he thought of his uncle, disappearing beyond Mark Island,
leaving the Deacon to impotent wrath.
Many a time in life the man looks back, with a fond regret, upon the
days spent in his father’s home, and longs for a caress of the strong
hand which sheltered and protected him, and to gaze in the kind eyes
which used to dwell so lovingly upon him, and when that hand is stilled
and those eyes closed forever, the son for the first time feels the
difficulties of the world pressing in upon him; for a good father is a
shield to a son, even when the son is a father himself.
The old minister, who owed his immortality to the brush of Copley,
looked gravely down at his grandson, seated at the shining mahogany
table, and seemed to thank him for saving, from a new shame, the son
he had loved and mourned over. The boy happened to look up at the
portrait and was struck by the resemblance to his uncle, and he fell to
thinking of the lives of the Parson and his son: the one the honored
minister and leading gentleman of his town and the other flying before
the constables,--an outcast from his family; and he wondered where the
wonderful journey, through the world, would lead his heedless feet.
Behind the thickets would lurk the tempters: the greenest, most
seductive meadows would conceal the most dangerous pitfalls; and the
towers of Capua, gleaming in the distance, would invite him to repose,
when he should be hewing his way through the ranks of the enemy to new
victories.