chapter_number
stringlengths 1
2
| title
stringlengths 3
691
| text
stringlengths 38
376k
| metadata
dict |
|---|---|---|---|
6
|
None
|
Mr. Seagrave and William went down below into the cabin, where they found that there was plenty of employment; the steward had brought a basin of very hot pea-soup for the children. Tommy, who was sitting up in the bed-place with his sister, had snatched it out of Juno's left hand, for she held the baby with the other, and in so doing, had thrown it over Caroline, who was screaming, while Juno, in her hurry to assist Caroline, had slipped down on the deck with the baby, who was also crying with fright, although not hurt. Unfortunately, Juno had fallen down upon Vixen the terrier, who in return had bitten her in the leg, which had made Juno also cry out; while Mrs. Seagrave was hanging her head out of her standing bed-place, frightened out of her wits at the accident, but unable to be of any assistance. Fortunately, Mr. Seagrave came down just in time to pick up Juno and the baby, and then tried to comfort little Caroline, who after all was not much scalded, as the soup had had time to cool.
"Massa Tommy is a very naughty boy," cried Juno, rubbing her leg. Master Tommy thought it better to say nothing - he was duly admonished - the steward cleaned up the mess, and order was at length restored.
In the meantime, they were not idle upon deck; the carpenter was busy fixing a step for one of the spare topmasts instead of a mainmast, and the men were fitting the rigging; the ship unfortunately had sprung a leak, and four hands at the pumps interfered very much with their task. As Ready had prophesied, before night the gale blew, the sea rose again with the gale, and the leaking of the vessel increased so much, that all other labour was suspended for that at the pump. For two more days did the storm continue, during which time the crew were worn out with fatigue - they could pump no longer: the ship, as she rolled, proved that she had a great deal of water in her hold - when, melancholy as were their prospects already, a new disaster took place, which was attended with most serious results. Captain Osborn was on the forecastle giving some orders to the men, when the strap of the block which hoisted up the main-topgallant yard on the stump of the foremast gave way, the yard and sail came down on the deck, and struck him senseless. As long as Captain Osborn commanded them, the sailors had so high an opinion of his abilities as a seaman, and were so encouraged by his cheerful disposition, that they performed their work well and cheerfully; but now that he was, if not killed, at all events senseless and incapable of action, they no longer felt themselves under control. Mackintosh was too much disliked by the seamen to allow his words to have any weight with them. They were regardless of his injunctions or requests, and they now consulted among themselves.
"The gale is broke, my men, and we shall have fine weather now," observed Ready, going up to the sailors on the forecastle. "The wind is going down fast."
"Yes," replied one of the men, "and the ship is going down fast, that's quite as certain."
"A good spell at the pumps would do us some good now," replied Ready. "What d'ye say, my lads?"
"A glass of grog or two would do us more," replied the seaman. "What d'ye say, my boys? I don't think that the captain would refuse us, poor fellow, if he could speak."
"What do you mean to do, my lads?" inquired Mackintosh: "not get drunk, I hope?"
"Why not?" observed another of the men; "the ship must go down soon."
"Perhaps she may - I will not deny it," said Mackintosh; "but that is no reason why we should not be saved: now, if you get drunk, there is no chance of any one being saved, and my life is precious to me. I'm ready to join with you in anything you please, and you may decide what is to be done; but get drunk you shall not, if I can help it, that's certain."
"And how can you help it?" replied one of the seamen, surlily.
"Because two resolute men can do a great deal - I may say three, for in this instance Ready will be of my side, and I can call to my assistance the cabin passenger - recollect the firearms are all in the cabin. But why should we quarrel? - Say at once what you intend to do; and if you have not made up your minds, will you listen to what I propose?"
As Mackintosh's courage and determination were well known, the seamen again consulted together, and then asked him what he proposed.
"We have one good boat left, the new yawl at the booms: the others, as you know, are washed away, with the exception of the little boat astern, which is useless, as she is knocked almost to pieces. Now we cannot be very far from some of the islands, indeed I think we are among them now. Let us fit out the boat with everything we require, go about our work steadily and quietly, drink as much grog as will not hurt us, and take a good provision of it with us. The boat is complete with her masts, sails, and oars; and it's very hard if we do not save ourselves somewhere. Ready, do I give good advice or not?"
"You give very good advice, Mackintosh - only what is to become of the cabin passengers, the women, and children? and are you going to leave poor Captain Osborn? or what do you mean to do?"
"We won't leave the captain," said one of the seamen.
"No - no!" exclaimed the others.
"And the passengers?"
"Very sorry for them," replied the former spokesman; "but we shall have enough to do to save our own lives."
"Well, my lads, I agree with you," said Mackintosh. "Charity begins at home. What do you say I - shall it be so?"
"Yes," replied the seamen, unanimously; and Ready knew that it was in vain to expostulate. They now set about preparing the boat, and providing for their wants. Biscuits, salt pork, two or three small casks of water, and a barrel of rum were collected at the gangway; Mackintosh brought up his quadrant and a compass, some muskets, powder and shot; the carpenter, with the assistance of another man, cut away the ship's bulwarks down to the gunnel, so as to enable them to launch the boat overboard, for they could not, of course, hoist her out now that the masts were gone. In an hour everything was prepared. A long rope was made fast to the boat, which was brought to the gunnel ready for launching overboard, and the ship's broadside was brought to the wind. As this was done, Mr. Seagrave came on deck and looked around him.
He perceived the boat ready for launching, the provisions and water at the gangway, the ship brought to the wind, and rolling slowly to the heave of the sea; at last he saw Ready sitting down by Captain Osborn, who was apparently dead. "What is all this, Ready?" inquired Seagrave. "Are they going to leave the ship? have they killed Captain Osborn?"
"No, sir, - not quite so bad as that. Poor Captain Osborn was struck down by the fall of the yard, and has been insensible ever since; but, as to the other matter, I fear that is decided: you see they are launching the boat."
"But my poor wife, she will never be able to go - she cannot move - she is so ill!"
"I'm afraid, Mr. Seagrave, that they have no idea of taking either you, or your wife, or your children, with them."
"What! leave us here to perish I Merciful Heaven! how cruel - how barbarous!"
"It is not kind, Mr. Seagrave, but still you see it is the law of nature. When it is a question of life, it is every one for himself, for life is sweet: they are not more unkind than they would be to each other, if there were too many for the boat to hold. I've seen all this before in my time," replied Ready, gravely.
"My wife! my children!" cried Mr. Seagrave, covering his face with his hands. "But I will speak to them," continued he after a pause; "surely they will listen to the dictates of humanity; at all events Mr. Mackintosh will have some power over them. Don't you think so, Ready?"
"Well, Mr. Seagrave, if I must speak, I confess to you that there is not a harder heart among them than that of Mr. Mackintosh, and it's useless speaking to him or any one of them; and you must not be too severe upon them neither: the boat is small, and could not hold more people with the provisions which they take with them - that is the fact. If they were to take you and your family into the boat, it might be the cause of all perishing together; if I thought otherwise I would try what I could do to persuade them, but it is useless."
"What must be done, then, Ready?"
"We must put our trust in a merciful God, Mr. Seagrave, who will dispose of us as he thinks fit."
"We must? What! do not you go with them?"
"No, Mr. Seagrave. I have been thinking about it this last hour, and I have made up my mind to remain with you. They intend to take poor Captain Osborn with them, and give him a chance, and have offered to take me; but I shall stay here."
"To perish?" replied Mr. Seagrave, with surprise.
"As God pleases, Mr. Seagrave I am an old man, and it is of little consequence. I care little whether I am taken away a year or two sooner, but I do not like to see blossoms cut off in early spring: I may be of use if I remain, for I've an old head upon my shoulders, and I could not leave you all to perish when you might be saved if you only knew how to act. But here the seamen come - the boat is all ready, and they will now take poor Captain Osborn with them."
The sailors came aft, and lifted up the still insensible captain. As they were going away one of them said, "Come, Ready, there's no time to lose."
"Never mind me, Williams; I shall stick to the ship," replied Ready. "I wish you success with all my heart; and, Mr. Mackintosh, I have but one promise to exact from you, and I hope you will not refuse me: which is, that if you are saved, you will not forget those you leave here on board, and take measures for their being searched for among the islands."
"Nonsense, Ready! come into the boat," replied the first mate.
"I shall stay here, Mr. Mackintosh; and I only beg that you will promise me what I ask. Acquaint Mr. Seagrave's friends with what has happened, and where it is most likely we may be found, if it please God to save us. Do you promise me that?"
"Yes, I do, if you are determined to stay; but," continued he, going up to Ready, and whispering to him, "it is madness:- come away, man!"
"Good-bye, Mr. Mackintosh," replied Ready, extending his hand. "You will keep your promise?"
After much further expostulation on the part of Mackintosh and the seamen, to which Ready gave a deaf ear, the boat was pushed off, and they made sail to the north-east.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
7
|
None
|
For some time after the boat had shoved off from the ship, old Ready remained with his arms folded, watching it in silence. Mr. Seagrave stood by him; his heart was too full for utterance, for he imagined that as the boat increased her distance from the vessel, so did every ray of hope depart, and that his wife and children, himself, and the old man who was by his side were doomed to perish. His countenance was that of a man in utter despair. At last old Ready spoke.
"They think that they will be saved and that we must perish, Mr. Seagrave; they forget that there is a Power above, who will himself decide that point - a power compared to which the efforts of weak man are as nought."
"True," replied Mr. Seagrave, in a low voice; "but still what chance we can have on a sinking ship, with so many helpless creatures around us, I confess I cannot imagine."
"We must do our best, and submit to His will," replied Ready, who then went aft, and shifted the helm, so as to put the ship again before the wind.
As the old man had foretold to the seamen before they quitted the vessel, the gale was now over, and the sea had gone down considerably. The ship, however, dragged but slowly through the water, and after a short time Ready lashed the wheel, and went forward. On his return to the quarter-deck, he found Mr. Seagrave had thrown himself down (apparently in a state of despair) upon the sail on which Captain Osborn had been laid after his accident.
"Mr. Seagrave, do not give way," said Ready; "if I thought our situation hopeless, I would candidly say so; but there always is hope, even at the very worst, - and there always ought to be trust in that God without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground. But, Mr. Seagrave, I shall speak as a seaman, and tell you what our probabilities are. The ship is half-full of water, from her seams having opened by the straining in the gale, and the heavy blows which she received; but, now that the gale has abated, she has recovered herself very much. I have sounded the well, and find that she has not made many inches within the last two hours, and probably, as she closes her seams, will make less. If, therefore, it pleases God that the fine weather should continue, there is no fear of the vessel sinking under us for some time; and as we are now amongst the islands, it is not impossible, nay, it is very probable, that we may be able to run her ashore, and thins save our hives. I thought of all this when I refused to go in the boat, and I thought also, Mr. Seagrave, that if you were to have been deserted by me as well as by all the rest, you would have been unable yourself to take advantage of any chances which might turn up in your favour, and therefore I have remained, hoping, under God's providence, to be the means of assisting you and your family in this sore position. I think now it would be better that you should go down into the cabin, and with a cheerful face encourage poor Mrs. Seagrave with the change in the weather, and the hopes of arriving in some place of safety. If she does not know that the men have quitted the ship, do not tell her; say that the steward is with the other men, which will be true enough, and, if possible, leave her in the dark as to what has taken place. Master William can be trusted, and if you will send him here to me, I will talk to him."
"I hardly know what to think, Ready, or how sufficiently to thank you for your self-devotion, if I may so term it, in this exigency. That your advice is excellent and that I shall follow it, you may be assured; and, should we be saved from the death which at present stares us in the face, my gratitude--" "Do not speak of that, sir; I am an old man with few wants, and whose life is of little use now. All I wish to feel is, that I am trying to do my duty in that situation into which it has pleased God to call me. What can this world offer to one who has roughed it all his life, and who has neither kith nor kin that he knows of to care about his death?"
Mr. Seagrave pressed the hand of Ready, and went down without making any reply. He found that his wife had been asleep for the last hour, and was not yet awake. The children were also quiet in their beds. Juno and William were the only two who were sitting up.
William made a sign to his father that his mother was asleep, and then said in a whisper, "I did not like to leave the cabin while you were on deck, hut the steward has not been here these two hours: he went to milk the goat for baby and has not returned. We have had no breakfast, none of us."
"William, go on deck," replied his father; "Ready wishes to speak to you."
William went on deck to Ready, who explained to him the position in which they were placed; he pointed out to him the necessity of his doing all he could to assist his father and him, and not to alarm his mother in her precarious state of health. William, who, as it may be expected, looked very grave, did, however, immediately enter into Ready's views, and proceeded to do his best. "The steward," said he, "has left with the other men, and when my mother wakes she will ask why the children have had no breakfast. What can I do?"
"I think you can milk one of the goats if I show you how, while I go and get the other things ready; I can leave the deck, for you see the ship steers herself very nicely; - and, William, I have sounded the well just before you came up, and I don't think she makes much water; and," continued he, looking round him, and up above, "we shall have fine weather, and a smooth sea before night."
By the united exertions of Ready and William the breakfast was prepared while Mrs. Seagrave still continued in a sound sleep. The motion of the ship was now very little: she only rolled very slowly from one side to the other; the sea and wind had gone down, and the sun shone brightly over their heads; the boat had been out of sight some time, and the ship did not go through the water faster than three miles an hour, for she had no other sail upon her than the main-topgallant sail hoisted up on the stump of the foremast. Ready, who had been some time down in the cabin, proposed to Mr. Seagrave that Juno and all the children should go on deck. "They cannot be expected to be quiet, sir; and, now that Madam is in such a sweet sleep, it would be a pity to wake her. After so much fatigue she may sheep for hours, and the longer the better, for you know that (in a short time, I trust) she will have to exert herself." Mr. Seagrave agreed to the good sense of this proposal, and went on deck with Juno and the children, leaving William in the cabin to watch his mother. Poor Juno was very much astonished when she came up the ladder and perceived the condition of the vessel, and the absence of the men; but Mr. Seagrave told her what had happened, and cautioned her against saying a word to Mrs. Seagrave. Juno promised that she would not; but the poor girl perceived the danger of their position, and, as she pressed little Albert to her bosom, a tear or two rolled down her cheeks. Even Tommy and Caroline could not help asking where the masts and sails were, and what had become of Captain Osborn.
"Look there, sir," said Ready, pointing out some floating sea-weed to Mr. Seagrave.
"I perceive it," said Mr. Seagrave; "but what then?"
"That by itself would not be quite proof," replied Ready, "but we sailors have other signs and tokens. Do you see those birds hovering over the waves?"
"I do."
"Well, sir, those birds never go far from land, that's all: and now, sir, I'll go down for my quadrant; for, although I cannot tell the longitude just now, at all events I can find out the latitude we are in, and then by looking at the chart shall be able to give some kind of guess whereabout we are, if we see land soon.
"It is nearly noon now," observed Ready, reading off his quadrant, "the sun rises very slowly. What a happy thing a child is! Look, sir, at those little creatures playing about, and as merry now, and as unaware of danger, as if they were at home in their parlour. I often think, sir, it is a great blessing for a child to be called away early; and that it is selfish in parents to repine."
"Perhaps it is," replied Mr. Seagrave, looking mournfully at his children.
"It's twelve o'clock, sir. I'll just go down and work the latitude, and then I'll bring up the chart."
Mr. Seagrave remained on deck. He was soon in deep and solemn thought; nor was it to be wondered at - the ship a wreck and deserted - left alone on the wide water with his wife and helpless family, with but one to assist him: had that one deserted as well as the rest, what would have been his position then? Utter helplessness! And now what had they to expect? Their greatest hopes were to gain some island, and, if they succeeded, perhaps a desert island, perhaps an island inhabited by savages - to be murdered, or to perish miserably of hunger and thirst. It was not until some time after these reflections had passed through his mind, that Mr. Seagrave could recall himself to a sense of thankfulness to the Almighty for having hitherto preserved them, or could say with humility, "O Lord! thy will, not mine, be done." But, having once succeeded in repressing his murmurs, he then felt that he had courage and faith to undergo every trial which might be imposed upon him.
"Here is the chart, sir," said Ready, "and I have drawn a pencil line through our latitude: you perceive that it passes through this cluster of islands; and I think we must be among them, or very near. Now I must put something on for dinner, and then look sharp out for the land. Will you take a look round, Mr. Seagrave, especially a-head and on the bows?"
Ready went down to see what he could procure for dinner, as the seamen, when they left the ship, had collected almost all which came first to hand. He soon procured a piece of salt beef and some potatoes, which he put into the saucepan, and then returned on deck.
Mr. Seagrave was forward, looking over the bows, and Ready went there to him.
"Ready, I think I see something, but I can hardly tell what it is: it appears to be in the air, and yet it is not clouds. Look there, where I point my finger."
"You're right, sir," replied Ready, "there is something; it is not the land which you see, but it is the trees upon the land which are refracted, as they call it, so as to appear, as you say, as if they were in the air. That is an island, sir, depend upon it; but I will go down and get my glass.
"It is the land, Mr. Seagrave," said Ready, after examining it with his glass - "yes, it is so," continued he, musing; "I wish that we had seen it earlier; and yet we must be thankful."
"Why so, Ready?"
"Only, sir, as the ship forges so slowly through the water, I fear that we shall not reach it before dark, and I should have wished to have had daylight to have laid her nicely on it."
"There is very little wind now."
"Well, let us hope that there will be more," replied Ready; "if not, we must do our best. But I must now go to the helm, for we must steer right for the island; it would not do to pass it, for, Mr. Seagrave, although the ship does not leak so much as she did, yet I must now tell you that I do not think that she could be kept more than twenty-four hours above water. I thought otherwise this morning when I sounded the well; but when I went down in the hold for the beef, I perceived that we were in more danger than I had any idea of; however, there is the land, and every chance of escape; so let us thank the Lord for all his mercies."
"Amen!" replied Mr. Seagrave.
Ready went to the helm and steered a course for the land, which was not so far distant as he had imagined, for the island was very low: by degrees the wind freshened up, and they went faster through the water; and now, the trees, which had appeared as if in the air, joined on to the land, and they could make out that it was a low coral island covered with groves of cocoa-nuts. Occasionally Ready gave the helm up to Mr. Seagrave, and went forward to examine. When they were within three or four miles of it, Ready came back from the forecastle and said, "I think I see my way pretty clear, sir: you see we are to the windward of the island, and there is always deep water to the windward of these sort of isles, and reefs and shoals to leeward; we must, therefore, find some little cleft in the coral rock to dock her in, as it were, or she may fall back into deep water after she has taken the ground, for sometimes these islands run up like a wall, with forty or fifty fathom of water close to the weather-sides of them; but I see a spot where I think she may be put on shore with safety. You see those three cocoa-nut trees close together on the beach? Now, sir, I cannot well see them as I steer, so do you go forward, and if I am to steer more to the right, put out your right hand, and if to the left, the same with your left; and when the ship's head is as it ought to be, then drop the hand which you have raised."
"I understand, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave; who then went forward and directed the steering of the vessel as they neared the island. When they were within half a mile of it, the colour of the water changed, very much to the satisfaction of Ready, who knew that the weather-side of the island would not be so steep as was usually the case: still it was an agitating moment as they ran on to beach. They were now within a cable's length, and still the ship did not ground; a little nearer, and there was a grating at her bottom - it was the breaking off of the coral-trees which grew below like forests under water - again she grated, and more harshly, then struck, and then again; at last she struck violently, as the swell lifted her further on, and then remained fast amid quiet. Ready let go the helm to ascertain the position of the ship. He looked over the stern and around the ship, and found that she was firmly fixed, fore and aft, upon a bed of coral rocks.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
8
|
None
|
"All's well so far, sir," said Ready to Mr. Seagrave; "and now let us return thanks to Heaven."
As they rose to their feet again, after giving thanks to the Almighty, William came up and said, "Father, my mother was awakened by the noise under the ship's bottom, and is frightened - will you go down to her?"
"What is the matter, my dear, - and where have you all been?" exclaimed Mrs. Seagrave, when her husband went down below. "I have been so frightened - I was in a sound sleep, and I was awakened with such a dreadful noise."
"Be composed, my dear," replied Mr. Seagrave; "we have been in great danger, and are now, I trust, in safety. Tell me, are you not better for your long sleep?"
"Yes, much better - much stronger; but do tell me what has happened."
"Much took place, dearest, before you went to sleep, which was concealed from you; but now, as I expect we shall all go on shore in a short time--" "Go on shore, my dear?"
"Yes, on shore. Now be calm, and hear what has happened, and how much we have reason to be grateful to Heaven."
Mr. Seagrave then entered into a detail of all that had passed. Mrs. Seagrave heard him without reply; and when he had finished, she threw herself in his arms and wept bitterly. Mr. Seagrave remained with his wife, using all his efforts to console her, until Juno reappeared with the children, for it was now getting late; then he returned on deck.
"Well, sir," said Ready, when Mr. Seagrave went up to him, "I have been looking well about me, and I think that we have great reason to be thankful. The ship is fast enough, and will not move until some violent gales come on and break her up; but of that there is no fear at present: the little wind that there is, is going down, and we shall have a calm before morning."
"I grant that there is no immediate danger, Ready; but how are we to get on shore? - and, when on shore, how are we to exist?"
"I have thought of that too, sir, and I must have your assistance, and even that of Master William, to get the little boat on board to repair her: her bottom is stove in, it is true, but I am carpenter enough for that, and with some well-tarred canvas I can make her sufficiently water-tight to land us all in safety. We must set to at daylight."
"And when we get on shore?"
"Why, Mr. Seagrave, where there are cocoa-nut trees in such plenty as there are on that island, there is no fear of starvation, even if we had not the ship's provisions. I expect a little difficulty with regard to water, for the island is low and small; but we cannot expect to find everything exactly as we wish."
"I am thankful to the Almighty for our preservation, Ready; but still there are feelings which I cannot get over. Here we are cast away upon a desolate island, which perhaps no ship may ever come near, so that there is little chance of our being taken off. It is a melancholy and cruel fate, Ready, and that you must acknowledge."
"Mr. Seagrave, as an old man compared to you, I may venture to say that you are ungrateful to Heaven to give way to these repinings. What is said in the book of Job? `Shall we receive good of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?' Besides, who knows whether good may not proceed from what appears evil? I beg your pardon, Mr. Seagrave, I hope I have not offended you; but, indeed, sir, I felt that it was my duty to speak as I have done."
"You have reproved me very just]y, Ready; and I thank you for it," replied Mr. Seagrave; "I will repine no more, but make the best of it."
"And trust in God, sir, who, if he thinks fit, will restore you once more to your friends, and increase tenfold your flocks and herds."
"That quotation becomes very apt, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave, smiling, "considering that all my prospects are in flocks and herds upon my land in New South Wales. I must put myself under your orders; for, in our present position, you are my superior - knowledge is power. Can we do anything to-night?"
"I can do a little, Mr. Seagrave; but you cannot assist me till tomorrow morning, except indeed to help me to drag these two spars aft; and then I can rig a pair of sheers, and have them all ready for hoisting up to-morrow morning to get the boat in. You see, with so little strength on board, and no masts, we shall be obliged to contrive."
Mr. Seagrave assisted Ready in getting the two spars aft, and laid on the spot which was required. "There now, Mr. Seagrave, you may go down below. William had better let loose the two dogs, and give them a little victuals, for we have quite forgot them, poor things. I shall keep watch to-night, for I have plenty to do, and plenty to think of; so, good-night, sir."
Ready remained on deck, lashing the heads of the spars, and fixing his tackles ready for the morrow. When all was done, he sat down upon one of the hen-coops aft, and remained in deep thought. At last, tired with watching and exertion, the old man fell asleep. He was awakened at daylight by the dogs, who had been set at liberty, and who, after walking about the ship and finding nobody, had then gone to sleep at the cabin door. At daybreak they had roused up, and going on deck had found old Ready asleep on the hen-coop, and were licking his face in their joy at having discovered him. "Ay," said the old man, as he got off the hen-coop, "you'll all three be useful, if I mistake not, by and by. Down, Vixen, down - poor creature, you've lost a good master, I'm afraid."
"Stop - now let me see," said Ready, talking to himself; "first - but I'll get the log board and a bit of chalk, and write them down, for my memory is not quite so good as it was."
Ready placed the logboard on the hen-coop, and then wrote on it with the chalk:-- "Three dogs, two goats, and Billy the kid (I think there's five pigs); fowls (quite enough); three or four pigeons (I'm sure); the cow (she has lain down and won't get up again, I'm afraid, so we must kill her); and there's the merino ram and sheep belonging to Mr. Seagrave - plenty of live stock. Now, what's the first things we must get on shore after we are all landed - a spar and topgallant sail for a tent, a coil or two of rope, a mattress or two for Madam and the children, two axes, hammer and nails, something to eat - yes, and something to cut it with. There, that will do for the present," said old Ready, getting up. "Now, I'll just light the fire, get the water on, and, while I think of it, boil two or three pieces of beef and pork to go on shore with them; and then I'll call up Mr. Seagrave, for I reckon it will be a hard day's work."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
9
|
None
|
As soon as Ready had executed his intentions, and had fed the animals, he went to the cabin and called Mr. Seagrave and William. With their assistance the sheers were raised, and secured in their place; the boat was then hooked on, but, as one person was required to bear it clear of the davits and taffrail, they could not hoist it in.
"Master William, will you run down to Juno, and tell her to come on deck to assist us - we must all work now?"
William soon returned with Juno, who was a strong girl; and, with her assistance, they succeeded in getting the boat in.
The boat was turned over, and Ready commenced his work; while Mr. Seagrave, at his request, put the pitch-pot on the galley fire, all ready for pitching the canvas when it was nailed on. It was not till dinner-time that Ready, who had worked hard, could patch up the boat; he then payed the canvas and the seams which he had caulked with pitch both inside and out.
"I think we shall do now, sir," said Ready; "we'll drag her to the gangway and launch her. It's fortunate for us that they did clear away the gunnel, as we shall have no trouble."
A rope was made fast to the boat, to hold her to the ship: she was then launched over the gunnel by the united exertions of Mr. Seagrave and Ready, and to their great satisfaction she appeared to leak very little.
"Now, sir," said Ready, "what shall we do first - take some things on shore, or some of the children?"
"What do you say, Ready?"
"I think as the water is as smooth as glass, and we can land anywhere, you and I had better go first to reconnoitre, - it is not two hundred yards to the beach, and we shall lose but little time."
"Very well, Ready, I will first run down and tell my wife."
"And, in the meanwhile, I'll put the sail into the boat, and one or two other things."
Ready put the sail in, an axe, a musket, and some cord; then they both got into the boat and pulled on shore.
When they landed, they found that they could see nothing of the interior of the island, the cocoa-nut groves were so thick; but to their right they perceived, at about a quarter of a mile off, a small sandy cove, with brushwood growing in front of the cocoa-nut trees.
"That," said Ready, pointing to it, "must be our location. Let us get into the boat again and pull to it."
In a few minutes they arrived at the cove; the water was shallow, and as clear as crystal. Beneath the boat's bottom they could see beautiful shells, and the fish darting about in every direction.
The sand extended about forty yards from the water, and then commenced the brushwood, which ran back about forty yards further, intermingled with single cocoa-nut trees, until it joined the cocoa-nut grove. They pulled the boat in and landed.
"What a lovely spot this is!" exclaimed Mr. Seagrave; "and perhaps mortal man has never yet visited it till now: those cocoa-nuts have borne their fruit year after year, have died, and others have sprung up in their stead; and here has this spot remained, perhaps for centuries, all ready for man to live in, and to enjoy whenever he should come to it."
"Providence is bountiful, Mr. Seagrave," replied Ready, "and supplies our wants when we least expect it. If you please we will walk a little way into the wood: take the gun as a precaution, sir; not that there appears to be much occasion for it - there is seldom anything wild on these small islands, except a pig or two has been put on shore by considerate Christians."
"Well, now that we are in the grove, Ready, what do you think?"
"I was looking for a place to fix a tent up for the present, sir, and I think that on that little rise would be a very good place till we can look about us and do better; but we have no time now, sir, for we have plenty of trips to make before nightfall. If you please, we'll haul the sail and other articles on to the beach, and then return on board."
As they were pulling the boat back, Ready said, "I've been thinking about what is best, Mr. Seagrave. Would Mrs. Seagrave mind your leaving her? - if not, I should say we should have Juno and William on shore first, as they can be of use."
"I do not think that she will mind being left on board with William and the children, provided that I return for her when she is to come on shore herself with the baby."
"Well then, let William remain on board, if you please, sir. I'll land you and Juno, Tommy, and the dogs, this time, for they will be a protection in case of accidents. You and Juno can be doing something while I return by myself for the other articles we shall require."
As soon as they arrived on board, Mr. Seagrave went down to cheer his wife with the account of what they had seen. While he was down below, Ready had cast off the lashings of the two spars which had formed the sheers, and dragging them forward, had launched them over the gunnel, with lines fast to them, ready for towing on shore. In a few minutes Juno and Tommy made their appearance on deck; Ready put some tools into the boat, and a couple of shovels, which he brought up when he went for the dogs, and once more they landed at the sandy cove. Tommy stared about him a great deal, but did not speak, until he saw the shells lying on the beach, when he screamed with delight, and began to pick them up as fast as he could; the dogs barked and galloped about, overjoyed at being once more on shore; and Juno smiled as she looked around her, saying to Ready, "What a nice place!"
"Now, Mr. Seagrave, I'll remain on shore with you a little. First, we'll load the musket in case of need, and then you can put it out of the way of Tommy, who fingers everything, I observe. We will take up the sail between us. Juno, you can carry the tools; and then we can come back again for the spars, and the rope, and the other things. Come, Tommy, you can carry a shovel at all events, and that will make you of some use."
Having taken all these things to the little knoll which Ready had pointed out before, they returned for the spars; and in two trips they had carried everything there, Tommy with the second shovel on his shoulder, and very proud to be employed.
"Here are two trees which will answer our purpose pretty well," said Ready, "as they are far enough apart: we must lash the spars up to them, and then throw the sail over, and bring it down to the ground at both ends; that will be a beginning, at all events; and I will bring some more canvas on shore, to set up the other tent between these other trees, and also to shut up the two ends of both of them; then we shall have a shelter for Madam, and Juno, and the younger children, and another for William, Tommy, and ourselves. Now, sir, I'll just help you to lash the spars, and then I'll leave you to finish while I go on board again."
"But how can we reach so high, Ready?"
"Why, sir, we can manage that by first lashing a spar as high as we can conveniently reach, and then standing on that while we lash the other in its proper place. I shall bring another spar on shore, that we may do the same when we set up the other tent."
Having by this plan succeeded in lashing the spar high enough, and throwing the sail over the spar, Ready and Mr. Seagrave spread it out, and found that it made a very good-sized tent.
"Now, sir, I'll return on board; in the meantime, if you can cut pegs from the brush wood to fasten the sail down to the ground, and then with the shovel cover the bottom of it with sand to keep it down, it will be close enough when it is all finished."
"I shall do very well," replied Mr. Seagrave; "Juno can help me to pull the canvas out tight when I am ready."
"Yes; and in the meantime, Juno, take a shovel, and level the inside of the tent nice and smooth, and throw out all those old cocoa-nut leaves, and look if you see any vermin lurking among them. Master Tommy, you must not run away; and you must not touch the axes, they will cut you if you do. It may be as well to say, Mr. Seagrave, that should anything happen, and you require my assistance, you had better fire off the gun, and I will come on shore to you immediately."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
10
|
None
|
When Ready returned on board, he first went down into the cabin to acquaint Mrs. Seagrave and William with what they had done. Mrs. Seagrave naturally felt anxious about her husband being on shore alone, and Ready informed her that they had agreed that if anything should occur Mr. Seagrave would fire the musket. He then went down into the sail-room to get some canvas, a new topgallant sail which was there, and a palm and needles with twine. Scarcely had he got them out, and at the foot of the ladder, when the report of the musket was heard, and Mrs. Seagrave rushed out of the cabin in the greatest alarm; Ready seized another musket, jumped into the boat, and pulled on shore as fast as he could. On his arrival, quite out of breath, for as he pulled on shore he had his back towards it, and could see nothing, he found Mr. Seagrave and Juno busy with the tent, and Tommy sitting on the ground crying very lustily. It appeared that, while Mr Seagrave and Juno were employed, Tommy had crept away to where the musket was placed up on end against a cocoa-nut tree, and, after pulling it about some little while, had touched the trigger. The musket went off; and, as the muzzle was pointed upwards, the charge had brought down two large cocoa-nuts. Mr. Seagrave, who was aware what an alarm this would produce on board the vessel, had been scolding him soundly, and now Master Tommy was crying, to prove how very penitent he was.
"I had better return on board immediately, sir, and tell Mrs. Seagrave," said Ready.
"Do, pray," replir. Seagrave.
Ready then returned to the ship, and explained matters, and then recommenced his labour.
Having put into the boat the sailmaker's bag, with palm and needles, two mattresses, and blankets from the captain's state room, the saucepan with the beef and pork, and a spar which he towed astern, Ready found that he had as much as he could carry; but, as there was nobody but himself in it, he came on shore very well. Having, with the assistance of Mr. Seagrave and Juno, got all the things up to the knoll, Ready lashed the spar up for the second tent, and then leaving them to fix it up like the other, he returned again on board. He made two other trips to the ship, bringing with him more bedding, a bag of ship's biscuits, another of potatoes, plates, knives and forks, spoons, frying-pans and other cooking utensils, and a variety of other articles. He then showed Juno how to fill up the ends of the first tent with the canvas and sails he had brought on shore, so as to inclose it all round; Juno took the needle and twine, and worked very well. Ready, satisfied that she would be able to get on without them, now said: "Mr. Seagrave, we have but two hours more daylight, and it is right that Mrs. Seagrave should come on shore now; so, if you please, we'll go off and fetch her and the children. I think we shall be able to do very well for the first night; and if it pleases God to give us fine weather, we may do a great deal more to-morrow."
As soon as they arrived on board, Mr. Seagrave went down to his wife to propose her going on shore. She was much agitated, and very weak from her illness, but she behaved courageously notwithstanding, and, supported by her husband, gained the deck, William following with the baby, and his little sister Caroline carried by Ready. With some difficulty they were all at last placed in the boat and shoved off; but Mrs. Seagrave was so ill, that her husband was obliged to support her in his arms, and William took an oar. They landed very safely, and carried Mrs. Seagrave up to the tent, and laid her down on one of the mattresses. She asked for a little water.
"And I have forgotten to bring any with me: well, I am a stupid old man; but I'll go on board directly," said Ready: "to think that I should be so busy in bringing other things on shore and forget the greatest necessary in life! The fact is, I intended to look for it on the island as soon as I could, as it would save a great deal of trouble."
Ready returned on board as fast as he could, and brought on shore two kegs of fresh water, which he and William rolled up to the tent.
Juno had completely finished her task, and Mrs. Seagrave having drank some water, declared that she was much better.
"I shall not return on board any more to-night," said Ready, "I feel tired - very tired indeed."
"You must be," replied Mr. Seagrave; "do not think of doing any more."
"And I haven't touched food this day, or even quenched my thirst," replied Ready, sitting down.
"You are ill, are you not, Ready?" said William.
"A little faint, William; I'm not so young as I was. Could you give me a little water?"
"Stop, William, I will," said Mr. Seagrave, taking up a tin can which had been filled for his wife: "here, Ready, drink this."
"I shall be better soon, sir; I'll just lie down a little, and then I'll have a biscuit and a little meat."
Poor old Ready was indeed quite tired out; but he ate something, and felt much revived. Juno was very busy; she had given the children some of the salt meat and biscuit to eat. The baby, and Tommy, and Caroline had been put to bed, and the second tent was nearly ready.
"It will do very well for to-night, Juno," said Mr. Seagrave; "we have done work enough for this day."
"Yes, sir," replied Ready, "and I think we ought to thank God for his mercies to us before we go to sleep."
"You remind me of my duty, Ready; let us thank him for his goodness, and pray to him for his protection before we go to sleep."
Mr. Seagrave then offered up a prayer of thankfulness; and they all retired to rest.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
11
|
None
|
Mr. Seagrave was the first who awoke and rose from his bed on the ensuing morning. He stepped out of the tent, and looked around him. The sky was clear and brilliant. A light breeze ruffled o'er the surface of the water, and the tiny waves rippled one after another upon the white sand of the cove. To the left of the cove the land rose, forming small hills, behind which appeared the continuation of the cocoa-nut groves. To the right, a low ridge of coral rocks rose almost as a wall from the sea, and joined the herbage and brushwood at about a hundred paces, while the wreck of the Pacific, lying like some huge stranded monster, formed the prominent feature in the landscape. The sun was powerful where its beams could penetrate; but where Mr. Seagrave stood, the cocoa-nuts waved their feathery leaves to the wind, and offered an impervious shade. A feeling of the extreme beauty of the scene, subdued by the melancholy created by the sight of the wrecked vessel, pervaded the mind of Mr. Seagrave as he meditated over it.
"Yes," thought he, "if, tired with the world and its anxieties, I had sought an abode of peace and beauty, it would have been on a spot like this. How lovely is the scene! - what calm - what content - what a sweet sadness does it create! How mercifully have we been preserved when all hope appeared to be gone; and how bountifully have we been provided for, now that we have been saved, - and yet I have dared to repine, when I ought to be full of gratitude! May God forgive me! Wife, children, all safe, nothing to regret but a few worldly goods and a seclusion from the world for a time - yes, but for how long a time - What! rebellious still! - for the time that it shall please God in his wisdom to ordain." Mr. Seagrave turned back to his tent. William, Tommy, and old Ready still remained fast asleep. "Excellent old man!" thought Mr. Seagrave. "What a heart of oak is hid under that rugged bark! - Had it not been for his devotion where might I and all those dear helpless creatures have been now?"
The dogs, who had crept into the tent and laid themselves down upon the mattresses by the side of William and Tommy, now fawned upon Mr. Seagrave. William woke up with their whining, and having received a caution from his father not to wake Ready, he dressed himself and came out.
"Had I not better call Juno, father?" said William; "I think I can, without waking mamma, if she is asleep."
"Then do, if you can, my boy; and I will see what cooking utensils Ready has brought on shore."
William soon returned to his father, stating that his mother was in a sound sleep, and that Juno had got up without waking her or the two children.
"Well, we'll see if we cannot get some breakfast ready for them, William. Those dry cocoa-nut leaves will make an excellent fire."
"But, father, how are we to light the fire? we have no tinder-box or matches."
"No; but there are other ways, William, although, in most of them, tinder is necessary. The savages can produce fire by rubbing a soft piece of wood against a hard one. But we have gunpowder; and we have two ways of igniting gunpowder - one is by a flint and steel, and the other is by collecting the sun's rays into one focus by a magnifying-glass."
"But, father, when we have lighted the fire, what have we to cook? we have no tea or coffee."
"No, I do not think we have," replied Mr. Seagrave.
"But we have potatoes, father."
"Yes, William, but don't you think it would be better if we made our breakfast off the cold beef and pork and ship's biscuit for once, and not use the potatoes? we may want them all to plant, you know. But why should we not go on board of the ship ourselves? you can pull an oar pretty well, and we must all learn to work now, and not leave everything for poor old Ready to do. Come, William."
Mr. Seagrave then went down to the cove; the little boat was lying on the beach, just lifted by the rippling waves; they pushed her off, and got into her. "I know where the steward kept the tea and coffee, father," said William, as they pulled on board; "mamma would like some for breakfast, I'm sure, and I'll milk the goats for baby."
Although they were neither of them very handy at the oar, they were soon alongside of the ship; and, having made the boat fast, they climbed on board.
William first went down to the cabin for the tea and coffee, and then left his father to collect other things while he went to milk the goats, which he did in a tin pan. He then poured the milk into a bottle, which he had washed out, that it might not be spilt, and went back to his father.
"I have filled these two baskets full of a great many things, William, which will be very acceptable to your mamma. What else shall we take?"
"Let us take the telescope, at all events, father; and let us take a whole quantity of clothes - they will please mamma: the clean ones are all in the drawers - we can bring them up in a sheet; and then, father, let us bring some of the books on shore; and I'm sure mamma will long for her Bible and prayer-book; - here they are."
"You are a good boy, William," replied Mr. Seagrave. "I will now take those things up to the boat, and then return for the rest."
In a short time everything was put into the boat, and they pulled on shore again. They found Juno, who had been washing herself, waiting for them at the cove, to assist to take up the things.
"Well, Juno, how do you find yourself this morning?"
"Quite well, massa," said Juno: and then pointing to the clear water, she said, "Plenty fish here."
"Yes, if we only had lines," replied Mr. Seagrave. "I think Ready has both hooks and lines somewhere. Come, Juno, take up this bundle of linen to your tent: we can manage all the rest."
When they arrived at the tent they found that every one was awake except Ready, who appeared still to sleep very sound. Mrs. Seagrave had passed a very good night, and felt herself much refreshed. William made some touch-paper, which he lighted with one of the glasses from the telescope, and they soon had a good fire. Mr. Seagrave went to the beach, and procured three large stones to rest the saucepan on; and in half an hour the water was boiling and the tea made.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
12
|
None
|
Juno had taken the children down to the cove, and, walking out into the water up to her knees, had dipped them in all over, as the shortest way of washing them, and had then dressed them and left them with their mother, while she assisted William to get the cups and saucers and plates for breakfast. Everything was laid out nice and tidy between the two tents, and then William proposed that he should awaken Ready.
"Yes, my boy, you may as well now - he will want his breakfast."
William went and pushed Ready on the shoulder. "Ready, have you had sleep enough?" said William, as the old man sat up.
"Yes, William. I have had a good nap, I expect; and now I will get up, and see what I can get for breakfast for you all."
"Do," replied William, laughing.
Ready was soon dressed, for he had only taken off his jacket when he lay down. He put it on, and came out of the tent; when, to his astonishment, he found the whole party (Mrs. Seagrave having come out with the children) standing round the breakfast, which was spread on the ground.
"Good-morning, Ready!" said Mrs. Seagrave, extending her hand. Mr. Seagrave also shook hands with him.
"You have had a good long sleep, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave, "and I would not waken you after your fatigue of yesterday."
"I thank you, sir; and I am glad to see that Madam is so well: and I am not sorry to see that you can do so well without me," continued Ready, smiling.
"Indeed, but we cannot, I'm afraid," replied Mrs. Seagrave; "had it not been for you and your kindness, where should we have been now?"
"We can get a breakfast ready without you," said Mr. Seagrave; "but without you, I think we never should have required another breakfast by this time. But we will tell Ready all we have done while we eat our breakfast: now, my dear, if you please." Mrs. Seagrave then read a chapter from the Bible, and afterwards they all knelt down while Mr. Seagrave offered up a prayer.
While they were at breakfast, William told Ready how they had gone on board, and what they had brought on shore, and he also mentioned how Juno had dipped all the children in the sea.
"But Juno must not do that again," replied Ready, "until I have made all safe; you know that there are plenty of sharks about these islands, and it is very dangerous to go into the water."
"Oh, what an escape they have had!" cried Mrs. Seagrave, shuddering.
"It's very true," continued Ready; "but they don't keep so much to the windward of the islands where we are at present; but still that smooth cove is a very likely place for them to come into; so it's just as well not to go in again, Juno, until I have time to make a place for you to bathe in in safety. As soon as we can get as much as we want from the ship, we must decide whether we shall stay here or not."
"Stay here or not, Ready! - what do you mean?"
"Why, we have not yet found any water, and that is the first necessary of life - if there is no water on this side of the island, we must pitch our tents somewhere else."
"That's very true," replied Mr. Seagrave; "I wish we could find time to explore a little."
"So we can, sir; but we must not lose this fine weather to get a few things from the ship. We had better go now. You and William can remain on board to collect the things, and I will land them on the beach for Juno to bring up."
The whole day was spent in landing every variety of article which they thought could be useful. All the small sails, cordage, twine, canvas, small casks, saws, chisels, and large nails. and elm and oak plank, were brought on shore before dinner. After they had taken a hearty dinner, the cabin tables and chairs, all their clothes, some boxes of candles, two bags of coffee, two of rice, two more of biscuits, several pieces of beef and pork and bags of flour, some more water, the grindstone, and Mrs. Seagrave's medicine-chest were landed. When Ready came off again, he said, "Our poor boat is getting very leaky, and will not take much more on shore without being repaired; and Juno has not been able to get half the things up - they are too heavy for one person. I think we shall do pretty well now, Mr. Seagrave; and we had better, before it is dark, get all the animals on shore. I don't much like to trust them to swim on shore, but they are awkward things in a boat. We'll try a pig, at all events; and while I get one up, do you and William tie the legs of the fowls, and put them into the boat; as for the cow, she cannot be brought on shore, she is still lying down, and, I expect, won't get up again any more; however, I have given her plenty of hay, and if she don't rise, why I will kill her, and we can salt her down."
Ready went below, and the squealing of the pig was soon heard; he came on deck with it hanging over his back by the hind legs, and threw it into the sea over the gunnel: the pig floundered at first; but after a few seconds, turned its head away from the ship and swam for the shore.
"He goes ashore straight enough," said Ready, who, with Mr. Seagrave and William, was watching the animal; but a minute afterwards, Ready exclaimed: "I thought as much - we've lost him!"
"How?" replied Mr. Seagrave.
"D'ye see that black thing above water pushing so fast to the animal? - that's the back fin of a shark, and he will have the poor thing - there, he's got him!" said Ready, as the pig disappeared under the water with a heavy splash. "Well, he's gone; better the pig than your little children, Mr. Seagrave."
"Yes, indeed, God be praised! - that monster might have been close to them at the time that Juno took them into the water."
"He was not far off; I reckon," replied Ready. "We'll go down now and tie the legs of the other four pigs, and bring them up; with what's already in the boat they will be a good load."
As soon as the pigs were in the boat, Ready sculled it on shore, while Mr. Seagrave and William brought up the goats and sheep ready for the next trip. Ready soon returned. "Now this will be our last trip for to-day, and, if I am any judge of the weather, our last trip for some days; it is banking up very thick in the offing. This trip we'll be able to put into the boat a bag of corn for the creatures, in case we require it, and then we may say good-bye to the ship for a day or two at least."
They then all got into the boat, which was very deeply laden, for the corn was heavy, but they got safe on shore, although they leaked very much. Having landed the goats and sheep, William led them up to the tent, where they remained very quietly; the pigs had run away, and so had the fowls.
"That's what I call a good day's work, Mr. Seagrave," said Ready; "the little boat has done its duty well; but we must not venture in her again until I have put her into a little better condition."
They were not at all sorry, after their hard day's work, to find that Juno had prepared coffee for them; and while they were drinking it, they narrated to Mrs. Seagrave the tragically death of the poor pig by the shark. Poor Juno appeared quite frightened at the danger which the children had been in, even now that it was all over.
"We shall have plenty to do here to-morrow," observed Mr. Seagrave, "in getting things into their places."
"We shall have plenty to do for some time, I expect," replied Ready. "In two months, or thereabouts, we shall have the rainy season come on, and we must be under cover before that time, if we possibly can."
"What's the first thing we must do, Ready?" inquired Mr. Seagrave.
"To-morrow we had better fix up another tent or two, to stow away all the articles we have brought on shore: that will be one good day's work; we shall then know where to lay our hands upon everything, and see what we want."
"That's very true; and what shall we do then?"
"Why then, sir, I think we must make a little expedition to explore the island, and find out where we must build our house."
"Can we build a house?" said William.
"Oh, yes, sir, and with more ease than you would think. There's no tree so valuable as the cocoa-nut tree; and the wood is so light that we can easily move it about."
"Why, what are the great merits of the cocoa-nut tree?" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"I'll tell you, madam: in the first place, you have the wood to build the house with; then you have the bark with which you can make ropes and lines, and fishing-nets if you please; then you have the leaves for thatching your house; then you have the fruit, which, as a nut, is good to eat, and very useful in cooking; and in the young nut is the milk, which is also very wholesome; then you have the oil to burn, and the shell to make cups of, if you haven't any, and then you can draw toddy from the tree, which is very pleasant to drink when fresh, but will make you tipsy if it is kept too long. There is no tree which yields so many useful things to man, for it supplies him with almost everything."
"At all events, we've plenty of them," said William.
"Yes, William, there's no want of them; and I am glad of it, for had there been but few, I should not have liked to destroy them. People might be wrecked here, as well as ourselves, and without the good fortune that we have had in getting so many necessaries on shore; and they might be obliged to depend wholly upon the cocoa-nut trees for their support."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
13
|
None
|
When breakfast was over the next morning, Ready observed, "Now, Mr. Seagrave, we must hold a council of war, and decide upon an exploring party for to-morrow; and, when we have settled that, we will find some useful way of employing ourselves for the rest of the day. The first question is, of whom is the party to consist? - and upon that I wish to hear your opinion."
"Why, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave, "it appears to me that you and I should go."
"Surely not both of you, my dear," interrupted Mrs. Seagrave. "You can do without my husband, can you not, Ready?"
"I certainly should have liked to have Mr. Seagrave to advise with, ma'am," replied Ready; "but still I have thought upon it, and do not think that William would be quite sufficient protection for you; or, at all events, you would not feel that he was, which is much the same thing; and so, if Mr. Seagrave has no objection, it would perhaps be better that he remained with you."
"Would you go alone, then, Ready?" said Mr. Seagrave.
"No, sir, I do not think that would be right either, - some accident might happen; there is no saying what might happen, although there is every appearance of safety. I should like, therefore, to have some one with me; the question is, whether it be William or Juno?"
"Take me," said Tommy.
"Take you, Tommy!" said Ready, laughing; "then I must take Juno to take care of you. No; I think they cannot spare you. Your mamma will want you when we are gone; you are so useful in gathering wood for the fire, and taking care of your little sister and brother, that your mother cannot part with you; so I must have either Juno or William."
"And which would you prefer, Ready?" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"William, certainly, ma'am, if you will let him go with me, as you could ill spare the girl."
"Indeed, I do not like it; I would rather lose Juno for a time," replied Mrs. Seagrave.
"My dear wife," said Mr. Seagrave, "recollect how Providence has preserved us in such awful dangers - how we are landed in safety. And now, will you not put trust in that Providence, when the dangers are, as I trust, only imaginary?"
"I was wrong, my dear husband; but sickness and suffering have made me, I fear, not only nervous and frightened, but selfish: I must and will shake it off. Hitherto I have only been a clog and an incumbrance to you; but I trust I shall soon behave better, and make myself useful. If you think, then, that it would be better that you should go instead of William, I am quite content. Go, then, with Ready, and may Heaven protect you both!"
"No, ma'am," replied Ready, "William will do just as well. Indeed, I would go by myself with pleasure; but we know not what the day may bring forth. I might be taken ill - I might hurt myself - I am an old man, you know; and then I was thinking that if any accident was to happen to me, you might miss me - that's all."
"Pardon me," replied Mrs Seagrave; "a mother is foolish at times."
"Over-anxious, ma'am, perhaps, but not foolish," replied Ready.
"Well, then, William shall go with you, Ready; - that point's settled," observed Mr. Seagrave: "what is the next?"
"The next is to prepare for our journey. We must take some provisions and water with us, a gun and some ammunition, a large axe for me, and one of the hatchets for William; and, if you please, Romulus and Remus had better come with us. Juno, put a piece of beef and a piece of pork into the pot. William, will you fill four quart bottles with water, while I sew up a knapsack out of canvas for each of us?"
"And what shall I do, Ready?" said Mr. Seagrave.
"Why, sir, if you will sharpen the axe and the hatchet on the grindstone, it would be of great service, and Tommy can turn it, he is so fond of work."
Tommy jumped up directly; he was quite strong enough to turn the grindstone, but he was much fonder of play than work; but as Ready had said that he was fond of it, he wished to prove that such was the case, and worked very hard. Before they went to prayers and retired for the night, the axe was sharpened, the knapsacks made, and everything else ready.
"When do you intend to start, Ready?" said Mr. Seagrave.
"Why, sir, I should like to get off at the dawn of day, when the heat is not so great."
"And when do you intend to come back?" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"Why, madam, we have provisions enough for three days: if we start to-morrow morning, which is Wednesday, I hope to be back some time on Friday evening; but I won't be later than Saturday morning if I can help it."
"Good-night - and good-bye, mother," said William, "for I shall not see you to-morrow!"
"God bless and protect you, my dear child!" replied Mrs. Seagrave. "Take care of him, Ready, and good-bye to you till we meet."
Mrs. Seagrave went into the tent to hide the tears which she could not suppress.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
14
|
None
|
Ready was up before the sun had appeared, and he awakened William. The knapsacks had been already packed, with two bottles of water in each, wrapped round with cocoa-nut leaves, to prevent their breaking, and the beef and pork divided between each knapsack. Ready's, which was larger than William's, held the biscuit and several other things which Ready had prepared in case they might require them.
As soon as the knapsacks were on, Ready took the axe and gun, and asked William if he thought he could carry a small spade on his shoulder, which they had brought on shore along with the shovels. William replied that he could; and the dogs, who appeared to know they were going, were all ready standing by them. Then, just as the sun rose, they turned into the cocoa-nut grove, and were soon out of sight of the tents.
"Now, William, do you know," said Ready, stopping after they had walked twenty yards, "by what means we may find our way back again; for you see this forest of trees is rather puzzling, and there is no path to guide us?"
"No, I am sure I cannot tell; I was thinking of the very same thing when you spoke; and of Tom Thumb, who strewed peas to find his way back, but could not do it, because the birds picked them all up."
"Well, Tom Thumb did not manage well, and we must try to do better; we must do as the Americans always do in their woods, - we must blaze the trees."
"Blaze them! what, set fire to them?" replied William.
"No, no, William. Blaze is a term they use when they cut a slice of the bark off the trunk of a tree, just with one blow of a sharp axe, as a mark to find their way back again. They do not blaze every tree, but about every tenth tree as they go along, first one to the right, and then one to the left, which is quite sufficient; and it is very little trouble, - they do it as they walk along, without stopping. So now we'll begin: you take the other side, it will be more handy for you to have your hatchet in your right hand; I can use my left. See now - just a slice off the bark - the weight of the axe does it almost."
"What an excellent plan!" observed William.
"But I have another friend in my pocket," replied Ready, "and I must use him soon."
"What is that?"
"Poor Captain Osborn's pocket-compass. You see, William, the blazing will direct us how to go back again; but it will not tell us what course we are now to steer. At present, I know we are going right, as I can see through the wood behind us; but by and by we shall not be able, and then I must make use of the compass."
"I understand that very well; but tell me, Ready, why do you bring the spade with us - what will be the use of it? You did not say yesterday that you were going to bring me."
"No, William, I did not, as I did not like to make your mother anxious; but the fact is, I am very anxious myself as to whether there is any water on this island; if there is not, we shall have to quit it sooner or later, for although we may get water by digging in the sand, it would be too brackish to use for any time, and would make us all ill. Very often there will be water if you dig for it, although it does not show above-ground; and therefore I brought the spade."
"You think of everything, Ready."
"No, I do not, William; but, in our present situation, I think of more things than perhaps your father and mother would: they have never known what it is to be put to their shifts; but a man like me, who has been all his life at sea, and who has been wrecked, and suffered hardships and difficulties, and has been obliged to think or die, has a greater knowledge, not only from his own sufferings, but by hearing how others have acted when they were in distress. Necessity sharpens a man's wits; and it is very curious what people do contrive when they are compelled to do so, especially seamen."
"And where are we going to now, Ready?"
"Right to the leeward side of the island."
"Why do you call it the leeward side of the island?"
"Because among these islands the winds almost always blow one way; we landed on the windward side; the wind is at our back; now put up your finger, and you will feel it even among the trees."
"No, I cannot," replied William, as he held up his finger.
"Then wet your finger, and try again."
William wet his finger, and held it up again. "Yes, I feel it now," said he; "but why is that?"
"Because the wind blows against the wet, and you feel the cold."
As Ready said this the dogs growled, then started forward and barked.
"What can be there?" cried William.
"Stand still, William," replied Ready, cocking his gun, "and I will go forward to see." Ready advanced cautiously with the gun to his hip. The dogs barked more furiously; and at last, out of a heap of cocoa-nut leaves collected together, burst all the pigs which had been brought on shore, grunting and galloping away as fast as they could, with the dogs in pursuit of them.
"It's only the pigs," said Ready, smiling; "I never thought I should be half-frightened by a tame pig. Here, Romulus! here, Remus! come back!" continued Ready, calling to the dogs. "Well, William, this is our first adventure."
"I hope we shall not meet with any one more dangerous," replied William, laughing; "but I must say that I was alarmed."
"No wonder; for, although not likely, it is possible there may be wild animals on this island, or even savages; but being alarmed is one thing, and being afraid is another: a man may be alarmed, and stand his ground; but a man that is afraid will run away."
"I do not think I shall ever run away and leave you, Ready, if there is danger."
"I'm sure you will not; but still you must not be rash; and now we will go on again, as soon as I have uncocked my gun. I have seen more accidents happen from people cocking their guns, and forgetting to uncock them afterwards, than you can have any idea of. Recollect, also, until you want to fire, never cock your gun."
Ready and William continued their way through the cocoa-nut grove for more than an hour longer, marking the trees as they went along; they then sat down to take their breakfast.
"Don't give the dogs any water, William, nor any of the salt meat; give them biscuit only."
"But they are very thirsty; may not I give them a little?"
"No: we shall want it all ourselves, in the first place; and, in the next, I wish them to be thirsty. And, William, take my advice, and only drink a small quantity of water at a time. The more you drink, the more you want."
"Then I should not eat so much salt meat."
"Very true; the less you eat the better, unless we find water, and fill our bottles again."
"But we have our axes, and can always cut down a cocoa-nut, and get the milk from the young nuts."
"Very true; and fortunate it is that we have that to resort to; but still we could not do very well on cocoa-nut milk alone, even if it were to be procured all the year round. Now we will go on if you do not feel tired."
"Not in the least; I am tired of seeing nothing but the stems of cocoa-nut trees, and shall be glad when we are through the wood."
"Then the faster we walk the better," said Ready; "as far as I can judge, we must be about half-way across now."
Ready and William recommenced their journey; and, after half-an-hour's walking, they found that the ground was not so level as it had been - sometimes they went gradually up hill, at others down.
"I am very glad to find the island is not so flat here; we have a better chance of finding water."
"It is much steeper before us," replied William; "it's quite a hill."
The ground now became more undulating, although still covered with cocoa-nut trees, even thicker together than before. They continued their march, occasionally looking at the compass, until William showed symptoms of weariness, for the wood had become more difficult to get through than at first.
"How many miles do you think we have walked, Ready?" said Willy.
"About eight, I should think."
"Not more than eight?"
"No; I do not think that we have made more than two miles an hour: it's slow work, travelling by compass and marking the trees; but I think the wood looks lighter before us, now that we are at the top of this hill."
"It does, Ready; I fancy I can see the blue sky again."
"Your eyes are younger than mine, William, and perhaps you may - however, we shall soon find out."
They now descended into a small hollow, and then went up hill again. As soon as they arrived at the top, William cried out, "The sea, Ready! there's the sea!"
"Very true, William, and I'm not sorry for it."
"I thought we never should get out of that nasty wood again," said William, as he impatiently pushed on, and at last stood clear of the cocoa-nut grove. Ready soon joined him, and they surveyed the scene before them in silence.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
15
|
None
|
"Oh! how beautiful!" exclaimed William, at last; "I'm sure mamma would like to live here. I thought the other side of the island very pretty, but it's nothing compared to this."
"It is very beautiful," replied Ready, thoughtfully.
A more lovely scene could scarcely be imagined. The cocoa-nut grove terminated about a quarter of a mile from the beach, very abruptly, for there was a rapid descent for about thirty feet from where they stood to the land below, on which was a mixture of little grass knolls and brushwood, to about fifty yards from the water's edge, where it was met with dazzling white sand, occasionally divided by narrow ridges of rock which ran inland. The water was a deep blue, except where it was broken into white foam on the reefs, which extended for miles from the beach, and the rocks of which now and then showed themselves above water. On the rocks were perched crowds of gannets and men-of-war birds, while others wheeled in the air, every now and then darting down into the blue sea, and bringing up in their bills a fish out of the shoals which rippled the water, or bounded clear of it in their gambols. The form of the coast was that of a horse-shoe bay - two points of land covered with shrubs extending far out on each side. The line of the horizon, far out at sea, was clear and unbroken.
Ready remained for some time without speaking; he scanned the horizon right and left, and then he turned his eyes along the land. At last William said: "What are you thinking of, Ready?"
"Why, I am thinking that we must look for water as fast as we can."
"But why are you so anxious?"
"Because I can see no island to leeward of us as I expected, and therefore there is less chance of getting off this island; and this bay, although very beautiful, is full of reefs, and I see no inlet, which makes it awkward for many reasons. But we cannot judge at first sight. Let us now sit down and take our dinner, and after that we will explore a little."
Ready cut two wide marks in the stems of the cocoa-nut trees, and then descended with William to the low ground, where they sat down to eat their dinner. As soon as their meal was finished they first walked down to the water's edge, and Ready turned his eyes inland to see if he could discover any little ravine or hollow which might be likely to contain fresh water. "There are one or two places there," observed Ready, pointing to them with his finger, "where the water has run down in the rainy season: we must examine them carefully, but not now. I want to find out whether there is any means of getting our little boat through this reef of rocks, or otherwise we shall have very hard work (if we change our abode to this spot) to bring all our stores through that wood; so we will pass the rest of this day in examining the coast, and to-morrow we will try for fresh water."
"Look at the dogs, Ready, they are drinking the sea-water, poor things!"
"They won't drink much of that, I expect; you see they don't like it already."
"How beautiful the corals are - look here, they grow like little trees under the water, - and look here, here is really a flower in bloom growing on that rock just below the water."
"Put your finger to it, Master William," said Ready.
William did so, and the flower, as he called it, immediately shut up.
"Why, it's flesh, and alive!"
"Yes, it is; I have often seen them before: they call them sea-anemones - they are animals; but I don't know whether they are shell-fish or not. Now, let us walk out to the end of this point of land, and see if we can discover any opening in the reef. The sun is going down, and we shall not have more than an hour's daylight, and then we must look out for a place to sleep in."
"But what is that?" cried William, pointing to the sand - "that round dark thing?"
"That's what I'm very glad to see, William: it's a turtle. They come up about this time in the evening to drop their eggs, and then they bury them in the sand."
"Can't we catch them?"
"Yes, we can catch them if we go about it quietly; but you must take care not to go behind them, or they will throw such a shower of sand upon you, with their hind flappers or fins, that they would blind you and escape at the same time. The way to catch them is to get at their heads and turn them over on their backs by one of the fore-fins, and then they cannot turn back again."
"Let us go and catch that one."
"I should think it very foolish to do so, as we could not take it away, and it would die to-morrow from the heat of the sun."
"I did not think of that, Ready; if we come to live here, I suppose we shall catch them whenever we want them."
"No, we shall not, for they only come on shore in the breeding-season; but we will make a turtle pond somewhere which they cannot get out of, but which the sea flows into; and then when we catch them we will put them into it, and have them ready for use as we require them."
"That will be a very good plan," replied William.
They now continued their walk, and, forcing their way through the brushwood which grew thick upon the point of land, soon arrived at the end of it.
"What is that out there?" said William, pointing to the right of where they stood.
"That is another island, which I am very glad to see even in that direction, although it will not be so easy to gain it, if we are obliged to leave this for want of water. It is a much larger island than this, at all events," continued Ready, scanning the length of the horizon, along which he could see the tops of the trees. - "Well, we have done very well for our first day, so we will go and look for a place to lie down and pass the night."
They returned to the high ground where the cocoa-nut grove ended, and collecting together several branches and piles of leaves, made a good soft bed under the trees.
"And now we'll go to bed. Look, William, at the long shadow of the trees the sun has nearly set."
"Shall I give the dogs some water now, Ready? See, poor Remus is licking the sides of the bottles."
"No, do not give them any: it appears to be cruel, but I want the intelligence of the poor animals to-morrow, and the want of water will make them very keen, and we shall turn it to good account. So now, William, we must not forget to return thanks to a merciful God, and to beg his care over us for this night. We little know what the day may bring forth. Good-night!"
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
16
|
None
|
William slept as sound as if he had been on shore in England upon a soft bed in a warm room - so did old Ready; and when they awoke the next morning it was broad daylight. The poor dogs were suffering for want of water, and it pained William to see them with their tongues out, panting and whining as they looked up to him. "Now, William," said Ready, "shall we take our breakfast before we start, or have a walk first?"
"Ready, I cannot really drink a drop of water myself, and I am thirsty, unless you give a little to these poor dogs."
"I pity the poor dumb creatures as much as you do, Master Willy; it is kindness to ourselves and them too, which makes me refuse it to them. However, if you like, we will take a walk first, and see if we can find any water. Let us first go to the little dell to the right, and if we do not succeed, we will try farther on where the water has run down during the rainy season." William was very glad to go, and away they went, followed by the dogs, Ready having taken up the spade, which he carried on his shoulder. They soon came to the dell, and the dogs put their noses to the ground, and snuffed about. Ready watched them; at last they lay down panting.
"Let us go on," said Ready, thoughtfully; they went on to where the run of water appeared to have been - the dogs snuffed about more eagerly than before.
"You see, William, these poor dogs are now so eager for water, that if there is any, they will find it out where we never could. I don't expect water above-ground, but there may be some below it. This beach is hardly far enough from the water's edge, or I should try in the sand for it."
"In the sand - but would it not be salt?" replied William.
"No, not if at a good distance from the sea-beach; for you see, William, the sand by degrees filters the sea-water fresh, and very often when the sand runs in a long way from the high-water mark, if you dig down, you will find good fresh water, at other times it is a little brackish, but still fit for use."
"Look, Ready, at Romulus and Remus - how hard they are digging with their paws there in the hollow."
"Thanks to Heaven that they are! You don't know how happy you have made me feel: for, to tell you the truth, I was beginning to be alarmed."
"But why do they dig?"
"Because there is water there, poor animals. Now you see the advantage of having kept them in pain for a few hours; it is in all probability the saving of all of us, for we must either have found water or quitted this island. Now let us help the poor dogs with the spade, and they shall soon be rewarded for their sufferings."
Ready walked quickly to where the dogs continued digging: they had already got down to the moist earth, and were so eagerly at work, that it was with difficulty he could get them out of his way to use his spade. He had not dug two feet before the water trickled down, and in four or five minutes the dogs had sufficient to plunge their noses in, and to drink copiously.
"Look at them! how they enjoy it! I don't think any Israelite felt more grateful when Moses struck the rock than I do now, William. This was the one thing wanting, but it was the one thing indispensable. Now we have everything we can wish for on this island, and if we are only content, we may be happy - ay, much happier than are those who are worrying themselves to heap up riches, not knowing who shall gather them. See, the poor animals have had enough at last. Now, shall we go back to breakfast?"
"Yes," replied William: "I shall enjoy it now, and have a good drink of water myself."
"That is a plenteous spring, depend upon it," said Ready, as they walked back to where they had slept and left their knapsacks; "but we must clear it out further up among the trees, where the sun cannot reach it, and then it will be cool, and not be dried up. We shall have plenty of work for the next year at least, if we remain here. Where we are now will be a capital spot to build our house on."
As soon as the breakfast was over, Ready said, "Now we must go down and explore the other point, for you see, William, I have not yet found a passage through the reef, and as our little boat must come round this side of the island, it is at the point on this side that I must try to find an entrance. When I was on the opposite point it did appear to me that the water was not broken close to this point; and should there be a passage we shall be very fortunate."
They soon arrived at the end of the point of land, and found that Ready was not wrong in his supposition; the water was deep, and there was a passage many yards wide. The sea was so smooth, and the water so clear, that they could see down to the rocky bottom, and watched the fish as they darted along. "Look there!" said Willy, pointing out about fifty yards from the beach, "a great shark, Ready!"
"Yes, I see him, sir," replied Ready: "there's plenty of them here, depend upon it; and you must be very careful how you get into the water: the sharks always keep to the leeward of the island, and for one where Juno bathed your little brother, you will find fifty here. I'm quite satisfied now, William, we shall do very well, and all we have now to think of is moving away from the other side of the island as fast as possible."
"Shall we go back to-day?"
"Yes, I think so, for we shall only be idle here. It is not twelve o'clock, I should think, and we shall have plenty of time. I think we had better start at once; we will leave the spade and axe here, for it is no use taking them back again. The musket I will take along. But first let us go back and look at the spring, and see how the water flows."
As they walked along the edge of the sandy beach they found the sea-birds hovering close to them: all of a sudden a large shoal of fish threw themselves high and dry on the sand, and they were followed by several of a larger size, which also lay flapping on the beach, while the sea-birds, darting down close to the feet of William and Ready, and seizing up the fish, flew away with them.
"How very strange!" said William, surprised.
"Yes, sir; but you see how it is - the small fish were chased by the larger ones, which are bonettas, and in their fright ran upon the beach. These bonettas were so anxious to catch them, that they came on shore also, and then the gannets picked them all up."
They found the hole which Ready had dug quite full of water, and, tasting it, it proved very sweet and good. Overjoyed at this discovery, they covered up the articles they agreed to leave behind them with some boughs under the notched cocoa-nut trees, and, calling the dogs, set off on their journey back again to the cove.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
17
|
None
|
Guided by the marks made on the trees, William and Ready made rapid progress in their return, and in less than two hours found themselves almost clear of the wood which had taken them nearly eight hours to force their way through the day before.
"I feel the wind now, Ready," observed William, "and we must be nearly through the wood; but it appears to me to be very dark."
"I was just thinking the same," replied Ready. "I should not wonder if there is a storm brewing up; and if so, the sooner we are back again the better."
As they proceeded, the rustling and waving of the boughs of the trees, and ever and anon a gust of wind, followed by a moaning and creaking sound, proved that such was the fact; and as they emerged from the grove, they perceived that the sky, as it became visible to them, was of one dark leaden hue, and no longer of the brilliant blue which it usually had presented to their sight.
"There is indeed a gale coming on," said Ready, as they cleared the wood: "let us go on to the tents as fast as possible, for we must see that all is as secure as we can make it."
The dogs now bounded forward; and at their appearance at the tents Mr. Seagrave and Juno came out, and seeing Ready and William advancing, made known the welcome tidings to Mrs. Seagrave, who, with the children, had remained within. In a moment more William was pressed in his mother's arms.
"I am glad that you are come back, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave, shaking him by the hand after he had embraced William, "for I fear that bad weather is coming on."
"I am sure of it," replied Ready, "and we must expect a blusterous night. This will be one of the storms which are forerunners of the rainy season. However, we have good news for you, and must only take this as a warning to hasten our departure as soon as possible. We shall have fine weather after this for a month or so, although we must expect a breeze now and then. But we must work hard and do our best; and now, if you please, you and Juno, William and I, will go and haul up the boat as far from the beach as we possibly can, for the waves will be high and run a long way up, and our boat will be our main dependence soon."
The four went down as soon as Ready had sawed the ends of the spars which had been cut off, into three rollers, to fix under the keel; with the help afforded by them, the boat was soon hauled up high into the brushwood, where it was considered by Ready to be perfectly safe.
"I meant to have worked upon her immediately," observed Ready; "but I must wait now till the gale is over; and I did hope to have got on board once more, and looked after some things which I have since remembered would have been useful; but I strongly suspect," continued he, looking at the weather, "that we shall never go on board of the poor vessel again. Hear the moaning of the coming storm, sir; look how the sea-birds wheel about and scream, as if to proclaim her doom; but we must not wait here - the tents must be made more secure, for they will have to hold up against no small force of wind, if I mistake not."
Ready, assisted by Mr. Seagrave, now got out some heavy canvas and lines, and commenced putting it as a double cover over the tents, to keep out the rain; they also secured the tents with guys and stays of rope, so as to prevent them being blown down; while Juno with a shovel deepened the trench which had been made round the tents, so that the water might run off more easily. During the time they were at work, Ready had made Mr. Seagrave acquainted with what they had discovered and done during the exploring expedition, and the adventure with the pigs made them all laugh heartily.
As the sun went down, the weather threatened still more; the wind blew strong, and the rocky beach was lashed by the waves and white with spray, while the surf roared as it poured in and broke upon the sand in the cove. The whole family had retired to bed except Ready, who said that he would watch the weather a little before he turned in. The old man walked towards the beach, and leaned against the gunnel of the boat, and there he remained with his keen gray eye fixed upon the distance, which was now one opaque mass, except where the white foam of the waters gleamed through the darkness of the night! "Yes!" thought he; "the winds and the waves are summoned to do his bidding, and evenly do they work together - as one rises, so does the other; when one howls, the other roars in concert - hand in hand they go in their fury and their force. Had they been called up but one week since, where would have been those who have now been, as it were, intrusted to my weak help? The father, the mother, the children, the infant at the breast, and I, the gray-headed old man, - all buried fathoms deep, awaiting our summons; but they were restrained by his will, and by his will we were saved. Will those timbers which bore us here so miraculously hold together till morning? I should think not. What are the iron bolts and fastenings of weak man, compared with the force of God's elements: they will snap as yarns; and by to-morrow's dawn, the fragments of the stout ship will be washing and tossing on the wild surf. Well, it will be a kindness to us, for the waters will perform the labour which we could not; they will break up the timbers for our use, and throw on shore from the hold those articles which we could not reach with our little strength."
A sharp flash of lightning struck upon the old man's eyes, and obstructed his vision for the moment. "The storm will soon be at its height," thought he; "I will watch the tents, and see how they stand up against its force." Then the rain came pattering down, and the wind howled louder than before. In a minute or two the darkness became so intense that he could hardly find his way back to the tents. He turned round, but could not see, for he was blinded by the heavy rain. As nothing could be done, he went into the tent and sheltered himself from the storm, although he would not lie down, lest his services might be required. The others had retired to bed, but with the exception of Tommy and the children, they had not taken off their clothes.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
18
|
None
|
The storm now raged furiously, the lightning was accompanied by loud peals of thunder, and the children awoke and cried with fright, till they were hushed to sleep again. The wind howled as it pressed with all its violence against the tents, while the rain poured off in torrents. One moment the canvas of the tents would bulge in, and the cords which held it strain and crack; at another, an eddy of wind would force out the canvas, which would flap and flap, while the rain found many an entrance. The tent in which Mrs. Seagrave and the children reposed was on the outside of the others, and therefore the most exposed. About midnight the wind burst on them with greater violence than before. A loud crash was heard by Ready and Mr. Seagrave, followed by the shrieks of Mrs. Seagrave and Juno; the pegs of the tent had given way, and the inmates were exposed to the fury of the elements. Ready rushed out, followed by Mr. Seagrave and William. So strong was the wind and beating rain, and such was the darkness, that it was with some difficulty that by their united efforts the women and children could be extricated. Tommy was the first taken up by Ready: his courage had all gone, and he was bellowing furiously. William took Albert in charge and carried him into the other tent, where Tommy sat in his wet shirt roaring most melodiously. Juno, Mrs. Seagrave, and the little girl were at last carried away and taken into the other tent: fortunately no one was hurt, although the frightened children could not be pacified, and joined in chorus with Tommy. Nothing more could be done except to put the children into bed, and then the whole party sat up the remainder of the night listening to the noise of the wind, the roaring of the sea, and the loud patter of the rain against the canvas. At dawn of day, Ready went out, and found that the gale had spent its force, and had already much abated; but it was not one of those bright glorious mornings to which they had been accustomed since their arrival at the island: the sky was still dark, and the clouds were chasing each other wildly; there was neither sun nor blue sky to be seen: it still rained, but only at intervals, and the earth was soft and spongy; the little cove, but the day before so beautiful, was now a mass of foaming and tumultuous waves, and the surf was thrown many yards upon the beach: the horizon was confused - you could not distinguish the line between the water and the sky, and the whole shore of the island was lined with a white foam. Ready turned his eyes to where the ship had been fixed on the rocks: it was no longer there - the whole frame had disappeared; but the fragments of it, and the contents of the holds, were floating about in every direction, or tossing amongst the surf on the beach.
"I thought as much," said Ready, pointing to where the ship had lain, as he turned round and found that Mr. Seagrave had followed him; "look, sir, this gale has broken her up entirely. This is a warning to us not to remain here any longer: we must make the most of the fine weather which we may have before the rainy season sets in."
"I agree with you, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave, - "and there is another proof of it," pointing to the tent which had been blown down. "It was a mercy that none of them were hurt."
"Very true, sir; but the gale is breaking, and we shall have fine weather to-morrow. Let us now see what we can do with the tent, while William and Juno try if they can get any breakfast."
They set to work. Ready and Mr. Seagrave made it fast with fresh cords and pegs, and very soon had it all ready; but the beds and bedding were wet through. They hauled over the wet canvas, and then left it to go to their breakfast, to which Juno had summoned them.
"We need do no more at present," said Ready, "by night-time it will not be so wet, and we can handle it easier. I see a break in the sky now which promises fine weather soon. And now we had better work hard to-day, for we may save a great many things, which may be dashed to pieces on the rocks, if we do not haul them on the beach."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
19
|
None
|
They went down to the beach. Ready first procured from the stores a good stout rope; and as the waves threw up casks and timbers of the vessel, they stopped them from being washed back again, and either rolled or hauled them up with the rope until they were safely landed. This occupied them for the major part of the day; and yet they had not collected a quarter of the articles that were in their reach, independent of the quantity which floated about out at sea and at the entrance of the cove.
"I think," said Ready, "we have done a good day's work; tomorrow we shall be able to do much more, for the sea is going down, and the sun is showing himself from the corner of that cloud. Now we will go to supper, and then see if we can make ourselves more comfortable for the night."
The tent which had not been blown down was given to Mrs. Seagrave and the children, and the other was fitted up as well as it could be. The bedding being all wet, they procured some sails from the stores, which, being stowed away farther in the grove, had not suffered much from the tempest; and, spreading the canvas, they lay down, and the night passed without any disaster, for the wind was now lulled to a pleasant breeze.
The next morning the sun shone bright - the air was fresh and bracing; but a slight breeze rippled the waters, and there was little or no surf. The various fragments of the wreck were tossed by the little surf that still remained; many things were lying on the beach which had landed during the night, and many more required but a little trouble to secure them. There appeared to be a sort of in draught into the cove, as all the articles which had been floating out at sea were now gradually coming on shore in that direction. Ready and Mr. Seagrave worked till breakfast-time, and had by that time saved a great many casks and packages.
After breakfast they went down again to the beach and resumed their labours. "Look, Ready; what is that?" said William, who was with them, as he pointed to a white-looking mass floating in the cove.
"That, sir, is the poor cow; and if you look again, you will see the sharks are around, making a feast of her: don't you see them?"
"Yes, I do - what a quantity!"
"Yes, there's no want of them, William; so be very careful how you get into the water, and never let Tommy go near it, for they don't care how shallow it is when they see their food. But now, sir," said Ready, "I must leave you and William to do what you can in saving any more of the wreck, while I set to and put the boat in proper repair."
Ready left them at their own employment, and went away for his tools. During this time Mr. Seagrave and William occupied themselves in collecting the different articles thrown on shore, and rolling up the casks as far as they could.
As it would take some days for Ready to put the boat into proper order, Mr. Seagrave determined that he would go to the other side of the island with William, that he might examine it himself; and, as Mrs. Seagrave had no objection to be left with Ready and Juno, on the third day after the gale they set off. William led the way, guiding his footsteps through the grove by the blazing of the cocoa-nut trees; and in two hours they reached their destination.
"Is not this beautiful, father?" said William.
"Yes, indeed it is, my dear boy," replied Mr. Seagrave. "I fancied that nothing could be more beautiful than the spot where we reside, but this surpasses it, not only in variety, but in extent."
"And now let us examine the spring, father," said William, leading the way to the ravine.
The spring was full and flowing, and the water excellent. They then directed their steps towards the sandy beach, and, having walked some time, sat down upon a coral rock.
"Who would have ever imagined, William," said Mr. Seagrave, "that this island, and so many more which abound in the Pacific Ocean, could have been raised by the work of little insects not bigger than a pin's head?"
"Insects, father?" replied William.
"Yes, insects. Give me that piece of dead coral, William. Do you see that on every branch there are a hundred little holes? Well, in every one of these little holes once lived a sea-insect; and as these insects increase, so do the branches of the coral-trees."
"Yes, I understand that; but how do you make out that this island was made by them?"
"Almost all the islands in these seas have been made by the labour and increase of these small animals. The coral grows at first at the bottom of the sea, where it is not disturbed by the winds or waves: by degrees, as it increases, it advances higher and higher to the surface, till at last it comes near to the top of the water; then it is stopped in its growth by the force of the winds and waves, which break it off, and of course it never grows above the water, for if it did the animals would die."
"Then how does it become an island?"
"By very slow degrees; the time, perhaps, much depending upon chance: for instance, a log of wood floating about, and covered with barnacles, may ground upon the coral reefs; that would be a sufficient commencement, for it would remain above water, and then shelter the coral to leeward of it, until a flat rock had formed, level with the edge of the water. The sea-birds are always looking for a place to rest upon, and they would soon find it, and then their droppings would, in course of time, form a little patch above water, and other floating substances would be thrown on it; and land-birds, who are blown out to sea, might rest themselves on it, and the seeds from their stomachs, when dropped, would grow into trees or bushes."
"I understand that."
"Well then, William, you observe there is an island commenced, as it were, and, once commenced, it soon increases, for the coral would then be protected to leeward, and grow up fast. Do you observe how the coral reefs extend at this side of the island, where they are protected from the winds and waves; and how different it is on the weather side, which we have just left? Just so the little patch above water protects the corals to leeward, and there the island increases fast; for the birds not only settle on it, hut they make their nests and rear their young, and so every year the soil increases; and then, perhaps, one cocoa-nut in its great outside shell at last is thrown on these little patches - it takes root, and becomes a tree, every year shedding its large branches, which are turned into mould as soon as they decay, and then dropping its nuts, which again take root and grow in this mould; and thus they continue, season after season, and year after year, until the island becomes as large and as thickly covered with trees as the one we are now standing upon. Is not this wonderful, my dear boy? Is not he a great and good God who can make such minute animals as these work his pleasure, and at the time he thinks fit produce such a beautiful island as this?"
"Indeed he is!" exclaimed William.
"We only need use our eyes, William, and we shall love as well as adore. Look at that shell - is it not beautifully marked? - could the best painter in the world equal its colouring?"
"No, indeed, - I should think not."
"And yet there are thousands of them in sight, and perhaps millions more in the water. They have not been coloured in this way to be admired, like the works of man; for this island has been till now probably without any one upon it, and no one has ever seen them. It makes no difference to Him, who has but to wish, and all is complete."
For a few minutes after this conversation, Mr. Seagrave and William were both silent. Mr. Seagrave then rose from where he was sitting: "Come, William, let us now find our way back again; we have three hours' daylight left, and shall be home in good time."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
20
|
None
|
Everything was now preparing for their removal to the leeward side of the island. Ready had nearly completed the boat; he had given it a thorough repair, and fitted a mast and sail. William and Mr. Seagrave continued to collect and secure the various articles thrown on shore, particularly such as would be injured by their exposure to the weather: these they rolled or carried into the cocoa-nut grove, so as to be sheltered from the sun; but there were so many things thrown on shore day after day, that they hardly knew what they had: but they secured case and cask one after another, waiting for a better opportunity to examine their contents. At last they collected a great many articles together, and, with their shovels, covered them over with sand, it being impossible to get them from the beach without more time than they could spare.
Neither was Mrs. Seagrave, who was now getting quite strong, or Juno, idle. They had made up everything that they could in packages, ready for moving. On the eighth day after the gale, they were ready, and it was arranged that Ready should put into the boat the bedding and canvas of one tent, and should take William with him on his expedition. Having transported this safe, he should return for a load of the most necessary articles, and then the family should walk through the grove to the other side of the island, and remain there with Mr. Seagrave while Ready and William returned for the other tent; and after that, the boat should make as many trips as the weather would permit, till they had brought all the things absolutely required. It was a lovely calm morning when Ready and William pushed off in the boat, which was well loaded; and as soon as they were clear of the cove they hoisted the sail, and went away before the wind along the coast. In two hours they had run to the eastern end of the island, and hauled up close inshore: the point which ran out, and at the end of which there was an inlet, was not a mile from them, and in a very short time they had lowered the sail, and were pulling in for the sandy beach.
"You see, William, it is fortunate for us that we shall always have a fair wind when we come down loaded, and only have to pull our empty boat back again."
"Indeed it is. How many miles do you think it is from the cove to this part of the island?"
"About six or seven, not more: the island, you see, is long and narrow. Now let us get the things out and carry them up, and then we will be back to the cove long before dark."
The boat was soon unloaded, but they had some way to carry up the things. "We shall not mind such a gale as we had the other day when our tents are pitched here, William," said Ready, "for we shall be protected by the whole width of the cocoa-nut grove. We shall hardly feel the wind, although we shall the rain, for that will come down in torrents."
"I must go and see how our spring gets on," said William, "and get a drink from it."
Willy reported the spring to be up to the brim with water, and that he had never drunk water so excellent. They then pushed off the boat, and, after rowing for about two hours or more, found themselves at the entrance of the cove, and Mrs. Seagrave, with Tommy by her side, waving her handkerchief to them.
They very soon pulled in to the beach, and, landing, received the congratulations of the whole party at their first successful voyage, and all expressed their delight at its having proved so much shorter than had been anticipated.
"Tommy will go next time," said Master Tommy.
"By and by, when Tommy grows a little taller," replied Ready.
"Massa Tommy, you come help me to milk the goats," said Juno.
"Yes, Tommy milk the goats," said the little urchin, running after Juno.
"You must be almost tired of eating nothing but salt meat and biscuit, ma'am," said Ready, as they sat down to their meal; "but when we are all safe on the other side of the island we hope to feed you better. At present it is hard work and hard fare."
"As long as the children are well, I care very little about it; but I must say that, after the last gale, I am as anxious as you to be on the other side of the island, especially after the account William has given me of it. It must be a paradise! When do we set off?"
"Not till the day after to-morrow, ma'am, I should think; for you see I must have another trip for the cooking utensils and the bundles which you have made up. If you will spare Juno to walk through the wood with William to-morrow, we will then have the tent ready for you and the children."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
21
|
None
|
Old Ready had his boat loaded and had made sail for the other side of the island long before the family were up; indeed, before they were dressed he had landed his whole cargo on the beach, and was sitting down quietly taking his breakfast. As soon as he had eaten the beef and biscuit which he had taken with him, he carried up the things which he had brought, and commenced arrangements for setting up the tent, intending to await the arrival of William and Juno, that they might assist him in getting up the spars and canvas over it.
About ten o'clock William made his appearance, leading one of the goats by a string, followed by the others. Juno came after with the sheep, also holding one with a cord; the rest had very quietly joined the procession. "Here we are at last!" said William laughing; "we have had terrible work in the woods, for Nanny would run on one side of a tree when I went on the other, and then I had to let go the string. We fell in with the pigs again, and Juno gave such a squall!"
"I tink 'em wild beast," said Juno. "Ah! what a nice place! Missis will like to live here."
"Yes, it is a very nice place, Juno; and you'll be able to wash here, and never mind about saving the water."
"I am thinking," said William, "how we are to get the fowls here; they are not very wild, but still we cannot catch them."
"I'll bring them with me to-morrow, William."
"But how will you catch them?"
"Wait till they are gone to roost, and then you may catch them when you please."
"And I suppose the pigeons and the pigs must run wild?"
"The best thing we can do with them."
"Then we shall have to shoot them, I suppose?"
"Well, William, so we shall; and the pigeons also, when they have become plentiful, if we remain here so long. We shall soon be well stocked and live in plenty. But now you must help me to get the tent up and everything in order, so that your mamma may find things comfortable on her arrival, for she will be very tired, I dare say, walking through the wood."
"Mamma is much better than she was," replied William. "I think she will soon be quite strong again, especially when she comes to live at this beautiful place."
"We have a great deal of work to do, more than we can get through before the rainy season; which is a pity, but it can't helped; by this time next year we shall be more comfortable."
"Why, what have we to do besides putting up the tents and shifting over here?"
"In the first place we have to build a house, and that will take a long while. Then we ought to make a little garden, and sow the seeds which your father brought from England with him."
"0h! that will be nice; where shall we make it, Ready?"
"We must put a fence across that point of land, and dig up all the brushwood; the mould is very good."
"Then what next?"
"Then we shall want a storehouse for all the things we have got, and all that are in the wood and on the beach: and consider what a many trips we shall have to make with the little boat to bring them all round."
"Yes, that is very true, Ready. Have we anything more to do?"
"Plenty; we have to build a turtle-pond and a fish-pond, and a bathing-place for Juno to wash the children in. But first we must make a proper well at the spring, so as to have plenty of fresh water: now there's enough for a year's hard work at least."
"Well, let us once get mamma and the children here, and we will work hard."
"I should wish very much to see it all done, William," said Ready. "I hope my life will be spared till it is done, at all events."
"But why do you say that, Ready? you are an old man, but you are strong and healthy."
"I am so now; but what does the Book say? - `In the midst of life we are in death'. You are young and healthy, and promise a long life; but who knows but you may be summoned away tomorrow. Can I, then, an old man, worn out with hardships, expect to live long? No - no, William! Still I should like to remain here as long as I can be useful, and then I trust I may depart in peace. I never wish to leave this island; and I have a kind of feeling that my bones will remain on it. God's will be done!"
For some time after Ready had finished, neither of them said a word, but continued their employment, stretching out the canvas of the tent, and fastening it down to the ground with pegs. At last William broke the silence.
"Ready, did you not say your Christian name was Masterman?"
"So it is, William."
"It is a very odd Christian name! You were called after some other person?"
"Yes, I was, William; he was a very rich man."
"Do you know, Ready, I should like very much if you will one day tell me your history - I mean your whole life, from the time you were a boy."
"Well, perhaps I may, William; for there are many parts of my life which would prove a lesson to others: but that must be after we have got through our work."
"How old are you, Ready?"
"I am turned of sixty-four; a very old age for a seaman. I could not obtain employment on board of a vessel if it were not that I am well known to several captains."
"But why do you say `old for a seaman'?"
"Because sailors live faster than other people, partly from the hardships which they undergo, and partly from their own fault in drinking so much spirits; and then they are too often reckless and care nothing for their healths."
"But you never drink spirits now?"
"No, never, William; but in my early days I was as foolish as others. Now, Juno, you may bring in the bedding. We have two or three hours yet, William; what shall we do next?"
"Had we not better make the fireplace all ready for cooking?"
"It was what I was going to propose, if you had not. I shall be here to-morrow long before any of you, and I will take care that supper is ready on your arrival."
"I brought a bottle of water in my knapsack," replied William, "not so much for the water, as because I want to milk the goats and take back the milk for baby."
"You proved yourself not only thoughtful but kind, William: now while you and Juno fetch the stones for the fireplace, I will stow away under the trees the things I have brought in the boat."
"Shall we let the goats and sheep loose, Ready?"
"Oh, yes, - there is no fear of their straying; the herbage here is better than on the other side, and there is plenty of it."
"Well, I will let Nanny go as soon as Juno has milked her. Now, Juno, let us see how many stones we can carry at once."
In an hour the fireplace was made, Ready had done all that he could, the goats were milked and let loose, and then William and Juno set off on their journey back.
Ready went down to the beach. On his arrival there, he observed a small turtle: creeping up softly he got between it and the water, and succeeded in turning it over. "That will do for to-morrow," said he, as he stepped into the boat; and laying hold of the oars, he pulled out of the bay to return to the cove.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
22
|
None
|
Ready arrived at the cove, and proceeded to the tents, where he found the whole party listening to William, who was detailing what had been done. The arrangements for the next day were made as soon as Ready joined them. They then separated for the night, but Ready and William remained until it was dark, to catch the fowls and tie their legs, ready for their being put in the boat the next morning. At daylight all were summoned to dress themselves as soon as possible, as Ready wanted to take down the tent in which Mrs. Seagrave and the children had slept. For, with the exception of Tommy, the others had slept upon some canvas, which they had spread out under the cocoa-nut trees. As soon as Mrs. Seagrave was dressed, the tent was taken down, and, with all the bedding, put into the boat. Then, when they had breakfasted, the plates, knives and forks, and some other necessaries, were also put in; Ready laid the fowls on the top of all, and set off by himself for their new location.
After he was gone, the rest of the party prepared for their journey through the cocoa-nut grove. William led the way, with the three dogs close to his heels, Mr. Seagrave with the baby in his arms, Juno with little Caroline, and Mrs. Seagrave with Master Tommy holding her hand. They cast a last look round at the cove, and the fragments of the wreck and cargo, strewed about in every direction, and then turned into the wood. Ready arrived at the point, and was again on shore in less than two hours after he had set off. As soon as the boat was safe in, he did not wait to land his cargo, but going up to the turtle which he had turned the day before, he killed it, and cleaned it on the beach. He then went to where they had built up the fireplace with stones, made a fire, filled the iron saucepan full of water, and set it on to boil; he then cut up a portion of the turtle, and put it into the pot, with some slices of salt pork, covered it up, and left it to boil; and having hung up the rest of the turtle in the shade, he went back to the beach to unload the boat. He released the poor fowls, and they were soon busy seeking for food.
It was two or three hours before he had carried everything up, for it was a good distance, and some of the articles were heavy, and the old man was not sorry when he had finished his task, and could sit down to rest himself.
"It's almost time they arrived," thought Ready; "they must have started nearly four hours ago." Ready remained a quarter of an hour more watching the fire, and occasionally skimming the top of the pot, when the three dogs came bounding towards him.
"Well, they are not far off now," observed Old Ready.
In six or seven minutes afterwards the party made their appearance, very hot and very fatigued. It appeared that poor little Caroline had been tired out, and Juno had to carry her; then Mrs. Seagrave complained of fatigue, and they had to rest a quarter of an hour; then Tommy, who refused to remain with his mamma, and had been running backwards and forwards from one to the other, had declared that he was tired, and that someone must carry him; but there was no one to carry him, so he began to cry until they stopped for another quarter of an hour till he was rested; then as soon as they went on again he again complained of being tired. William then carried him pickaback for some time, and in so doing he missed the blaze-cut on the trees, and it was a long while before he could find it again; then baby became hungry, and he cried, and little Caroline was frightened at being so long in the wood, and she cried. But finally they got on better, and arrived at last so warm and exhausted, that Mrs. Seagrave went into the tent with the children to repose a little, before she could even look at the place which was to be their future residence.
"I think," said Mr. Seagrave, "that this little journey of to-day has been a pretty good proof of how helpless we should have been without you, Ready."
"I am glad that you are here, sir," replied Ready, "it is a weight off my mind; now you will get on better. I think that after a while you may live very comfortably here; but still we have much to do. As soon as Madam has rested, we will have our dinner and then fix up our own tent, which will be quite enough after such a hard day's work."
"Do you go back to the cove to-morrow, Ready?"
"Yes, sir, we want our stores here; it will take about three trips to empty our storehouses; and as to the other things, we can examine them and bring them down at our leisure. As soon as I have made those three trips in the boat, we can then work here altogether."
"But I can do something in the meantime."
"Oh yes, there is plenty for you to do."
Mr. Seagrave went into the tent, and found his wife much refreshed; but the children had all fallen fast asleep on the beds. They waited another half-hour, and then woke Tommy and Caroline, that they might all sit down to dinner.
"Dear me," exclaimed William, as Ready took the cover off the saucepan, "what is it that you have so good there?"
"It's a treat I have prepared for you all," replied Ready. "I know that you are tired of salt meat, so now you are going to feed like aldermen."
"Why, what is it, Ready?" said Mrs. Seagrave; "it smells very good."
"It is turtle-soup, ma'am; and I hope you will like it; for, if you do, you may often have it, now that you are on this side of the island."
"Indeed, it really is excellent; but it wants a little salt. Have you any salt, Juno?"
"Got a little, ma'am. Very little left," replied Juno.
"What shall we do when all our salt is gone?" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"Juno must get some more," replied Ready.
"How I get salt? - hab none left," replied Juno, looking at Ready.
"There's plenty out there, Juno," said Mr. Seagrave, pointing to the sea.
"I don't know where," said Juno, looking in that direction.
"What do you mean, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Seagrave.
"I only mean if we want salt we can have as much as we please by boiling down salt-water in the kettle, or else making a salt-pan in the rocks, and obtaining it by the sun drying up the water and leaving the salt. Salt is always procured in that way, either by evaporation, or boiling."
"I'll soon arrange that for you, ma'am," said Ready, "and show Juno how to get it when she wants it."
"I am very glad to hear you say so; for I should feel the want of salt very much," replied Mrs. Seagrave, "I really never enjoyed a dinner so much as I have to-day."
The soup was pronounced excellent by everybody. As soon as they had finished, Mrs. Seagrave remained with the children; and Ready and Mr. Seagrave, assisted by Juno and William, got the second tent up, and everything ready for the night. They then all assembled, and returned thanks to God for their having gained their new abode; and, tired out with the fatigue of the day, were soon fast asleep.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
23
|
None
|
Mr. Seagrave was the first up on the ensuing morning; and when Ready came out of the tent, he said to him, "Do you know, Ready, I feel much happier and my mind much more at ease since I find myself here. On the other side of the island everything reminded me that we had been shipwrecked; and I could not help thinking of home and my own country; but here we appear as if we had been long settled, and as if we had come here by choice."
"I trust that feeling will be stronger every day, sir; for it's no use, and indeed sinful, to repine."
"I acknowledge it, and with all humility. What is the first thing which you wish we should set about?"
"I think, sir, the first object is to have a good supply of fresh water; and I therefore wish you and William - Here he is. Good-morning, William - I was saying that I thought it better that Mr. Seagrave and you should clear out the spring while I am away in the boat. I brought another shovel with me yesterday, and you both can work; perhaps we had better go there, as Juno, I see, is getting the breakfast ready. You observe, Mr. Seagrave, we must follow up the spring till we get among the cocoa-nut trees, where it will be shaded from the sun; that is easily done by digging towards them, and watching how the water flows. Then, if you will dig out a hole large enough to sink down in the earth one of the water-casks which lie on the beach, I will bring it down with me this afternoon; and then, when it is fixed in the earth in that way, we shall always have the cask full of water for use, and the spring filling it as fast as we empty it."
"I understand," replied Mr. Seagrave; "that shall be our task while you are absent."
"Now, I have nothing more to do than to speak to Juno about dinner," replied Ready; "and then I'll just take a mouthful, and be off."
Ready directed Juno to fry some pork in the frying-pan, and then to cut off some slices from the turtle, and cook turtle-steaks for dinner, as well as to warm up the soup which was left; and then, with a biscuit and a piece of beef in his hand, he went down to the boat and set off for the cove. Mr. Seagrave and William worked hard; and, by twelve o'clock, the hole was quite large and deep enough, according to the directions Ready had given. They then left their work and went to the tent.
"You don't know how much happier I am now that I am here," said Mrs. Seagrave, taking her husband's hand, as he seated himself by her.
"I trust it is a presentiment of future happiness, my dear," said Mr. Seagrave. "I assure you that I feel the same, and was saying so to Ready this morning."
"I feel that I could live here for ever, it is so calm and beautiful; but I miss one thing - there are no birds singing here as at home."
"I have seen no birds except sea-birds, and of them there is plenty. Have you, William?"
"Only once, father. I saw a flight a long way off. Ready was not with me, and I could not tell what they were; but they were large birds, as big as pigeons, I should think. There is Ready coming round the point," continued William. "How fast that little boat sails! It is a long pull, though, for the old man when he goes to the cove."
"Let us go down and help Ready carry up some of the things before dinner," said Mrs. Seagrave.
They did so; and William rolled up the empty water-cask which Ready had brought with him.
The turtle-steaks were as much approved of as the turtle-soup; indeed, after having been so long on salt meat, a return to fresh provisions was delightful.
"And now to finish our well," said William, as soon as dinner was over.
"How hard you do work, William!" said his mother.
"So I ought, mother. I must learn to do everything now."
"And that you will very soon," said Ready.
They rolled the cask to the spring, and, to their astonishment, found the great hole which they had dug not two hours before quite full of water.
"Oh dear," said William, "we shall have to throw all the water out to get the cask down."
"Think a little, William," said Mr. Seagrave, "for the spring runs so fast that it will not be an easy task. Cannot we do something else?"
"Why, father, the cask will float, you know," replied William.
"To be sure it will as it is; but is there no way of making it sink?"
"Oh yes. I know - we must bore some holes in the bottom, and then it will fill and sink down of itself."
"Exactly," replied Ready. "I expected that we should have to do that, and have the big gimlet with me."
Ready bored three or four holes in the bottom of the cask, and as it floated the water ran into it, and by degrees it gradually sank down. As soon as the top of the cask was level with the surface they filled in all round with the spade and shovel, and the well was completed.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
24
|
None
|
The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Seagrave observed: "Now that we have so many things to do, I think, Ready, we ought to lay down a plan of operations; method is everything when work is to be done: now tell me what you propose shall be our several occupations for the next week, for to-morrow is Sunday; and although we have not yet been able to honour the day as we should, I think that now we must and ought to keep it holy."
"Yes, sir," replied Ready. "To-morrow we will rest from our labour, and ask God's blessing upon our endeavours during the six days of the week; and now, as to your proposition, Mr. Seagrave, shall we begin first with the lady?"
"You must not consider that you have ladies with you now, Ready," said Mrs. Seagrave, "at least, not fine ladies. My health and strength are recovering fast, and I mean to be very useful. I propose to assist Juno in all the domestic duties, such as the cookery and washing, to look after and teach the children, mend all the clothes, and make all that is required, to the best of my ability. If I can do more I will."
"I think we may be satisfied with that, Mr. Seagrave," replied Ready. "Now, sir, the two most pressing points, with the exception of building the house, are to dig up a piece of ground, and plant our potatoes and seeds; and to make a turtle-pond, so as to catch the turtle and put them in before the season is over."
"You are right," replied Mr. Seagrave; "but which ought to be done first?"
"I should say the turtle-pond, as it will be only a few days' work for you, Juno, and William. I shall not want your assistance for this next week. I shall fix upon some spot, not far from here, where the trees are thickest in the grove, and cut them down so as to clear out a space in which we will, by and by, build our storerooms; and, as soon as the rainy season has gone by, we can remove all our stores from the other side of the island. It will occupy me the whole of the week, cutting down the trees and sawing them into proper lengths, ready for building the house, and then we must all join our strength and get it up without delay."
"Can you really manage to get it up in time? How soon do you expect the rains will come on?"
"In three or four weeks. After next week, I shall probably have the assistance of two of you, if not of all. Now I think of it, I must return to the cove."
"What for?"
"Don't you recollect, sir, your two-wheeled carriage, packed up in matting, which was thrown on shore in the gale? You laughed when you saw it, and said it would be of little use now; but the wheels and axle will he very useful, as we can make a wide path to the place when I cut down the trees, and wheel out the logs much more easily than we can drag or carry them."
"That is an excellent idea. It will save a great deal of labour."
"I expect that it will, sir. William and I will go away early on Monday morning, and be back before breakfast. To-day we will fix upon the spots where our garden is to be, our turtle-pond to be made, and the trees to be cut down. That shall be our business, Mr. Seagrave; and William and Juno may put things a little more to rights here."
Mr. Seagrave and Ready then walked down to the beach, and, after surveying the reefs for some time, Ready said, "You see, Mr. Seagrave, we do not want too much water for a turtle-pond, as, if it is too deep, there is a difficulty in catching them when we want them: what we want is a space of water surrounded by a low wall of stones, so that the animals cannot escape, for they cannot climb up, although they can walk on the shelving sand with their flippers. Now the reef here is high out of the water, and the space within the reef and the beach is deep enough, and the rocks on the beach nearly fill up that side and prevent them crawling away by the shore. We have, therefore, little more to do than to fill up the two other sides, and then our pond will be complete."
"I see it will not be a long job either, if we can find loose rocks enough," replied Mr. Seagrave.
"Almost all those which are on the beach are loose," replied Ready, "and there are plenty close to us: some of them will be too heavy to carry, but they can be brought here by the aid of handspikes and crowbars. Suppose we make a signal for William and Juno, and set them to work."
Mr. Seagrave called and waved his hat, and Juno and William came down to them. Juno was ordered to go back for two handspikes, while Ready explained to William what was to be done. Having stayed with them and assisted them for some time after Juno had returned with the implements, Mr. Seagrave and Ready proceeded to the point, to fix upon a spot for a garden, leaving William and Juno to continue their labour.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
25
|
None
|
Mr. Seagrave and Ready then continued their way along the beach, until they arrived at the point which the latter had considered as a convenient place to make the garden. They found a sufficiency of mould; and as the point was narrow at its joining on to the mainland, no great length of enclosure would be required.
"You see, sir," said Ready, "we can wait till after the rainy season is over before we put up the fence, and we can prepare it in the meantime, when the weather will permit us to work. The seeds and potatoes will not come up until after the rains are finished; so all we have to do is to dig up the ground, and put them in as fast as we can. We cannot make a large garden this year; but our potatoes we must contrive to get in, if we cannot manage anything else."
"If we have no fence to make," replied Mr. Seagrave, "I think we shall be able to clear away quite enough ground in a week to put in all that we require."
"The first job will be to pull up the small brushwood," said Ready, "and turn up the ground; the larger plants we must leave, if we have not time. Tommy might be of some use here in taking away the shrubs as you pull them up; but we had better now go on to the grove, and choose the spot for cutting down the trees. I have made my mark."
Ready and Mr. Seagrave proceeded in the direction which the former had pointed out, until they arrived at a spot on a rising ground, where the trees were so thick that it was not very easy to pass through them.
"There is the place," said Ready. "I propose to cut all the timber we want for the houses out of this part of the grove, and to leave an open square place, in the centre of which we will build our storerooms. You see, sir, if necessary, with a very little trouble we might turn it into a place of protection and defence, as a few palisades here and there between the trees would make it, what they call in the East Indies, a stockade."
"Very true, but I trust we shall not require it for such a purpose."
"I hope so too, but there is nothing like being prepared; however, we have plenty to do before we can think of that. Now, sir, as dinner is ready, suppose we return, and after dinner we will both commence our tasks."
Juno and William returned to the dinner which Mrs. Seagrave had prepared. They were both very warm with their work, which was very hard, but very eager to finish their task. After dinner was over, Mrs. Seagrave requested her husband, as he was about to go down to the point, with the spade and a small hatchet in his hand, to take Tommy with him, as she had a great deal to do, and could not watch him as well as the baby and Caroline. So Mr. Seagrave took Tommy by the hand, and led him to the point, and made him sit down close to him while he cleared away the brushwood.
Mr. Seagrave worked very hard, and when he had cut down and cleared a portion of the ground, he made Tommy carry away to a little distance, and pile in a heap, the bushes which he had cleared away. When Mr. Seagrave had cleared away a large piece of ground with his hatchet, he then took his spade to dig at the roots and turn up the mould, leaving Tommy to amuse himself. What Tommy did for about an hour, during which Mr. Seagrave worked very diligently, his father did not observe; but all of a sudden he began to cry; and when his father asked him the reason, he did not answer, but only cried the more, until at last he put his hands to his stomach, and roared most lustily. As he appeared to be in very great pain, his father left off work, and led him up to the tent, when Mrs. Seagrave came out, alarmed at his cries. Ready, who had heard Tommy screaming for so long a while, thought that there might be something serious, and left his work to ascertain the cause. When he heard what had passed, he said: "Depend upon it, the child has eaten something which has made him ill. Tell me, Tommy, what did you eat when you were down there?"
"Berries," roared Tommy.
"I thought as much, ma'am," said Ready. "I must go and see what the berries were." And the old man hastened down to the place where Mr. Seagrave had been at work. In the meantime Mrs. Seagrave was much alarmed lest the child should have poisoned himself, and Mr. Seagrave went to search among the medicines for some castor-oil.
Ready returned just as he came back to the tent with the bottle of castor-oil, and he told Ready that he was about to give Tommy a dose.
"Well, sir," replied Ready, who had a plant in his hand, "I don't think you should give him any, for it appears to me that he has taken too much already. This is, if I recollect right, the castor-oil plant, and here are some of the castor-oil beans which Master Tommy has been eating. Tell me, Tommy, did you eat them?"
"Yes," cried Tommy.
"I thought so: give him a little warm drink, ma'am, and he'll soon be better: it will teach him not to eat berries or beans again."
What Ready said was true; nevertheless Master Tommy was very ill for the whole of the day, and was put early to bed.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
26
|
None
|
The next day, when Mr. Seagrave, William, Juno, and Ready were all at work at their allotted tasks, Mrs. Seagrave was sitting down at the front of the tent, the little baby, Albert, crawling close to her, Caroline trying to work with her needle, and Tommy was making holes in the ground, and putting a small stone into each hole.
"What are you doing, Tommy?" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"I'm making a garden," replied Tommy.
"Making a garden! Then you ought to plant some trees in it."
"No; I'm sowing seeds: look here," replied Tommy, pointing to the stones.
"But these are stones, not seeds."
"Well, but I pretend, and that's the same thing," replied Tommy.
"Not exactly, Tommy; suppose, instead of eating those beans yesterday, you had only pretended to eat them, wouldn't it have been better?"
"I won't eat any more," replied Tommy.
"No, not of those beans; but if you saw anything else which you thought you would like, I am afraid you would eat it, and be as ill and even worse than you were."
"I like cocoa-nuts; why don't we have some? there's plenty upon the trees."
"But who is to climb up so high, Tommy? Can you?"
"No; but why don't Ready climb, or papa, or William?"
"I suppose they will get some by and by, when they are not so busy, but they have no time now."
"I like turtle-soup," replied Tommy.
"William and Juno are making a pond to put turtle in, and then we shall have it oftener; but we cannot have everything we like when we wish for it."
"I like fried fish," said Tommy; "why don't we have fried fish?"
"Because every one is too busy to catch them just now. Tommy, go and bring your brother Albert back; he has crawled too near to Billy, and he butts sometimes."
Tommy went after the baby, who was crawling towards the kid, which had now grown pretty large, and as he took up his brother he kicked at the goat's head.
"Don't do that, Tommy; he'll butt at you, and hurt you."
"I don't care," replied Tommy, holding the baby by one hand while he continued to kick at Billy. Billy, however, would not stand it; he lowered his head, made a butt at Tommy, and he and Albert rolled on the ground one over the other. The baby roared, and Tommy began to whimper. Mrs. Seagrave ran up to them and caught up the baby; and Tommy, alarmed, caught hold of his mother's dress for protection, looking behind him at Billy, who appeared inclined to renew the attack.
"Why don't you mind what is said to you, Tommy? I told you that he would butt you," said Mrs. Seagrave, pacifying the child.
"I don't care for him," replied Tommy, who perceived that the goat was walking away.
"No, you are very brave now that he has gone; but you're a very naughty boy not to mind what is said to you."
"Billy never butts at me, mamma," said Caroline.
"No, my dear, because you do not tease him; but your brother is very fond of teasing animals, and so he gets punished and frightened. It is very wrong of him to do so, especially as he is told by his father and me that he ought not."
"You said I was a good boy when I learnt my lesson this morning," replied Tommy.
"Yes, but you should always be good," replied his mother.
"I can't be always good," said Tommy; "I want my dinner."
"It is dinner-time, Tommy, that is certain, but you must wait until they all come home from their work."
"There's Ready coming, with a bag on his shoulder," replied Tommy.
Ready soon came up to where Mrs. Seagrave was sitting, and laid down the bag. "I've brought you some young cocoa-nuts, and some old ones also, from the trees that I have been cutting down."
"Oh! cocoa-nuts - I like cocoa-nuts!" cried Tommy.
"I told you, Tommy, that we should have some by and by, and they have come sooner than we thought. You are very warm, Ready."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Ready, wiping his face; "it is rather warm work, for there is no breeze in the grove to cool one. Is there anything you want from the other side of the island, for I shall go there directly after dinner?"
"What for?"
"I must bring the wheels to get the timber out; for I must clear it away as I go, until the path is finished. I must have William to help me."
"William will like the trip, I do not doubt. I do not recollect anything in particular that we want, Ready," replied Mrs. Seagrave. "There he comes with Juno, and I see Mr. Seagrave has laid down his spade; so Caroline, dear, take care of Albert, while I get the dinner for them."
Ready assisted Mrs. Seagrave, and the dinner was spread out on the ground, for they had not brought the chairs and tables with them to their new residence, as they thought that they could do without them till the house was built. William reported that Juno and he would have the turtle-pond complete by the next day. Mr. Seagrave had cleared sufficient ground to plant the half-sack of potatoes that they had saved, so that in a day or two they would be able to put all their strength upon the cutting and drawing of the timber.
After dinner, William and Ready set off in the boat, and, before it was dark, returned with the wheels and axle of the carriage, and several other articles to make up their load.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
27
|
None
|
"Now, William," said Ready, "if you are not very sleepy, perhaps you would like to come with me to-night, and see if we cannot turn some of the turtle, for the season is going away fast, and they will leave the island very soon."
As soon as the sun had disappeared, William and Ready went down to the beach, and sat quietly on a rock. In a short time, Ready perceived a turtle crawling on the sand, and, desiring William to follow him without speaking, walked softly down by the water's edge, so as to get between the animal and the sea.
As soon as the turtle perceived them, it made for the water, but they met it; and Ready, seizing hold of one of its fore-flippers, turned it over on its back.
"You see, William, that is the way to turn a turtle: take care that he does not catch you with his mouth, for, if he did, he would bite the piece out. Now the animal cannot get away, for he can't turn over again, and we shall find him here to-morrow morning; so we will now walk along the beach, and see if we cannot find some more."
Ready and William remained till past midnight, and turned sixteen turtle.
"I think that will do, William, for once: we have made a good night's work of it, for we have provided food for many days. Tomorrow we must put them all into the pond."
"How shall we carry such large animals?"
"We need not carry them; we must put some old canvas under them, and haul them along by that means; we can easily do that on the smooth sand."
"Why don't we catch some fish, Ready? We might put them into the turtle-pond."
"They would not stay there long, William, nor could we easily get them out if they did. I have often thought of getting some lines ready, and yet the time has never come, for I feel sleepy after our day's work; but as soon as the house is built, we will have them, and you shall be fisherman-in-chief."
"But the fish will bite at night, will they not?"
"Oh yes, and better than they do in the daytime."
"Well, then, if you will get me a line and show me how, I will fish for an hour or so after the work is done; I know mamma is getting tired of salt meat, and does not think it good for Caroline."
"Well, then, I will get a bit of candle to-morrow night, and fit up two fishing-lines. But I must go with you, William. We don't use much candle, at all events."
"No, we are too glad to go to bed: but there are two or three boxes of one sort or another up in the cove."
The next morning before breakfast all hands were employed in getting the turtle into the pond. After breakfast, William and Juno finished the pond where the walls had not been raised high enough; and, when they returned to dinner, reported that their task was completed. Mr. Seagrave also said that he had, he thought, cleared quite ground enough for the present; and as Mrs. Seagrave wanted Juno to help her to wash the linen that afternoon, it was agreed that William, Ready, and Mr. Seagrave should all go down to the garden, and put in the potatoes.
Ready worked with the spade, while Mr. Seagrave and William cut the potatoes in pieces, so as to have an eye in each piece. When they had finished this work, Mr. Seagrave said - "Now that we have finished cutting the potatoes, let us go and assist Ready in planting them and the seeds which we have brought down with us."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
28
|
None
|
That night Ready sat up for two or three hours working by candle-light (William keeping him company), very busily engaged fitting up the fishing-lines with leads and hooks. At last two were complete.
"What bait must we use, Ready?"
"I should think that the best would be one of the fish out of the shells which are in the sand; but a piece of pork fat will, I dare say, do as well."
"And whereabouts would you fish, Ready?"
"The best place, I should think, would be at the farthermost end of the point, where I got the boat through the reef - the water is deep there close to the rocks."
"I was thinking, Ready, if those gannets and men-of-war birds would be good eating."
"Not very, William; they are very tough and very fishy: we must try for those when we can get nothing better. Now that we have got in the seeds and potatoes, we must all set to to-morrow morning to fell and carry the timber. I think Mr. Seagrave had better use the axe with me; and you and Juno can, when I have shown you how, hang the timber to the axle, and wheel it out to the place where we have decided upon building the house. And now we had better go to bed."
William, however, had made up his mind to do otherwise: he knew that his mother would be very glad to have some fish, and he determined, as the moon shone bright, to try if he could not catch some before he went to bed; so he waited very quietly till he thought Ready was asleep as well as the others, and then went out with the lines, and went down to the beach, where he picked up three or four shells, and, breaking them between two pieces of rock, took out the fish and baited his hooks. He then walked to the point. It was a beautiful night; the water was very smooth, and the moonbeams pierced deep below the surface. William threw in his line, and as soon as the lead touched the bottom he pulled it up about a foot, as Ready had instructed him; and he had not held his line more than half a minute, when it was jerked so forcibly, that not expecting it he was nearly hauled into the water; as it was, the fish was so strong that the line slipped through his hand and scored his fingers; but after a time he was able to pull it in, and he landed on the beach a large silver-scaled fish, weighing nine or ten pounds. As soon as he had dragged it so far away from the edge of the rocks as to prevent its flapping into the water again, William took out the hook and determined to try for another. His line was down as short a time as before, when it was again jerked with violence; but William was this time prepared, and he let out the line and played the fish till it was tired, and then pulled it up, and found that the second fish was even larger than the first. Satisfied with his success, he wound up his lines, and, running a piece of string through the gills of the fish, dragged them back to the tents, and hanged them to the pole, for fear of the dogs eating them; he then went in, and was soon fast asleep. The next morning William was the first up, and showed his prizes with much glee; but Ready was very much displeased with him.
"You did very wrong, William, to run the risk which you did. If you were resolved to catch fish, why did you not tell me, and I would have gone with you? You say, yourself, that the fish nearly hauled you into the water; suppose it had done so, or suppose a small shark instead of one of these gropers (as we call them) had taken the bait, you must have been jerked in; and the rocks are so steep there, that you would not have been able to get out again before a shark had hold of you. Think a moment what would have been the distress of your father and the agony and despair of your poor mother, when this news should have arrived."
"I was very wrong, Ready," replied William, "now that I think of it; but I wanted to surprise and please my mother."
"That reason is almost sufficient to plead your pardon, my dear boy," replied Ready; "but don't do so again. And now let us say no more about it; nobody will know that you have been in danger, and there's no harm done; and you mustn't mind an old man scolding you a little."
"No, indeed, Ready, I do not, for I was very thoughtless; but I had no idea that there was danger."
"There's your mother coming out of her tent," replied Ready. "Good-morning, madam. Do you know what William has done for you last night? Look, here are two beautiful fish, and very excellent eating they are, I can tell you."
"I am quite delighted," replied Mrs. Seagrave.
Tommy clapped his hands and danced about, crying, "Fried fish for dinner;" and Juno said, "Have very fine dinner to-day, Missy Caroline."
After breakfast they all set out for the grove, where Ready had been cutting down the trees, taking with them the wheels and axle, and a couple of stout ropes. Mr. Seagrave and Ready cut down the trees and slung them to the axle, and Juno and William dragged them to the spot where the house was to be built.
They were not sorry when dinner was ready, for it was very hard work.
That night, tired as they were, Ready and William went out, and turned eight more turtle. They continued felling the cocoa-nut trees and dragging the timber for the remainder of the week, when they considered that they had nearly enough, and on Tuesday morning they commenced building the house.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
29
|
None
|
Ready had cut out and prepared the door-posts and window-frames from timber which he had towed round from the cove. He now fixed four poles in the earth upright at each corner, and then, with the assistance of Mr. Seagrave, notched every log of cocoa-nut wood on both sides, where it was to meet with the one crossing it, so that, by laying log upon log alternately, they fitted pretty close, and had only to have the chinks between them filled in with cocoa-nut leaves twisted very tight, and forced between them: this was the work of William and Juno when no more logs were ready for carrying; and, by degrees, the house rose up from its foundation. The fireplace could not be made at once, as they had either to find clay, or to burn shells into lime and build it up with rocks and mortar; but a space was left for it. For three weeks they worked very hard: as soon as the sides were up, they got on the whole of the roof and rafters; and then, with the broad leaves of the cocoa-nut trees which had been cut down, Ready thatched it very strong and securely. At the end of the three weeks the house was secure from the weather; and it was quite time, for the weather had begun to change, the clouds now gathered thick, and the rainy season was commencing.
"We have no time to lose, sir," said Ready to Mr. Seagrave. "We have worked hard, but we must for a few days work harder still. We must fit up the inside of the house, so as to enable Madam to get into it as soon as possible."
The earth in the inside of the house was then beaten down hard, so as to make a floor; and a sort of bedstead, about two feet from the ground, running the whole length of the house, was raised on each side of the interior: these were fitted with canvas screens to let down by night. And then Ready and William took the last trip in the boat to fetch the chairs and tables, which they did just before the coming on of the first storm of the season. The bedding and all the utensils were now taken into the house; and a little outhouse was built up to cook in, until the fireplace could be made.
It was late on the Saturday night that the family shifted into the new house; and fortunate it was that they had no further occasion for delay, for on the Sunday the first storm burst upon them; the wind blew with great force; and, although they were shielded from it, still the cocoa-nut trees ground and sawed each other's stems as they bent their heads to its force. The lightning was vivid, and the thunder appalling, while the rain descended in a continual torrent. The animals left the pastures, and sheltered themselves in the grove; and, although noonday, it was so dark that they could not see to read.
"This, then, is the rainy season which you talked about, Ready," said Mrs. Seagrave. "Is it always like this? If so, what shall we do?"
"No, madam; the sun will shine sometimes, but not for long at a time. We shall be able to get out and do something every now and then almost every day, but still we shall have rain, perhaps, for many days without intermission, and we must work indoors."
"How thankful we ought to be that we have a house over our heads; we should have been drowned in the tents."
"That I knew, madam, and therefore I was anxious to get a house over your head; let us thank God for it."
"Indeed we ought," observed Mr. Seagrave; "and it is, indeed, time for us to read the service."
The morning service was then performed in the new house. Violent as the rain was, it did not penetrate through the thatch which had been put on. Ready and William went out to secure the boat, which they were afraid would be injured, and returned wet to the skin. The storm continued without intermission the whole of the night, but they slept dry and safe; and, when awakened by the noise of the thunder and the pelting of the rain, they thanked God that they had found a dwelling in the wilderness upon which they had been cast.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
30
|
None
|
When they all rose up the next morning, the clouds had cleared off, and the sun was shining bright. Ready and Juno were the first out of the house - Ready with the telescope under his arm, which he always took with him when he went his rounds, as he termed it, in the morning.
"Well, Juno," said Ready, "this is a fine morning after the rain."
"Yes, Massa Ready, very fine morning; but how I get fire light, and make kittle boil for breakfast, I really don't know - stick and cocoa-nut trash all so wet."
"Before I went to bed last night, Juno, I covered up the embers with ashes, put some stones over them, and then some cocoa-nut branches, so I think you will find some fire there yet. I was going my morning's round, but I will stay a little and help you."
"Tank you, Massa Ready; plenty rain fell last night."
"Yes, not a little, Juno; you must not expect to find the water at the well very clear this morning; indeed, I doubt if you will see the well at all. Here's some stuff which is not very wet."
"I got plenty of fire, too," replied Juno, who had removed the branches and stones, and was now on her knees blowing up the embers.
"You'll do very well now, Juno," said Ready; "besides, William will be out directly - so I'll leave you."
Ready whistled to the dogs, who came bounding out, and then set off on his round of inspection. He first directed his steps to the well in the ravine; but, instead of the gushing spring and the limpid clear water, with which the cask sunk for a well had been filled, there was now a muddy torrent, rushing down the ravine, and the well was covered with it, and not to be distinguished.
"I thought as much," said Ready, musing over the impetuous stream; "well, better too much water than too little." Ready waded through, as he wished to examine the turtle-pond, which was on the other side of the stream. Finding all right, he again crossed the water, where it was now spread wide over the sandy beach, until he came to the other point where he had moored his boat, both by the head and stern, with a rope, and a heavy stone made fast to it, as an anchor.
From this point, as usual, he surveyed the horizon with his telescope; not that he thought that there was a chance of a vessel arriving among these islands; but, still, as it was possible, he took the trouble; but never except when he went out in the morning alone, as he was aware that the very circumstance of his so doing would make Mr. Seagrave melancholy and unsettled. As usual, he dropped the telescope on his arm, after his survey, saying to himself, "Little use doing that."
The gale having blown offshore, the boat had dragged her moorings, and was so far out that Ready could not get at her.
"Here's a puzzle," said the old man; "how foolish of me not to have made a line fast to the shore! I'll not trust myself to John Shark by swimming to the boat."
"Let me see." Ready took the halyards and sheets belonging to the boat's sails, which be had left on the beach, and bent one on to the other until he had sufficient length of rope. He then made a piece of wood, about two feet long, fast by the middle to the end of the rope, and, after one or two attempts, contrived to throw it into the boat. The piece of wood caught under one of the thwarts, and this enabled him to draw the boat to the shore.
Having baled out the water which had fallen into her during the storm, he then landed again and examined the garden.
"Now to find the sheep and goats," said Ready, "and then my morning's walk is over. Now, Romulus, now, Remus, boys, find them out," continued he; and the dogs, who appeared to know what he was in search of, went away in pursuit, and soon found the sheep and two of the goats, but the third goat was not with them.
"Why, where can Black Nanny be?" muttered Ready, stopping a little while; at last he heard a bleat, in a small copse of brush wood, to which he directed his steps, followed by the dogs. "I thought as much," said he, as be perceived Nanny lying down in the copse with two new-born kids at her side. "Come, my little fellows, we must find some shelter for you," said he, taking one up under each arm. "Come, Nanny."
Ready walked back to the house, and brought in the kids, followed by Nanny. He found Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave and the children all dressed. Caroline and Tommy gave a scream of delight when they saw the little kids, and even little Albert clapped his hands. As soon as Ready put them down on the ground, Tommy and Caroline had each their arms round one.
"I've brought an addition to our family, Mrs. Seagrave," said Ready: "we must allow them to remain in the house until I can knock up a little shelter for them. This is only a beginning; I expect we shall soon have more."
As soon as the children could be persuaded to part with the kids, Nanny was tied up in a corner, and was very content with fondling and nursing her progeny. Juno and William brought in the breakfast, and as soon as it was over, Mr. Seagrave said, "Now, Ready, I think we must hold a council, and make arrangements as to our allotted duties and employments during the rainy season. We have a great deal to do, and must not be idle."
"Yes, sir, we have a great deal to do, and, to get through our work, we must have order and method in our doings. I've lived long enough to know how much can be done by regularity and discipline. Why, sir, there is more work got out of men in a well-conducted man-of-war than there can in the merchant service in double the time. And why so? Because everything is in its place, and there is a place for everything."
"I agree with you," said Mrs. Seagrave; "method is everything. While one careless little girl is looking for her thimble, another will have finished her work."
"I assure you I never should have known what can be done by order and arrangement, if I had not been pressed on board of a man-of-war. I found that everything was done in silence. Every man was to his post; everyone had a rope to haul upon, or a rope to let go; the boatswain piped, and in a few seconds every sail was set or taken in as was required. It seemed to me at first like magic. And you observe, Mr. Seagrave, that when there is order and discipline, every man becomes of individual importance. If I learnt nothing else on board of a man-of-war, I learnt to make the most of time, and the most of the strength which you could command."
"You are very right, Ready; you must teach us to do the same," replied Mr. Seagrave.
"We have so much to do, that I hardly know where to begin; yet, sir, we must work at present how we can, and when we can, until we have got things into a little better order. We have done well up to the present."
"What do you think we ought to do first?"
"Well, sir, our first job will be to haul up the boat and secure her from harm; we will half-dock her in the sand, and cover her over, for I do not think it will be safe to go in her now to the other side of the island, where the sea will always be rough."
"There I perfectly agree with you. Now what is the next?"
"Why, sir, we must not leave the tents where they are, but take them down, and as soon as they are dry, stow them away, for we may want them by and by; then, sir, we must build a large outhouse for our stores and provisions, with a thatched roof, and a floor raised about four feet from the ground; and then, under the floor, the sheep and goats will have a protection from the weather. Then there is the fish-pond to make, and also a salt-pan to cut out of the rock. Then we have two more long jobs. One is, to go through the woods and examine the stores we have left on the other side of the island, sort and arrange them all ready for bringing here after the rains are over; and we must also explore the island a little, and find out what it produces; for at present we know nothing of it: we may find a great many things useful to us, a great many trees and fruits, and I hope and trust we may be able to find some more grass for our live stock."
"I agree with you in all you say, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave; "now how shall we divide our strength?"
"We will not divide at present, sir, if you please. Juno has plenty to do indoors with Mrs. Seagrave; William, and you, and I, will first secure the boat and stow away the tents and gear; after that, we will set about the outbuilding, and work at it when we can. If Juno has any time to spare, she had better collect the cocoa-nut leaves, and pile them up for fuel; and Tommy will, I dare say, go with her, and show her how to draw them along."
"Yes, I'll show her," said Tommy, getting on his feet.
"Not just now, Tommy," said Ready, "but as soon as your mamma can spare her to go with you. Come, sir, a few hours of weather like this is not to be lost," continued Ready; "we shall have more rain before the day is over, I expect. I will first go to the tent for the shovels; then I will haul the boat round to the beach and meet you there. You and William can take some cord, tie up a large bundle of cocoa-nut boughs, sling it to the wheels, and draw it down to the beach and meet me."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
31
|
None
|
As so many cocoa-nut trees had been cut down to build the house, there were plenty of boughs lying in every direction, and William and Mr. Seagrave had soon procured sufficient. In a very short time the boat was drawn up about ten yards from the water's edge, which Ready said was quite sufficient; they then dug from under with their shovels until the boat was sunk about half down in the sand.
Having filled in the sand all round her up to her gunnel, the boat was then carefully covered over with the boughs, which were weighed down with sand that they might not be blown away.
"I don't see why you should cover the boat up in this way, Ready; the rain won't hurt her," observed William.
"No, sir, the rain won't do her any harm, but the sun will, when it bursts out occasionally; for it's very powerful when it does shine, and it would split her all to pieces."
"I forgot that," replied William. "What shall we do now?"
"Suppose, as we have two hours to dinner-time, you run for the lines, William, and we'll try for some fish."
"We cannot all three of us fish with only two lines," said Mr. Seagrave.
"No, sir; and as William knows how to catch them, suppose you remain with him, and I will go up and collect wood and chips for Juno's fire. She was hard pressed for it this morning, it was so wet; but, if once piled up, it will soon be dry. Be careful, Mr. Seagrave, not to hold the lines tight in your hands, or you may be jerked into the water."
Mr. Seagrave and William were very fortunate; before the two hours were expired they had caught eight large fish, which they brought up to the house slung on the boat-hook. Tommy hallooed loudly for fish for dinner, and as they had caught so many, it was agreed that the dinner should be put off until some could be got ready, and they were not sorry to eat them instead of salt pork.
They had hardly sat down to table, when the rain came pattering down on the roof, and in a quarter of an hour the storm was as violent, and the thunder and lightning as terrific as on the day before. All outdoor labour was again suspended. Mrs. Seagrave, Juno, and Caroline took their work, for there was plenty to do with the needle and thread, and Ready soon found employment for the rest. William and Mr. Seagrave unlaid some thick rope, that Ready might make smaller and more useful rope with the yarns. Ready took up his sailing needles, and worked eyelet-holes in the canvas screens (which they had put up in a hurry), so that they might be drawn to and fro as required.
As soon as Ready had hung up the curtains, he looked under the bedsteads for a large bundle, and said, as he opened it, "I shall now decorate Madam Seagrave's sleeping-place. It ought to be handsomer than the others." The bundle was composed of the ship's ensign, which was red, and a large, square, yellow flag with the name of the ship Pacific in large black letters upon it. These two flags Ready festooned and tied up round the bed-place, so as to give it a very gay appearance, and also to hide the rough walls of the cottage.
"Indeed, Ready, I am much obliged to you," said Mrs. Seagrave, when he had finished; "it is really quite grand for this place."
"It's the best use we can put them to now, madam," said Ready.
"I am afraid so," replied Mr. Seagrave, thoughtfully.
"Ready," said William, after the candles were lighted, "you once half-promised me that you would tell me your history; I wish you would tell us some of it now, as it will pass away the evening."
"Well, William, I did say so, and I shall keep my word. When you have heard my story, you will say that I have been very foolish in my time; and so I have; but if it proves a warning to you, it will, at all events, be of some use."
Ready then commenced his history as follows: History of Old Ready.
"Of course, you wish to know who my father and mother were: that is soon told. My father was the captain of a merchant vessel, which traded from South Shields to Hamburg, and my poor mother, God bless her, was the daughter of a half-pay militia captain, who died about two months after their marriage. The property which the old gentleman had bequeathed to my mother was added to that which my father had already vested in the brig, and he then owned one-third of the vessel; the other two-thirds were the property of a very rich ship-builder and owner, of the name of Masterman. What with the profits of the share he held of the vessel and his pay as captain, my father was well to do. Mr. Masterman, who had a very high opinion of my father, and gained much money by his exertions and good management, was present at the marriage, and when I was born, about a year afterwards, he stood for me as godfather. Every one considered that this was a most advantageous circumstance for me, and congratulated my father and mother; for Mr. Masterman was a bachelor, of nearly sixty years, without any near relations. It is true, that he was very fond of money; but that, they said, was all the better, as he could not take it away with him when he died. An end, however, was soon put to all their worldly ideas, for a year after I was born, my father was drowned at sea, his vessel and the whole of her crew being lost on the Texel sands; and my mother found herself a widow, with a child scarcely weaned, when she was but twenty-two years of age.
"It was supposed that my mother would still have sufficient to live upon, as the ship had been insured at two-thirds of her value; but, to the astonishment of everybody, Mr. Masterman contrived to make it appear that it was his two-thirds of the vessel which had been insured."
"What is insurance?" inquired William.
"Insurance, my dear boy, is paying a certain sum to people who are called underwriters, that in case the vessel or cargo is lost or damaged, the loss or damage is made good to the owners of the vessel or cargo. You pay in proportion to the risk incurred. Supposing you wished to insure one thousand pounds on a vessel or cargo, and ten per cent was required, you would, if the vessel came home safe, pay the underwriters one hundred pounds; if, on the contrary, the vessel was lost, the underwriters would have to pay you one thousand pounds, the sum which you had insured. I beg your pardon for the interruption, Ready."
"No need, Mr. Seagrave; we never should lose an opportunity of teaching the young. Well, how far the assertion of Mr. Masterman was correct or not, it was impossible at the time to say; but I do know that everybody cried out `shame', and that if he did deprive the widow, he had much to answer for; for the Bible says, `Pure religion is to visit the fatherless and the widows in their affliction, and to keep yourself unspotted in the world'. The consequence was, that my mother had little or nothing to live upon; but she found friends who assisted her, and she worked embroidery, and contrived to get on somehow until I was eight or nine years of age."
"But did not your godfather come forward to the assistance of your mother?" inquired Mr. Seagrave.
"No, sir, strange to say, he did not; and that made people talk the more. I believe it was the abuse of him, which he did not fail to hear, and which he ascribed to my mother, which turned him away from us; perhaps it was his own conscience, for we always dislike those we have injured."
"Unfortunately, there is great truth in that remark of yours, Ready," observed Mr. Seagrave; "still, it is strange that he did not do something."
"It was very strange, sir, - at least, so it appeared at the time, but he was very fond of money, and irritated at the reports and observations which were made about him. But, to go on, sir, I was a strong, hardy boy, and, whenever I could escape from my mother or school, was always found by the water-side or on board of the vessels. In the summer-time I was half the day in water, and was a very good swimmer. My mother perceived my fondness for the profession, and tried all she could to divert my thoughts some other way. She told me of the dangers and hardships which sailors went through, and always ended with my father's death and a flood of tears.
"We certainly are of a perverse nature, as I have often heard the clergyman say, for it appears to me that we always wish to do that which we are told not to do. If my mother had not been always persuading me against going to sea, I really believe I might have stayed at home. I've often thought since, how selfish and unfeeling I must have been. I was too young to know what pain I was giving my mother, and how anxiety was preying upon her, all on my account. Children cannot feel it; if they did, they would do otherwise, for our hearts are seldom hard until we grow older."
"I agree with you, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave. "If children really knew how much their parents suffer when they behave ill, how alarmed they are at any proofs of wickedness in them, they would be much better."
"We never find that out, sir, till it is too late," continued Ready. "Well, sir, I was little more than nine years old, when, on a very windy day, and the water rough, a hawser, by which a vessel was fast to the wharf, was carried away with a violent jerk, and the broken part, as it flew out, struck a person who was at the edge of the wharf, and knocked him into the sea. I heard the crying out, and the men from the wharf and from the ships were throwing ropes to him, but he could not catch hold of them; indeed, he could not swim well, and the water was rough. I caught a rope that had been hauled in again, and leapt off the wharf.
"Young as I was, I swam like a duck, and put the rope into his hands just as he was going down. He clung to it as drowning men only can cling, and was hauled to the piles, and soon afterwards a boat, which had been lowered from the stern of one of the vessels, picked us both up. We were taken to a public-house, and put into bed till dry clothes could be sent for us; and then I found that the person I had saved was my godfather, Mr. Masterman. Everyone was loud in my praise; and, although perhaps I ought not to say it, it was a bold act for so young a boy as I was. The sailors took me home to my mother in a sort of triumphal procession; and she, poor thing, when she heard what I had done, embraced me over and over again, one moment rejoicing at my preservation, and the next weeping bitterly at the thoughts of the danger I had encountered, and the probability that my bold spirit would lead me into still greater."
"But she did not blame you for what you had done?"
"Oh no, William; she felt that I had done my duty towards my neighbour, and perhaps she felt in her own heart that I had returned good for evil; but she did not say so. The next day Mr. Masterman called upon us; he certainly looked very foolish and confused when he asked for his godson, whom he had so long neglected. My mother, who felt how useful he might be to me, received him very kindly; but I had been often told of his neglect of me and my mother, and of his supposed unfair conduct towards my father, and had taken a violent dislike to him; his advances towards me were therefore very coolly received. I felt glad that I had saved him; but although I could not exactly understand my own feelings at the time, I am ashamed to say that my pleasure was not derived from having done a good action, so much as indulging a feeling of revenge in having put one under an obligation who had treated me ill; this arose from my proud spirit, which my mother could not check. So you see, William, there was very little merit in what I had done, as, after I had done it, I indulged those feelings which I ought to have checked."
"I think I could not have helped feeling the same, Ready, under such circumstances," replied William.
"The impulse which induced me to act was good," replied Ready; "but the feeling which I indulged in afterwards took away the whole merit of the deed. I am stating what I believe to be the truth; and an old man like me can look upon the past without bias, but not without regret. Mr. Masterman made but a short visit; he told my mother that he would now take care of me and bring me up to the business of a ship-builder as soon as I was old enough to leave school, and that in the meantime he would pay all my expenses. My poor mother was very grateful, and shed tears of joy; and when Mr. Masterman went away, she embraced me, and said that now she was happy, as I should have a profession on shore and not go to sea. I must do justice to Mr. Masterman; he kept his word and sent money to my mother, so that she became quite cheerful and comfortable, and everyone congratulated her, and she used to fondle me, and say, it was all through me that she was relieved from her distress."
"How happy that must have made you, Ready!" said William.
"Yes, it did, but it made me also very proud. Strange to say, I could not conquer my dislike to Mr. Masterman; I had nourished the feeling too long. I could not bear that my mother should be under obligations to him, or that he should pay for my schooling; it hurt my foolish pride, young as I then was; and although my mother was happy, I was not. Besides, as I was put to a better school, and was obliged to remain with the other boys, I could no longer run about the wharfs, or go on board the vessels, as before. I did not see then, as I do now, that it was all for my good but I became discontented and unhappy, merely because I was obliged to pay attention to my learning, and could no longer have my own way. The master complained of me; and Mr. Masterman called and scolded me well. I became more disobedient, and then I was punished. This irritated me, and I made up my mind that I would run away to sea. You see, William, I was all in the wrong; and so will all boys be who think they know better than those who have charge of them; and now only see what I probably lost by my foolish conduct. I say <i>probably</i>, for no one can calculate or foresee what is to take place; but, as far as appearances went, I had every prospect of receiving a good education - of succeeding Mr. Masterman in his business, and, very probably, of inheriting his large fortune; so that I might have been at this time a rich and well-educated man, surrounded with all the comforts and luxuries of life; perhaps with an amiable wife and large family round me, to make me still happier, instead of being what I now am, a poor, worn-out old seaman upon a desert isle. I point this out to you, William, to show how one false and foolish step in the young may affect their whole prospects in life; and, instead of enabling them to sail down with the stream of prosperity, may leave them to struggle against the current of adversity, as has been the case with me."
"It is, indeed, a good lesson, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave.
"It is; not that I repine at my lot, even while I regret the errors that led to it. An all-wise and gracious God disposes of us as he thinks best; and I can now say with perfect sincerity, `Thy will, not mine, be done'."
"Your misfortunes have, however, proved an incalculable benefit to us, Ready," observed Mrs. Seagrave; "for had you not gone to sea, and been on board the ship when the crew deserted us, what would have become of us?"
"Well, madam, it is some comfort to think that a worn-out old seaman like myself has been of some use."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
32
|
None
|
The bleating of the kids woke them the next morning earlier than usual. The weather was again fine, and the sun shining brightly, and Ready turned out Nanny and her progeny. They had an excellent breakfast of fried fish, and then Mr. Seagrave, Ready, and William went out to their work: the two first took down the tents, and spread the canvas on the ground, that it might be well dried, while William went in pursuit of the fowls, which had not been seen for a day or two. After half-an-hour's search in the cocoa-nut grove, he heard the cock crow, and soon afterwards found them all. He threw them some split peas, which he had brought with him. They were hungry enough and followed him home to the house, where he left them and went to join Ready and his father.
"William," said Ready, "I think, now that we have spread out the tents, we will, if Mr. Seagrave approves, all set to at once and knock up a fowl-house; it won't be more than a day's job, and then the creatures will have a home. There are four very thick cocoa-nut trees close to the house; we will build it under them; it will be a good job over." Mr. Seagrave assented, and they set immediately to work. There were many thin poles left, the tops of the cocoa-nut trees which had been cut down to build the house; these they nailed to the trunks of the four trees, so as to make a square, and then they ran up rafters for a pitched roof.
"Now, sir, this is only rough work; we will first put up a perch or two for them, and then close in the side, and thatch the roof with cocoa-nut branches; but there's Juno taking in the dinner, so we'll finish it afterwards."
After their meal the work was renewed; Mr. Seagrave collected the branches while William and Ready worked upon the sides and roof, and before the evening closed in, the fowl-house was complete. William enticed the fowls down to it with some more split peas, and then walked away.
"Now, sir, the creatures will soon find their way in; and by and by, when I have time, I'll make a door to the entrance."
"And now," said William, "I think we had better roll up the canvas of the tents; we have had a splendid day, and may not be so fortunate to-morrow."
"Very true; we will get them housed, and stow them away under the bed-places; there is plenty of room." By the time that they had folded up the canvas, and William had brought in Nanny and the kids, the sun had set, and they went into the house. Ready was requested to go on with his history, which he did as follows:-- "I said last night that I determined to run away from school and go to sea, but I did not tell you how I managed it. I had no chance of getting out of the school unperceived, except after the boys were all put to bed. The room that I slept in was at the top of the house - the doors I knew were all locked; but there was a trap-door which led out on the roof, fastened by a bolt inside, and a ladder leading up to it; and I determined that I would make my escape by that way. As soon as all the other boys were fast asleep, I arose and dressed myself very quietly, and then left the room.
"The moon shone bright, which was lucky for me, and I gained the trap-door without any noise. I had some difficulty in forcing it up, as it was heavy for a boy of my age; but I contrived to do so at last, and gained the roof of the house. I then began looking about me, to see how I was to get to the ground, and after walking to and fro several times, I decided that I could slip down by a large water-pipe; it was so far detached from the bricks, that I could get my small fingers round it. I climbed over the parapet, and, clinging to the pipe firmly with my hands and knees, I slid down, and arrived at the bottom in safety."
"It's a wonder you did not break your neck, Ready," observed Mrs. Seagrave.
"It was, indeed, ma'am. As soon as I was landed in the flowerbed, which was below, I hastened to the iron gates at the entrance, and soon climbed up and got to the other side into the road. I started as fast as I could towards the port, and when I arrived at the wharf, I perceived that a vessel had her topsails loose, and meant to take advantage of the ebb-tide which had just made; the men were singing `Yo heave yo', getting the anchor up; and as I stood watching, almost making up my mind that I would swim off to her, I perceived that a man pushed off in her jolly-boat, and was sculling to a post a little higher up, where a hawser had been made fast; I ran round, and arrived there before he had cast off the rope; without saying a word, I jumped into the boat. " `What do you want, youngster?' said the seaman. " `I want to go to sea,' said I, breathless; `take me on board - pray do.' " `Well,' said he, `I heard the captain say he wanted an apprentice, and so you may come.'
"He sculled the boat back again to the vessel, and I climbed up her side. " `Who are you?' said the captain.
"I told him that I wanted to go to sea. " `You are too little and too young.' " `No, I am not,' replied I. "`Why, do you think that you dare go aloft?' " `I'll show you,' replied I; and I ran up the rigging like a cat, and went out at the topgallant yard-arm.
"When I came down, the captain said, `Well, I think you'll make a sharp seaman by and by; so I'll take you, and, as soon as I get to London, I'll bind you apprentice.'
"The ship, which was a collier, was soon out of port, and before the day had dawned I found myself on the wide ocean, which was hereafter to be my home.
"As soon as the hurry and confusion were over, I was examined by the captain, who appeared to me to be a very rough, harsh man; indeed, before the day was over I almost repented of the step which I had taken, and when I sat down cold and wet upon some old sail at night, the thoughts of my mother, and what distress I should occasion her, for the first time rushed into my mind, and I wept bitterly; but it was too late then. I have often thought, Mr. Seagrave, that the life of hardship which I have since gone through has been a judgment on me for my cruelty to my mother, in leaving her the way I did. It broke her heart; a poor return, William, for all her care and kindness! God forgive me!"
Old Ready left off for some little time, and the remainder of the party kept silence. Then he said - "I'll leave off now, if you please: I don't feel inclined to go on; my heart is full when I recall that foolish and wicked deed of mine."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
33
|
None
|
The next morning was fine, and as soon as breakfast was over, they took the wheels down to the turtle-pond, and Ready having speared one of the largest by means of a pike with a barb to it, which he had made on purpose, they hauled it on shore, slung it under the wheels, and took it up to the house. Having killed the turtle, and cut it up, Juno, under the directions of Ready, chose such portions as were required for the soup; and when the pot was on the fire, Ready, Mr. Seagrave, and William set off with the cross-cut saw and hatchets, to commence felling the cocoa-nut trees for the building of the outhouse, which was to hold their stores, as soon as they could be brought round from the other side of the island.
"I mean this to be our place of refuge in case of danger, sir," observed Ready; "and therefore I have selected this thick part of the wood, as it is not very far from the house, and by cutting the path to it in a zigzag, it will be quite hidden from sight; and we must make the path just wide enough to allow the wheels to pass, and stump up the roots of the trees which we are obliged to cut down, otherwise the stumps would attract attention."
"I agree with you, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave; "there is no saying what may happen."
"You see, sir, it is often the custom for the natives, in this part of the world, to come in their canoes from one island to another, merely to get cocoa-nuts. I can't say that the other islands near us are inhabited, but still it is probable, and we cannot tell what the character of the people may be. I tell you this, but we had better not say a word to Mrs. Seagrave, as it may distress her."
Mr. Seagrave agreed, and Ready continued: "We are now near the spot, sir. You see, when we have got over this hill, where the trees are so very thick, the fall in the ground will assist in the concealment of the building. I should say we are very near right where we now stand."
"How far are we now from the house? We must not be too distant."
"I reckon we are not 150 yards in a straight line, although the road will, by its turning, make it double the distance."
"Then I think this spot will do very well."
"I'll just mark out the trees which are to stand, Mr. Seagrave, and those which are to be cut down, so as to leave about four feet of stump standing."
As soon as they had planned the building, the axes and saw were in full use, and tree after tree fell one upon the other. They worked hard till dinner-time, and were not sorry at the prospect of sitting down to a rich mess of turtle-soup.
"My dear William, and you too, Mr. Seagrave, how very warm you are!" said Mrs. Seagrave; "you must not work so hard."
"Cutting down trees is very warm work, mother," replied William, "and hard work will never hurt any one, especially when he dines off turtle-soup. Why, Tommy, what's the matter with you?"
"Tommy and I are at variance," replied Mrs. Seagrave. "I had my thimble this morning, and had commenced my sewing, when I was called out by Juno, and Caroline went with me, and Tommy was left in the house. When I came back I found him outside, and on going back to my work, there was no thimble to be found; I asked him if he had touched it, and his answer was that he would look for it. He did look, and said he could not find it; I have asked him several times if he took it away, and his only answer is that he will find it by and by."
"Tommy, did you take the thimble?" said Mr. Seagrave, gravely.
"I'll find it by and by, papa."
"That's not an answer. Did you take the thimble?"
"I'll find it by and by, papa," said Tommy, whimpering.
"That's all the answer he will give me," said Mrs. Seagrave.
"Well, then, he shall have no dinner till the thimble makes its appearance," replied Mr. Seagrave.
Master Tommy began to cry at this intelligence. Juno appeared with the turtle-soup; and Tommy cried louder when they had said grace and commenced their dinner. They were all very hungry, and William sent his plate for another portion, which he had not commenced long before he put his finger in his mouth and pulled out something.
"Why, mother, here's the thimble in my soup," cried William.
"No wonder he said he would find it by and by," said Ready, smiling; "he meant to have fished it up, I suppose, from what was left of the soup after dinner. Well, Mrs. Seagrave, I don't mean to say that Tommy is a good boy, but still, although be would not tell where the thimble was, he has not told a falsehood about it."
"No, he has not," replied William. "I think, now that the thimble is found, if he begs pardon, papa will forgive him."
"Tommy, come here," said Mr. Seagrave. "Tell me why you put that thimble into the soup?"
"I wanted to taste the soup. I wanted to fill the thimble; the soup burnt my fingers, and I let the thimble drop in."
"Well, a thimbleful wasn't much, at all events," observed Ready. "And why didn't you tell your mamma where the thimble was?"
"I was afraid mamma throw all the soup away, and then I get none for dinner."
"Oh! that was it, was it? Well, sir, I said you should have no dinner till the thimble was found, so, as it is found, you may have your dinner; but if you ever refuse to answer a question again, I shall punish you more severely."
Tommy was glad the lecture was over, and more glad to get his turtle-soup; he finished one plate, and, as he asked for another, he said, "Tommy won't put thimble in again; put tin pot in next time."
After dinner they went to their work again, and did not come in again till sunset.
"The clouds are gathering fast, sir," observed Ready; "we shall have rain to-night."
"I fear we shall; but we must expect it now, Ready."
"Yes, sir; and by and by we shall have it for days together."
"Ready," said Mrs. Seagrave, "if you are not too tired, perhaps you will go on with your history."
"Certainly, ma'am, if you wish it," replied Ready. "When I left off, I was on board of the collier, bound to London. We had a very fair wind, and a quick passage. I was very sick until we arrived in the Nore, and then I recovered, and, as you may suppose, was astonished at the busy scene, and the quantity of vessels which were going up and down the river. But I did not like my captain; he was very severe and brutal to the men; and the apprentice who was on board told me to run away, and get into another vessel, and not to bind myself apprentice to this captain, or I should be beat all day long, and be treated as bad as he was. I knew this was the case, as the captain kicked and cuffed him twenty times a day. The men said that he did not do so to me, for fear I should refuse to be his apprentice; but that, as soon as my indentures were signed, he would treat me in the same way.
"Well, I made up my mind that I would not remain in the collier; and, as the captain had gone on shore, I had plenty of time to look about me. There was a large ship, which was ready to sail, lying in the stream; I spoke to two boys who were at the stairs in her boat, and they told me that they were very comfortable on board, and that the captain wanted two or three apprentices. I went on board with them, and offered myself. The captain asked me a great many questions, and I told him the truth, and why I did not like to remain in the collier. He agreed to take me; and I went on shore with him, signed my indentures, and received from him a sufficient supply of clothes; and, two days afterwards, we sailed for Bombay and China."
"But you wrote to your mother, Ready, did you not?" said William.
"Yes, I did; for the captain desired me to do so, and he put a few lines at the bottom to comfort her; but, unfortunately, the letter, which was sent on shore by the cook, never arrived. Whether he dropped it, or forgot it till after the ship sailed, and then tore it up, I do not know; but, as I found out afterwards, it never did get to her hands."
"It was not your fault that the letter did not arrive safe," said Mrs. Seagrave.
"No, madam, that was not my fault; the fault had been committed before."
"Don't dwell any more upon that portion of your history, Ready; but tell us what took place after you sailed for the East Indies."
"Be it so, if you please. I certainly was very smart and active for my age, and soon became a great favourite on board, especially with the lady passengers, because I was such a little fellow. We arrived safely at Bombay, where our passengers went on shore, and in three weeks afterwards we sailed down the straits for China. It was war time, and we were very often chased by French privateers; but as we had a good crew and plenty of guns, none of them ventured to attack us, and we got safe to Macao, where we unloaded our cargo and took in teas. We had to wait some time for a convoy, and then sailed for England. When we were off the Isle of France, the convoy was dispersed in a gale; and three days afterwards, a French frigate bore down upon us, and after exchanging a few broadsides, we were compelled to haul down our colours. A lieutenant was sent on board with forty men to take charge of us, for we were a very rich prize to them. The captain and most of the crew were taken on board of the frigate, but ten Lascars and the boys were left in the Indiaman, to assist in taking her into the Isle of France, which was at that time in the hands of the French. I thought it hard that I was to go to prison at twelve years old; but I did not care much about it, and very soon I was as gay and merry as ever. We had made the island, and were on a wind beating up to the port, when a vessel was seen to windward, and although I could not understand what the Frenchmen said, I perceived that they were in a great fluster and very busy with their spy-glasses, and Jack Romer, one of my brother 'prentices who had been three years at sea, said to me, `I don't think we'll go to prison after all, Ready, for that vessel is an English man-of-war, if I'm not mistaken.' At last she came down within three miles of us, and hoisted English colours and fired a gun. The Frenchmen put the ship before the wind, but it was of no use; the man-of-war came up with us very fast, and then the Frenchmen began to pack up their clothes, together with all the other things which they had collected out of the property of our captain and crew; a shot was fired which went clean over our heads, and then they left the helm, and Jack Romer went to it, and, with my help, hove the ship up in the wind; a boat came on board and took possession, and so there was one escape, at all events.
"They sent a midshipman as prize-master on board of the vessel, and left all us, who had been taken prisoners by the French, in the vessel, to help to work her into port, as the captain did not wish to part with any more men of his own than was necessary. We soon made sail for England, quite delighted at having escaped a French prison, but, after all, we only exchanged it for a Dutch one."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean that, two days afterwards, as we were rounding the Cape, another French vessel bore down upon us, and captured us. This time we did not find any friend in need, and were taken into Table Bay; for at that time the Cape of Good Hope was in the possession of the Dutch, who, as well as the French, were at war with England."
"How very unfortunate you were, Ready!" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"Yes, madam, we were, and I can't say much in favour of a Dutch prison. However, I was very young at that time, and did not care much - I had a light heart."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
34
|
None
|
A heavy storm came on soon after they had retired to rest; the lightning was so vivid that its flashes penetrated through the chinks of the door and windows, and the thunder burst upon them with a noise which prevented them obtaining any sleep. The children cried and trembled as they lay in the arms of Mrs. Seagrave and Juno, who were almost as much alarmed themselves.
"This is very awful," said Mr. Seagrave to Ready, for they had both risen from their beds.
"It is indeed, sir; I never knew a more terrible storm than this."
"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Seagrave.
As he spoke, they were both thrown back half-stunned; a crash of thunder burst over the house, which shook everything in it; a sulphurous smell pervaded the building, and soon afterwards, when they recovered their feet, they perceived that the house was full of smoke, and they heard the wailing of the women and the shrieks of the children in the bed-places on the other side.
"God have mercy on us!" exclaimed Ready, who was the first to recover himself, and who now attempted to ascertain the injury which had been done: "the lightning has struck us, and I fear that the house is on fire somewhere."
"My wife - my children!" exclaimed Mr. Seagrave; "are they all safe?"
"Yes, yes!" cried Mrs. Seagrave, "all safe; Tommy has come to me; but where is Juno? Juno!"
Juno answered not. William darted to the other side of the house, and found Juno lying on her side, motionless.
"She is dead, father," cried William.
"Help me to carry her out of the house, Mr. Seagrave," said Ready, who had lifted up the poor girl; "she may be only stunned."
They carried Juno out of the house, and laid her on the ground; the rain poured down in torrents.
Ready left them for a minute, to ascertain if the house was on fire; he found that it had been in flames at the further corner, but the rain had extinguished it. He then went back to Mr. Seagrave and William, who were with Juno.
"I will attend to the girl, sir," said Ready; "go you and Master William into the house; Mrs. Seagrave will be too much frightened if she is left alone at such an awful time. See, sir! Juno is not dead - her chest heaves - she will come to very soon; thank God for it!"
William and Mr. Seagrave returned to the house; they found Mrs. Seagrave fainting with anxiety and fear. The information they brought, that Juno was not killed by the lightning, did much to restore her. William soothed little Albert, and Tommy in a few minutes was fast asleep again in his father's arms. The storm now abated, and as the day began to break, Ready appeared with Juno, who was sufficiently recovered to he able to walk in with his support; she was put into her bed, and then Ready and Mr. Seagrave went to examine if further mischief had been done. The lightning had come in at the further end of the house, at the part where the fireplace was intended to have been made.
"We have been most mercifully preserved," said Mr. Seagrave.
"Yes, sir, thanks be to God for all his goodness," replied Ready.
"I think we have a large roll of copper wire, Ready; have we not?" said Mr. Seagrave.
"Yes, sir, I was just thinking of it myself; we will have a lightning-conductor up the first thing."
It was now broad daylight. Mrs. Seagrave dressed herself and the children, and as soon as she was ready, Mr. Seagrave read such portions of the Psalms as were appropriate, and they earnestly joined in a prayer of thankfulness and humility. William went out to prepare the breakfast, and Ready procured the coil of copper wire from those stores which were stowed under the bed-places. This he unrolled, and stretched it out straight, and then went for the ladder, which was at the outhouse they had commenced building. As soon as breakfast was over, Ready and Mr. Seagrave went out again to fix up the lightning-conductor, leaving William to do the work of Juno, who still remained fast asleep in her bed.
"I think," said Ready, "that one of those two trees which are close together will suit the best; they are not too near the house, and yet quite near enough for the wire to attract the lightning."
"I agree with you, Ready; but we must not leave both standing."
"No, sir, but we shall require them both to get up and fix the wire; after that we will cut down the other."
Ready put his ladder against one of the trees, and, taking with him the hammer and a bag of large spike-nails, drove one of the nails into the trunk of the tree till it was deep enough in to bear his weight; he then drove in another above it, and so he continued to do, standing upon one of them while he drove in another above, till he had reached the top of the tree, close to the boughs; he then descended, and, leaving the hammer behind him, took up a saw and small axe, and in about ten minutes he had cut off the head of the cocoa-nut tree, which remained a tall, bare pole.
"Take care, Ready, how you come down," said Mr. Seagrave anxiously.
"Never fear, sir," replied Ready; "I'm not so young as I was, but I have been too often at the mast-head, much higher than this."
Ready came down again, and then cut down a small pole, to fix with a thick piece of pointed wire at the top of it, on the head of the cocoa-nut tree. He then went up, lashed the small pole to the head of the tree, made the end of the copper wire fast to the pointed wire, and then he descended. The other tree near to it was then cut down, and the lower end of the wire buried in the ground at the bottom of the tree on which the lightning-conductor had been fixed.
"That's a good job done, sir," said Ready, wiping his face, for he was warm with the work.
"Yes," replied Mr. Seagrave; "and we must put up another near the outhouse, or we may lose our stores."
"Very true, sir."
"You understand this, William, don't you?" said his father.
"O yes, papa; lightning is attracted by metal, and will now strike the point instead of the house, run down the wire, and only tear up the ground below."
"It's coming on again, sir, as thick as ever," observed the old man; "we shall do no work to-day, I'm afraid. I'll just go and see where the stock are."
Juno was now up again, and said that she was quite well, with the exception of a headache. As Ready had predicted, the rain now came on again with great violence, and it was impossible to do any work out of doors. At the request of William he continued his narrative.
Narrative of Old Ready.
"Well, William, as soon as they had let go their anchor in Table Bay, we were all ordered on shore, and sent up to a prison close to the Government Gardens. We were not very carefully watched, as it appeared impossible for us to get away, and I must say we were well treated in every respect; but we were told that we should be sent to Holland in the first man-of-war which came into the bay, and we did not much like the idea.
"There were, as I told you, some other boys as well as myself, who belonged to the Indiaman, and we kept very much together, not only because we were more of an age, but because we had been shipmates so long. Two of these boys, one of whom I have mentioned as Jack Romer, and the other Will Hastings, were my particular friends; and one day, as we were sitting under the wall warming ourselves, for it was winter time, Romer said, `How very easy it would be for us to get away, if we only knew where to go to!' " `Yes,' replied Hastings; `but where are we to go to, if it is not to the Hottentots and wild savages; and when we get there, what can we do? - we can't get any further.' `Well,' said I, `I would rather be living free among savages, than be shut up in a prison.' That was our first talk on the subject, but we had many others afterwards; and as the one or two Dutch soldiers who stood sentry spoke English, and we could talk a little Dutch, we obtained a good deal of information from them; for they had very often been sent to the frontiers of the colony. We continued to ask questions, and to talk among ourselves for about two months, and at last we resolved that we would make our escape. We should have done much better if we had remained where we were; but there is no putting old heads upon young shoulders. We saved up our provisions, bought some long Dutch knives, tied our few clothes up in bundles, and one dark night we contrived to remain in the yard without being perceived, when the prisoners were locked up; and raising a long pole, which lay in the yard, to the top of the wall, with a good deal of scrambling we contrived to get over it, and made off as fast as we could for the Table Mountain."
"What was your reason for going there, Ready?"
"Why, Hastings, who was the oldest, and, I will say, the sharpest of the three, said that we had better stay up there for a few days, till we had made up our minds what to do, and try if we could not procure a musket or two, and ammunition; for, you see, we had money, as, when the Indiaman was first taken, the captain divided a keg of rupees, which was on board, among the officers and men, in proportion to the wages due to them, thinking it was better for the crew to have the money than to leave it for the Frenchmen; and we had spent very little while in prison. There was also another reason why he persuaded us to go to the Table Mountain, which was, that as soon as our escape was found out, they would send parties to look for us; thinking, of course, that we had made for the interior; and we should have less chance of being retaken if we travelled after the first search was over. The soldiers had told us of the lions, and other wild animals, and how dangerous it was to travel, and Hastings said, that not finding us, they would suppose we had been destroyed by the wild beasts, and would not look for us any more."
"Foolish indeed," observed Mrs. Seagrave, "to set off you knew not where, in a country full of wild beasts and savages."
"True enough, madam," replied Ready. "We ran at first until we were out of breath, and then we walked on as fast as we could - not going right up the mountain, but keeping a slanting direction to the south-west, so as to get away from the town, and more towards False Bay.
"We had walked about four hours, and began to feel very tired, when the day dawned, and then we looked out for a place to conceal ourselves in. We soon found a cave with a narrow entrance, large enough inside to hold half-a-dozen of such lads as we were, and we crawled in. It was quite dry, and, as we were very tired, we lay down with our heads on our bundles, intending to take a nap; but we had hardly made ourselves comfortable and shut our eyes, when we heard such a screaming and barking that we were frightened out of our lives almost. We could not think what it could be. At last Hastings peeped out, and began to laugh; so Homer and I looked out also, and there we saw about one hundred and fifty large baboons leaping and tumbling about in such a way as I never saw; they were bigger than we were - indeed, when they stood on their hind legs they were much taller, and they had very large white tusks. Some of them were females, with young ones on their backs, and they were just as active as the males. At last they played such antics, that we all burst out into a loud laugh, and we had not ceased when we found the grinning face of one of the largest of those brutes close to our own. He had dropped from the rock above us, like magic. We all three backed into the cave, very much frightened, for the teeth of the animal were enormous, and he looked very savage. He gave a shrill cry, and we perceived all the rest of the herd coming to him as fast as they could. I said that the cave was large enough to hold six of us; but there was a sort of inner cave which we had not gone into, as the entrance was much smaller. Homer cried out, `Let us go into the inside cave - we can get in one by one;' and he backed in; Hastings followed with his bundle, and I hurried in after him just in time; for the baboons, who had been chattering to each other for half a minute, came into the outer cave just as I crawled into the inner. Five or six of them came in, all males, and very large. The first thing they did was to lay hold of Homer's bundle, which they soon opened - at once they seized his provisions and rammed them into their pouches, and then they pulled out the other things and tore them all to pieces. As soon as they had done with the bundle, two of them came towards the inner cave and saw us. One put his long paw in to seize us; but Hastings gave him a slash with his knife, and the animal took his paw out again fast enough. It was laughable to see him hold out his hand to the others, and then taste the blood with the tip of his tongue, and such a chattering I never heard - they were evidently very angry, and more came into the cave and joined them; then another put in his hand, and received a cut just as before. At last, two or three at once tried to pull us out, but we beat them all off with our knives, wounding them all very severely. For about an hour they continued their attempts, and then they went away out of the cave, but remained at the mouth shrieking and howling. We began to be very tired of this work, and Homer said that he wished he was back in prison again; and so did I, I can assure you; but there was no getting out, for had we gone out the animals would have torn us to pieces. We agreed that we had no chance but the animals becoming tired and going away; and most anxious we were, for the excitement had made us very thirsty, and we wanted water. We remained for two hours in this way imprisoned by baboons, when all of a sudden a shrill cry was given by one of the animals, and the whole herd went galloping off as fast as they could, screaming louder than ever. We waited for a short time to see if they would return, and then Hastings crawled out first, and looking out of the cave very cautiously, said that they were all gone, and that he could see nothing but a Hottentot sitting down watching some cattle; we therefore all came out, very happy at our release. That was our first adventure; we had plenty afterwards; but I think it is now time we should go to bed. It is my opinion we shall have a fine day to-morrow, sir; but there's no saying."
"I do so want to hear what happened to you afterwards, Ready," said William.
"Well, so you shall; but there's a time for everything, and this is bed-time, unless you like to go with me; the weather has cleared up, and I want to catch a fish or two for to-morrow."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
35
|
None
|
As Ready had predicted, the weather set in fine after the violent storm of which we have made mention. For a fortnight, with little intermission, it continued fine, and during that time, Ready, Mr. Seagrave, and William worked from daylight till dusk at the storehouse, which they were so anxious to complete, and were so tired when their work was over, that even William did not ask Ready to go on with his history. At last the storehouse was complete, thatched and wattled in on three sides, leaving one open for ventilation; the lower part, which had been arranged for the folding of the stock at night and during the rainy season, was also wattled in with cocoa-nut boughs on three sides, and made a very comfortable retreat for the animals. The winding path to the storehouse was also cut through the cocoa-nut grove, but the stumps were not removed, as they could not spare the time. All the stores that they had brought round were put into the storehouse, and they were now ready to take up some other job. It was, however, agreed that, on the day after the building was finished, they should all have a day's holiday, which they certainly did require. William caught some fish, a turtle was speared and wheeled up to the house; and they not only had a holiday, but a feast. Mr. Seagrave and William had been walking on the beach with Mrs. Seagrave and the children, while Ready was assisting Juno in cutting up the turtle; they had shown Mrs. Seagrave the storehouse, and the goats with the four kids had been led there, as there was no longer any occasion for them to remain in the house. The weather was beautiful, and they agreed to go and examine the garden. They found that the seeds had not yet commenced sprouting, notwithstanding the heavy rains.
"I should have thought that so much rain would have made them come up," said Mrs. Seagrave.
"No, my dear," replied Mr. Seagrave; "they require more of the sun than they will have till the rainy season is nearly over; a few days like this, and they will soon be above-ground."
"Let us sit down on this knoll, it is quite dry," said Mrs. Seagrave. "I little thought," continued she, "that I could have been so happy in a desert island. I thought I should feel the loss of books very severely, but I really do not think that I could have found time to read."
"Employment is a source of happiness, especially when you are usefully employed. An industrious person is always a happy person, provided he is not obliged to work too hard; and even where you have cause for unhappiness, nothing makes you forget it so soon as occupation."
"But, mamma, we shall not always have so much to do as we have now," said William.
"Of course not," replied Mr. Seagrave; "and then we shall find our books a great source of enjoyment. I am anxious to go to the other side of the island, and see what have been spared to us, and whether they have been much damaged; but that cannot be until after the rains are over, and we can use the boat again.
"Look at this minute insect which is crawling on my finger," said Mr. Seagrave, turning to William: "what a number of legs it has!"
"Yes, I have seen something like it in old books. How fast it runs with its little legs; thinner than hairs - how wonderful!"
"Yes, William," replied Mr. Seagrave, "we have only to examine into any portion, however small, of creation, and we are immediately filled with wonder. There is nothing which points out to us the immensity and the omniscience of the Almighty more than the careful provision which has been made by Him for the smallest and most insignificant of created beings. This little animal is perhaps one of many millions, who have their term of existence, and their enjoyment, as well as we have. What is it? - an insect of the minutest kind, a nothing in creation; yet has the same care been bestowed upon its formation: these little legs, hardly visible, have their muscles and their sinews; and every other portion of its body is as complete, as fearfully and wonderfully fashioned, as our own. Such is his will; and what insects we ought to feel ourselves, when compared to the God of power and of love!"
"Let me also point out to you, William," continued Mr. Seagrave, "the infinity of his creative power, displayed in endless variety. Amongst the millions of men that have been born, and died, if ever yet were there seen two faces or two bodies exactly alike; nay, if you could examine the leaves upon the trees, although there may be millions upon millions in a forest, you could not discover two leaves of precisely the same form and make."
"I have often tried in vain," replied William; "yet some animals are so much alike, that I cannot perceive any difference between them - sheep, for instance."
"Very true; you cannot tell the difference, because you have not examined them; but a shepherd, if he has seven hundred sheep under his care, will know every one of them from the others; which proves that there must be a great difference between them, although not perceptible to the casual observer; and the same, no doubt, is the case with all other classes of animals."
"Yes, William," observed Ready; "I have often wondered over the things that I have seen, and I have even in my ignorance felt what your papa has now told you; and it has brought into my mind the words of Job: `When I consider, I am afraid of him'."
"Papa," said William, after a pause in the conversation, "you have referred to the variety - the wonderful variety - shown in the works of the Deity. Tell me some other prominent feature in creation."
"One of the most remarkable, William, is order."
"Point out to me, papa, where and in what that quality is most observable."
"Everywhere and in everything, my dear boy; whether we cast our eyes up to the heavens above us, or penetrate into the bowels of the earth, the principle of order is everywhere - everything is governed by fixed laws, which cannot be disobeyed: we have order in the seasons, in the tides, in the movement of the heavenly bodies, in the instinct of animals, in the duration of life assigned to each; from the elephant who lives more than a century, to the ephemeral fly, whose whole existence is limited to an hour.
"Inanimate nature is subject to the same unvarying laws. Metals, and rocks, and earths, and all the mineral kingdom follow one law in their crystallization, never varying from the form assigned to them; each atom depositing itself in the allotted place, until that form is complete: we have order in production, order in decay; but all is simple to him by whom the planets were thrown out into space, and were commanded to roll in their eternal orbits."
"Yes; the stars in the heavens are beautiful," said William, "but they are not placed there in order."
"The fixed stars do not appear to us to be in order - that is, they do not stud the heavens at equal distances from each other as we view them; but you must recollect that they are at very different distances from this earth, spreading over all infinity of space; and we have reason to suppose that this our earth is but a mere unit in the multitude of created worlds, only one single portion of an infinite whole. As the stars now appear to us, they are useful to the mariner, enabling him to cross the trackless seas; and to the astronomer, who calculates the times and seasons."
"What do you mean, papa, by saying that this world of ours is supposed to be but one of a multitude of created worlds?"
"Our little knowledge is bounded to this our own earth, which we have ascertained very satisfactorily to be but one of several planets revolving round our own sun. I say our own sun, because we have every reason to suppose that each of those fixed stars, and myriads now not visible to the naked eye, are all suns, bright and glorious as our own, and of course throwing light and heat upon unseen planets revolving round them. Does not this give you some idea of the vastness, the power, and the immensity of God?"
"One almost loses one's self in the imagination," said Mrs. Seagrave.
"Yes," replied Mr. Seagrave; "and it has been surmised by some, who have felt in their hearts the magnificence of the Great Architect, that there must be some point of view in space where all those glorious suns, which seem to us confused in the heavens above us, will appear all symmetrically arranged, will there be viewed in regular order, whirling round in one stupendous and perfect system of beauty and design; and where can that be, if it is not in that heaven which we hope to gain?"
There was a silence for a few moments, when William said, "They say that there are people who are atheists, papa. How can they be so if they only look around them? I am sure a mere examination of the works of God ought to make them good Christians."
"No, my child," replied Mr. Seagrave; "there you are in error. Few deny the existence of a Deity, and an examination of his works may make them good and devout men, but not Christians. There are good men to be found under every denomination, whether they be Jews, Mahomedans, or Pagans; but they are not Christians."
"Very true, papa."
"Faith in things seen, if I may use the term, my dear child, may induce men to acknowledge the power and goodness of the Almighty, but it will not make them wise to salvation; for that end, it is necessary, as the Apostle saith, to have faith in things not seen."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
36
|
None
|
"Well, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave, after breakfast, "which is to be our next job?"
"Why, sir, I think we had better all set to, to collect the branches and ends of the cocoa-nut trees cut down, and stack them for fuel. Tommy and Juno have already made a good large pile, and I think, by to-night, we shall have made the stack, and so arranged it that the rain will not get into it much. After that, as the weather will not permit us to leave the house for any time, we will cut our salt-pan and make our fish-pond; they will take a week at least, and then we shall have little more to do near home. I think the strength of the rains is over already, and perhaps in a fortnight we may venture to walk through the wood, and examine what we have saved from the wreck."
"And we are to explore the island; are we not, Ready?" said William. "I long to do that."
"Yes, William, but that must be almost the last job; for we shall be away for two or three nights, perhaps, and we must look out for fine weather. We will, however, do that before we bring the stores round in the boat."
"But how are we to make the salt-pan, Ready? We must cut it out of the solid rock."
"Yes, William; but I have three or four of what they call cold chisels, and with one of them and a hammer, we shall get on faster than you think; for the coral rock, although hard at the surface, is soft a little below it."
The whole of that day was employed in piling up the cocoa-nut branches and wood. Ready made a square stack, like a haystack, with a gable top, over which he tied the long branches, so that the rain would pour off it.
"There," said Ready, as he came down the ladder, "that will be our provision for next year; we have quite enough left to go on with till the rainy season is over, and we shall have no difficulty in collecting it afterwards when the weather is dry."
Mr. Seagrave sighed and looked grave; Ready observed it, and said, "Mr. Seagrave, it is not that we may want it; but still we must prepare for the next rainy season, in case we do want it. That Captain Osborn, if he lives, will send to look for us, I have no doubt; nay, I believe that Mackintosh will do the same; but still you must not forget that they all may have perished, although we have been so mercifully preserved. We must put our trust in God, sir."
"We must, Ready; and if it is his will, we must not murmur. I have schooled myself as much as possible; but thoughts will come in spite of my endeavours to restrain them."
"Of course they will, sir; that's natural: however, sir, you must hope for the best; fretting is no good, and it is sinful."
"I feel it is, Ready; and when I see how patient, and even happy, my wife is under such privations, I am angry with myself."
"A woman, sir, bears adversity better than a man. A woman is all love, and if she has but her husband and children with her, and in good health, she will make herself happy almost anywhere: but men are different: they cannot bear being shut out of the world as you are now."
"It is our ambition which makes us unhappy, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave; "but let us say no more about it: God must dispose of me as he thinks fit."
After supper, Ready, being requested by William, continued his narrative.
"I left off, if I recollect right, William, just as the Hottentot, with the cattle under his care, had frightened away the baboons who were tormenting us. Well, we came out of the cave and sat down under the rock, so that the Hottentot could not see us, and we had a sort of council of war. Romer was for going back and giving ourselves up again; for he said it was ridiculous to be wandering about without any arms to defend ourselves against wild beasts, and that we might fall in with something worse than the baboons very soon; and he was right. It would have been the wisest thing which we could have done; but Hastings said, that if we went back we should be laughed at, and the idea of being laughed at made us all agree that we would not. Bear this in mind, William, and never let the fear of ridicule induce you to do what is wrong; or if you have done wrong, prevent you from returning to what is your duty."
"Many thanks for your advice, Ready; I hope William will not forget it," said Mr. Seagrave.
"Well, sir, such was our reason for not giving up our mad scheme; and having so decided, the next point of consultation between us was, how we were to procure arms and ammunition, which we could not do without. As we were talking this over, I peeped from behind the rock to see where the Hottentot might be; I perceived that he had laid himself down, and wrapped himself up in his kross, a mantle of sheep-skins which they always wear. Now we had observed that he carried his musket in his hand, when we first saw him, as the Hottentots always go out armed, and I pointed out to Hastings and Romer that if he was asleep, we might get possession of his musket without his perceiving it. This was a good idea, and Hastings said he would crawl to him on his hands and knees, while we remained behind the rock. He did so very cautiously, and found the man's head covered up in his kross and fast asleep; so there was no fear, for the Hottentots are very hard to wake at any time; that we knew well. Hastings first took the musket and carried it away out of the reach of the Hottentot, and then he returned to him, cut the leather thong which slung his powder-horn and ammunition, and retreated with all of them without disturbing the man from his sleep. We were quite overjoyed at this piece of good luck, and determined to walk very cautiously some distance from where the Hottentot lay, that in case he awoke he should not see us. Keeping our eyes about in every direction, lest we should meet with anybody else, we proceeded nearly a mile towards Table Bay, when we fell in with a stream of water. This was another happy discovery, for we were very thirsty; so we concealed ourselves near the stream after we had quenched our thirst, and made a dinner off the provisions we had brought with us."
"But, Ready, did you not do wrong to steal the Hottentot's musket?"
"No, William; in that instance it could not be considered as a theft. We were in an enemy's country, trying to escape; we were therefore just as much at war with the country as we were when they took us prisoners, and we no more stole the musket than they could be said to have stolen our ship. Am I not right, Mr. Seagrave?"
"I believe you are justified in what may seem extreme acts for the recovery of your liberty, after you have been made prisoners. It has always been so considered."
"Well, sir, to go on: we waited till dusk, and then we continued our march towards False Bay as fast as we could. We knew that there were farmers down in the valley, or rather on the sides of the hills, and we hoped to obtain, by some means or other, two more muskets. It was near twelve o'clock at night, with a bright moon, when we had a sight of the water in False Bay, and soon afterwards we heard the baying of a large dog, and not far from us we distinguished two or three farmhouses, with their cattle-folds and orchards. We then looked for a hiding-place, where we might remain till the morning; we found one between some large pieces of rock. We agreed that one should watch while the other two slept; this Hastings undertook to do, as he was not inclined to sleep. At daylight he woke Romer and me, and we made our breakfast. From the place we were concealed in, we had a bird's-eye view of the farmhouse, and of what was going on.
"The farmhouse and buildings just below us were much smaller than the other two, which were more distant. We watched the people as they went about. In about an hour the Hottentots came out, and we perceived that they were yoking the oxen to the waggon; they yoked twelve pair, and then the Hottentot driver got in and drove off towards Cape Town. Soon after that, another Hottentot drove the cows up the valley to feed; and then a Dutch woman came out of the house with two children, and fed the poultry.
"We watched for another hour, and then the farmer himself made his appearance, with a pipe in his mouth, and sat down on a bench. When his pipe was out, he called to the house, and a Hottentot woman came to him with more tobacco and a light. During the whole of the day we did not see any other people about the house, so we concluded that there were no more than the farmer, his wife, the Hottentot woman, and two children. About two hours after noon the farmer went to the stable and led out his horse, mounted, mid rode away; we saw him speak to the Hottentot woman when he rode off, and she soon after went down the valley with a basket on her head, and a long knife in her hand. Then Hastings said it was time that we moved, for there was but one woman in the house, and we could easily overpower her and get what we wanted; still there was a great risk, as she might give the alarm, and we should have to escape in the day-time, and might be seen and taken prisoners again. However, as it was our only chance, we resolved to go down to the farmhouse very cautiously, and be all ready to seize any opportunity. We crept down the hill, and gained the fence, which was at the back of the farmhouse, without being discovered: we remained there for about a quarter of an hour, when, to our great joy, we observed the farmer's wife go out of the house, leading a child in each hand; apparently she was going to visit one of her neighbours, for she went in the direction of one of the other farms. As soon as she was a hundred yards off, Hastings crept softly through the fence, and entered the farmhouse by the back-door; he came out again, and made a sign for us to come in. We found him already in possession of a rifle and a musket, which had been hanging over the fire-place, and we soon handed down the powder-horns and ammunition pouches, which were hung up at a different part of the room, away from the fire-place.
"Having gained these, Hastings set me to watch at the front door, lest anybody should return, while Romer and he looked out for something else in the way of provisions. We got possession of three hams, and a large loaf of bread as big as a small washing-tub. With these articles we made our way safe back to our retreat. We then looked round, and could see nobody in any direction, so we presumed that we were not discovered. As there was a sort of ravine full of rocks dividing the hill, which we were obliged to pass before we could get into the valley, unless we went down close to the farmhouse, we agreed that it would be better at once to cross it during the day-time, so that we should get that difficulty over, and, at the same time, be further from the farmhouse. We did so; and found a very secure hiding-place, where we lay down, waiting for the sun to set before we started on our journey into the interior. I think I had better leave off now, William, as it is getting late."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
37
|
None
|
The fishpond was commenced the next morning. Ready, Mr. Seagrave, and William went down together to the beach, and, after much examination, chose a spot about one hundred yards from the turtle-pond as most eligible for the purpose; the water being shallow, so that at the part farthest from the shore there would not be more than three feet.
"Now, sir," said Ready, "this is a very simple job; all we have to do is to collect small rocks and stones, pile them up wall-fashion inside, and with a slope outside, so as to break the force of the waves when the water is a little rough; of course, the water will find its way through the stones, and will be constantly changed. It's very true, that we can at most times catch fish when we want them, but it is not always that we can spare the time, so it's just as well to have always a certain quantity at hand, to take out at a moment's warning; and we can, of course, catch them and put them in here when we have nothing else to do. Juno will be able to come down and take them out with a spear, when we are away and she wants something for dinner."
"But there are few stones about here, Ready; we shall have to fetch them a long way," said William.
"Well, then, William, let us get the wheels down here, and then we can carry a quantity at a time."
"But how shall we carry them, Ready?"
"We will sling a tub on the axle; I will go up and get that ready and bring it down; in the meantime, you and Mr. Seagrave can collect all the stones which are near at hand."
Ready soon returned with the wheels, and the tub slung with rope on the axle, and by that means they found that they could collect the stones very fast; Mr. Seagrave and William bringing them, and Ready in the water, building up the wall.
"We have quite forgot another job which we must put in hand, sir," observed Ready; "but the fish-pond reminds me of it."
"What is that, Ready?"
"A bathing-place for the children, and indeed for us all; we shall want it when the hot weather comes on, but we will put it off till then. I can tell you, sir, that although I don't mind building this wall in the shallow water, I shall be very careful when the water is up to my knees, for you don't know how bold the sharks are in these latitudes. When I was at St. Helena, not very long ago, we had a melancholy proof of it."
"Tell us the story, Ready."
"Well, two soldiers were standing on the rocks at St. Helena; the rocks were out of the water, but the swell just broke over them. Two sharks swam up to them, and one of them, with a blow of his tail, turning round the same way, tripped one of them into the water, which was very deep. His comrade was very much frightened, and ran to the barracks to tell the story. About a week afterwards, a schooner was in Sandy Bay, on the other side of the island, and the people seeing a very large shark under the stern, put out a hook with a piece of pork, and caught him; they opened him, and found inside of him, to their horror, the whole of the body of the soldier, except the legs below the knees: the monster had swallowed him whole, with the exception of his legs, which it had nipped off when it closed its jaws."
"I really had no idea that they were so bold, Ready."
"It is a fact, I assure you; and therefore we cannot be too careful how we go into the water: you saw how soon the poor pig was despatched."
"I wonder how the pigs get on, Ready," said William.
"I dare say they have littered by this time, sir; they have no want of food."
"But can they eat the cocoa-nuts?"
"Not the old ones, but they can the young ones, which are constantly dropping from the trees, and then there's plenty of roots for them. If we stay long here we shall soon have good sport hunting them; but we must be very careful; for although they were tame pigs when we brought them on shore, they will be wild and very savage in a very short time."
"How must we hunt them?" said Mr. Seagrave.
"Why, sir, with the dogs, and then shoot them. I am glad that Vixen will have pups soon; we shall want more dogs."
"Shall we not have more mouths than we can find food for?"
"Never fear that, sir, as long as we have the sea to fish in. Dogs live very well upon fish, even if it is raw."
"We shall have some lambs soon, Ready, shall we not?"
"Yes, sir, I expect very soon. I wish we had more food for the animals: they are put rather hard to it just now; but next year, if we find more food on the island, we must keep the grass near home, to make hay and stack it for the winter time - or the rainy season rather, for there is no winter in these latitudes. I'm pretty sure we shall find some clear land on the south of the island, for the cocoa-nut grove does not extend so close to the water on that side as it does on the north."
"I do so long to go on our exploring party," said William.
"We must wait a little," replied Ready; "but I don't know whether you will go; we must not all three go at once, and leave Mrs. Seagrave alone."
"No," replied Mr. Seagrave, "that would not be fair; either you or I must remain, William."
William made no reply, but it was evident that he was annoyed at the idea of not being of the party. They worked very hard that day, and the walls rose fast out of the water.
After supper, Ready continued his narrative. "We remained concealed until it was dark, and then Hastings and Romer, each with a musket on his shoulders and a ham at his back; and I, being the smallest, with the rifle and the great loaf of bread, set off on our journey. Our intention was to travel north, as we knew that was the road leading from the colony; but Hastings had decided that we should first go to the eastward, so as to make what we sailors call a circumbendibus, which would keep us out of the general track. We passed through the deep sands of False Bay, and after that gradually ascended, getting among brushwood and young trees; but we saw no signs of cultivation, nor did we pass one house after we had left False Bay astern of us. About twelve o'clock we were very much fatigued, and longed for a drink of water, but we did not find any, although the moon shone as bright as day. We distinctly heard, however, what we did not much like, the howling and cries of the wild beasts which increased as we went on; still we did not see any, and that was our comfort. At last we were so tired that we all sat down on the ledge of a rock. We dared not go to sleep, so we remained there till daylight, listening to the howling of the animals. We none of us spoke, and I presume that Hastings' and Romer's thoughts were the same as my own, which were, that I would have given a great deal to find myself safe and sound again within the prison walls. However, daylight came at last; the wild beasts did not prowl any more; we walked on till we found a stream of water, where we sat down and took our breakfast, after which our courage revived, and we talked and laughed as we walked on, just as we had done before. We now began to ascend the mountains, which Hastings said must be the Black Mountains that the soldiers had talked to us about. They were very desolate; and when night came on we collected brushwood, and cut down branches with our knives, that we might make a fire, not only to warm ourselves, but to scare away the wild beasts, whose howling had already commenced. We lighted our fire and ate our supper; the loaf was half gone, and the hams had been well cut into - we knew, therefore, that very soon we should have to trust to our guns for procuring food. As soon as we had finished our meal, we lay down by the fire, with our muskets loaded close to us, and our ammunition placed out of danger. We were so tired that we were soon fast asleep. It had been agreed that Romer should keep the first watch, and Hastings the middle, and I the morning; but Romer fell asleep, and the consequence was, that the fire was not kept up. It was about midnight that I was awakened by something breathing hard in my face, and just as I could recall my senses and open my eyes, I found myself lifted up by my waistband, and the teeth of some animal pinching my flesh. I tried to catch at my musket, but I put out my wrong hand, and laid hold of a still lighted brand out of the fire, which I darted into the animal's face; it let me drop directly, and ran away."
"What a providential escape!" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"Yes, it was, ma'am; the animal was a hyena. Fortunately they are a very cowardly sort of beast; still, had it not been for the lighted stick, it would have carried me off, for I was very small then, and it lifted me up as if I was a feather in its mouth. The shout I gave woke Hastings, who seized his musket and fired. I was very much frightened, as you may suppose. As for Romer, he never woke till we pushed him hard, he was so completely knocked up. This affair, of course, made us more cautious, and afterwards we lighted two fires, and slept between them, one always remaining on the watch. For a week we travelled on, and as soon as we were over the mountains, we turned our heads to the northward. Our provisions were all gone, and we were one day without any; but we killed an antelope called a spring-bock, which gave us provisions for three or four days: there was no want of game after we had descended into the plain. I forgot to mention, however, a narrow escape we had, just before we had left an extensive forest on the side of the mountain. We had walked till past noon, and were very much tired; we decided upon taking our dinner under a large tree, and we threw ourselves down in the shade. Hastings was lying on his back, with his eyes looking upwards, when he perceived on the lower branch of the tree a panther, which lay along it, his green eyes fixed upon us, and ready to spring; he seized his musket, and fired it without taking aim, for there was no time; but the ball entered the stomach of the animal, and, as it appeared, divided its back-bone. Down came the beast, within three or four feet of where we lay, with a loud roar, and immediately crouched to spring upon Romer; but it could not, for the back-bone being broken, it had not any power in its hinder quarters, so it raised up its fore quarters, and then dropped down again. I never saw such rage and fury in an animal in my life. At first we were too much frightened to fire; but, perceiving that the beast could not spring, Hastings snatched the musket from Romer and shot it through the head.
"We were now obliged to hunt for our livelihood, and we became bolder than ever. Our clothes were all in rags; but we had plenty of powder and ammunition; there were hundreds and hundreds of antelopes and gnus in the plain - indeed, sometimes it was impossible to count them. But this plentiful supply of game was the cause of our being in greater danger, for now, for the first time, we heard the roar of the lions every night. We made large fires to keep them off, but they often made us tremble when they came near to us."
"Did you ever meet with one in the day-time?" said William.
"Yes, sir; we often saw them, but they never attacked us, and we were too much afraid to fire at them. Once we met one face to face. We had killed an antelope called a hartebeest, and, with our muskets on our shoulders, were running to secure it. Just as we came up to the spot, we beard a roar, and found ourselves not ten yards from a lion, who was lying on the top of the beast we had killed, his eyes flashing fire at us, and half raising himself, as if ready for a spring. We all took to our heels as fast as we could. I never looked back till I was out of breath: but the lion was content with our running away, and did not take the trouble to follow us. Well, sir, we had been travelling, we really hardly knew where, but certainly in a northerly direction, for three weeks, and were quite worn out: we now all agreed that we had done a very foolish thing, and would gladly have gone back again. For my part, I declare that I was willing to lie down and die, if I could have so done, and I became quite indifferent to the roaring of the lions, and felt as if I should be glad if one would have made a meal of me. At length, one morning, we fell in with a party of natives. They were of the Karroo tribe, as they told us by pointing to themselves, and saying, `Karroos', and then they pointed to us, and said `Dutch'. We shot game, and gave it to them, which pleased them very much, and they remained with us for five or six days. We tried by signs to inquire of them, if there were any Dutch settlement about there; and they understood us, and said that there was, in a direction which they pointed out to us, to the north-east. We offered them a present if they would show us the way. Two of the men agreed to go with us; the rest of the tribe, with the women and children, went southward. The next day we arrived at a Dutch settlement of three or four farmhouses, called Graaff Reinet; but I must leave off now, for it is past bed-time."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
38
|
None
|
The construction of the fish-pond proceeded rapidly, and on the third day it was nearly complete. As soon as all the walls were finished, Ready threw out sand and shingle, so as to make the part next to the beach nearly as deep as the other; so that there might be sufficient water to prevent the gulls and man-of-war birds from darting down, and striking the fish. While Ready was thus employed, Mr. Seagrave and William collected more rocks, so as to divide the pond into four parts, at the same time allowing a communication between each part. These inside walls, as well as the outside, were made of sufficient width to walk upon; by which means they would have all the fish within reach of the spear, in case they wished to take them out. The day after the pond was completed the weather changed. The rain poured down with great force, but it was not accompanied with such terrific thunder and lightning, nor were the storms of so long continuance, as at the commencement of the rainy season. In the intervals of fine weather they caught a great many fish, which they put into the pond, so that it was well stocked. But a circumstance occurred, which was the occasion of great alarm to them all; which was, that one evening William was taken with a shivering, and complained very much of a pain in his head. Ready had promised to continue his narrative on that evening, but William was too ill to sit up. He was put into bed, and the next morning he was in a violent fever. Mr. Seagrave was much alarmed, as the symptoms were worse every hour; and Ready, who had sat up with him during the night, called Mr. Seagrave out of the house, and said, "This is a bad case, sir: William was working yesterday with his hat off, and I fear that he has been struck by the sun."
The poor boy was for many days in great danger; and the cheerful house was now one of gloom and silence. How fervent were now the morning and evening prayers; how often during the day did his parents offer up a petition to heaven for their dear boy's recovery. The weather became finer every day, and it was almost impossible to keep Tommy quiet: Juno went out with him and Albert every morning, and kept them with her while she cooked; and, fortunately, Vixen had some young ones, and when Juno could no longer amuse them, she brought them two of the puppies to play with. As for the quiet, meek little Caroline, she would remain during the whole day holding her mother's hand, and watching her brother, or working with her needle by the side of his bed.
Ready, who could not be idle, had taken the hammer and cold chisel to make the salt-pan, at which he worked during those portions of the day in which his services were not required indoors; and as he sat chipping away the rock, his thoughts were ever upon William, for he dearly loved the boy for his amiable disposition and his cleverness; and many a time during the day would he stop his work, and the tears would run down his cheeks as he offered up his petition to the Almighty that the boy might be spared to his afflicted parents. And those prayers were heard, for on the ninth day William was pronounced by Ready and Mr. Seagrave to have much less fever, and shortly afterwards it left him altogether; but he was so weak that he could not raise himself in his bed for two or three days; and it was not till more than a fortnight after the fever had left him that he could go out of the house. The joy that was expressed by them all when the change took place may be imagined: nor were the thanksgivings less fervent than had been the prayers.
During his convalescence, as there was nothing else to do, Mr. Seagrave and Ready, who now went gladly to their work, determined, as the salt-pan was finished, that they would make a bathing-place. Juno came to their assistance, and was very useful in assisting to drag the wheels which brought the rocks and stones; and Tommy was also brought down, that he might be out of the way while Mrs. Seagrave and Caroline watched the invalid. By the time that William was able to go out of the house, the bathing-place was finished, and there was no longer any fear of the sharks. William came down to the beach with his mother, and looked at the work which had been done; he was much pleased with it, and said, "Now, Ready, we have finished everything at home for the present; all we have to do is to explore the island, and to go to the cove and examine our collection from the wreck."
"Very true, William; and the weather has been so fine, that I think we may venture upon one or the other in a few days more; but not till you are stronger."
"I shall soon be strong again, Ready."
"I have no doubt of it, William; and we have good reason to thank God, for we could ill spare you."
"It's a long while since you have gone on with your story, Ready," said William, after they had taken their supper; "I wish you would do so now, as I am sure I shall not be tired."
"With pleasure, William," replied Ready; "but can you remember where I left off, for my memory is none of the best?"
"Oh, yes; if you recollect, you had just arrived at a Dutch farmer's house, in company with the savages, at a place called Graaff Reinet, I think."
"Well then, the Dutch farmer came out when he saw us coming, and asked us who we were. We told him that we were English prisoners, and that we wished to give ourselves up to the authorities. He took away our arms and ammunition, and said that he was the authority in that part, which was true enough; and then he said, `You'll not run away without arms and ammunition, that's certain. As for sending you to the Cape, that I may not be able to do for months; so if you wish to be fed well, you must work well while you're here.' We replied, that we should be very glad to make ourselves useful, and then he sent us some dinner by a Hottentot girl. But we soon found out that we had to deal with an ill-tempered, brutal fellow; and that he gave us plenty of hard work, but by no means plenty of food. He would not trust us with guns, so the Hottentots went out with the cattle, but he gave us plenty of work to do about the house; and at last he treated us very cruelly. When he was short of provisions for the Hottentots and other slaves, of whom he bad a good many, he would go out with the other farmers who lived near him, and shoot quaggas for them to eat. Nobody but a Hottentot could live upon such flesh."
"What is quagga?"
"A wild ass, partly covered with stripes, but not so much as the zebra; a pretty animal to look at, but the flesh is very bad. At last he would give us nothing to eat but quaggas, the same as the Hottentots, while he and his family - for he had a wife and five children - lived upon mutton and the flesh of the antelope, which is very excellent eating. We asked him to allow us a gun to procure better food, and he kicked Romer so unmercifully, that he could not work for two days afterwards. Our lives became quite a burden to us; we were employed all day on the farm, and every day he was more brutal towards us. At last we agreed that we would stand it no longer, and one evening Hastings told him so. This put him into a great rage, and he called two of the slaves, and ordered them to tie him to the waggon wheel, swearing that he would cut every bit of skin off his body, and he went into his house to get his whip. The slaves had hold of Hastings, and were tying him up, for they dared not disobey their master, when he said to us, `If I am flogged this way, it will be all over with us. Now's your time; run back behind the house, and when he comes out with the whip, do you go in and seize the muskets, which are always ready loaded. Hold him at bay till I get clear, and then we will get away somehow or other. You must do it, for I am sure he will flog me till I am dead, and he will shoot you, as runaway prisoners, as he did his two Hottentots the other day.' As Romer and I thought this very probable, we did as Hastings told us; and when the Dutchman had gone towards him where he was tied up, about fifty yards from the house, we went in. The farmer's wife was in bed, having just had an addition to her family, and the children we cared not for. We seized two muskets and a large knife, and came out just as the Dutchman had struck the first blow with the rhinoceros whip, which was so severe, that it took away poor Hastings' breath. We went up; he turned round and saw us: we levelled our muskets at him, and he stopped. `Another blow, and we'll shoot you,' cried Romer. `Yes,' cried I; `we are only boys, but you've Englishmen to deal with.' When we came up, Romer kept his piece levelled at the Dutchman, while I passed him, and with the knife cut the thongs which bound Hastings. The Dutchman turned pale and did not speak, he was so frightened, and the slaves ran away. As soon as Hastings was free, he seized a large wooden mallet, used for driving in stakes, and struck the Dutchman down to the earth, crying out, `That for flogging an Englishman, you rascal!'
"While the man lay senseless or dead - I didn't know which at the time - we tied him to the waggon wheels, and returning to the house, seized some ammunition and other articles which might be useful. We then went to the stables, and took the three best horses which the Dutchman had, put some corn in a sack for each of them, took some cord for halters, mounted, and rode away as fast as we could. As we knew that we should be pursued, we first galloped away as if we were going eastward to the Cape; and then, as soon as we were on ground which would not show the tracks of our horses' hoofs, we turned round to the northward, in the direction of the Bushman country. It was dark soon after we had altered our course; but we travelled all night, and although we heard the roaring of the lions at a distance, we met with no accident. At daylight we rested our horses, and gave them some corn, and then sat down to eat some of the provision we had brought with us."
"How long were you with the farmer at Graaff Reinet?"
"Nearly eight months, sir; and during that time we could not only speak Dutch, but we could make ourselves understood by the Hottentots and other natives. While we were eating we held a consultation how we should proceed. We were aware that the Dutchmen would shoot us if they came up with us, and that they would come out in strong force against us; and we were afraid that we had killed the man, and if so, they would hang us as soon as we got to the Cape; so we were at a great loss to know how to act. At last we decided that we would cross the country of the Bushmen, and get to the sea-side, to the northward of the Cape. We determined that it would be better to travel at night, as there would be less fear of the wild beasts, or of being seen; so we went fast asleep for many hours. Towards the evening, we found water for the horses, and then we fed them again, and proceeded on our journey. I won't tell what passed every day for a fortnight, by which time we had pretty well killed our horses, and we were compelled to stop among a tribe of Gorraguas, a very mild, inoffensive people, who supplied us with milk, and treated us very kindly. We had some adventures, nevertheless. One day as we were passing by a tuft of small trees, a rhinoceros charged upon my horse, which very narrowly escaped by wheeling short round and getting behind him; the beast then made off without meddling with us any more. Every day we used to shoot some animal or other, for provision: sometimes it was a gnu, something between an antelope and a bull; at other times it was one of the antelope kind.
"Well, we stayed for three weeks with these people, and gave our horses time to refresh themselves; and then we set off again, keeping more towards the coast as we went southward, for the Gorraguas told us that there was a fierce native tribe, called Kaffers, to the northward, who would certainly kill us if we went there. The fact is, we did not know what to do. We had left the Cape without any exact idea where we should go to, like foolish boys as we were, and we became more entangled with difficulties every day. At last we decided that it would be better to find our way back to the Cape, and deliver ourselves up as prisoners, for we were tired out with fatigue and constant danger. All that we were afraid of was that we had killed the Dutch farmer at Graaff Reinet, who had treated us so brutally; but Hastings said he did not care; that was his business, and he would take his chance: so when we bade adieu to the Gorraguas, we turned our horses' heads to the south-east, so as to make the sea and go to the southward at the same time.
"I have now to mention a most melancholy event which occurred. Two days after we had recommenced our travels, in passing through some high grass, we stumbled on a lion, which was devouring a gnu. Romer, who happened to be some ten yards foremost of the three, was so alarmed that he fired at the animal, which we had agreed never to do, as it was folly to enrage so powerful a beast, when our party was so small. The lion was slightly wounded; he gave a roar that might have been heard for a mile, sprang upon Romer, and with one blow of his paw knocked him off the saddle into the bushes. Our horses, which were frightened, wheeled round and fled, for the animal was evidently about to attack us. As it was, he did make one bound in our direction; we could not pull up until we had gone half a mile; and when we did, we saw the lion had torn down the horse which Romer had ridden, and was dragging away the carcass to the right at a sort of a canter, without any apparent effort on his part. We waited till he was well off, and then rode back to the spot where Romer had fallen: we soon found him, but he was quite dead; the blow with the lion's paw had fractured his skull.
"I ought to have said that the Gorraguas told us not to travel by night, but by day; and we had done so in consequence of their advice. I believe it was very good advice, notwithstanding this unfortunate accident, for we found that when we had travelled all night the lions had more than once followed us the whole time; and indeed I have often thought since that we were altogether indebted to his mercy who ordereth all things, both in heaven and earth, that we escaped so well as we did. Three days after poor Romer's death we first saw the wide ocean again. We kept near the coast, but we soon found that we could not obtain the supply of game, or fuel for our fires at night, so well as we could in the interior, and we agreed to get away from the coast again. We had a dreary plain to pass over, and we were quite faint for want of food - for we had been without any for nearly two days - when we came upon an ostrich. Hastings put his horse to his speed, but it was of no use - the ostrich ran much faster than the horse could. I remained behind, and, to my great joy, discovered his nest, with thirteen large eggs in it. Hastings soon came back, with his horse panting and out of wind. We sat down, lighted a fire, and roasted two of the eggs: we made a good dinner of them, and having put four more on our saddle-bows, we continued our journey. At last, one forenoon, we saw the Table Mountain, and were as glad to see it as if we had seen the white cliffs of Old England. We pushed on our horses with the hopes of being once more comfortably in prison before night; when, as we neared the bay, we noticed that English colours were flying on board of the vessels in the road. This surprised us very much; but soon after that we met an English soldier, who told us that the Cape had been taken by our forces more than six months ago. This was a joyful surprise, as you may suppose. We rode into the town, and reported ourselves to the main guard; the governor sent for us, heard our story, and sent us to the admiral, who took us on board of his own ship."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
39
|
None
|
The next morning, as there was no particular work on hand, Ready and Mr. Seagrave took the lines to add to the stock of the fish-pond. As the weather was fine and cool, William accompanied them, that he might have the benefit of the fresh air. As they passed the garden, they observed that the seeds sown had already sprung up an inch or two above the ground, and that, apparently none of them had missed. While Ready and Mr. Seagrave were fishing, and William sitting near them, William said to his father-- "Many of the islands near us are inhabited; are they not, papa?"
"Yes, but not those very near us, I believe. At all events, I never heard any voyagers mention having seen inhabitants on the isles near which we suppose the one we are on to be."
"What sort of people are the islanders in these seas?"
"They are various. The New Zealanders are the most advanced in civilization. The natives of Van Diemen's Land and Australia are some portions of them of a very degraded class - indeed, little better than the beasts of the field."
"I have seen them," said Ready; "and I think I can mention a people, not very numerous indeed, who are still more like the beasts of the field. I saw them once; and, at first, thought they were animals, and not human beings."
"Indeed, Ready; where may that be?"
"In the Great Andaman Isles, at the mouth of the Bay of Bengal. I once anchored in distress in Port Cornwallis, and the morning after we anchored, we saw some black things going upon all fours under the trees that came down to the water's edge. We got the telescope, and perceived then that they were men and women, for they stood upright."
"Did you ever come into contact with them?"
"No, sir, I did not; but I met, at Calcutta, a soldier who had; for at one time the East India Company intended making a settlement on the island, and sent some troops there. He said that they caught two of them; that they were not more than four feet high, excessively stupid and shy; they had no houses or huts to live in, and all that they did was to pile up some bushes to keep the wind off."
"Had they any arms?"
"Yes, sir, they had bows and arrows; but so miserably made, and so small, that they could not kill anything but very small birds."
"Where did the people come from who inhabited these islands, papa?"
"That is difficult to say, William; but it is supposed that they have become inhabited in much the same way as this our island has been - that is, by people in canoes or boats driven out to sea, and saving their lives by effecting a landing, as we have done."
"I believe that's the truth," replied Ready; "I heard say that the Andaman Isles were supposed to have been first inhabited by a slaver full of negroes, who were wrecked on the coast in a typhoon."
"What is a typhoon, Ready?"
"It is much the same as a hurricane, William; it comes on in India at the change of the monsoons."
"But what are monsoons?"
"Winds that blow regular from one quarter so many months during the year, and then change round and blow from another just as long."
"And what are the trade-winds, which I heard poor Captain Osborn talking about after we left Madeira?"
"The trade-winds blow on the equator, and several degrees north and south of it, from the east to the west, following the course of the sun."
"Is it the sun which produces these winds?"
"Yes, the extreme heat of the sun between the tropics rarefies the air as the earth turns round, and the trade-winds are produced by the rushing in of the less heated air."
"Yes, William; and the trade-winds produce what they call the Gulf Stream," observed Ready.
"How is that? I have heard it spoken of, papa."
"The winds, constantly following the sun across the Atlantic Ocean, and blowing from east to west, have great effect upon the sea, which is forced up into the Gulf of Mexico (where it is stopped by the shores of America), so that it is many feet higher in the Gulf than in the eastern part of the Atlantic. This accumulation of water must of course find a vent somewhere, and it does in what is called the Gulf Stream, by which the waters are poured out, running very strong to the northward, along the shores of America, and then eastward, passing not far from Newfoundland, until its strength is spent somewhere to the northward of the Azores."
"The Gulf Stream, William," said Ready, "is always several degrees warmer than the sea in general, which is, they say, owing to its waters remaining in the Gulf of Mexico so long, where the heat of the sun is so great."
"What do you mean by the land and sea breezes in the West Indies, and other hot climates, papa?"
"It is the wind first blowing off from the shore, and then blowing from the sea towards the shore, during certain hours of the day, which it does regularly every twenty-four hours. This is also the effect of the heat of the sun. The sea breeze commences in the morning, and in the afternoon it dies away, when the land breeze commences, which lasts till midnight."
"There are latitudes close to the trade-winds," said Ready, "where the wind is not certain, where ships have been becalmed for weeks; the crews have exhausted the water on board, and they have suffered dreadfully. We call them the Horse latitudes - why, I do not know. But it is time for us to leave off, and for Master William to go into the house."
They returned home, and after supper Ready went on with his narrative.
"I left off at the time that I was sent on board of the man-of-war, and I was put down on the books as a supernumerary boy. I was on board of her for nearly four years, and we were sent about from port to port, and from clime to clime, until I grew a strong, tall lad, and was put into the mizen-top. I found it very comfortable. I did my duty, and the consequence was, I never was punished; for a man may serve on board of a man-of-war without fear of being punished, if he only does his duty, and the duty is not very hard either; not like on board of the merchant vessels, where there are so few hands - there it is hard work. Of course, there are some captains who command men-of-war who are harsh and severe; but it was my good fortune to be with a very mild and steady captain, who was very sorry when he was obliged to punish the men, although he would not overlook any improper conduct. The only thing which was a source of constant unhappiness to me was, that I could not get to England again, and see my mother. I had written two or three letters, but never had an answer; and at last I became so impatient that I determined to run away the very first opportunity which might offer. We were then stationed in the West Indies, and I had very often consultations with Hastings on the subject, for he was quite as anxious to get away as I was; and we had agreed that we would start off together the very first opportunity. At last we anchored in Port Royal, Jamaica, and there was a large convoy of West India ships, laden with sugar, about to sail immediately. We knew that if we could get on board of one, they would secrete us until the time of sailing, for they were short-handed enough, the men-of-war having pressed every man they could lay their hands upon. There was but one chance, and that was by swimming on board of one of the vessels during the night-time, and that was easy enough, as they were anchored not a hundred yards from our own ship. What we were afraid of was the sharks, which were so plentiful in the harbour. However, the night before the convoy was to sail we made up our minds that we would run the risk, for we were so impatient to escape that we did not care for anything. It was in the middle watch - I recollect it, and shall recollect it all my life, as if it were last night - that we lowered ourselves down very softly from the bows of the ship, and as soon as we were in the water we struck out for one of the West Indiamen close to us. The sentry at the gangway saw the light in the water made by our swimming through it, and he hailed, of course; we gave no answer, but swam as fast as we could; for after he had hailed we heard a bustle, and we knew that the officer of the watch was manning a boat to send after us. I had just caught hold of the cable of the West Indiaman, and was about to climb up by it, for I was a few yards before Hastings, when I heard a loud shriek, and, turning round, perceived a shark plunging down with Hastings in his jaws. I was so frightened, that for a short time I could not move: at last I recovered myself, and began to climb up by the cable as fast as I could. I was just in time, for another shark made a rush at me; and although I was clear out of the water more than two feet, he sprung up and just caught my shoe by the heel, which he took down with him. Fear gave me strength, and in a second or two afterwards I was up at the hawse-holes, and the men on board, who had been looking over the bows, and had witnessed poor Hastings' death, helped me on board, and hurried me down below, for the boat from our ship was now nearly alongside. When the officer of the boat came on board, they told him they had perceived us both in the water, close to their vessel, and that the sharks had taken us down. As the shriek of Hastings was heard by the people in the boat, the officer believed that it was the case, and returned to the ship. I heard the drum beat to quarters on board of the man-of-war, that they might ascertain who were the two men who had attempted to swim away, and a few minutes afterwards they beat the retreat, having put down D. D. against my name on the books, as well as against that of poor Hastings."
"What does D. D. mean?"
"D. stands for discharged from the service; D. D. stands for dead," replied Ready; "and it was only through the mercy of Providence that I was not so."
"It was a miraculous escape indeed," observed Mr. Seagrave.
"Yes, indeed, sir; I can hardly describe my sensations for some hours afterwards. I tried to sleep, but could not - I was in agony. The moment I slumbered, I thought the shark had hold of me, and I would start up and shriek; and then I said my prayers and tried to go to sleep again, but it was of no use. The captain of the West Indiaman was afraid that my shrieks would be heard, and he sent me down a tumbler of rum to drink off; this composed me, and at last I fell into a sound sleep. When I awoke, I found that the ship was under weigh and with all canvas set, surrounded by more than a hundred other vessels; the men-of-war who took charge of the convoy, firing guns and making signals incessantly. It was a glorious sight, and we were bound for Old England. I felt so happy, that I thought I would risk the jaws of another shark to have regained my liberty, and the chance of being once more on shore in my own country, and able to go to Newcastle and see my poor mother."
"I am afraid that your miraculous escape did you very little good, Ready," observed Mrs. Seagrave, "if you got over it so soon."
"Indeed, madam, it was not so; that was only the feeling which the first sight of the vessels under weigh for England produced upon me. I can honestly say that I was a better and more serious person. The very next night, when I was in my hammock, I prayed very fervently; and there happened to be a very good old Scotchman on board, the second mate, who talked very seriously to me, and pointed out how wonderful had been my preservation, and I felt it. It was he who first read the Bible with me, and made me understand it, and, I may say, become fond of it. I did my duty on our passage home as a seaman before the mast, and the captain was pleased with me. The ship I was in was bound to Glasgow, and we parted company with the convoy at North Foreland, and arrived safe in port. The captain took me to the owners, who paid me fifteen guineas for my services during the voyage home; and as soon as I received the money, I set off for Newcastle as fast as I could. I had taken a place on the outside of the coach, and I entered into conversation with a gentleman who sat next to me. I soon found out that he belonged to Newcastle, and I first inquired if Mr. Masterman, the ship-builder, was still alive. He told me that he had been dead about three months. `And to whom did he leave his money?' I asked, `for he was very rich, and had no kin.' `He had no relations,' replied the gentleman, `and he left all his money to build an hospital and almshouses. He had a partner in his business latterly, and he left the yard and all the stores to him, I believe, because he did not know whom to leave it to. There was a lad whom I knew for certain he intended to have adopted and to have made his heir - a lad of the name of Ready; but he ran away to sea, and has never been heard of since. It is supposed that he was lost in a prize, for he was traced so far. Foolish boy that he was. He might now have been a man of fortune.' " `Very foolish indeed,' replied I. "`Yes; but he has harmed more than himself. His poor mother, who doted upon him, as soon as she heard that he was lost, pined away by degrees, and--' "`You don't mean to say that she is dead?' interrupted I, seizing the gentleman by the arm. " `Yes,' replied he, looking at me with surprise; `she died last year of a broken heart.'
"I fell back on the luggage behind me, and should have fallen off the coach if the gentleman had not held me. He called to the coachman to pull up the horses, and they took me down, and put me inside; and as the coach rolled on, I cried as if my heart would break."
Ready appeared so much affected, that Mr. Seagrave proposed that he should leave off his history for the present.
"Thank you, sir, it will be better; for I feel my old eyes dim with tears, even now. It's a dreadful thing in after-life to reflect upon, that your foolish conduct has hastened the death of a most kind mother; but so it was, William, and I give you the truth for your advantage."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
40
|
None
|
A few mornings afterwards, Juno came in before breakfast with six eggs in her apron, which she had found in the hen-house.
"Look, Missy Seagrave - fowls lay eggs - soon have plenty - plenty for Master William - make him well again - and plenty for chickens by and by."
"You haven't taken them all out of the nests, Juno; have you?"
"No; leave one in each nest for hen to see." " `Well, then, we will keep them for William, and I hope, as you say, they will make him strong again."
"I am getting quite strong now, mother," replied William; "I think it would be better to leave the eggs for the hens to sit upon."
"No, no, William; your health is of more consequence than having early chickens."
For a few days Mr. Seagrave and Ready were employed at the garden clearing away the weeds, which had begun to sprout up along with the seeds which had been sown; during which time William recovered very fast. The two first days, Juno brought in three or four eggs regularly; but on the third day there were none to be found. On the fourth day the hens appeared also not to have laid, much to the surprise of Mrs. Seagrave; as when hens commence laying eggs they usually continue. On the fifth morning, when they sat down to breakfast, Master Tommy did not make his appearance, and Mrs. Seagrave asked where he was.
"I suspect, madam," said Old Ready, laughing, "that Tommy will not come either to his breakfast or his dinner to-day."
"What can you mean, Ready?" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"Why, madam, I will tell you. I thought it very odd that there were no eggs, and I thought it probable that the hens might have laid astray; so I went about yesterday evening to search. I could not find any eggs, but I found the egg-shells, hid under some cocoa-nut leaves; and I argued, that if an animal, supposing there was any on the island, had taken the eggs, it would not have been so careful to hide the egg-shells. So, this morning, I fastened up the door of the hen-house, and only left open the little sliding door, by which the fowls go in to roost; and then, after you were up, I watched behind the trees, and saw Tommy come out, and go to the hen-house. He tried the door, and finding it fast, crept into the hen-house by the little sliding-door. As soon as he was in I let down the slide, and fastened it with a nail; so there he is, caught in his own trap."
"And there shall he remain all day, the little glutton!" said Mr. Seagrave.
"Yes, it will serve him right," replied Mrs. Seagrave; "and be a lesson to him."
Mr. Seagrave, Ready, and William, as usual, went down to their work; Mrs. Seagrave and Juno, with little Caroline, were busy indoors. Tommy remained very quiet for an hour, when he commenced roaring; but it was of no use, no one paid any attention to him. At dinner-time he began to roar again, but with as little success: it was not till the evening that the door of the hen-house was opened, and Tommy permitted to come out. He looked very foolish; and sat down in a corner without speaking.
"Well, Tommy, how many eggs did you suck to-day" said Ready.
"Tommy won't suck eggs any more," said the urchin.
"No, you had better not," replied Mr. Seagrave, "or you will find, in the end, that you will have less to eat, instead of more, as you have this day."
Tommy waited very quietly and very sulkily till supper was ready, when he made up for lost time. After which Ready continued his narrative.
"I told you, William, that I was informed by the gentleman on the coach that my mother had died of a broken heart, in consequence of my supposed death. I was in agony until I arrived at Newcastle, where I could ascertain all the facts connected with her decease. When the coach stopped, the gentleman, who had remained outside, came to the coach door, and said to me, `If I mistake not, you are Masterman Ready, who ran away to sea; are you not?' `Yes, sir,' replied I, very sorrowfully, `I am.' `Well, my man,' said he, `cheer up; when you went away you were young and thoughtless, and certainly had no idea that you would have distressed your mother as you did. It was not your going to sea, but the report of your death, which preyed so much upon her mind; and that was not your fault. You must come with me, as I have something to say to you.' " `I will call upon you to-morrow, sir,' replied I; `I cannot do anything until I talk to the neighbours and visit my poor mother's grave. It is very true that I did not intend to distress my mother; and that the report of my death was no fault of mine. But I cannot help feeling that, if I had not been so thoughtless, she would be still alive and happy.' The gentleman gave me his address, and I promised to call upon him next morning. I then went to the house my mother used to live in. I knew that she was not there; yet I was disappointed and annoyed when I heard merry laughter within. I looked in, for the door was open; in the corner where my mother used to sit, there was a mangle, and two women busily at work; others were ironing at a large table; and when they cried out to me, `What do you want?' and laughed at me, I turned away in disgust, and went to a neighbouring cottage, the inmates of which had been very intimate with my mother. I found the wife at home, but she did not know me; and I told her who I was. She had attended my mother during her illness, till the day of her death; and she told me all I wished to know. It was some little relief to my mind to hear that my poor mother could not have lived, as she had an incurable cancer; but at the same time the woman told me that I was ever in her thoughts, and that my name was the last word on her lips. She also said that Mr. Masterman had been very kind to my mother, and that she had wanted nothing. I then asked her to show me where my mother had been buried. She put on her bonnet, and led me to the grave, and then, at my request, she left me. I seated myself down by the mound of turf which covered her, and long and bitterly did I weep her loss and pray for forgiveness.
"It was quite dark when I left the spot and went back to the cottage of the kind woman who had attended my mother. I conversed with her and her husband till late, and then, as they offered me a bed, I remained with them that night. Next morning I went to keep my appointment with the gentleman whom I had met in the coach: I found by the brass plate on the door that he was a lawyer. He desired me to sit down, and then he closed the door carefully, and having asked me many questions, to ascertain if I was really Masterman Ready, he said he was the person employed at Mr. Masterman's death, and that he had found a paper which was of great consequence, as it proved that the insurance of the vessel which had belonged to my father and Mr. Masterman, and which had been lost, had not been made on Mr. Masterman's share only, but upon my father's as well, and that Mr. Masterman had defrauded my mother. He said he had found the paper in a secret drawer some time after Mr. Masterman's death, and that my mother being dead, and I being supposed to be dead, he did not see any use in making known so disagreeable a circumstance; but that, now I had re-appeared, it was his duty so to do, and that he would arrange the matter for me, if I pleased, with the corporation of the town, to whom all Mr. Masterman's property had been left in trust to build an hospital and almshouses. He said that the insurance on the vessel was three thousand pounds, and that one-third of the vessel belonged to my father, so that a thousand pounds were due to him, which the interest for so many years would increase to above two thousand pounds. This was good news for me, and you may suppose I readily agreed to all he proposed. He set to work at once, and having called together the mayor and corporation of the town, and proved the document, they immediately agreed that I was entitled to the money, and that it should be paid to me without any contest. Thus you see, Master William, was a new temptation thrown in my way."
"How do you mean a temptation? It surely was very fortunate, Ready," said William.
"Yes, William, it was, as people say, fortunate, according to the ideas of the world; every one congratulated me, and I was myself so inflated with my good fortune, that I forgot all the promises of amendment, all the vows of leading a good life, which I made over my poor mother's grave. Now do you perceive why I called it a temptation, Master William?"
"My dear child," said Mr. Seagrave, "riches and prosperity in this world prove often the greatest of temptations; it is adversity that chastens and amends us, and which draws us to God."
"As soon as the money was in my own hands," continued Ready, "I began to squander it away in all manner of folly. Fortunately, I had not received it more than ten days, when the Scotch second mate came like a guardian angel to save me. As soon as I had made known to him what had taken place, he reasoned with me, pointed out to me that I had an opportunity of establishing myself for life, and proposed that I should purchase a part of a vessel, on condition that I was captain of her. I liked this idea very much, and being convinced that I had been making a fool of myself, I resolved to take his advice; but one thing only restrained me: I was still very young, not more than twenty years old; and although I could navigate at one time, I had latterly paid no attention. I told Sanders this, and he replied, that if I would take him as my first mate, that difficulty would be got over, as he could navigate well, and that I could learn to do so in the first voyage; so all was arranged.
"Fortunately, I had not spent above one hundred pounds of the money. I set off for Glasgow in company with Sanders, and he busied himself very hard in looking about for a vessel that would suit. At last, he found that there was one ready for launching, which, in consequence of the failure of the house for which it was built, was to be sold. He made inquiries, and having found who was likely to purchase her - that it was a very safe and respectable firm - he made a proposal for me that I should take one-fourth share of her, and command her. As Sanders was very respectable, and well known to be a steady man, his recommendation was attended to so far that the parties wished to see and speak to me. They were satisfied with me, young as I was, and the bargain was made. I paid down my two thousand pounds for my share, and as soon as the vessel was launched, was very busy with Sanders, whom I had chosen as first mate, in fitting her out. The house which had purchased her with me was a West India firm, and the ship was of course intended for the West India trade. I had two or three hundred pounds left, after I had paid my share of the vessel, and this I employed in purchasing a venture on my own account, and providing nautical instruments, &c. I also fitted myself out, for you see, William, although Sanders had persuaded me to be rational, I was still puffed up with pride at the idea of being captain of my own ship; it was too great a rise for one who had just before been a lad in the mizen-top of a man-of-war. I dressed myself very smart - wore white shirts, and rings on my fingers. Indeed, as captain and part owner of a fine vessel, I was considered as somebody, and was often invited to the table of the other owners of the vessel. I was well off, for my pay was ten pounds a month, independent of what my own venture might produce, and my quarter-share of the profits of the vessel. This may be considered as the most prosperous portion of my life; and so, if you please, we will leave off here for to-night, for I may as well tell you at once that it did not last very long."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
41
|
None
|
For several days after, they were employed in clearing away the stumps of the cocoa-nut trees in the winding path to the storehouse; and as soon as that work was finished, Ready put up a lightning-conductor at the side of the storehouse, like the one which he had put up near to the cottage. They had now got through all the work that they had arranged to do during the rainy season. The ewes had lambed, but both the sheep and the goats began to suffer for want of pasture. For a week they had no rain, and the sun burst out very powerfully; and Ready was of opinion that the rainy season was now over. William had become quite strong again, and he was very impatient that they should commence the survey of the island. After a great deal of consultation, it was at last settled, that Ready and William should make the first survey to the southward, and then return and report what they had discovered. This was decided upon on the Saturday evening, and on the Monday morning they were to start. The knapsacks were got ready, and well filled with boiled salt pork, and flat cakes of bread. They were each to have a musket and ammunition, and a blanket was folded up to carry on the shoulders, that they might sleep on it at night. Ready did not forget his compass, or the small axes, for them to blaze the trees as they went through the wood.
The whole of Saturday was occupied in making their preparations. After supper, Ready said, "Now, William, before we start on our travels, I think I may as well wind up my history. I haven't a great deal more to tell, as my good fortune did not last long; and after my remaining so long in a French prison, my life was one continued chapter of from bad to worse. Our ship was soon ready, and we sailed with convoy for Barbadoes. Sanders proved a good navigator, and from him, before we arrived at Barbadoes, I gained all the knowledge which I required to enable me to command and navigate my vessel. Sanders attempted to renew our serious conversation, but my property had made me vain; and now that I felt I could do without his assistance, I not only kept him at a distance, but assumed the superior. This was a very ungrateful return for his kindness to me; but it is too often the case in this world. Sanders was very much annoyed, and on our arrival at Barbadoes, he told me that it was his intention to quit the vessel. I replied very haughtily, that he might do as he pleased; the fact is, I was anxious to get rid of him, merely because I was under obligations to him. Well, sir, Sanders left me, and I felt quite happy at his departure. My ship was soon with a full cargo of sugar on board of her, and we waited for convoy to England. When at Barbadoes, I had an opportunity to buy four brass guns, which I mounted on deck, and had a good supply of ammunition on board. I was very proud of my vessel, as she had proved in the voyage out to be a very fast sailer: indeed, she sailed better than some of the men-of-war which convoyed us; and now that I had guns on board, I considered myself quite safe from any of the enemies' privateers. While we were waiting for convoy, which was not expected for a fortnight, it blew a very heavy gale, and my ship, as well as others, dragged their anchors, and were driven out of Carlisle Bay. We were obliged to make sail to beat into the bay again, it still blowing very fresh. What with being tired waiting so long for convoy, and the knowledge that arriving before the other West Indiamen would be very advantageous, I made up my mind that, instead of beating up into the bay again, I would run for England without protection, trusting to the fast sailing of my vessel and the guns which I had on board. I forgot at the time that the insurance on the vessel was made in England as `sailing with convoy', and that my sailing without would render the insurance void, if any misfortune occurred. Well, sir, I made sail for England, and for three weeks everything went on well. We saw very few vessels, and those which did chase us could not come up with us; but as we were running with a fair wind up channel, and I had made sure of being in port before night, a French privateer hove in sight and gave chase. We were obliged to haul our wind, and it blowing very fast, we carried away our main-top mast. This accident was fatal; the privateer came alongside of us and laid us by the board, and that night I was in a French prison, and, I may say, a pauper; for the insurance of the vessel was void, from my having sailed without convoy. I felt that I had no one to thank but myself for the unfortunate position I was in; at all events, I was severely punished, for I remained a prisoner for nearly six years. I contrived to escape with three or four others; we suffered dreadfully, and at last arrived in England, in a Swedish vessel, without money, or even clothes that would keep out the weather. Of course, I had nothing to do but to look out for a berth on board of a ship, and I tried for that of second mate, but without success; I was too ragged and looked too miserable; so I determined, as I was starving, to go before the mast. There was a fine vessel in the port; I went on board to offer myself; the mate went down to the captain, who came on deck, and who should he be but Sanders? I hoped that he would not remember me, but he did immediately, and held out his hand. I never did feel so ashamed in my life as I did then. Sanders perceived it, and asked me down into the cabin. I then told him all that had happened, and he appeared to forget that I had behaved so ill to him; he offered me a berth on board, and money in advance to fit me out. But if he would not remember my conduct, I could not forget it, and I told him so, and begged his forgiveness. Well, sir, that good man, as long as he lived, was my friend. I became his second mate before he died, and we were again very intimate. My misfortunes had humbled me, and I once more read the Bible with him; and I have, I trust, done so ever since. When he died, I continued second mate for some time, and then was displaced. Since that, I have always been as a common seaman on board of different vessels; but I have been well treated and respected, and I may add, I have not been unhappy, for I felt that property would have only led me into follies, and have made me forget, that in this world we are to live so as to prepare ourselves for another. Now, William, you have the history of Masterman Ready; and I hope that there are portions of it which may prove useful to you. To-morrow we must be off betimes, and as we are all to breakfast early together, why, I think the sooner we go to bed the better."
"Very true," replied Mr. Seagrave, "William, dear, bring me the Bible."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
42
|
None
|
They were all up early the next morning, and breakfasted at an early hour. The knapsacks and guns, and the other requisites for the journey, were all prepared; William and Ready rose from the table, and taking an affectionate leave of Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave, they started on their journey. The sun was shining brilliantly, and the weather had become warm; the ocean in the distance gleamed brightly, as its waters danced, and the cocoa-nut trees moved their branches gracefully to the breeze. They set off in high spirits, and having called the two shepherd dogs, and driven back Vixen, who would have joined the party, they passed the storehouse, and ascending the hill on the other side, they got their hatchets ready to blaze the trees; and Ready having set his course by his pocket compass, they were fairly on their way. For some time they continued to cut the bark of the trees with their hatchets, without speaking, and then Ready stopped again to look at his compass.
"I think the wood is thicker here than ever, Ready," observed William.
"Yes, sir, it is; but I suspect we are now in the thickest part of it, right in the middle of the island; however, we shall soon see. We must keep a little more away to the southward. We had better get on as fast as we can. We shall have less work by and by, and then we can talk better."
For half-an-hour they continued their way through the wood, and, as Ready had observed, the trees became more distant from each other; still, however, they could not see anything before them but the stems of the cocoa-nuts. It was hard work, chopping the trees every second, and their foreheads were moist with the exertion.
"I think we had better pull up for a few minutes, William; you will be tired."
"I have not been so used to exercise, Ready, and therefore I feel it more," replied William, wiping his face with his handkerchief. "I should like to stop a few minutes. How long do you think it will be before we are out of the wood?"
"Not half-an-hour more, sir, I should think; even before that, perhaps."
"What do you expect to find, Ready?"
"That's a difficult question to answer. I can tell you what I hope to find, which is, a good space of clear ground between the beach and the wood, where we may pasture our sheep and goats; and perhaps we may find some other trees besides cocoa-nuts: at present, you know, we have seen only them and the castor-oil beans, that Tommy took such a dose of. You see, William, there is no saying what new seeds may have been brought here by birds, or by the winds and waves."
"But will those seeds grow?"
"Yes, William; I have been told that seeds may remain hundreds of years under-ground, and come up afterwards when exposed to the heat."
They continued their way, and had not walked for more than a quarter of an hour, when William cried out, "I see the blue sky, Ready; we shall soon be out; and glad shall I be, for my arm aches with chopping."
"I dare say it does, sir. I am just as glad as you are, for I'm tired of marking the trees; however, we must continue to mark, or we shall not find our way back when we want it."
In ten minutes more they were clear of the cocoa-nut grove, and found themselves among brushwood higher than their heads; so that they could not see how far they were from the shore.
"Well," said William, throwing down his hatchet, "I'm glad that's over; now let us sit down a little before we go any further."
"I'm of your opinion, sir," replied Ready, sitting down by the side of William; "I feel more tired to-day than I did when we first went through the wood, after we set off from the cove. I suppose it's the weather. Come back, dogs; lie down."
"The weather is very fine, Ready."
"Yes, now it is; but I meant to have said that the rainy season is very trying to the health, and I suppose I have not recovered from it yet. You have had a regular fever, and, of course, do not feel strong; but a man may have no fever, and yet his health suffer a great deal from it. I am an old man, William, and feel these things now."
"I think that before we go on, Ready, we had better have our dinner; that will do us good."
"Well, we will take an early dinner, and we shall get rid of one bottle of water, at all events; indeed, I think that, as we must go back by the same way we came, we may as well leave our knapsacks and everything but our guns under these trees; I dare say we shall sleep here too, for I told Mr. Seagrave positively not to expect us back to-night. I did not like to say so before your mother, she is so anxious about you."
They opened their knapsacks, and made their meal, the two dogs coming in for their share; after which they again started on their discoveries. For about ten minutes they continued to force their way through the thick and high bushes, till at last they broke out clear of them, and then looked around them for a short time without speaking. The sea was about half a mile distant, and the intervening land was clear, with fresh blades of grass just bursting out of the earth, composing a fine piece of pasture of at least fifty acres, here and there broken with small patches of trees and brushwood; there was no sandy beach, but the rocks rose from the sea about twenty to thirty feet high, and were in one or two places covered with something which looked as white as snow.
"Well, Ready," said William, "there will be no want of pasture for our flock, even if it increases to ten times its number."
"No," replied Ready, "we are very fortunate, and have great reason to be thankful; this is exactly what we required; and now let us go on a little, and examine these patches of wood, and see what they are. I see a bright green leaf out there, which, if my eyes do not fail me, I have seen many a time before." When they arrived at the clump of trees which Ready had pointed out, he said, "Yes, I was right. Look there, this is the banana; it is just bursting out now, and will soon be ten feet high, and bearing fruit which is excellent eating; besides which the stem is capital fodder for the beasts."
"Here is a plant I never saw before," said William, pulling off a piece of it, and showing it to Ready.
"But I have, William. It is what they call the bird's-eye pepper; they make Cayenne pepper out of it. Look, the pods are just formed; it will be useful to us in cooking, as we have no pepper left. You see, William, we must have some birds on the island; at least it is most probable, for all the seeds of these plants and trees must have been brought here by them. The banana and the pepper are the food of many birds. What a quantity of bananas are springing up in this spot; there will be a little forest of them in a few weeks."
"What is that rough-looking sort of shrub out there, Ready?"
"I can't see so well as you, William, so let us walk up to it. Oh, I know it now; it is what they call the prickly pear in the West Indies. I am very glad to have found that, for it will be very useful to us."
"Is it good eating, Ready?"
"Not particularly; and the little spikes run into your fingers, and are very difficult to get rid of; but it is not bad by way of a change. No, the use it will be to us is to hedge in our garden, and protect it from the animals; it makes a capital fence, and grows very fast, and without trouble. Now let us go on to that patch of trees, and see what they are."
"What is this plant, Ready?"
"I don't know, William."
"Then I think I had better make a collection of all those you don't know, and take them back to father; he is a good botanist."
William pulled a branch of the plant off, and carried it with him. On their arrival at the next patch of trees, Ready looked at them steadfastly for some time.
"I ought to know that tree," said he. "I have often seen it in hot countries. Yes, it's the guava."
"What! is it the fruit they make guava jelly of?" said William.
"Yes, the very same."
"Let us now walk in the direction of those five or six trees," said William; "and from there down to the rocks; I want to find out how it is that they are so white."
"Be it so, if you wish," replied Ready.
"Why, Ready, what noise is that? Hark! such a chattering, it must be monkeys."
"No, they are not monkeys; but I'll tell you what they are, although I cannot see them; they are parrots - I know their noise well. You see, William, it's not very likely that monkeys should get here, but birds can, and it is the birds that we have to thank for the bananas and guavas, and other fruits we may find here."
As soon as they came under the trees, there was a great rioting and fluttering, and then away flew, screaming as loud as they could, a flock of about three hundred parrots, their beautiful green and blue feathers glistening in the beams of the sun.
"I told you so; well, we'll have some capital pies out of them, William."
"Pies! do they make good pies, Ready?"
"Yes, excellent; and very often have I had a good dinner from one in the West Indies, and in South America. Stop, let us come a little this way; I see a leaf which I should like to examine."
"The ground is very swampy just here, Ready; is it not?"
"Yes; there's plenty of water below, I don't doubt. So much the better for the animals; we must dig some pools when they come here.
"Oh! I thought I was not wrong. Look! this is the best thing I have found yet - we now need not care so much about potatoes."
"Why, what are they, Ready?"
"Yams, which they use instead of potatoes in the West Indies. Indeed, potatoes do not remain potatoes long, when planted in hot climates."
"How do you mean, Ready?"
"They turn into what they call sweet-potatoes, after one or two crops: yams are better things, in my opinion."
At this moment the dogs dashed among the broad yam leaves, and commenced baying; there was a great rustling and snorting.
"What's that?" cried William, who had been stooping down to examine the yam plant, and who was startled at the noise.
Ready laughed heartily. "It isn't the first time that they've made you jump, William."
"Why, it's our pigs, isn't it?" replied William.
"To be sure; they're in the yam patch, very busy feeding on them, I'll be bound."
Ready gave a shout, and a grunting and rushing were heard among the broad leaves, and, very soon, out rushed, instead of the six, about thirty pigs large and small; who, snorting and twisting their tails, galloped away at a great rate, until they gained the cocoa-nut grove.
"How wild they are, Ready!" said William.
"Yes, and they'll be wilder every day; but we must fence these yams from them, or we shall get none ourselves."
"But they'll beat down the fence before it grows up."
"We must pale it with cocoa-nut palings, and plant the prickly pears outside. Now, we'll go down to the sea-side."
As they neared the rocks, which were bare for about fifty yards from the water's edge, Ready said, "I can tell you now what those white patches on the rocks are, William; they are the places where the sea-birds come to every year to make their nests, and bring up their young. They always come to the same place every year, if they are not disturbed." They soon arrived at the spot, and found it white with the feathers of birds, mixed up with dirt.
"I see no nests, Ready, nor the remains of any."
"No, they do not make any nests, further than scratching a round hole, about half an inch deep, in the soil, and there they lay their eggs, sitting quite close to one another; they will soon be here, and begin to lay, and then we will come and take the eggs, if we want any, for they are not bad eating."
"Why, Ready, what a quantity of good things we have found out already! This has been a very fortunate expedition of ours."
"Yes, it has; and we may thank God for his goodness, who thus provides for us so plentifully in the wilderness."
"Do you know, Ready, I cannot help thinking that we ought to have built our house here."
"Not so, William; we have not the pure water, recollect, and we have not the advantages of the sandy beach, where we have our turtle- and fish-pond. No; we may feed our stock here; we may gather the fruit, taking our share of it with the poor birds; we may get our yams, and every other good provided for us; but our house and home must be where it is now."
"You are right, Ready; but it will be a long walk."
"Not when we are accustomed to it, and have made a beaten path; besides, we may bring the boat round, perhaps."
Then they walked along the sea-side for about a quarter of a mile, until they came to where the rocks were not so high, and there they discovered a little basin, completely formed in the rocks, with a narrow entrance.
"See, William, what a nice little harbour for our boat! we may here load it with yams and take it round to the bay, provided we can find an entrance through the reefs on the southern side of it, which we have not looked for yet, because we have not required it."
"Yes, Ready - it is, indeed, a nice, smooth little place for the boat. What is that thing on the bottom, there?" said William, pointing in the direction.
"That is a sea crawfish, quite as good eating as a lobster. I wonder if I could make a lobster-pot; we should catch plenty, and very good they are."
"And what are those little rough things on the rock?"
"They are a very nice little sort of oyster; not like those we have in England, but much better - they are so delicate."
"Why, Ready, we have two more good things for our table, again," replied William; "how rich we shall be!"
"Yes; but we have to catch them, recollect: there is nothing to be had in this world without labour."
"Ready," said William, "we have good three hours' daylight; suppose we go back and tell what we have seen: my mother will be so glad to see us."
"I agree with you, William. We have done well for one day; and may safely go back again, and remain for another week. There are no fruits at present, and all I care about are the yams; I should like to protect them from the pigs. But let us go home and talk the matter over with Mr. Seagrave."
They found out the spot where they had left their knapsacks and hatchets, and again took their path through the cocoa-nut trees, following the blaze which they had made in the morning. One hour before sunset they arrived at the house, where they found Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave sitting outside, and Juno standing on the beach with the two children, who were amusing themselves with picking up the shells which were strewed about. William gave a very clear account of all they had seen, and showed his father the specimens of the plants which he had collected.
"This," said Mr. Seagrave, "is a well-known plant; and I wonder Ready did not recognize it; it is hemp."
"I never saw it except in the shape of rope," replied Ready. "I know the seed well enough."
"Well, if we require it, I can tell you how to dress it," replied Mr. Seagrave. "Now, William, what is the next?"
"This odd-looking, rough thing."
"That's the egg-plant: it bears fruit of a blue colour. I am told they eat it in the hot countries."
"Yes, sir, they do; they fry it with pepper and salt; they call it bringal. I think it must be that."
"I do not doubt but you are right," replied Mr. Seagrave. "Why, William, you should know this."
"It is like the grape-vine."
"Yes, and it is so; it is the wild grape; we shall eat them by and bye."
"I have only one more, papa: what is this?"
"You don't know it, because it has sprung up so high, William; but it is the common mustard plant, - what we use in England, and is sold as mustard and cress. I think you have now made a famous day's work of it; and we have much to thank God for."
As soon as they had returned to the house, a consultation was held as to their future proceedings; and, after some debate, it was agreed that it would be advisable that they should take the boat out of the sand; and, as soon as it was ready, examine the reef on the southward, to see if they could find a passage through it, as it would take a long while to go round it; and, as soon as that was accomplished, Mr. Seagrave, Ready, William, and Juno should all go through the wood, carrying with them a tent to pitch on the newly-discovered piece of ground: and that they should set up a flag-staff at the little harbour, to point out its position. Of course, that would be a hard day's work; but that they would, nevertheless, return the same night, and not leave Mrs. Seagrave alone with the children. Having accomplished this, Ready and William would then put the wheels and axle in the boat, and other articles required, such as saw, hatchets, and spades, and row round to the south side of the island, to find the little harbour. As soon as they had landed them, and secured the boat, they would then return by the path through the wood.
The next job would be to rail in the yam plantation to keep off the pigs, and, at the same time, to drive the sheep and goats through the wood, that they might feed on the new pasture ground. Ready and William were then to cut down cocoa-nut trees sufficient for the paling, fix up the posts, and when that was done, Mr. Seagrave was to come to them and assist them in railing it in, and drawing the timber. This they expected would be all done in about a month; and during that time, as Mrs. Seagrave and Juno would be, for the greatest part of it, left at the house, they were to employ themselves in clearing the garden of weeds, and making preparation for fencing it in.
As soon as this important work had been completed, the boat would return to the bay with a load of prickly pears for the garden fence, and then they were to direct their attention to the stores which had been saved from the wreck, and were lying in the cove where they had first landed. When they had examined them, and brought round what were required, and secured them in the storehouse, they would then have a regular survey of the island by land and by water. But man proposes and God disposes, as will be shown by the interruption of their intended projects which we shall have to narrate in the ensuing chapter.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
43
|
None
|
As usual, Ready was the first up on the following morning, and having greeted Juno, who followed him out of the house, he set off on his accustomed rounds, to examine into the stock and their other possessions. He was standing in the garden at the point. First he thought that it would be necessary to get ready some sticks for the peas, which were now seven or eight inches out of the ground; he had proceeded a little farther, to where the calivances, or French haricot beans, had been sown, and had decided upon the propriety of hoeing up the earth round them, as they were a very valuable article of food, that would keep, and afford many a good dish during the rainy or winter season. He had gone on to ascertain if the cucumber seeds had shown themselves above-ground, and was pleased to find that they were doing well. He said to himself, "We have no vinegar, that I know of, but we can preserve them in salt and water, as they do in Russia; it will be a change, at all events;" and then he raised his eyes and looked out to the offing, and, as usual, scanned the horizon. He thought he saw a ship to the north-east, and he applied his telescope to his eye. He was not mistaken - it was a vessel.
The old man's heart beat quick; he dropped his telescope on his arm, and fetched some heavy breaths before he could recover from the effect of this unexpected sight. After a minute, he again put his telescope to his eye, and then made her out to be a brig, under top-sails and top-gallant sails, steering directly for the island.
Ready walked to the rocky point, from which they fished, and sat down to reflect. Could it be that the vessel had been sent after them, or that she had by mere chance come among the islands? He decided after a short time that it must be chance, for none could know that they were saved, much less that they were on the island. Her steering towards the island must then be either that she required water or something else; perhaps she would alter her course and pass by them. "At all events," thought the old man, "we are in the hands of God, who will, at his own time and in his own way, do with us as he thinks fit. I will not at present say anything to Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave. It would be cruel to raise hopes which might end in disappointment. A few hours will decide. And yet I cannot do without help - I must trust William."
Ready rose, examined the vessel with his telescope, and then walked towards the house. William was up, and the remainder of the family were stirring.
"William," said Ready to him, as they walked away from the house, "I have a secret to tell you, which you will at once see the necessity of not telling to anyone at present. A few hours will decide the question." William readily gave his promise. "There is a vessel off the island; she may be the means of rescuing us, or she may pass without seeing us. It would be too cruel a disappointment to your father and mother, if the latter were the case."
William stared at Ready, and for a moment could not speak, his excitement was so great.
"Oh, Ready, how grateful I am! I trust that we may he taken away, for you have no idea how my poor father suffers in silence - and so does my mother."
"I know it, William, I know it, and it is natural; they do their best to control their yearnings, and they can do no more. But now we must be quick, and at work before breakfast. But stop, I will show you the vessel."
Ready caught the vessel in the field of the telescope, which he leant against the trunk of a cocoa-nut, and William put his eye to the glass.
"Do you see her?"
"Oh yes, Ready, and she is coming this way."
"Yes, she is steering right for the island. I will put the telescope down here, and we will go about our work."
William and Ready went to the storehouse for the axe. Ready selected a very slight cocoa-nut tree nearest to the beach, which he cut down, and as soon as the top was taken off with the assistance of William he carried it down to the point.
"Now, William, go for a shovel and dig a hole here, that we may fix it up as a flag-staff. When all is ready, I will go for a small block and some rope for halyards to hoist up the flags as soon as the vessel is likely to see them. At breakfast-time, I shall propose that you and I get the boat out of the sand and examine her, and give Mr. Seagrave some work indoors."
"But the flags, Ready; they are round my mother's bed. How shall we get them?"
"Suppose I say that it is time that the house should be well cleaned, and that the canvas hangings of the beds should he taken out to be aired this fine day. Ask your father to take the direction of the work while we dig out the boat; that will employ them all inside the house."
"Yes, that will do, Ready."
During breakfast-time, Ready observed that he intended to get the boat out of the sand, and that William should assist him.
"And what am I to do, Ready?" said Mr. Seagrave.
"Why, sir, I think, now that the rains are over, it would not be a bad thing if we were to air bedding, as they say at sea; it is a fine, warm day; and if all the bedding was taken out of the house and well shaken, and then left out to air, it would be a very good job over; for you see, sir, I have thought more than once that the house does smell a little close."
"It will be a very good thing, Ready," observed Mrs. Seagrave; "and, at the same time, Juno and I will give the house a thorough cleaning and sweeping."
"Had we not better have the canvas screens down, and air them too?"
"Yes," replied Ready; "we had better air everything. We will assist in taking down the screens and flags, and spread them out to air, and then, if Mr. Seagrave has no objection, we will leave him to superintend and assist Madam and Juno."
"With all my heart," replied Mr. Seagrave. "We have done breakfast, and will begin as soon as you please."
Ready and William took down the canvas screens and flags, and went out of the cottage with them; they spread out the canvas at some distance from the house, and then William went down to the beach with the flags, while Ready procured the block and small rope to hoist them up with.
Ready's stratagem answered well. Without being perceived by those in the cottage, the flag-staff was raised, and fixed in the ground, and the flags all ready for hoisting; then Ready and William returned to the fuel-stack, and each carried down as much stuff as they could hold, that they might make a smoke to attract the notice of those on board of the vessel. All this did not occupy much more than an hour, during which the brig continued her course steadily towards the island. When Ready first saw her the wind was light, but latterly the breeze had increased very much, and at last the brig took in her top-gallant sails. The horizon behind the vessel, which had been quite clear, was now banked up with clouds, and the waves curled in white foam over the reefs of rocks extending from the island.
"The breeze is getting up strong, William," said Ready, "and she will soon be down, if she is not frightened at the reefs, which she can see plainer now the water is rough, than she could before."
"I trust she will not be afraid," replied William. "How far do you think she is off now?"
"About five miles; not more. The wind has hauled round more to the southward, and it is banking up fast, I see. I fear that we shall have another smart gale; however, it won't last long. Come, let us hoist the flags; we must not lose a chance; the flags will blow nice and clear for them to see them."
William and Ready hoisted up the ensign first, and below it the flag, with the ship's name, Pacific, in large letters upon it. "Now then," said Ready, as he made fast the halyards, "let us strike a light and make a smoke; that will attract their notice."
As soon as the cocoa-nut leaves were lighted, Ready and William threw water upon them, so as to damp them and procure a heavy column of smoke. The vessel approached rapidly, and they were watching her in silent suspense, when they perceived Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave, Juno carrying Albert, with Tommy and Caroline running down as fast as they could to the beach. The fact was, that Tommy, tired of work, had gone out of the house and walked towards the beach; there he perceived, first, the flags hoisted, and then he detected the vessel off the island. He immediately ran back to the house, crying out, "Papa! Mamma! Captain Osborn come back - come back in a big ship." At this announcement, Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave ran out of the house, perceived the vessel and the flags flying, and ran as fast as they could down to where William and Ready were standing by the flag-staff.
"Oh! Ready, why did you not tell us this before?" exclaimed Mr. Seagrave.
"I wish you had not known it now, sir," replied Ready; "but, however, it can't be helped; it was done out of kindness, Mr. Seagrave."
"Yes, indeed it was, papa."
Mrs. Seagrave dropped down on the rock, and burst into tears. Mr. Seagrave was equally excited.
"Does she see us, Ready?" exclaimed he at last.
"No, sir, not yet, and I waited till she did, before I made it known to you," replied Ready.
"She is altering her course, Ready," said William.
"Yes, sir, she has hauled to the wind; she is afraid of coming too near to the reefs."
"Surely she is not leaving us!" exclaimed Mrs. Seagrave.
"No, madam; but she does not see us yet."
"She does! she does!" cried William, throwing up his hat; "see, she hoists her ensign."
"Very true, sir; she does see us. Thanks be to God!"
Mr. Seagrave embraced his wife, who threw herself sobbing into his arms, kissed his children with rapture, and wrung old Ready's hand. He was almost frantic with joy. William was equally delighted.
As soon as they were a little more composed, Ready observed: "Mr. Seagrave, that they have seen us is certain, and what we must now do is to get our own boat out of the sand. We know the passage through the reefs, and they do not. I doubt if they will, however, venture to send a boat on shore, until the wind moderates a little. You see, sir, it is blowing up very strong just now."
"But you don't think it will blow harder, Ready?"
"I am sorry to say, sir, that I do. It looks very threatening to the southward, and until the gale is over, they will not venture near an island so surrounded with rocks. It would be very imprudent if they did. However, sir, a few hours will decide."
"But, surely," said Mrs. Seagrave, "even if it does blow, they will not leave the island without taking us off. They will come after the gale is over."
"Yes, madam, if they can, I do think they will; but God knows, some men have hard hearts, and feel little for the misery of others."
The brig had, in the meantime, kept away again, as if she was running in; but very soon afterwards she hauled to the wind, with her head to the northward, and stood away from the island.
"She is leaving us," exclaimed William, mournfully.
"Hard-hearted wretches!" said Mr. Seagrave, with indignation.
"You are wrong to say that, sir," replied Ready: "excuse me, Mr. Seagrave, for being so bold; but the fact is, that if I was in command of that vessel, I should do just as they have done. The gale rises fast, and it would be very dangerous for them to remain where they now are. It does not at all prove that they intend to leave us; they but consult their own safety, and, when the gale is over, we shall, I trust, see them again."
No reply was made to Ready's judicious remarks. The Seagraves only saw that the vessel was leaving them, and their hearts sank. They watched her in silence, and as she gradually diminished to the view, so did their hopes depart from them. The wind was now fierce, and a heavy squall, with rain, obscured the offing, and the vessel was no longer to be distinguished. Mr. Seagrave turned to his wife, and mournfully offered her his arm. They walked away from the beach without speaking; the remainder of the party, with the exception of old Ready, followed them. Ready remained some time with his eyes in the direction where the vessel was last seen. At last he hauled down the ensign and flag, and, throwing them over his shoulder, followed the disconsolate party to the house.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
44
|
None
|
When Ready arrived, he found them all plunged in such deep distress, that he did not consider it advisable to say anything. The evening closed in; it was time to retire. The countenance of Mr. Seagrave was not only gloomy, but morose. The hour for retiring to rest had long passed when Ready broke the silence by saying, "Surely, you do not intend to sit up all night, Mr. Seagrave?"
"Oh, no! there's no use sitting up now," replied Mr. Seagrave, rising up impatiently. "Come, my dear, let us go to bed."
Mrs. Seagrave rose, and retired behind the canvas screen. Her husband seemed as if he was about to follow her, when Ready, without speaking, laid the Bible on the table before him. Mr. Seagrave did not appear to notice it; but William touched his father's arm, pointed to the book, and then went inside of the screen, and led out his mother.
"God forgive me!" exclaimed Mr. Seagrave. "In my selfishness and discontent I had forgotten--" "Yes, sir, you had forgotten those words, `Come unto me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"
"I am ashamed of myself," said Mrs. Seagrave, bursting into tears.
Mr. Seagrave opened the Bible, and read the psalm. As soon as he had closed the book, "good night" were all the words that passed, and they all retired to rest.
During the night, the wind howled and the rain beat down. The children slept soundly, but Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave, Ready, and William were awake during the whole of the night, listening to the storm, and occupied with their own thoughts.
Ready was dressed before daylight, and out on the beach before the sun had risen. The gale was at its height; and after a careful survey with his telescope, he could see nothing of the vessel. He remained on the beach till breakfast-time, when he was summoned by William, and returned to the house. He found Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave up, and more composed than they were the evening before; and they welcomed him warmly.
"I fear, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave, "that you have no good news for us."
"No, sir; nor can you expect any good news until after the gale is over. The vessel could not remain here during the gale - that is certain; and there is no saying what the effects of the gale may be. She may lie to, and not be far from us when the gale is over; or she may be obliged to scud before the gale, and run some hundred miles from us. Then comes the next chance. I think, by her running for the island, that she was short of water; the question is, then, whether she may not find it necessary to run for the port she is bound to, or water at some other place. A captain of a vessel is bound to do his best for the owners. At the same time I do think, that if she can with propriety come back for us she will. The question is, first, whether she can; and, secondly, whether the captain is a humane man, and will do so at his own inconvenience."
"There is but poor comfort in all that," replied Mr. Seagrave.
"It is useless holding out false hopes, sir," replied Ready; "but even if the vessel continues her voyage, we have much to be thankful for."
"In what, Ready?"
"Why, sir, no one knew whether we were in existence or not, and probably we never should have been searched for; but now we have made it known, and by the ship's name on the flag they know who we are, and, if they arrive safe in port, will not fail to communicate the intelligence to your friends. Is not that a great deal to be thankful for? We may not be taken off by this vessel, but we have every hope that another will be sent out to us."
"Very true, Ready; I ought to have seen that before; but my despair and disappointment were yesterday so great, that it almost took away my reason."
The gale continued during the day, and showed no symptoms of abatement, when they again retired for the night. The following day Ready was up early, as usual, and William accompanied him to the beach.
"I don't think that it blows so hard as it did, Ready."
"No, William, it does not; the gale is breaking, and by night, I have no doubt, will be over. It is, however, useless looking for the vessel, as she must be a long way from this. It would take her a week, perhaps, to come back to us if she was to try to do so, unless the wind should change to the northward or westward."
"Ready! Ready!" exclaimed William, pointing to the south-east part of the reef; "what is that? Look! it's a boat."
Ready put his telescope to his eye. "It's a canoe, William, and there are people in it."
"Why, where can they have come from? See! they are among the breakers; they will be lost. Let us go towards them, Ready."
They hastened along the beach to the spot nearest to where the canoe was tossing on the surf, and watched it as it approached the shore.
"William, this canoe must have been blown off from the large island, which lies out there;" and Ready again looked through his telescope: "there are two people in it, and they are islanders. Poor things! they struggle hard for their lives, and seem much exhausted; but they have passed through the most dangerous part of the reef."
"Yes," replied William, "they will soon be in smoother water; but the surf on the beach is very heavy."
"They won't mind that, if their strength don't fail them - they manage the canoe beautifully."
During this conversation the canoe had rapidly come towards the land. In a moment or two afterwards, it passed through the surf and grounded on the beach. The two people in it had just strength enough left to paddle through the surf, and then they dropped down in the bottom of the canoe, quite exhausted.
"Let's drag the canoe higher up, William. Poor creatures! they are nearly dead."
While dragging it up, Ready observed that the occupants were both women: their faces were tattooed all over; otherwise they were young, and might have been good-looking.
"Shall I run up and get something for them, Ready?"
"Do, William; ask Juno to give you some of whatever there is for breakfast; anything warm."
William soon returned with some thin oatmeal porridge, which Juno had been preparing for breakfast; and a few spoonfuls being forced down the throats of the two natives they gradually revived. William then left Ready, and went up to acquaint his father and mother with this unexpected event.
William soon returned with Mr. Seagrave, and as the women were now able to sit up, they hauled up the canoe as far as they could, to prevent her being beat to pieces. They found nothing in the canoe, except a piece of matting and the two paddles which had been used by the natives.
"You see, sir," said Ready, "it is very clear that these two poor women, having been left in charge of the canoe, have been blown off from the shore of one of the islands to the south-east; they must have been contending with the gale ever since the day before yesterday, and, as it appears, without food or water. It's a mercy that they gained this island."
"It is so," replied Mr. Seagrave; "but to tell the truth, I am not over pleased at their arrival. It proves what we were not sure of before, that we have very near neighbours, who may probably pay us a very unwelcome visit."
"That may be, sir," replied Ready; "still these two poor creatures being thrown on shore here does not make the matter worse, or the danger greater. Perhaps it may turn to our advantage; for if these women learn to speak English before any other islanders visit us, they will interpret for us, and be the means, perhaps, of saving our lives."
"Would their visit be so dangerous, then, Ready?"
"Why, sir, a savage is a savage, and, like a child, wishes to obtain whatever he sees; especially he covets what he may turn to use, such as iron, &c. If they came, and we concealed a portion, and gave up the remainder of our goods, we might escape; but still there is no trusting to them, and I would infinitely prefer defending ourselves against numbers to trusting to their mercy."
"But how can we defend ourselves against a multitude?"
"We must be prepared, sir: if we can fortify ourselves, with our muskets we would be more than a match for hundreds."
Mr. Seagrave turned away. After a pause he said, "It is not very pleasant to be now talking of defending ourselves against savages, when we hoped two days ago to be leaving the island. Oh, that that brig would make its appearance again!"
"The wind is going down fast, sir," observed Ready; "it will be fine weather before the evening. We may look out for her; at all events, for the next week I shall not give up all hopes."
"A whole week, Ready! Alas! how true it is, that hope deferred maketh the heart sick."
"It is a severe trial, Mr. Seagrave; but we must submit when we are chastened. We had better get these poor creatures up to the house, and let them recover themselves."
Ready then beckoned to them to get on their feet, which they both did, although with some difficulty. He then went in advance, making a sign for them to follow; they understood him, and made the attempt, but were so weak, that they would have fallen if they had not been supported by Mr. Seagrave and William.
It required a long time for them to arrive at the house. Mrs. Seagrave, who knew what had happened, received them very kindly, and Juno had a mess ready, which she put before them. They ate a little and then lay down, and were soon sound asleep.
"It is fortunate for us that they are women," observed Mr. Seagrave: "we should have had great difficulty had they been men."
"Yes, sir," replied Ready; "but still we must not trust women too much at first, for they are savages."
"Where shall we put them to-night, Ready?"
"Why, sir, I have been thinking about that. I wish we had a shed close to us; but as we have not, we must let them sleep in the storehouse."
We must now pass over a space of fifteen days, in which there was nothing done. The expectation of the vessel returning was still alive, although each day decreased these hopes. Every morning Ready and William were at the beach with the telescope, and the whole of the day was passed in surmises, hopes, and fears. In fact, the appearance of the vessel and the expectation of leaving the island had completely overturned all the regularity and content of our island party. No other subject was broached - not any of the work proposed was begun, as it was useless to do anything if they were to leave the island. After the first week had passed, they felt that every day their chances were more adverse, and at the end of the fortnight all hopes were very unwillingly abandoned.
The Indian women had, in the meantime, recovered their fatigues, and appeared to be very mild and tractable. Whatever they were able to do, they did cheerfully, and had already gained a few words of English. The party to explore was again talked over, and arranged for the following Monday, when a new misfortune fell on them, which disconcerted all their arrangements.
On the Saturday morning, when Ready, as usual, went his rounds, as he walked along the beach, he perceived that the Indian canoe was missing. It had been hauled up clear of the water, so that it could not have floated away. Ready's heart misgave him; he looked through his telescope in the direction of the large island, and thought he could distinguish a speck on the water at a great distance. As he was thus occupied, William came down to him.
"William," said Ready, "I fear those island women have escaped in their canoe. Run up, and see if they are in the outhouse, or anywhere else, and let me know as soon as you can."
William in a few minutes returned, breathless, stating that the women were not to be found, and that they had evidently carried away with them a quantity of the large nails and other pieces of iron which were in the small kegs in the storehouse.
"This is bad, William; this is worse than the vessel not coming back."
"Why, we can do without them, Ready."
"Yes; but when they get back to their own people, and show them the iron they have brought with them, and describe how much more there is to be had, depend upon it, we shall have a visit from them in numbers, that they may obtain more. I ought to have known better than to leave the canoe here. We must go and consult with Mr. Seagrave, for the sooner we begin to work now, the better."
They communicated the intelligence to Mr. Seagrave when they were outside. He at once perceived their danger, so they held a council, and came to the following resolutions:-- That it would be necessary that they should immediately stockade the storehouse, so as to render it impossible for any one to get in; and that, as soon as the fortification was complete, the storehouse should be turned into their dwelling-house; and such stores as could not be put within the stockade should be removed to their present house, or concealed in the cocoa-nut grove.
It was decided that nothing should be begun on that day, Saturday; that Sunday should be spent in devout prayer for help and encouragement from the Almighty, who would do towards them as his wisdom should ordain; and that on Monday, with the blessing of God, they would recommence their labour.
"I don't know why, but I feel more courage now that there is a prospect of danger, than I felt when there was little or none," said Mrs. Seagrave.
"How little do we know what the day may bring forth!" exclaimed Mr. Seagrave. "How joyful were our anticipations when the vessel hoisted her colours! we felt sure that we were to be taken off the island. The same gale that drove the vessel away brought down to us the island women. The fair weather after the gale, which we hoped would have brought back the vessel to our succour, on the contrary enabled the women to escape in the canoe, and make known our existence to those who may come to destroy us. How true it is that man plans in vain; and that it is only by the Almighty will and pleasure that he can obtain his ends!"
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
45
|
None
|
But although they resolved as stated in the last chapter, nothing was done. Finally, one morning at sunrise, as they were looking round with the telescope, close to the turtle-pond, Masterman Ready said to Mr. Seagrave, "Indeed, sir, we must no longer remain in this state of idleness; I have been thinking a great deal of our present position and prospects; as to the vessel coming back, we must, at present, give up all hopes of it. I only wish that we were quite as sure that we shall not have a visit from the savages: that is my great fear, and it really haunts me; the idea of our being surprised some night, and Mrs. Seagrave and the dear children, perhaps, murdered in their beds, is awful to reflect upon."
"God help us!" exclaimed Mr. Seagrave, covering up his face.
"God will help us, Mr. Seagrave, but at the same time it is necessary that we should help ourselves; he will give his blessing to our exertions, but we cannot expect that miracles will be performed for us; and if we remain as we now are, inactive, and taking no steps to meet the danger which threatens us, we cannot expect the divine assistance. We have had a heavy shock, but it is now time that we recover from it, and put our own shoulders to the wheel."
"I agree with you, Ready," replied William; "indeed I have been thinking the same thing for many days past."
"We have all been thinking of it, I believe," said Mr. Seagrave; "I'm sure I have lain awake night after night, considering our position and what we ought to do, but I have never been able to come to any satisfactory resolution."
"No more have I till last night, Mr. Seagrave, but I think that I have now something to propose which, perhaps, will meet with your approval," replied Ready; "so now, sir, suppose we hold another council, and come to a decision."
"I am most willing, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave, sitting down upon a rock; "and as you are the oldest, and moreover the best adviser of the three, we will first hear what you have to propose."
"Well then, Mr. Seagrave, it appears to me that it will not do to remain in the house, for we may, as I have said, be surprised by the savages at any hour in the night, and we have no means of defence against numbers."
"I feel that, and have felt it for some time," replied Mr. Seagrave. "What shall we do, then; shall we return to the cove?"
"I should think not, sir," said Ready; "what I propose is this: we have made a discovery on the south of the island, which is of great importance to us; not that I consider the fruit and other plants of any great value, as they will only serve to increase our luxuries, if I may so call them, during the summer season. One great advantage to us, is the feed which we have found for our live stock, and the fodder for them during the rainy season; but principally, the patch of yams, which will afford us food during the winter. They are of great importance to us, and we cannot too soon protect them from the pigs, which will certainly root them all up, if we do not prevent them. Now, sir, you know what we had arranged to do, but which we have not done; I think the cocoa-nut rails will take too much time, and it will be sufficient to make a ditch and hedge round the yams; but it will be very tedious if we are to go backwards and forwards to do the work, and Mrs. Seagrave and the children will be left alone. I therefore propose, as the weather is now set in fair, and will remain so for months, that we pitch our tents on that part of the island, and remove the whole family there; we shall soon be very comfortable, and at all events much safer there than if we remain here, without any defence," "It is an excellent plan, Ready; we shall, as you say, be removed from danger for the time, and when there, we may consider what we had best do by and by."
"Yes, sir. Those women may not have gained the other island, it is true, for they had the wind right against them for several days after they went away in the canoe, and, moreover, the current sets strong this way; but if they have, we must expect that the savages will pay us a visit; they will, of course, come direct to the house, if they do come."
"But, Ready, you don't mean to say that we are to leave this side of the island altogether, and all our comfortable arrangements?" said William.
"No, William, not altogether; for now I come to the second part of my proposition. As soon as we have done our work at the yam plantation, and made everything as comfortable there as we can, I think we may then leave Mrs. Seagrave and the children in the tents, and work here, As we before agreed, let us abandon the house in which we live at present, and fit out the outhouse which is concealed in the cocoa-nut grove, as a dwelling-house, and fortify it so as to be secure against any sudden attack of the savages: for, return here we must, to live, as we cannot remain in the tents after the rainy season sets in."
"How do you propose to fortify it, Ready?" said Mr. Seagrave; "I hardly know."
"That I will explain to you by and by, sir. Then, if the savages come here, at all events we should be able to defend ourselves with fire-arms; one man behind a stockade is better than twenty who have no other arms but spears and clubs; and we may, with the help of God, beat them off."
"I think your plan is excellent, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave, "and that the sooner we begin, the better."
"That there is no doubt of, sir. Now, the first job is for William and me to try for the passage through this side of the reef with the boat, and then we will look for the little harbour which we discovered; as soon as that is done, we will return and take the tents and all we require round in the boat, and when we have pitched the tents and all is arranged, Mrs. Seagrave and the children can walk through the wood with us, and take possession."
"Let us not lose an hour, Ready; we have lost too much time already," replied Mr. Seagrave. "What shall we do to-day?"
"After breakfast, William and I will take the boat, and try for the passage. You can remain here, packing up the tents and such articles as must first be carried round. We shall be back, I hope, by dinner-time."
They then rose, and walked towards the house; all felt relieved in their minds, after they had made this arrangement, satisfied that they would be using all human endeavours to ward off the danger which threatened them, and might then put their confidence in that Providence who would, if he thought fit, protect them in their need.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
46
|
None
|
The subject was introduced to Mrs. Seagrave, while they were at breakfast, and as she perceived how much more secure they would be, she cheerfully consented. In less than an hour afterwards, William and Ready had prepared the boat, and were pulling out among the rocks of the reef to find a passage, which, after a short time, and by keeping two or three cables from the point, they succeeded in doing.
"This is very fortunate, William," observed Ready; "but we must now take some marks to find our way in again. See, the large black rock is on a line with the garden point: so, if we keep them in one, we shall know that we are in the proper channel; and now for a mark abreast of us, to find out when we enter it."
"Why, Ready, the corner of the turtle-pond just touches the right wall of the house," replied William.
"So it does; that will do; and now let us pull away as hard as we can, so as to be back in good time."
They soon were on the south side of the island, and pulling up along the shore.
"How far do you think that it is by water, Ready?"
"I hardly know; but at least four or five miles, so we must make up our minds to a good hour's pull. At all events, we shall sail back again with this wind, although there is but little of it."
"We are in very deep water now," observed William, after a long silence.
"Yes, on this side of the island we must expect it; the coral grows to leeward only. I think that we cannot be very far from the little harbour we discovered. Suppose we leave off rowing for a minute, and look about us."
"There are two rocks close to the shore, Ready," said William, pointing, "and you recollect there were two or three rocks outside of the harbour."
"Very true, William, and I should not wonder if you have hit upon the very spot. Let us pull in."
They did so; and, to their satisfaction, found that they were in the harbour, where the water was as smooth as a pond.
"Now, then, William, we will step the mast, and sail back at our leisure."
"Stop one moment, Ready; give me the boat-hook. I see something between the clefts of the rocks."
Ready handed the boat-hook to William, who, lowering it down into the water, drove the spike of iron at the end of it into a large crayfish, which he hauled up into the boat.
"That will be an addition to our dinner," said Ready; "we do not go back empty-handed, and, therefore, as the saying is, we shall be more welcome; now, then, let us start, for we must pull here again this afternoon, and with a full cargo on board."
They stepped the mast, and as soon as they had pulled the boat clear of the harbour, set sail, and in less than an hour had rejoined the party at the house.
William had brought up the crayfish, which had only one claw, and Juno put on another pot of water to boil it, as an addition to the dinner, which was nearly ready. Tommy at first went with his sister Caroline to look at the animal, and as soon as he had left off admiring it, he began, as usual, to tease it; first he poked its eyes with a stick, then he tried to unfold his tail, but the animal flapped, and he ran away. At last he was trying to put his stick into the creature's mouth, when it raised its large claw, and caught him by the wrist, squeezing him so tight that Tommy screamed and danced about as the crayfish held on. Fortunately for him, the animal had been so long out of water, and had been so much hurt by the iron spike of the boat-hook, that it was more than half-dead, or he would have been severely hurt. Ready ran to him, and disengaged the crayfish; but Tommy was so frightened, that he took to his heels, and did not leave off running until he was one hundred yards from the house, while Juno and Ready were laughing at him till the tears came into their eyes. When he saw the crayfish on the table, he appeared to be afraid of it, although it was dead.
"Well, Tommy," said Mr. Seagrave, "I suppose you won't eat any of the crayfish?"
"Won't I?" replied Tommy. "I'll eat him, for he tried to eat me."
"Why did you not leave the animal alone, Tommy?" said Mr. Seagrave; "if you had not tormented it, it would not have bitten you; I don't know whether you ought to have any."
"I don't like it; I won't have any," replied Tommy. "I like salt pork better."
"Well, then, if you don't like it, you shall not have it forced upon you, Tommy," replied Mr. Seagrave; "so now we'll divide it among the rest of us."
Tommy was not very well pleased at this decision, for he really did wish to have some of it, so he turned very sulky for the rest of the dinner-time, especially when old Ready told him that he had had his share of the crayfish before dinner.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
47
|
None
|
As soon as the meal was over, Mr. Seagrave and Juno assisted them in carrying down the canvas and poles for the tent, with shovels to clear away, and the pegs to fix the tents up properly. Before they started, William observed, "I think it would be a good thing, if Ready and I were to take our bedding with us, and then we could fix up one tent this evening, and sleep there; to-morrow morning we might set up the other, and get a good deal of work over before we come back."
"You are right, William," replied Ready; "let us see what Juno can give us to eat, and then we will do as you say, for the sooner we are all there the better."
As Mr. Seagrave was of the same opinion, Juno packed up a piece of salt pork and some flour-cakes, which, with three or four bottles of water, they took down to the boat. Ready having thrown in a piece of rope to moor the boat with, they shoved off and were soon through the reef, and, after a smart pull, they arrived again at the small harbour.
As soon as they had landed all the things, they made the boat fast by the rope, and then carried a portion of the canvas and tent-poles up to the first copse of trees, which were the guavas; they then returned for the remainder, and after three trips everything was up.
"Now, William, we must see where to pitch the tent; we must not be too near the cocoa-nut grove, or we shall have too far to go for water."
"Don't you think that the best place will be close to the bananas? the ground is higher there, and the water is, you know, between the bananas and the yams."
"Very true, I think it will not be a bad place; let us walk there first, and reconnoitre the ground."
They walked to where the bananas were now throwing out their beautiful large green leaves, and decided that they would fix the tents upon the north side of them.
"So here let it be," said Ready; "and now let us go and fetch all the things; it is a nice dry spot, and I think will do capitally."
They were soon hard at work, and long before sunset one tent was ready, and they had put their bedding in it.
"Well, now, I suppose you are a little tired," said Ready; "I'm sure you ought to be, for you have worked hard to-day."
"I don't feel very tired, Ready, but it's not time to go to bed yet."
"No; and I think we had better take our shovels and dig the pits for the water, and then we shall know by to-morrow morning whether the water is good or not."
"Yes, Ready, we can do that before we get our supper."
They walked to where the ground between the bananas and yam patch was wet and swampy, and dug two large holes about a yard deep and square; the water trickled in very fast, and they were up to their ankles before they had finished.
"There'll be no want of water, Ready, if it is only fit to drink."
"I've no fear of that," replied Ready.
They returned to the tent and made their supper off the salt pork and flour-cakes, and then lay down on the mattresses. They were soon fast asleep, for they were tired out with the hard work which they had gone through.
The next morning, at sunrise, they were up again; the first thing they did was to go and examine the holes they had dug for water; they found them full and running over, and the water had settled quite clear; they tasted it, and pronounced it very good.
As soon as they had washed themselves, they went back and made their breakfast, and then set to work to get up the other tent. They then cleared all the ground near the tents of brushwood and high grass, and levelled it nicely with their shovels inside.
"Now, William, we have another job, which is to prepare a fireplace for Juno: we must go down to the beach for stones."
In another hour the fireplace was completed, and Ready and William looked at their work.
"Well, I call this a very comfortable lodging-house," said Ready.
"And I am sure," replied William, "it's very pretty. Mamma will be delighted with it."
"We shall have no want of bananas in a few weeks," said Ready; "look, they are all in blossom already. Well, now I suppose we had better leave everything here, and go back. We must have another trip this afternoon, and sleep here to-night."
They went down to the boat, and sailed back as before; by ten o'clock in the morning they had regained the house, and then they made arrangements for their work during the remainder of the day. It was agreed that the provisions necessary for a day or two, the table and chairs, the cooking utensils, and a portion of their clothes, should be taken round that afternoon, that Ready and William should come back early the next morning, and then they should all set off together through the wood to the new location. The sheep and lambs (for they had four lambs), the goats and kids, were to be driven through the wood by Mr. Seagrave; William and Ready and the dogs would be very useful in driving them. As for the fowls and chickens, it was decided they should be left, as Ready and William could look after them on their occasional visits.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
48
|
None
|
The boat was well loaded that afternoon, and they had a heavy pull round, and hard work afterwards to carry all the articles up. William and Ready were, therefore, not sorry when their work was done, and they went to bed as soon as they had taken their supper.
At sunrise, they went back to the bay in the boat, which they hauled up, and then proceeded to the house, where they found that everyone was ready to start. Mr. Seagrave had collected all the animals, and they set off; the marks on the trees were very plain, and they had no difficulty in finding their way; but they had a good deal of trouble with the goats and sheep, and did not get on very fast. It was three hours before they got clear of the cocoa-nut grove, and Mrs. Seagrave was quite tired out. At last they arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave could not help exclaiming "How beautiful!"
When they came to where the tents were pitched by the side of the bananas, they were equally pleased: it was quite a fairy spot. Mrs. Seagrave went into her tent to repose after her fatigue; the goats and sheep were allowed to stray away as they pleased; the dogs lay down, panting with their long journey; Juno put Albert on the bed while she went with William to collect fuel to cook the dinner; Ready went to the pits to get some water, while Mr. Seagrave walked about, examining the different clumps of trees with which the meadow was studded.
When Ready returned with the water, he called the dogs, and went back towards the yam plantation. Tommy followed them; the dogs went into the yams, and were soon barking furiously, which pleased Tommy very much; when, of a sudden, out burst again in a drove all the pigs, followed by the dogs, and so close to Tommy that he screamed with fright, and tumbled head over heels.
"I thought you were there, my gentlemen," said Ready, looking after the pigs; "the sooner we fence you out the better."
The pigs scampered away, and went into the cocoa-nut grove as they had done before. The dogs followed the pigs, and did not return for a long while afterwards.
It was late before the dinner was ready, and they were all very glad to go early to bed.
At day dawn, William and Ready had again started, and walked through the cocoa-nut grove back to the house, to bring round in the boat the articles of furniture and the clothes which had been left. Having collected everything in the house, and procured some more pork and flour from the storehouse, they completed the load by spearing one of the turtles which remained, and putting it into the bottom of the boat; they then set off again for their new residence, and arrived in time for breakfast.
"What a delightful spot this is!" said Mrs. Seagrave. "I think we ought always to make it our summer residence, and only go back to the house during the rainy season."
"It is much cooler here, madam, during the summer, and much more pleasant; but we are more protected in the house by the cocoa-nut grove."
"Yes; that is true, and it is very valuable during the rainy season; but it makes it warmer in the summer time. I like the change, Ready, and shall be sorry when we have to go back again."
"Now I must go, and help Juno to cut up the turtle," said Ready. "We must make our larder among the banana trees."
"But what are we all to do, Ready?" said Mr. Seagrave. "We must not be idle."
"No, sir; but I think we must give up this day to putting everything to rights, and making everything comfortable inside the tents; to-morrow we will commence the ditch and hedge round the yam plantation. We need not work very hard at it, for I don't think the pigs will venture here again, as I mean to tie up all the dogs round the yam patch every night, and their barking will keep them off."
"That will be a very good plan, Ready. What beautiful food there is for the sheep and goats!"
"Yes; this must be their future residence for the best part of the year. I think to-morrow we will begin a piece of the ditch, and show William how to put in the cuttings of prickly pear for the hedge, and then, I should propose that you and I go to the cove to examine the stores and select what it will be necessary to bring round. I think you said that you must go yourself?"
"Yes, Ready, I wish to go. When we have made our selection, I will return, and then you and William, who is more used to the boat than I am, can bring the stores round. I presume we shall not bring them here?"
"No, sir, we will take them round to the storehouse. When we have done that job, we must then commence our alterations and our stockade."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
49
|
None
|
The next morning they went with their shovels to the yam plantation, and commenced their work. As the ground was soft and swampy, the labour was very easy. The ditch was dug nearly a yard wide, and the earth thrown up on a bank inside. They then went to where the large patch of prickly pears grew, and cut a quantity, which they planted on the top of the bank. Before night, they had finished about nine or ten yards of the hedge and ditch.
"I don't think that the pigs will get over that when it is finished," said Ready, "and William will be able to get on by himself when we are gone, as well as if we were with him."
"I'll try if I cannot shoot a pig or two," said William.
"Let it be a young one, then; we must not kill the old ones. Now I think we may as well go back. Juno is carrying in the supper."
Before Mr. Seagrave and Ready started on the following morning, the latter gave William directions as to the boat. The provisions and the knapsack having been already prepared, they took leave of Mrs. Seagrave, and set off, each armed with a musket, and Ready with his axe slung over his shoulder. They had a long walk before them, as they had first to find their way back to the house, and from thence had to walk through the wood to the cove.
In two hours after leaving the house they reached the spot where they had first landed. The rocks near to it were strewed with timber and planks, which lay bleaching in the sun, or half-buried in the sand. Mr. Seagrave sat down, and sighed deeply as he said, "Ready, the sight of these timbers, of which the good ship Pacific was built, recalls feelings which I had hoped to have dismissed from my mind; but I cannot help them rising up. The remains of this vessel appear to me as the last link between us and the civilised world, which we have been torn from, and all my thoughts of home and country, and I may say all my longing for them, are revived as strong as ever."
"And very natural that they should, Mr. Seagrave; I feel it also. I am content, it is true, because I have nothing to wish or look forward to; but still I could not help thinking of poor Captain Osborn and my shipmates, as I looked upon the wreck, and wishing that I might take them by the hand again. It is very natural that one should do so. Why, sir, do you know that I feel unhappy even about the poor ship. We sailors love our vessels, especially when they have good qualities, and the Pacific was as fine a vessel as ever was built. Now, sir, I feel quite melancholy when I see her planks and timbers lying about here. But, sir, if we cannot help feeling as we do, it is our duty to check the feeling, so that it does not get the mastery over us. We can do no more."
"Very true, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave, rising up; "it is not only useless, but even sinful to indulge in them, as they only can lead to our repining at the decrees of heaven. Let us now examine the rocks, and see if anything has been thrown up that may be of use to us."
They walked round, but, with the exception of spars and a barrel or two of tar, they could find nothing of value. There was no want of staves and iron hoops of broken casks, and these, Ready observed, would make excellent palings for the garden when they had time to bring them round.
After they had returned, they sat down to rest themselves, and then they went to the tents in the cocoa-nut grove, in which they had collected the articles thrown up when the ship went to pieces.
"Why, the pigs have been at work here!" said Ready; "they have contrived to open one cask of flour somehow or another; look, sir - I suppose it must have been shaky, or they could not have routed into it; the canvas is not good for much, I fear; fortunately, we have several bolts of new, which I brought on shore. Now, sir, we will see what condition the stores are in. All these are casks of flour, and we run no risk in opening them, and seeing if they are in good order."
The first cask which was opened had a cake round it as hard as a board; but when it was cut through with the axe, the inside was found in a good state.
"That's all right, sir; and I presume the others will be the same; the salt water has got in so far and made a crust, which has preserved the rest. But now let us go to dinner, and to work afterwards."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
50
|
None
|
After dinner they resumed their labour. "I wonder what's in this case?" said Mr. Seagrave, pointing to the first at hand. Ready set to work with his axe, and broke off the lid, and found a number of pasteboard boxes full of tapes, narrow ribbons, stay-laces, whalebones, and cottons on reels.
"This has been sent out for some Botany Bay milliner," said Mr. Seagrave. "I presume, however, we must confiscate it for the benefit of Mrs. Seagrave and Miss Caroline. We will take them to them as soon as we have time."
The next was a box without a lock; the lid was forced up, and they found a dozen half-gallon square bottles of gin stored in divisions.
"That's Hollands, sir, I know," said Ready; "what shall we do with it?"
"We will not destroy it, Ready, but at the same time we will not use it but as a medicine," replied Mr. Seagrave; "we have been so long used to spring-water, that it would be a pity to renew a taste for spirituous liquors."
"I trust we shall never want to drink a drop of it, sir, either as a medicine or otherwise. Now for this cask with wooden hoops."
The head was soon out, and discovered a dinner set of painted china with gold edges.
"This, Mr. Seagrave, may be useful, for we are rather short of plates and dishes. Common white would have served as well."
"And be more suitable with our present outfit," replied Mr. Seagrave.
"Here's a box with your name on it, sir," said Ready; "do you know what is in it?"
"I have no idea, Ready; but your axe will decide the point."
When the box was opened, everything appeared in a sad mouldy state from the salt water which had penetrated; but on removing the brown paper and pasteboard, it was found to contain stationery of all sorts, and, except on the outside, it was very little injured.
"This is indeed a treasure, Ready. I recollect now; this is paper, pens, and everything requisite for writing, besides children's books, copy-books, paint-boxes, and a great many other articles in the stationery line."
"Well, sir, that is fortunate. Now we may set up our school, and as the whole population of the island will attend it, it will really be a National School."
"Very true, Ready. Now for that cask."
"I can tell what that is by the outside; it is oil, and very acceptable, for our candles are nearly out. Now we come to the most valuable of all our property."
"What is that, Ready?"
"All the articles which I brought on shore in the different trips I took in the boat before the ship went to pieces; for you see, sir, iron don't swim, and, therefore, what I looked after most was ironware of all sorts, and tools. Here are three kegs of small nails, besides two bags of large, and there are several axes, hammers, and other tools, besides hanks of twine, sailing needles, and bees'-wax."
"They are indeed valuable, Ready."
"Here's some more of my plunder, as the Americans say. All these are wash-deck buckets, this a small harness cask for salting meat, and here's the cook's wooden trough for making bread, which will please Miss Juno; and in it, you see, I have put all the galley-hooks, ladles, and spoons, and the iron trivets, and here's two lamps. I think I put some cotton wicks somewhere - I know I did; we shall find them by and by. Here's the two casks, one of cartridges made up, and the other of gunpowder, and the other six muskets."
"These are really treasures, Ready, and yet how well we have done without them."
"Very true, sir, but we shall do better with them, and when we fit up the storehouse for a dwelling, Mr. Seagrave, we shall be able to make it a little more comfortable in every respect than the present one; for you see there, all the fir-planking and deals, which William and I buried in the sand."
"I really had quite forgotten them, Ready. If I could but get the fear of the savages coming over out of my head, I really think we might live very comfortably even on this island."
"Do you know, Mr. Seagrave, I am glad to hear you say that, for it proves that you are more contented and resigned than you were."
"I am so, Ready - at least I think so; but perhaps it is, that the immediate danger from the savages so fills my thoughts, that I no longer dwell so much upon our being taken off the island."
"I dare say it is as you state, sir; but now let us go on with our search. Here are the ship's compasses, and deep sea line and reel, also the land lead. The stuff will be very useful for our little boat."
"And I am very glad of the compasses, Ready; for with them I shall be able to make a sort of survey of the island, when I have a little time. Your pocket compass is too small for surveying. I shall take some bearings now, while I am here, as I may not be back again very soon."
"Well, sir, I think if we open this other case, which I perceive has your name on it, it will be as much as we need do to-day, for the sun is going down; we can then make up some kind of bed, eat our suppers, and go to sleep."
"I am very tired, Ready, and shall be glad to do as you propose. That case contains books; but what portion of my library I do not know."
"But you soon will, sir," replied Ready, wrenching it open with his axe. "They are a little stained on the outside, but they are jammed so tight that they do not appear to have suffered much. Here are one or two, sir."
"Plutarch's Lives. I am glad I have them: they are excellent reading for young or old; there is no occasion to open any more, as I know all the other books in the case are `History'; perhaps the best case which could have been saved."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
51
|
None
|
Mr. Seagrave and Ready then set to work, and made a rough sort of bed of cocoa-nut branches; and, after eating their supper, committed themselves to the divine protection, and went to sleep. The next morning they resumed their labour, and opened every other case and package that had been saved from the wreck; they found more hooks, four boxes of candles, three casks of rice, and several other useful articles, besides many others which were of no value to them.
A chest of tea, and two bags of coffee, which Ready had brought on shore, were, much to their delight, found in good order; but there was no sugar, the little which they had saved having been melted away.
"That's unfortunate, sir."
"We cannot expect to get things here, as though we were a hundred yards from a grocer's shop. Now let us go to where we covered up the other articles with sand."
The sand was shovelled up, and the barrels of beef and pork and the deal boards found in good order, but many other things were quite spoilt. About noon they had finished, and as they had plenty of time, Mr. Seagrave took the bearings of the different points of land with the compasses. They then shouldered their muskets, and set off on their return.
They gained the house in the bay, and having rested a little while at the storehouse, they proceeded on their way to the tents in the meadow. They had about half a mile to go, when Ready heard a noise, and made a sign to Mr. Seagrave to stop. Ready, whispering to Mr. Seagrave that the pigs were all close to them, loaded his musket; Mr. Seagrave did the same, and they walked very softly to where they now heard their grunting; they did not see them till they were within twenty yards, and then they came upon the whole herd; the pigs raised their heads; the old ones gave a loud grunt, and then, just as Ready fired his musket, they all set off at full speed. Mr. Seagrave had no opportunity of firing, but Ready had shot one, which lay kicking and struggling under a cocoa-nut tree.
"A piece of fresh pork will be quite a treat, Mr. Seagrave," said Ready, as they walked up to where the animal was lying.
"It will, indeed, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave; "we must contrive to carry the beast home between us."
"We will sling it on the musket, sir, and it will not be very heavy. It is one of those born on the island, and a very fine fellow for his age."
The pig was soon slung, and they carried it between them. As they cleared the wood, they perceived Mrs. Seagrave and William, who had heard the report of the musket, and had come out to meet them.
William took the load from his father, who walked on with Mrs. Seagrave.
"Well, William, what news have you?" said Ready.
"Why, very good, Ready. Yesterday evening, when I was tired of work, I thought I would take the boat, and try if there was any fish to he caught on this side of the island in the deep water, and I caught three large ones, quite different from those we took among the reefs. We had one for breakfast and dinner to-day, and it was excellent."
"Did you go out in the boat by yourself?"
"No; I took Juno with me. She pulls very well, Ready."
"She is a handy girl, William. Well, we have had our survey, and there will be plenty of work for you and me, I can tell you; I don't think we can bring everything round in a week; so I suppose to-morrow we had better be off."
"Well, I like boating better than ditching, I can tell you, Ready," replied William. "I shan't be sorry to leave that work to my father."
"I suppose it must fall to him; as he will, of course, prefer staying with Mrs. Seagrave and the children."
As soon as they were at the tents, Ready hung up the pig to the cross pole of the tent in which he and William and Mr. Seagrave slept, and having propped the muskets up against the side of the tent, he went with William to get his knife and some stretchers of wood to open the pig with. While he and William were away, Caroline and Tommy came out to look at it, and Tommy, after telling Caroline how glad he was that they were to have roast pig for dinner, took up one of the muskets, and said, "Now, Caroline, I'll shoot the pig."
"Oh! Tommy, you must not touch the gun," cried Caroline; "papa will be very angry."
"I don't care," replied Tommy. "I'll show you how to shoot the pig."
"Don't, Tommy," cried Caroline; "if you do, I'll go and tell mamma."
"Then I'll shoot you," replied Tommy, trying to point the musket at her.
Caroline was so frightened, that she ran away as fast as she could, and then Tommy, using all his strength, contrived to get the musket up to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.
It so happened that Tommy had taken up Mr. Seagrave's musket, which had not been fired, and when he pulled the trigger it went off, and as he did not hold it tight to his shoulder, it recoiled, and hit him with the butt right on his face, knocking out two of his teeth, besides making his nose bleed very fast.
Tommy was so astonished and frightened at the musket going off, and the blow which he received, that he gave a loud yell, dropped the musket, and ran to the tent where his father and mother were, just as they had started up and had rushed out at hearing the report.
When Mrs. Seagrave saw Tommy all covered with blood, and screaming so loud, she was so alarmed that she could not stand, and fell fainting in Mr. Seagrave's arms. Ready and William, on hearing the musket go off, had run as fast as they could, fearing that some accident had happened; and while Mr. Seagrave supported his wife, Ready went to Tommy, and wiping the blood off his face with the palm of his hand, perceived that there was no wound or serious mischief, and cried out to Mr. Seagrave, "He's not hurt, sir; it's only his nose bleeding."
"Musket knocked me down," cried Tommy, sobbing as the blood ran out of his mouth.
"Serve you right, Tommy; you'll take care not to touch the musket again."
"I won't touch it again," cried Tommy, blubbering.
Juno now came up with some water to wash his face; Mrs. Seagrave had recovered, and gone back into the tent, on Mr. Seagrave telling her that it was only Tommy's nose which was bleeding.
In about half-an-hour Tommy had ceased crying, and his nose had left off bleeding; his face was washed, and then it was discovered that he had lost two front teeth, and that his cheek and lips were very much bruised. He was undressed, and put to bed, and was soon fast asleep.
"I should not have left the muskets," said Ready to William; "it was my fault; but I thought Tommy had been told so often not to touch fire-arms, that he would not dare to do so."
"He pointed it at me, and tried to shoot me," said Caroline, "but I ran away."
"Merciful heavens! what an escape!" cried Mrs. Seagrave.
"He has been well punished this time, madam, and I'll venture to say he will not touch a musket again in a hurry."
"Yes; but he must be punished more," said Mr. Seagrave. "he must remember it."
"Well, sir, if he is to be punished more, I think you cannot punish him better than by not allowing him to have any of the pig when it is cooked."
"I think so too, Ready; and therefore that is a settled thing - no pig for Tommy."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
52
|
None
|
The next morning Tommy's face presented a very woeful appearance. His cheek and lips were swelled and black, and the loss of his two front teeth made him look much worse.
Tommy looked very glum when he came to breakfast. There was the pig's fry for breakfast, and the smell of it had been very inviting to Tommy; but when his father scolded him, and told him that he was not to have one bit of the pig, he began to cry and roar so loud, that he was sent away from the tents till he had left off.
After breakfast, Ready proposed that he and William should take the boat, and begin their labour of carrying the articles round from the cove to the bay where the house was, pointing out that there was not a day to be lost. Juno had, at his request, already baked a large piece of the pig for them to take with them, and boiled a piece of salt pork, so that they were all ready to start.
"But, Ready," said Mrs. Seagrave, "how long do you intend to remain absent with William?"
"Why, madam, this is Wednesday; of course we shall be back on Saturday night."
"My dear William, I cannot bear the idea of your being absent so long, and as you will be on the water every day, I shall be in a continual fright until I see you again."
"Well, mamma, I suppose I must write by the penny post, to let you know how I am."
"Don't laugh at me, William. I do wish there was a penny post, and that you could write every day."
Ready and William made every preparation for a continued absence. They took their blankets with them, and a small pot for cooking, and when all was prepared they bade Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave farewell. They were now to pull to the bay, and leave their luggage, and then go round to the cove. As they shoved off, William took the dog Remus into the boat.
"Why do you take the dog, William? he will be of use here in keeping the pigs away, but of no use to us."
"Yes, he will, Ready; I must take him; for I have an idea come into my head, so let me have my own way."
"Well, William, you can always have your own way, as far as I'm concerned; if you wish to take the dog, there is an end of the matter."
They hoisted the sail, and as the breeze was fresh, were round to the bay in a very short time. They took their provisions and stores up to the house, and made fast the door, called the fowls, and gave them some damaged rice which Ready had brought from the cove, and found, to their great delight, that they had now upwards of forty chickens; some, indeed, quite grown, and large enough to kill.
They then got into the boat again, and pulled away for the cove; the wind was fresh, and against them, so they had a long pull; but, as Ready observed, it was much better that it should be so, as, when the boat was loaded, they could very quickly sail back again to the bay.
As soon as they arrived at the cove, they lost no time in loading the boat; the nails, and iron work of every description, with the twine and tools, composed the major part of the first cargo; and calling Remus, who was lying on the sandy beach, they shoved off, hoisted their sail, and in an hour had regained the bay, and passed through the reef.
"I am glad that this cargo has arrived safe, William, for it is very valuable to us. Now we will take them all up, and that will be sufficient for to-day; to-morrow, if we can, we will make two trips."
"We can, if we start early," replied William; "but now let us have our dinner, and carry the remainder of the things up afterwards."
As they were eating their dinner, and William was giving the bones to the dog, Ready said, "Pray, William, what was the idea in your head which made you bring Remus with you?"
"I will tell you, Ready; I mean him to carry a letter to mamma; you know that he always goes back when he is ordered, and now I wish to see if he will not go back to the tents, if he is told. I have brought a piece of paper and pencil with me."
William then wrote on the paper, "Dear Mamma:--We are quite well, and just returned with the first cargo quite safe. Your affectionate son, WILLIAM."
William tied the paper round the dog's neck with a piece of twine, and then calling him out of the house, said to him, "Remus, go back, sir - go back, sir;" the dog looked wistfully at William, as if not sure of what he was to do, but William took up a stone, and pretended to throw it at the dog, who ran away a little distance, and then stopped.
"Go back, Remus - go back, sir." William again pretended to throw the stone, repeating the order, and then the dog set off as fast as his legs could carry him through the cocoa-nut grove.
"He is gone at all events," said William; "I think he will go home."
"We shall see, sir," replied Ready; "and now that we have finished our dinner, we will bring up the things, and put them in the storehouse."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
53
|
None
|
As soon as they had carried up the whole of the cargo, they secured the boat, and went up to the house to sleep. Just as they went in, Remus came bounding up to them with a letter round his neck.
"Here's the dog, William," said Ready; "he won't go home after all."
"How provoking! I made sure he would go back; I really am disappointed. We will give him nothing to eat, and then he will; but, dear me, Ready! this is not the paper I tied round his neck. I think not. Let me see." William took the paper, opened it, and read-- "Dear William:--Your letter arrived safe, and we are glad you are well. Write every day, and God bless you; it was very clever of you and Remus. Your affectionate mother, SELINA SEAGRAVE."
"Well, it is clever," said Ready; "I'm sure I had no idea he had gone; and his coming back again, too, when he was ordered."
"Dear Remus, good dog," said William, caressing it: "now I'll give you a good supper, for you deserve it."
"So he does, sir. Well, you've established a post on the island, which is a great improvement. Seriously, William, it may prove very useful."
"At all events it will be a great comfort to my mother."
"Yes, especially as we shall be obliged all three to be here when we fit up the storehouse, and make the proposed alterations. Now I think we had better go to bed, for we must be up with the lark to-morrow."
"Here I suppose we ought to say, up with the parrots; for they are the only land birds on the island."
"You forget the pigeons; I saw one of them in the wood the other day. Good night!"
The next morning, they were off before breakfast. The boat was soon loaded, and they returned under sail. They then breakfasted, and having left the things they had brought on the beach, that they might lose no time, they set off again, and returned with another cargo two hours before dusk; this they landed, and then secured the boat. As soon as they were in the house, William wrote on a piece of paper:-- "Dear Mamma:-- We have brought round two cargoes to-day. All well, and very tired. Yours, WILLIAM."
Remus did not require any teaching this time. William patted him, and said, "Good dog. Now, Remus, go back - go home, sir;" and the dog wagged his tail, and set off immediately.
Before they were in bed, the dog returned with the answer.
"How fast he must run, Ready! he has not been away more than two hours."
"No. So, now, Remus, you shall have plenty of supper, and plenty of patting and coaxing, for you are a clever, good little dog."
The next day, as they had to take the two cargoes up to the house, they could only make one trip to the cove. On Saturday they only made one trip, as they had to return to the tents, which they did by water, having first put a turtle into the boat; on their arrival, they found them all at the little harbour, waiting to receive them.
"Well, William, you did keep your promise and send me a letter by post," said Mrs. Seagrave. "How very delightful it is! I shall have no fear now when you are all away."
"I must teach Romulus and Vixen to do the same, mamma."
"And I'll teach the puppies," said Tommy.
"Yes, Tommy; by the time you can write a letter, the puppies will be old enough to carry it," said Ready. "Come, Albert, I'll carry you up; you and I haven't had a game of play for a long while. How does the ditch and hedge get on, Mr. Seagrave?"
"Pretty well, Ready," replied Mr. Seagrave; "I have nearly finished two sides. I think by the end of next week I shall have pretty well inclosed it."
"Well, sir, you must not work too hard, there is no great hurry; William and I can get through a great deal together."
"It is my duty to work, Ready; and I may add, it is a pleasure."
As they were at supper the conversation turned upon the cleverness shown by the dog Remus.
Mr. Seagrave narrated many instances of the sagacity of animals, when William asked the question of his father: "What is the difference then between reason and instinct?"
"The difference is very great, William, as I will explain to you; but I must first observe, that it has been the custom to say that man is governed by reason, and animals by instinct, alone. This is an error. Man has instinct as well as reason; and animals, although chiefly governed by instinct, have reasoning powers."
"In what points does man show that he is led by instinct?"
"When a child is first born, William, it acts by instinct only: the reasoning powers are not yet developed; as we grow up, our reason becomes every day more matured, and gains the mastery over our instinct, which decreases in proportion."
"Then when we have grown to a good old age, I suppose we have no instinct left in us?"
"Not so, my dear boy; there is one and a most powerful instinct implanted in man which never deserts him on this side of the grave. It is the fear, not of death, but of utter annihilation, that of becoming nothing after death. This instinctive feeling could not have been so deeply implanted in us, but as an assurance that we shall not be annihilated after death, but that our souls shall still exist, although our bodies shall have perished. It may be termed the instinctive evidence of a future existence."
"That is very true, Mr. Seagrave," observed Ready.
"Instinct in animals, William," continued Mr. Seagrave, "is a feeling which compels them to perform certain acts without previous thought or reflection; this instinct is in full force at the moment of their birth; it was therefore perfect in the beginning, and has never varied. The swallow built her nest, the spider its web, the bee formed its comb, precisely in the same way four thousand years ago, as they do now. I may here observe, that one of the greatest wonders of instinct is the mathematical form of the honeycomb of the bee, which has been proved by demonstration to be that by which is given the greatest possible saving of time and labour."
"But that is all pure instinct, papa; now you said that animals had reasoning powers. Will you point out to me how they show that they have?"
"I will, my dear boy; but we had better defer it till another evening. It is now time to go to bed."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
54
|
None
|
The following day, being Sunday, was devoted to the usual religious exercises. Tommy stole away out of the tent, while Mr. Seagrave was reading a sermon, to have a peep at the turtle-soup, which was boiling on the fire; however, Juno suspected him, and had hold of him just as he was taking the lid off the pot. He was well scolded, and very much frightened lest he should have no soup for his dinner; however, as it was not a very heavy offence, he was forgiven.
In the evening, William requested his father to renew the conversation about the reasoning powers of animals.
"With pleasure, William," replied Mr. Seagrave; "it is a fit discourse for a Sunday evening. Let us, however, first examine the various mental faculties discoverable in animals. In the first place, they have memory, especially memory of persons and places, quite as tenacious as our own. A dog will recognize an old master after many years absence. An elephant, who had again escaped into the woods, after twenty years remaining in a wild state, recognized his old mahoot, or driver. A dog will find his way back when taken more than a hundred miles from his master's residence. Another proof of memory in animals, were it required, is that they dream. Now, a dream is a confused recollection of past events; and how often do you not hear Romulus and Remus growling, barking, and whining in their sleep!"
"Very true, papa."
"Well, then, they have attention. See how patiently a cat will remain for hours before a hole, in watch for the mouse to come out. A spider will remain for months watching for the fly to enter its web; but this quality is to be observed in every animal in the pursuit of its prey. They have also association of ideas, which is, in fact, reasoning. A dog proves that; he will allow a gentleman to come up to the door, but fly at a beggar. When he is in charge of any property he will take no notice of a passer-by; but if a man stops, he barks immediately. In the elephant this association of ideas is even more remarkable; indeed, he understands what is said to him better than any other animal; his reasoning powers are most extraordinary. Promise him rewards, and he will make wonderful exertion. He is also extremely alive to a sense of shame. The elephants were employed to transport the heavy artillery in India. One of the finest attempted in vain to force a gun through a swamp. `Take away that lazy beast,' said the director `and bring another.' The animal was so stung with the reproach, that it used so much exertion to force the gun on with its head, as to fracture its skull, and it fell dead. When Chunee, the elephant which was so long in Exeter Change, was ordered as usual to take up a sixpence with his trunk, it happened one day that the sixpence rolled against the skirting-board, out of his reach. Chunee stopped, and reflected a little while, and then, drawing the air into his trunk, he threw it out with all his force against the skirting-board; the rebound of the air from the skirting-board blew the sixpence towards him, and he was enabled to reach it."
"That was very clever of him," replied William.
"Yes; it was a proof of thought, with a knowledge of cause and effect. There was a curious instance of a horse, which, by the bye, I consider the most noble animal of creation, which was ridden round by his master, to deliver newspapers. He invariably stopped at the doors where papers were to be left; but it happened that two people, living at different houses, took in a weekly newspaper between them; and it was agreed, that one should have the first reading of it on one week, and the other on the following. After a short time the horse became accustomed to this arrangement, and stopped at the one house on the one week, and at the other house on the following, never making a mistake."
"That was very curious; what a sagacious animal he must have been!" observed William.
"Animals also are, as you know, capable of receiving instruction, which is another proof of reasoning powers. The elephant, the horse, the dog, the pig, even birds may be taught a great deal."
"But then, papa, I still wish to know where the line is to be drawn between reason and instinct."
"I was about to come to that very point, William. When animals follow their instinct in providing their food, bringing up their young, and in their precautions against danger, they follow certain fixed rules, from which they never deviate. But circumstances may occur against which their instinct can afford them no regular provision; then it is that their reasoning powers are called into action. I will explain this by stating a fact relative to the bee, one of the animals upon which instinct is most powerful in its action. There is a certain large moth, called the Death's-head moth, which is very fond of honey. It sometimes contrives to force its way through the aperture of the hive, and gain an entrance. The bees immediately attack it, and it is soon destroyed by their stings; but the carcass is so large, that they cannot carry it out of the hive, as they invariably do the bodies of the smaller insects which may have intruded, and it appears that their sense of smell is very acute. What, then, do they do to avoid the stench arising from the dead body of this large moth? Why, they embalm it, covering it entirely with wax, by which it no longer becomes offensive to them."
"But, papa, might not their instinct have provided for such an event?" observed William.
"If such an event could have occurred to the bees in their wild state, you certainly might have raised the question; but recollect, William, that bees in their wild state live in the hollows of trees, and that the hole by which they enter is never more than sufficiently large to admit one bee at a time; consequently, no animal larger than a bee could gain entrance, and if it did, could of course have been easily removed from the hive; but the bees were here in a new position, in an artificial state, in a hive of straw with a large aperture, and therefore met with an exigence they were not prepared for, and acted accordingly."
"Yes, papa, I perceive the difference."
"I will conclude my observations with one remark. It appears to me, that although the Almighty has thought proper to vary the intellectual and the reasoning powers of animals in the same way that he has varied the species and the forms, yet even in this arrangement he has not been unmindful of the interest and welfare of man. For you will observe, that the reasoning powers are chiefly, if not wholly, given to those animals which man subjects to his service and for his use - the elephant, the horse, and the dog; thereby making these animals of more value, as the powers given to them are at the service and under the control of man."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
55
|
None
|
On the Monday morning, William and Ready went away in the boat, as before, to bring round the various articles from the cove. It had been arranged that they were not to return till the Saturday evening, and that the dog Remus was to bring intelligence of them and their welfare every afternoon. They worked hard during the week, and on Saturday they had completed their task; with the exception of a portion of the timbers of the ship, everything had been brought round, but had not been carried up to the storehouse, as that required more time.
On Saturday morning, they went for the last time to the cove, and Ready selected some heavy oak timber out of the quantity which was lying on the beach, part of which they put into the boat, and the remainder they towed astern. It was a heavy load, and although the wind was fair to sail hack again to the bay, the boat went but slowly through the water.
"Well, William," said Ready, "we have done a good week's work, and I must say it is high time that it is done; for the boat is in rather a crazy condition, and I must contrive to patch her up by and by, when there is time."
"We shall not want to use her very much after this, Ready," replied William; "a few trips round to the little harbour will be all that will be required before we come back again to our old quarters."
"That's true, William; but she leaks very much, and at all events I'll give her a coat of pitch as soon as possible. For a slight-built little thing as she is, she has done hard duty."
"Pray, Ready, why, when you speak of a ship or boat, do you always call it she?"
"Well, William, I don't know why, but it is certain that we sailors always do so. I believe it is because a sailor loves his ship. His ship is his wife, is a very common saying with us; and then you see, Master William, a vessel is almost a thing of life in appearance. I believe that's the reason, and of course if a vessel is she, a little boat must be a she also."
"Well, I think you have explained it very well, Ready. I suppose on Monday we shall set to at the storehouse, and alter it for our future residence?"
"Can't begin too soon, William," replied Ready; "I don't doubt but Mr. Seagrave has finished the hedge and ditch round the yams by this time, and if so, I expect Madam will not like to be left in the tents alone with Juno and the children, and so we shall all move back to the house again until we have altered the storehouse; I must say that I would rather your mamma remained in the tents until all was finished."
"Because you are afraid of a visit from the savages, Ready?"
"I am, sir, and that's the truth."
"But, Ready, if they do come, we shall see them coming, and would it not be better that we should all be together, even if we are obliged to conceal ourselves in consequence of not being prepared? Suppose the savages were to overrun the island, and find my mother, my little brother, and sister, defenceless, at the time we were obliged to retreat from our house; how dreadful that would be!"
"But I counted upon retreating to the tents."
"So we can all together, unless we are surprised in the night."
"That we must take care not to be. There's not three hours' dark in this season of the year. Well, William, I doubt not you may be right, and if they are all with us, Juno will be a great help, and we shall get through our work the faster."
"We had better let the question be decided by my father and mother."
"Very true, William; here's the point at last. We will haul the timber on the beach, and then be off as fast as we can, for it is getting late."
It was, indeed, much later than they had usually arrived at the little harbour, owing to the heavy load, which made the boat so long in coming round from the cove; and when they pulled in, they found Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave and the children all waiting for them.
"You are very late, William," said Mrs. Seagrave. "I was quite uneasy till I saw the boat at a distance."
"Yes, mamma; but we could not help it; we had a heavy load to bring round, and now our work is done."
"I am delighted to hear it, William; for I cannot bear you being away so long."
"And my work is done," said Mr. Seagrave; "the hedge and ditch were finished this morning."
"Well, then," observed Ready, "we must hold another council, but I presume it will not take very long."
"No; I expect not; it seldom does when people are of the same mind. Mrs. Seagrave won't be left here, Ready, and I don't want to leave her, so I presume on Monday we all start home again."
"Yes, sir; if you please," replied Ready.
"Juno, I hope you have a good supper," said William; "for I'm very hungry."
"Yes, Massa William; plenty fried fish; Massa catch 'em this morning."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
56
|
None
|
The next day being Sunday was a day of repose, and as they had all worked so hard, they felt the luxury of a day of rest. In the afternoon, they agreed that on Monday they should make every preparation for quitting the tents, and returning to the house at the bay. They decided that the live stock should all be left there, as the pasturage was so plentiful and good, with the exception of one goat, which they would take back with them, to supply them with milk; and they also agreed that the tents should be left standing, with some cooking utensils, that in case William and Ready went round for the bananas or yams, or to examine the live stock, they should not be compelled to sleep in the open air, and should have the means of dressing their dinner. William and Ready were to carry the beds, etc., round to the bay in the boat, which they could do in two trips, and Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave, with the family, were to walk through the woods after taking a very early breakfast.
All these points being arranged, they had finished their supper, when William again brought up the conversation about animals, as he was delighted to bear Mr. Seagrave talk on the subject. The conversation had not commenced more than a few minutes, when William said-- "Papa, they always say `as stupid as an ass'. Is an ass such a stupid animal?"
"No, William; it is a very sagacious one; but the character has been given to the animal more on account of its obstinacy and untractableness, than on any other account. It is usual to say, as stupid as an ass, or as stupid as a pig, or a goose. Now, these three animals are very much maligned, for they are all sagacious animals. But the fact is that, as regards the ass, we have only very sorry specimens of the animal in England; they are stunted and small, and, from want of corn and proper food, besides being very ill-treated, are slow and dull-looking animals. The climate of England is much too cold for the ass; in the south of France and the Mediterranean, where it is much warmer, the ass is a much finer animal; but to see it in perfection we must go to the Torrid Zone in Guinea, right on the equator, the hottest portion of the globe, where the ass, in its native state and in its native country, is a handsome creature and as fleet as the wind; indeed, supposed to be, and mentioned in the Scriptures as the fleetest animal in creation. The fact is, that in Asia, especially in Palestine and Syria, asses were in great repute, and used in preference to horses. We must see an animal in its own climate to form a true estimate of its value."
"Does climate, then, make so great a difference?" said William.
"Of course it does, not only with animals, but with trees, plants, and even man, until he is accustomed to the change. With respect to animals, there are some which can bear the different varieties of climate, and even change of food. The horse, for instance, although originally indigenous to Arabia, lives as well in the Temperate, and even in the Frigid Zones it may be said, for they endure the hard winters of Russia and North America; so will domestic cattle, such as cows, sheep, pigs, &c. It is a curious fact that, during the winter in Canada, a large proportion of the food of cattle consists of fish."
"Fish, papa! Cows eat fish?"
"Yes, my dear boy, such is the fact. It is a remarkable instance of a graminivorous or grass-eating animal being changed for a time into a flesh-eating, or rather into fish-eating animal. But there are other animals which can live under any temperature, as the wolf, the fox, the hare, and rabbit. It is a curious provision, - that the sheep and goats in the hottest climates throw off their warm covering of wool, and retain little better than hair; while, removed to a cold climate, they recover their warm covering immediately."
"But a goat has no wool, papa."
"What are Cashmere shawls made of, William?"
"Very true, papa."
"Most animals have a certain increase of covering as they recede further from the warm climates to the cold ones. Wolves and foxes, hares and rabbits, change the colour of their skins to white when they get far north. The little English stoat, which is destroyed by the gamekeepers, becomes the beautiful snow-white ermine in Russia and other cold countries."
"Well, papa, I think it a great advantage to man, and a proof of the Almighty's care of him and kindness to him, in permitting all the animals most useful to him to be able to live in any country; but I don't know whether I am wrong in saying so, papa: I cannot see why an animal like the wolf should not have been kept to his own climate, like the lion and tiger, and other ferocious animals."
"You have started a question, William, which I am glad you have done, rather than it should have remained on your mind, and have puzzled you. It is true that the shepherd might agree with you, that the wolf is a nuisance; equally true that the husband man may exclaim, What is the good of thistles, and the various weeds which choke the soil? But, my dear boy, if they are not, which I think they are, for the benefit of man, at all events they are his doom for the first transgression. `Cursed is the ground for thy sake - thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee - and by the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread,' was the Almighty's sentence; and it is only by labour that the husbandman can obtain his crops, and by watchfulness that the shepherd can guard his flocks. Labour is in itself a benefit: without exercise there would be no health, and without health there would be no enjoyment."
"I see now, papa. You have mentioned the animals which can live in all climates; will you not tell us something about other animals?"
"There is but one remark to make, William, which is, that animals indigenous to, that is, originally to be found in, any one portion of the globe, invariably are so fashioned as to be most fit for that country, and have the food also most proper for them growing or to be obtained in that country. Take, for instance, the camel, an animal fashioned expressly for the country to which he is indigenous, and without whose aid all communication must have been stopped between Asia and Africa. He is called the `Ship of the Desert'; for the desert is a `sea of sand'. His feet are so fashioned that he can traverse the sands with facility; he can live upon the coarsest vegetable food and salt plants which are found there, and he has the capacity of carrying water in a sort of secondary stomach, for his own supply where no water is to be found. Here is an animal wonderfully made by the Almighty for an express locality, and for the convenience of man in that country; for, in England, or elsewhere, he would be of no value. But it is late, my dear William; so we will first thank him for all his mercies, and then to bed."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
57
|
None
|
The next morning was one of bustle; there was packing up and every preparation for departure. Juno was called here and called there, and was obliged to ask little Caroline to look after the kettle and call to her if it boiled over. Master Tommy, as usual, was in every one's way, and doing more harm than good in his attempts to assist.
At last, Ready, to get rid of him, sent him down with a large bundle to the beach. Tommy shouldered it with great importance, but when he came back, looking rather warm with the exertion, and Ready asked him to take down another, he said he was too tired, and sat down very quietly till breakfast-time, before which everything was ready.
Mrs. Seagrave and Juno packed up the breakfast and dinner things in a basket after breakfast was over, and then Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave and the family set off on their journey, accompanied by the dogs, through the cocoa-nut grove.
William and Ready lost no time in getting through their work; the crockery, kitchen utensils, table, and chairs, were the first articles put into the boat. The goat was then led down, and they set off with a full load, and arrived at the bay long before the party who were walking through the wood. They landed the things on the beach, and then shoved off again to bring round the bedding, which was all that was left. By three o'clock in the afternoon they had arrived at the bay with their second and last load, and found that the other party had been there about an hour, and Mr. Seagrave and Juno were very busy taking the articles up from the beach.
"Well, William," said Ready, "this is our last trip for some time, I expect; and so much the better, for our little boat must have something done to her as soon as I can find time."
"Yes, indeed, Ready, she has done her work well. Do you know I feel as if I were coming home, now that we are back to the bay. I really feel quite glad that we have left the tents. I found the pigeons among the peas, Ready, so we must pick them as soon as we can. I think there were near twenty of them. We shall have pigeon pies next year, I expect."
"If it pleases God that we live and do well," replied Ready, who had his eyes fixed upon the sea.
Before night everything was in its place again in the house, and as comfortable as before, and as they were very tired, they went very early to bed, having first arranged what they should do in the morning. At daylight Ready and William went down to the turtle-pond and speared a turtle, for now the time was coming on for turning the turtle again, and the pond would soon be filled. Having cut it up and put a portion of it into the pot, all ready for Mrs. Seagrave, as soon as breakfast was over they proceeded to the storehouse.
After a little consultation with Mr. Seagrave, Ready marked out a square of cocoa-nut trees surrounding the storehouse, so as to leave a space within them of about twenty yards each side, which they considered large enough for the inclosure. These cocoa-nut trees were to serve as the posts between which were to be fixed other cocoa-nut trees cut down, and about fourteen feet high, so as to form a palisade or stockade, which could not be climbed over, and would protect them from any attack of the savages.
As soon as the line of trees had been marked out, they set to work cutting down all the trees within the line, and then outside to a distance of ten yards, so as to give them room for their work. Ready cut out cross-pieces, to nail from tree to tree, and now they found the advantage of having saved so many of the large spike nails, without which they never could have made so good or so quick a job of it. Mr. Seagrave cut down trees, William and Juno sawed them off at a proper length with one of the cross-cut saws, and then carried them to Ready. They soon had more cut out than be could use, and then they dragged away the tops and branches, and piled them at a distance on the ground, to use as winter fuel, while Mr. Seagrave helped Ready in fixing up the palisades. They worked very hard that day, and were not sorry to go to bed. Ready, however, took an opportunity to speak to William.
"I think," said he, "that now we are here again, it will be necessary to keep a sort of night-watch, in case of accident. I shall not go to bed till it is quite dark, which it will be by nine o'clock, and shall have my glass to examine the offing the last thing. You see, there is little fear of the savages coming here in the night-time, but they may just before night or very early in the morning, so one of us must be up again before daybreak, that is between two and three o'clock in the morning, to see if there is anything to be seen of them; if there is not, of course we may go to bed again, as they cannot arrive till many hours afterwards; and we must watch the wind and weather, if it is favourable for them to come to us, which, indeed, the wind will not be except at the commencement of the rainy season but it may be very light, and then they would not care for its being against them. I've been thinking of it, William, a great deal, and my idea is, that it will be at the beginning of the rainy season that we shall have a visit, if we have one at all; for you see that the wind don't blow regular from one quarter, as it does now, but is variable, and then they can make sail in their canoes, and come here easily, instead of pulling between thirty and forty miles, which is hard work against wind and current. Still, we must not be careless and we must keep a good look-out even now. I don't want to fret your father and Mrs. Seagrave with my fears on the subject, but I tell you what I really think, and what we ought to do."
"I agree with you, Ready, and I will take care to be up before daybreak, and examine very carefully with the spy-glass as soon as the day dawns. You take the night part, and I will do the morning part of the watching."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
58
|
None
|
For nearly a fortnight, the work upon the stockade continued without any intermission, when a circumstance occurred which created the greatest alarm and excitement. One day, as the party returned to dinner, Mrs. Seagrave said with surprise, "Why, was not Tommy with you?"
"No," replied Mr. Seagrave; "he has not been near us all day; he went with us after breakfast, but did not remain a quarter of an hour."
"No, Missy; I tell Massa Tommy to help carry cocoa-nut leaves, and then he go away directly."
"Goodness! where can he be?" exclaimed Mrs. Seagrave, alarmed.
"I dare say he is picking up shells on the beach, ma'am," replied Ready, "or perhaps he is in the garden. I will go and see."
"I see him - oh, mercy! - I see him," said Juno, pointing with her finger; "he in the boat, and boat go to sea!"
It was but too true: there was Tommy in the boat, and the boat had drifted from the beach, and was now a cable's length away from it, among the breakers.
William ran off like the wind, followed close by Mr. Seagrave and Ready, and at a distance by Mrs. Seagrave and Juno; indeed, there was no time to be lost, for the wind was off the shore, and in a short time the boat would have been out to sea.
William, as soon as he arrived at the beach, threw off his hat and jacket and dashed into the water. He was already up to his middle, when old Ready, who had followed him, caught him by the arm and said: "William, go back immediately. I insist upon it. Your going can do no good, as you do not understand the thing so well as I do; and go I will, so there will be double risk for nothing. Mr. Seagrave, order him back. He will obey you. I insist upon it, sir."
"William," said Mr. Seagrave, "come back immediately, I command you."
William obeyed, but before he was clear of the water Ready had swam across to the first rocks on the reef, and was now dashing through the pools between the rocks, towards the boat.
"Oh, father!" said William, "if that good old man is lost, I shall never forgive myself. Look, father, one - two - three sharks, here, close to us. He has no chance. See, he is again in deep water. God protect him!"
In the meantime, Mr. Seagrave, whose wife was now by his side, after glancing his eye a moment at the sharks, which were within a few feet of the beach, had kept his gaze steadily upon Ready's movements. If he passed through the passage of deep water between the rocks he might be considered safe, as the boat was now beating on a reef on the other side, where the water was shallow. It was a moment of intense anxiety. At last Ready had gained the reef, and had his hands upon the rocks, and was climbing on them.
"He is safe, is he not?" whispered Mrs. Seagrave faintly.
"Yes; now I think he is," replied Mr. Seagrave, as Ready had gained a footing on the rocks, where the water was but a little above his ankles. "I think there is no deep water between him and the boat."
In another minute Ready was over the rocks, and had seized the gunnel of the boat.
"He is in the boat," cried William. "Thank God!"
"Yes, we must thank God, and that fervently," replied Mr. Seagrave. "Look at those monsters," continued he, pointing to the sharks; "how quick they swim to and fro; they have scented their prey on the water. It is fortunate they are here."
"See, he has the boat-hook, and is pushing the boat off the reef into the deep water. Oh! he is quite safe now."
Such, however, was not the case. The boat had been beating on the rocks of the reef, and had knocked a hole in her bottom, and as soon as Ready had forced the boat into deep water, she began to fill immediately. Ready pushed as hard as he could with the boat-hook, and tearing off his neck-cloth, forced as much as he could of it into the hole. This saved them; but the boat was up to the thwarts with water, and the least motion on the part of Ready, or even Tommy, would have upset her immediately, and they had still to pass the deep water between the reef and the beach, where the sharks were swimming. Ready, who perceived his danger, called out to them to throw large stones at the sharks as fast as they could, to drive them away. This was immediately done by Mr. Seagrave and William, aided by Juno and Mrs. Seagrave.
The pelting of the stones had the desired effect. The sharks swam away, and Ready passed through to the beach, and the boat grounded just as she was up to the gunnel in water, and about to turn over. He handed out Tommy, who was so dreadfully frightened that he could not cry.
As soon as Ready landed, William sprang into his arms, crying, "Thank God, you are safe, Ready!" Mrs. Seagrave, overpowered by her feelings, sank her head upon William's shoulder, and burst into tears.
"It was touch and go, William," observed Ready, as they walked up to the house, preceded by Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave. "How much mischief may be created by a thoughtless boy! However, one can't put old heads on young shoulders, and so Tommy must be forgiven."
"He has been punished enough, as far as fright goes," replied William; "I'll answer for it, he'll never get into the boat again by himself."
"No, I think not. But now, William, you saw how nearly I was swamped in the boat; indeed, it was only by his mercy that I was preserved; but taking the question merely as far as our endeavours could help us, do you think that if you had gained the boat instead of me, you would have brought her to the beach as I did?"
"No, Ready; I never could have managed her so skilfully as you did, and therefore I must have been swamped before I got on shore."
"Well, William, as I am an old sailor and you are not, therefore it is not vanity which makes me say that you could not have managed the boat so well as I did. Now, as I had not three or four seconds to spare, you, as you say, must have been swamped. I mention this to prove to you that I was right in desiring your father to order you back."
"Certainly, Ready; but Tommy is my brother, and I felt that it was more my duty than yours to risk my life for him."
"A very proper feeling, William; but you have other duties, which are, to look after your father and mother, and be a comfort and solace to them. Your life is more valuable than mine. I am an old man on the brink of the grave, and a year or two makes no difference, but your life is, I hope, of more consequence."
That evening the prayers were more than usually solemn, and the thanksgivings more heartfelt and sincere. Exhausted with the exciting scene of the day, they all retired early to bed.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
59
|
None
|
When Tommy was questioned on the following morning as to his inducement to get into the boat, to their great surprise he replied, that he wanted to go round to the tents again, to see if the bananas were ripe; that he intended to eat some of them and be back before dinner-time, that he might not be found out.
"I suspect, Tommy, you would have been very hungry before you ate any bananas if we had not perceived you," said Ready.
"I won't go into the boat any more," said Tommy.
"I rather think you will keep to that resolution, Tommy," replied Mr. Seagrave; "however, I must leave your mother to point out to you the danger you were in yourself, and in which you placed others by your folly."
The stockade was now almost finished; the door was the occasion of a good deal of consultation; at last, it was agreed that it would be better to have a door of stout oak plank, but with second door-posts inside, about a foot apart from the door, between which could be inserted short poles one above the other, so as to barricade it within when required. This would make the door as strong as any other portion of the stockade. As soon as this was all complete, the storehouse was to be altered for a dwelling-house, by taking away the wattles of cocoa-nut boughs on the sides, and filling them up with logs of cocoa-nut trees.
Before the week was ended the stockade and door were complete, and they now began to fell trees, to form the sides of the house. This was rapid work; and while Mr. Seagrave, William, and Juno felled the trees, and brought them on the wheels to the side of the stockade, all ready cut to their proper lengths, Ready was employed in flooring the house with a part of the deal planks which they had brought round from the cove. But this week they were obliged to break off for two days, to collect all their crops from the garden.
A fortnight more passed away in continual hard work, but the house was at last finished, and very complete, compared to the one they were residing in. It was much larger, and divided into three rooms by the deal planking: the middle room which the door opened into was the sitting and eating room, with a window behind; the two side rooms were sleeping-rooms, one for Mrs. Seagrave and the children, and the other for the male portion of the family.
"See, William," said Ready, when they were alone, "what we have been able to do by means of those deal planks; why, to have floored this house, and run up the partitions, would have taken us half a year if we had had to saw the wood."
"Yes; and what a comfort it is to have so many shelves about. When shall we shift into this house?"
"The sooner the better. We have plenty of work still to do, but we can work outside of the stockade."
"And what do you propose to do with the old house?" said William.
"We had better put some of our stores of least value in it for the present, until we can fit up another storehouse inside the stockade."
"Then we'll put those casks in, for they take up a great deal of room."
"All but that large one, William; we shall want that. I shall fix it up in a corner."
"What for, Ready?"
"To put water in."
"But we are closer to the spring than we were at the other house."
"I know that; but, perhaps, we may not be able to go out of the stockade, and then we shall want water."
"I understand, Ready; how thoughtful you are!"
"If at my age I did not think a little, William, it would be very odd. You don't know how anxious I am to see them all inside of this defence."
"But why should we not come in, Ready?"
"Why, sir, as there is still plenty of work, I do not like to press the matter, lest your mamma should be fidgeted, and think there was danger; but danger there is; I have a kind of forewarning of it. I wish you would propose that they should come in at once; the standing-bed places are all ready, except the canvas, and I shall nail on new by to-night."
In consequence of this conversation, William proposed at dinnertime that the next day they should go into the new house, as it was so much more handy to work there and live there at the same time. Mr. Seagrave was of the same opinion, but Mrs. Seagrave thought it better that everything should be tidy first.
"Why, ma'am," said Ready, "the only way to get things tidy is to go yourself and make them so. Nothing will ever be in its place unless you are there to put it in."
"Well, Ready," said Mrs. Seagrave, "since you are against me as well as all the rest, I give it up. and if you please we will shift over to-morrow."
"Indeed, ma'am, I think it will be better; this is the last month of fine weather, and we shall have plenty to do."
"Be it so, Ready; you are the best judge; to-morrow we will take up our quarters in the stockade."
"Thank God!" muttered Ready very softly.
The next day was fully employed in changing their residence, and shifting over the bedding and utensils; and that night they slept within the stockade. Ready had run up a very neat little outhouse of plank, as a kitchen for Juno, and another week was fully employed as follows: the stores were divided; those of least consequence, and the salt provisions, flour, and the garden produce, &c., were put into the old house; the casks of powder and most of the cartridges were also put there for security; but a cask of beef, of pork, and flour, all the iron-work and nails, canvas, &c., were stowed away for the present under the new house, which had, when built as a storehouse, been raised four feet from the ground to make a shelter for the stock. This was very spacious, and, of course, quite dry, and contained all they wished to put in. Ready also took care, by degrees, to fill the large water-butt full of water, and had fixed into the bottom a spigot for drawing the water off.
"Well, Mr. Seagrave," said Ready on the Saturday, "we have done a good many hard weeks' work lately, but this is the last of them. We are now comfortably settled in our new house: our stores are all under cover, and safe from the weather, and so we may now take things a little easier. William and I must repair the boat, so that we may take a trip round to examine how the stock and yams get on."
"And the bananas and the guavas," said Tommy.
"Why, we have quite forgotten all about them," observed Mrs. Seagrave.
"Yes, ma am; we have been so busy, that it is no wonder; however, there may be some left yet, and I will go round as soon as the boat is able to swim, and bring all I can find."
"We must put our seeds and potatoes in before the rainy season, Ready."
"It will be better, sir, if we can find time, as we shall not have much more fine weather now; at all events, we can get them in at intervals when the weather is fine. Now I shall go my rounds for turtle. Good-night, ma'am, - good-night, sir. Come, William."
William and Ready succeeded in turning six more turtles to add to their stock, and having taken a careful survey with the telescope, they came back, fastened the door of the stockade, and went to bed.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
60
|
None
|
Another week passed away, during which Ready repaired the boat, and William and Mr. Seagrave were employed in digging up the garden. It was also a very busy week at the house, as they had not washed linen for some time. Mrs. Seagrave and Juno, and even little Caroline were hard at work, and Tommy was more useful than ever he had been, going for the water as they required it, and watching little Albert. Indeed, he was so active, that Mrs. Seagrave praised him before his papa, and Tommy was quite proud.
On the Monday William and Ready set off in the boat to the little harbour, and found all the stock doing well. Many of the bananas and guavas had ripened and withered, but there were enough left to fill the boat half full.
"We cannot do better than to leave the stock where it is at present, William; they can run into the cocoa-nut grove for shelter if there is a storm, and there is feed enough for ten times as many."
"Yes; but will you not dig up a few yams first?"
"I had quite forgotten it, William. I will go for the spade."
Having procured the yams, they set off on their return. Before they arrived at the bay, the sky clouded over and threatened a storm. It did not, however, rain till after they had landed, when a small shower announced the commencement of the rainy season. The fruit was very welcome to all of them, it was so long since they had tasted any.
The following day was beautifully fine, and everything appeared refreshed by the rain which had fallen. It was, however, agreed, that Ready and William should go round the next morning, bring home the tents, and as many yams as the boat could carry. William and Ready went out at night as usual, when Ready observed that the wind had chopped round to the eastward.
"That will be bad for us to-morrow, Ready," replied William. "We may sail to the harbour, but we shall have to pull back with the loaded boat."
"I trust it will be no worse than that, at all events," replied Ready; "but we must now return, and go to bed. I shall be up by daylight, so you need not wake without you like."
"I can't help waking," replied William, "and I shall, therefore, be up with you."
"Very well, I am always glad of your company."
The next morning, just before the day dawned, Ready and William unfastened the door of the stockade, and went down to the beach. The wind was still to the eastward, and blowing rather fresh, and the sky was cloudy. As the sun rose, Ready, as usual, had his telescope with him, and looked through it at the offing to the eastward. As he kept the spy-glass to his eye for some time without speaking, William said: "Do you see anything, Ready, that you look so long in that direction?"
"Either my old eyes deceive me, or I fear that I do," replied Ready; "but a few minutes more will decide."
There was a bank of clouds on the horizon to the eastward, but as soon as the sun had risen above them, Ready, who had the telescope fixed in the same direction, said: "Yes, William, I am right. I thought that those dark patches I saw there were brown grass sails."
"Sails of what, Ready?" said William, hastily.
"Of the Indian canoes; I knew that they would come. Take the glass and look yourself; my eye is quite dim from straining it so long."
"Yes, I have them now," replied William, with his eye to the glass. At last he said: "Why, there are twenty or thirty of them, Ready, at least."
"And with twenty or thirty men in each too, William."
"What must we do, Ready? How frightened my poor mother will be! I'm afraid we can do nothing against such a number."
"Yes, William, we can do a great deal, and we must do a great deal. That there are hundreds of savages there is no doubt; but recollect that we have a stockade, which they cannot easily climb over, and plenty of firearms and ammunition, so that we can make a good fight of it, and perhaps beat them off, for they have nothing but clubs and spears."
"How fast they come down, Ready; why, they will be here in an hour."
"No, sir, nor in two hours either; those are very large canoes. However, there is no time to be lost. While I watch them for a few minutes till I make them more clearly out, do you run up to the house and beckon your father to come down to me; and then, William, get all the muskets ready, and bring the casks of powder, and of made-up cartridges, from the old house into the stockade. Call Juno, and she will help you. We shall have time enough to do everything. After you have done that, you had better come down and join us."
In a very few minutes after William ran up to the house, Mr. Seagrave made his appearance.
"Ready, there is danger, I'm sure; William would not tell me, I presume, because he was afraid of alarming his mother. What is it?"
"It is, Mr. Seagrave, that the savages are now coming down upon us in large force; perhaps five or six hundred of them; and that we shall have to defend ourselves with might and main."
"Do you think we have any chance against such a force?"
"Yes, sir, with God's help I have no doubt but that we shall beat them off; but we must fight hard, and for some days, I fear."
Mr. Seagrave examined the fleet of canoes with the glass. "It is, indeed, dreadful odds to contend against."
"Yes, sir, but three muskets behind a stockade are almost a match for all their clubs and spears, provided none of us are wounded."
"Well, Ready, we must put our trust in the Lord, and do our best; I will second you to the utmost of my power, and William, I'm sure, will do his duty."
"I think, sir," said Ready, "we had better not wait here any more, as we have not long to prepare for them. We have only to fix up some of our strong deal planks on the inside of the stockade for us to stand upon when we are attacked, that we may see what the enemy is about, and be able to fire upon them. But first we had better go to the old house, and take out what provisions and other articles we shall most want, and roll the casks into the stockade, for to the old house they will go first, and perhaps destroy everything in it. The casks they certainly will, for the sake of the iron hoops. An hour's work will do a great deal. I believe we have everything we want in the stockade; Juno has her fuel, the large butt of water will last us two or three weeks at least, and if we have time, we will get the wheels down, and spear a couple of turtles for fresh provisions."
These observations were made as they walked up to the house. As soon as they arrived, they found William and Juno had just brought in the powder and cartridges. Mr. Seagrave went in to break the matter to his wife.
"I was told that I had to expect this, my dear," replied Mrs. Seagrave, "so that it has not come upon me altogether unawares, and anything that a poor weak woman can do, I will."
"I am indeed greatly relieved," said Mr. Seagrave, "by finding you thus prepared and supported. I shall feel no anxiety - but we have work to be done."
Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave then joined William, Beady, and Juno, who had already proceeded to the old house. The children were all still in bed and asleep, so that there was no occasion for any one to watch them.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
61
|
None
|
As they could have a very good view of the canoes from where the old house stood, Ready examined them with his glass every time that he returned from rolling up a cask to the stockade. Every one worked hard; even Mrs. Seagrave did all she could, either assisting in rolling the casks, or carrying up what she was able to lift. In an hour they had got into the stockade all that they most cared for, and the canoes were still about six or seven miles off.
"We have a good hour before they arrive, sir," said Ready, "and even then the reefs will puzzle them not a little; I doubt if they are disembarked under two hours. We have plenty of time for all we wish to do. Juno, go for the wheels, and William, come down with the spear, and we will have some of the turtle into the stockade. Mr. Seagrave, I do not require your assistance, so if you will have the kindness to get out the muskets, and examine the flints, it will be as well."
"Yes; and then you have to load them," replied Mrs. Seagrave. "Juno and I can do that at all events, ready for you to fire them."
"An excellent idea, madam," replied Ready.
In half an hour six turtles were brought up by Juno and William, and then Ready followed them into the stockade.
They then rolled the casks, and upheaded them by the sides of the stockade, and fixed up deal planks to stand upon, just high enough to enable them to see over the top of the palisades, and to fire at the enemy. Mrs. Seagrave had been shown how to load a musket, and Juno was now taught the same.
"Now, sir, we are all prepared," said Ready, "and Madam and Juno can go and look a little after the children, and get breakfast."
As soon as the children were dressed, Mr. Seagrave called Ready, who was outside, watching the canoes, and they went to their morning devotions, and prayed heartily for succour in this time of need. They then breakfasted in haste; for, as may be supposed, they were almost too anxious to eat.
"This suspense is worse than all," said Mrs. Seagrave. "I wish now that they were come."
"Shall I go to Ready and hear his report, my dear? - I will not be away three minutes."
In a short time Mr. Seagrave returned, saying that the canoes were close to the beach, that the savages evidently had a knowledge of the passages through the reefs, as they had steered right in, and had lowered their sails; that Ready and William were on the look-out, but concealed behind the cocoa-nut trees.
"I hope they will not stay out too long."
"No fear of that, my dear Selina; but they had better watch their motions to the last minute."
During this conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave within the stockade, William and Ready were watching the motions of the savages, a large portion of whom had landed out of ten of the canoes, and the others were following their example as fast as they could, forcing their way through the reefs. The savages were all painted, with their war-cloaks and feathers on, and armed with spears and clubs, evidently having come with no peaceable intentions.
William, who had taken the telescope to examine them more minutely, said to Ready, "What a fierce, cruel set of wretches they appear to be; if they overpower us they will certainly kill us!"
"Of that there is no doubt, William; but we must fight hard, and not let them overpower us. Kill us they certainly will, and I am not sure that they may not eat us afterwards; but that is of little consequence."
William replied in a determined tone, "I'll fight as long as I have breath in my body; but, Ready, they are coming up as fast as they can."
"Yes; we must wait no longer. Come, William."
"I thought I saw another vessel under sail, out away by the garden point, Ready, just as we turned away."
"Very likely, sir, a canoe which has separated from the others during the night. Come, quick, William, they have begun to yell."
Another half-minute, and they arrived at the door of the stockade; they entered, shut the door, and then barricaded it with the cocoa-nut poles which they had fitted to the inner door-posts.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
62
|
None
|
The loud yells of the savages struck terror into the heart of Mrs. Seagrave; it was well that she had not seen their painted bodies and fierce appearance, or she would have been much more alarmed. Little Albert and Caroline clung around her neck with terror in their faces; they did not cry, but looked round and round to see from whence the horrid noise proceeded, and then clung faster to their mother. Tommy was very busy, finishing all the breakfast which had been left, for there was no one to check him as usual; Juno was busy outside, and was very active and courageous. Mr. Seagrave had been employed making the holes between the palisades large enough to admit the barrels of the muskets, so that they could fire at the savages without being exposed; while William and Ready, with. their muskets loaded, were on the look-out for their approach.
"They are busy with the old house just now, sir," observed Ready, "but that won't detain them long."
"Here they come," replied William; "and look, Ready, is not that one of the women who escaped from us in the canoe, who is walking along with the first two men? Yes, it is, I am sure."
"You are right, William, it is one of them. Ah! they have stopped; they did not expect the stockade, that is clear, and it has puzzled them; see how they are all crowding together and talking; they are holding a council of war how to proceed; that tall man must be one of their chiefs. Now, William, although I intend to fight as hard as I can, yet I always feel a dislike to begin first; I shall therefore show myself over the palisades, and if they attack me, I shall then fire with a quiet conscience."
"But take care they don't hit you, Ready."
"No great fear of that, William. Here they come."
Ready now stood upon the plank within, so as to show himself to the savages, who gave a tremendous yell, and as they advanced a dozen spears were thrown at him with so true an aim that, had he not instantly dodged behind the stockade, he must have been killed. Three or four spears remained quivering in the palisades, just below the top; the others went over it, and fell down inside of the stockade, at the further end.
"Now, William, take good aim;" but before William could fire, Mr. Seagrave, who had agreed to be stationed at the corner so that he might see if the savages went round to the other side, fired his musket, and the tall chief fell to the ground.
Ready and William also fired, and two more of the savages were seen to drop amidst the yells of their companions. Juno handed up the other muskets which were ready loaded, and took those discharged, and Mrs. Seagrave, having desired Caroline to take care of her little brother, and Tommy to be very quiet and good, came out, turned the key of the door upon them, and hastened to assist Juno in reloading the muskets.
The spears now rushed through the air, and it was well that they could fire from the stockade without exposing their persons, or they would have had but little chance. The yells increased, and the savages now began to attack on every quarter; the most active, who climbed like cats, actually succeeded in gaining the top of the palisades, but, as soon as their heads appeared above, they were fired at with so true an aim that they dropped down dead outside. This combat lasted for more than an hour, when the savages, having lost a great many men, drew off from the assault, and the parties within the stockade had time to breathe.
"They have not gained much in this bout, at all events," said Ready; "it was well fought on our side, and William, you certainly behaved as if you had been brought up to it."
"Do you think they will go away now?" said Mrs. Seagrave.
"Oh, no, madam, not yet; they will try us every way before they leave us. You see these are very brave men, and it is clear that they know what gunpowder is, or they would have been more astonished."
"I should think so too," replied Mr. Seagrave; "the first time that savages hear the report of firearms, they are usually thrown into great consternation."
"Yes, sir; but such has not been the case with these people, and therefore I reckon it is not the first time that they have fought with Europeans."
"Are they all gone, Ready?" said William, who had come down from the plank to his mother.
"No; I see them between the trees now; they are sitting round in a circle, and, I suppose, making speeches."
"Well, I'm very thirsty, at all events," said William; "Juno, bring me a little water."
Juno went to the water-tub to comply with William's request, and in a few moments afterwards came back in great consternation.
"Oh, Massa! oh, Missy! no water; water all gone!"
"Water all gone!" cried Ready and all of them in a breath.
"Yes; not one little drop in the cask."
"I filled it up to the top!" exclaimed Ready very gravely; "the tub did not leak, that I am sure of; how can this have happened?"
"Missy, I tink I know now," said Juno; "you remember you send Massa Tommy, the two or three days we wash, to fetch water from the well in little bucket. You know how soon be come back, and how you say what good boy he was, and how you tell Massa Seagrave when he come to dinner. Now, Missy, I quite certain Massa Tommy no take trouble go to well, but fetch water from tub all the while, and so he empty it."
"I'm afraid you're right, Juno," replied Mrs. Seagrave. "What shall we do?"
"I go speak Massa Tommy," said Juno, running to the house.
"This is a very awkward thing, Mr. Seagrave," observed Ready gravely.
Mr. Seagrave shook his head.
The fact was, that they all perceived the danger of their position: if the savages did not leave the island, they would perish of thirst or have to surrender; and in the latter case, all their lives would most certainly be sacrificed.
Juno now returned: her suspicions were but too true. Tommy, pleased with the praise of being so quick in bringing the water, had taken out the spigot of the cask, and drawn it all off.
"Well," observed Mr. Seagrave, "it is the will of Heaven that all our careful arrangements and preparations against this attack should be defeated by the idleness of a child, and we must submit."
"Very true, sir," replied Ready; "all our hopes now are that the savages may be tired out, and leave the island."
"If I had but a little for the children, I should not care," observed Mrs. Seagrave; "but to see those poor things suffer - is there not a drop left, Juno, anywhere?"
Juno shook her head.
Mrs. Seagrave said she would go and examine, and went away into the house accompanied by Juno.
"This is a very bad business, Ready," observed Mr. Seagrave. "What would we give for a shower of rain now, that we might catch the falling drops!"
"There are no signs of it, sir," replied Ready; "we must, however, put our confidence in One who will not forsake us."
"I wish the savages would come on again," observed William; "for the sooner they come, the sooner the affair will be decided."
"I doubt if they will to-day; at night-time I think it very probable. We must make preparations for it."
"Why, what can we do, Ready?"
"In the first place, sir, by nailing planks from cocoa-nut tree to cocoa-nut tree above the present stockade, we may make a great portion of it much higher, and more difficult to climb over. Some of them were nearly in, this time. If we do that, we shall not have so large a space to watch over and defend; and then we must contrive to have a large fire ready for lighting, that we may not have to fight altogether in the dark. It will give them some advantage in looking through the palisades, and seeing where we are, but they cannot well drive their spears through, so it is no great matter. We must make the fire in the centre of the stockade, and have plenty of tar in it, to make it burn bright, and we must not, of course, light it until after we are attacked. We shall then see where they are trying for an entrance, and where to aim with our muskets."
"The idea is very good, Ready," said Mr. Seagrave; "if it had not been for this unfortunate want of water, I really should be sanguine of beating them off."
"We may suffer very much, Mr. Seagrave, I have no doubt; but who knows what the morrow may bring forth?"
"True, Ready. Do you see the savages now?"
"No, sir; they have left the spot where they were in consultation. I suppose they are busy with their wounded and their dead."
As Ready had supposed, no further attack was made by the savages on that day, and he, William, and Mr. Seagrave, were very busy making their arrangements; they nailed the planks on the trunks of the trees above the stockade, so as to make three sides of the stockade at least five feet higher, and almost impossible to climb up; and they prepared a large fire in a tar-barrel full of cocoa-nut leaves mixed with wood and tar, so as to burn fiercely. Dinner or supper they had none, for there was nothing but salt pork and beef and live turtle, and, by Ready's advice, they did not eat, as it would only increase their desire to drink.
The poor children suffered much; and little Albert wailed and cried for "water, water." Ready remained on the look-out; indeed, everything was so miserable inside of the house, that they were all glad to go out of it; they could do no good, and poor Mrs. Seagrave had a difficult and most painful task to keep the children quiet under such severe privation, for the weather was still very warm and sultry.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
63
|
None
|
But the moaning of the children was very soon after dusk drowned by the yells of the savages, who, as Ready had prognosticated, now advanced to the night attack.
Every part of the stockade was at once assailed, and their attempts now made were to climb into it; a few spears were occasionally thrown, but it was evident that the object was to obtain an entrance by dint of numbers. It was well that Ready had taken the precaution of nailing the deal planks above the original stockade, or there is little doubt but that the savages would have gained their object; as it was, before the flames of the fire, which Juno had lighted by Ready's order, gave them sufficient light, three or four savages had climbed up and had been shot by William and Mr. Seagrave, as they were on the top of the stockade.
When the fire burnt brightly, the savages outside were more easily aimed at, and a great many fell in their attempts to get over. The attack continued more than an hour, when at last, satisfied that they could not succeed, the savages once more withdrew, carrying with them, as before, their dead and wounded.
"I trust that they will now re-embark, and leave the island," said Mr. Seagrave.
"I only wish they may, sir; it is not at all impossible; but there is no saying. I have been thinking, Mr. Seagrave, that we might be able to ascertain their movements by making a look-out. You see, sir, that cocoa-nut tree," continued Ready, pointing to one of those to which the palisades were fastened, "is much taller than any of the others: now, by driving spike-nails into the trunk at about a foot apart, we might ascend it with ease, and it would command a view of the whole bay; we then could know what the enemy were about."
"Yes, that is very true; but will not anyone be very much exposed if he climbs up?"
"No, sir; for you see the cocoa-nut trees are cut down clear of the palisades to such a distance, that no savage could come at all near without being seen by anyone on the look-out, and giving us sufficient time to get down again before he could use his spear."
"I believe that you are right there, Ready; but at all events I would not attempt to do it before daylight, as there may be some of them still lurking underneath the stockade."
"Certainly there may be, sir, and therefore until daylight we will not begin."
Mr. Seagrave then went into the house; Ready desired William to lie down and sleep for two or three hours, as he would watch. In the morning, when Mr Seagrave came out, he would have a little sleep himself.
"I can't sleep, Ready. I'm mad with thirst," replied William.
"Yes, sir; it's very painful - I feel it myself very much, but what must those poor children feel? I pity them most."
"I pity my mother most, Ready," replied William; "it must be agony to her to witness their sufferings, and not be able to relieve them."
"Yes, indeed, it must be terrible, William, to a mother's feelings; but perhaps these savages will be off to-morrow, and then we shall forget our privations."
"I trust in God that they may, Ready, but they seem very determined."
"Yes, sir; iron is gold to them, and what will civilized men not do for gold?"
In the meantime, Mr. Seagrave had gone into the house. He found the children still crying for water, notwithstanding the coaxing and soothing of Mrs. Seagrave, who was shedding tears as she hung over poor little Albert. Little Caroline only drooped, and said nothing. Mr. Seagrave remained for two or three hours with his wife, assisting her in pacifying the children, and soothing her to the utmost of his power; at last he went out and found old Ready on the watch.
"Ready, I had rather a hundred times be attacked by these savages and have to defend this place, than be in that house for even five minutes, and witness the sufferings of my wife and children."
"I do not doubt it, sir," replied Ready; "but cheer up, and let us hope for the best; I think it very probable that the savages after this second defeat will leave the island."
"I wish I could think so, Ready; it would make me very happy; but I have come out to take the watch, Ready. Will you not sleep for a while?"
"I will, sir, if you please, take a little sleep. Call me in two hours; it will then be daylight, and I can go to work, and you can get some repose yourself."
"I am too anxious to sleep; I think so, at least."
"William said he was too thirsty to sleep, sir, but, poor fellow, he is now fast enough."
"I trust that boy will be spared, Ready."
"I hope so too; but we are all in the hands of the Almighty."
Mr. Seagrave took his station on the plank, and was left to his own reflections; that they were not of the most pleasant kind may easily be imagined. He prayed earnestly and fervently that they might be delivered from the danger and sufferings which threatened them, and became calm and tranquil; prepared for the worst, if the worst was to happen, and confidently placing himself and his family under the care of him who orders all as he thinks best.
At daylight Ready woke up and relieved Mr. Seagrave, who did not return to the house, but lay down on the cocoa-nut boughs, where Ready had been lying by the side of William. As soon as Ready had got out the spike-nails and hammer, he summoned William to his assistance, and they commenced driving them into the cocoa-nut tree, one looking out in case of the savages approaching, while the other was at work. In less than an hour they had gained the top of the tree close to the boughs, and had a very commanding view of the bay, as well as inland. William, who was driving the last dozen spikes, took a survey, and then came down to Ready.
"I can see everything, Ready: they have pulled down the old house altogether, and are most of them lying down outside, covered up with their war-cloaks; some women are walking to and fro from the canoes, which are lying on the beach where they first landed."
"They have pulled down the house to obtain the iron nails, I have no doubt," replied Ready. "Did you see any of their dead?"
"No; I did not look about very much, but I will go up again directly. I came down because my hands were jarred with hammering, and the hammer was so heavy to carry. In a minute or two I shall go up light enough. My lips are burning, Ready, and swelled; the skin is peeling off. I had no idea that want of water would have been so dreadful. I was in hopes of finding a cocoa-nut or two on the tree, but there was not one."
"And if you had found one, it would not have had any milk in it at this season of the year. However, William, if the savages do not go away to-day, something must be done. I wish now that you would go up again, and see if they are not stirring."
William again mounted to the top of the tree, and remained up for some minutes; when he came down, he said, "They are all up now, and swarming like bees. I counted 260 of the men in their war-cloaks and feather head-dresses; the women are passing to and fro from the well with water; there is nobody at the canoes except eight or ten women, who are beating their heads, I think, or doing something of the kind. I could not make it out well, but they seem all doing the same thing."
"I know what they are about, William: they are cutting themselves with knives or other sharp instruments. It is the custom of these people. The dead are all put into the canoes, and these women are lamenting over them; perhaps they are going away, since the dead are in the canoes. but there is no saying."
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
64
|
None
|
The second day was passed in keeping a look-out upon the savages, and awaiting a fresh attack. They could perceive from the top of the cocoa-nut tree that the savages held a council of war in the forenoon, sitting round in a large circle, while one got up in the centre and made a speech, flourishing his club and spear while he spoke. In the afternoon the council broke up, and the savages were observed to be very busy in all directions, cutting down the cocoa-nut trees, and collecting all the brushwood.
Ready watched them for a long while, and at last came down a little before sunset. "Mr. Seagrave," said he, "we shall have, in my opinion, no attack this night, but to-morrow we must expect something very serious; the savages are cutting down the trees, and making large faggots; they do not get on very fast, because their hatchets are made of stone and don't cut very well, but perseverance and numbers will effect everything, and I dare say that they will work all night till they have obtained as many faggots as they want."
"But what do you imagine to be their object, Ready, in cutting down trees, and making the faggots?"
"Either, sir, to pile them up outside the palisades, so large as to be able to walk up upon them, or else to pile them up to set fire to them, and burn us out."
"Do you think they will succeed?"
"Not without very heavy loss; perhaps we may best them off, but it will be a hard fight; harder than any we have had yet. We must have the women to load the muskets, so that we may fire as fast as we can. I should not think much of their attempt to burn us, if it were not for the smoke. Cocoa-nut wood, especially with the bark on, as our palisades have, will char a long while, but not burn easily when standing upright; and the fire, when the faggots are kindled, although it will be fierce, will not last long."
"But suffering as we are now, Ready, for want of water, how can we possibly keep up our strength to meet them in a suffocating smoke and flame? we must drop with sheer exhaustion."
"We must hope for the best, and do our best, Mr. Seagrave," replied Ready; "and recollect that should anything happen to me during the conflict, and if there is any chance of your being overpowered, you must take advantage of the smoke to escape into the woods, and find your way to the tents. I have no doubt that you will be able to do that; of course the attack will be to windward if they use fire, and you must try and escape to leeward; I have shown William how to force a palisade if necessary. The savages, if they get possession, will not think of looking for you at first, and, perhaps, when they have obtained all that the house contains, not even afterwards."
"Why do you say if any accident happens to you, Ready?" said William.
"Because, William, if they place the faggots so as to be able to walk to the top of the palisades, I may be wounded or killed, and so may you."
"Of course," replied William; "but they are not in yet, and they shall have a hard fight for it."
Ready then told Mr. Seagrave that he would keep the watch, and call him at twelve o'clock. During these two days, they had eaten very little; a turtle had been killed, and pieces fried, but eating only added to their thirst, and even the children refused the meat. The sufferings were now really dreadful, and poor Mrs. Seagrave was almost frantic.
As soon as Mr. Seagrave had gone into the house, Ready called William, and said, "William, water we must have. I cannot bear to see the agony of the poor children, and the state of mind which your poor mother is in; and more, without water we never shall be able to beat off the savages to-morrow. We shall literally die of choking in the smoke, if they use fire. Now, William, I intend to take one of the seven-gallon barricos, and go down to the well for water. I may succeed, and I may not, but attempt it I must, and if I fall it cannot be helped."
"Why not let me go, Ready?" replied William.
"For many reasons, William," said Ready; "and the chief one is that I do not think you would succeed so well as I shall. I shall put on the war-cloak and feathers of the savage who fell dead inside of the stockade, and that will be a disguise, but I shall take no arms except his spear, as they would only be in my way, and increase the weight I have to carry. Now observe, you must let me out of the door, and when I am out, in case of accident put one of the poles across it inside; that will keep the door fast, if they attack it, until you can secure it with the others. Watch my return, and be all ready to let me in. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, perfectly, Ready; but I am now, I must confess, really frightened; if anything was to happen to you, what a misery it would be!"
"There is no help for it, William. Water must, if possible, be procured, and now is a better time to make the attempt than later, when they may be more on the watch; they have left off their work, and are busy eating; if I meet any one, it will only be a woman."
Ready went for the barrico, a little cask, which held six or seven gallons of water. He put on the head-dress and war-cloak of the savage; and, taking the barrico on his shoulder, and the spear in his hand, the poles which barred the door were softly removed by William, and after ascertaining that no one was concealed beneath the palisades, Ready pressed William's hand, and set off across the cleared space outside of the stockade, and gained the cocoa-nut trees. William, as directed, closed the door, passed one pole through the inner door-posts for security, and remained on the watch. He was in an awful state of suspense, listening to the slightest noise, even the slight rustling by the wind of the cocoa-nut boughs above him made him start; there he continued for some minutes, his gun ready cocked by his side.
It is time that he returned, thought William; the distance is not 100 yards, and yet I have heard no noise. At last he thought he heard footsteps coming very softly. Yes, it was so. Ready was returning, and without any accident. William had his hand upon the pole, to slip it on one side and open the door, when he beard a scuffle and a fall close to the door. He immediately threw down the pole, and opened it just as Ready called him by name. William seized his musket and sprang out; he found Ready struggling with a savage, who was uppermost, and with his spear at Ready's breast. In a second William levelled and fired, and the savage fell dead.
"Take the water in quick, William," said Ready in a faint voice. "I will contrive to crawl in if I can."
William caught up the barrico of water, and took it in; he then hastened to Ready, who was on his knees. Mr. Seagrave, hearing the musket fired, had run out, and finding the stockade door open, followed William, and seeing him endeavouring to support Ready, caught hold of his other arm, and they led him tottering into the stockade; the door was then immediately secured, and they went to his assistance.
"Are you hurt, Ready?" said William.
"Yes, dear boy, yes; hurt to death, I fear: his spear went through my breast. Water, quick, water!"
"Alas! that we had some," said Mr. Seagrave.
"We have, papa," replied William; "but it has cost us dearly."
William ran for a pannikin, and taking out the bung, poured some water out of the barrico and gave it to Ready, who drank it with eagerness.
"Now, William, lay me down on these cocoa-nut boughs; go and give some water to the others, and when you have all drunk, then come to me again. Don't tell Mrs. Seagrave that I'm hurt. Do as I beg of you."
"Papa, take the water - do pray," replied William; "I cannot leave Ready."
"I will, my boy," replied Mr. Seagrave; "but first drink yourself."
William, who was very faint, drank off the pannikin of water, which immediately revived him, and then, while Mr. Seagrave hastened with some water to the children and women, occupied himself with old Ready, who breathed heavily, but did not speak.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
65
|
None
|
After returning twice for water, to satisfy those in the house, Mr. Seagrave came to the assistance of William, who had been removing Ready's clothes to ascertain the nature of the wound he had received.
"We had better move him to where the other cocoa-nut boughs lie; he will be more comfortable there," said William.
Ready whispered, "More water." William gave him some more and then, with the assistance of his father, Ready was removed to a more comfortable place. As soon as they laid him there, Ready turned on his side, and threw up a quantity of blood.
"I am better now," said he in a low voice; "bind up the wound, William; an old man like me has not much blood to spare."
Mr. Seagrave and William then examined the wound; the spear had gone deep into the lungs. William threw off his shirt, tore it up into strips, and then bound up the wound so as to stop the effusion of blood.
Ready, who at first appeared much exhausted with being moved about, gradually recovered so as to be able to speak in a low voice, when Mrs. Seagrave came out of the house.
"Where is that brave, kind man?" cried she, "that I may bless him and thank him."
Mr. Seagrave went to her, and caught her by the arm. "He is hurt, my dear; and very much hurt. I did not tell you at the time."
Mr. Seagrave related what had occurred, and then led her to where Ready was lying. Mrs. Seagrave knelt by his side, took his hand, and burst into tears.
"Don't weep for me," said Ready; "my days have been numbered; I'm only sorry that I cannot any more be useful to you."
"Dear good man," said Mrs. Seagrave, "whatever may be our fates, and that is for the Almighty to decide for us, as long as I have life, what you have done for me and mine shall never be forgotten."
Mrs. Seagrave then bent over him, and kissing his forehead, rose and retired weeping into the house.
"William," said Ready, "I can't talk now; raise my head a little, and then leave me. You have not looked round lately. Come again in about half an hour. Leave me now, Mr. Seagrave; I shall be better if I doze a little."
They complied with Ready's request; went up to the planks, and examined carefully all round the stockade; at last they stopped.
"This is a sad business, William," said Mr. Seagrave.
William shook his head. "He would not let me go," replied he; "I wish he had. I fear that he is much hurt."
"I should say that he cannot recover, William. We shall miss him to-morrow if they attack us."
"I hardly know what to say, papa; but I feel that since we have been relieved, I am able to do twice as much as I could have done before."
"I feel the same, but still with such a force against us, two people cannot do much."
"If my mother and Juno load the muskets for us," replied William, "we shall at all events do as much now as we should have been able to do if there were three, so exhausted as we should have been."
"Perhaps so; at all events we will do our best, for we fight for our lives and for those most dear to us."
William went softly up to Ready, and found that he was dozing; he therefore did not disturb him, but returned to his father. Now that their thirst had been appeased, they all felt the calls of hunger. Juno and William went and cut off steaks from the turtle, and fried them; they all made a hearty meal, and perhaps never had they taken one with so much relish in their lives.
It was nearly daylight, when William, who had several times been softly up to Ready, found him with his eyes open.
"How do you find yourself, Ready?" said William.
"I am quiet and easy, William, and without much pain; but I think I am sinking, and shall not last long. Recollect that if you are obliged to escape from the stockade, you take no heed of me, but leave me where I am. I cannot live, and were you to move me, I should only die the sooner."
"I had rather die with you, than leave you, Ready."
"No, that is wrong; you must save your mother, and your brothers and sister; promise me that you will do as I wish."
William hesitated.
"I point out to you your duty, William. I know what your feelings are, but you must not give way to them; promise me this, or you will make me very miserable."
William squeezed Ready's hand; his heart was too full to speak.
"They will come at daylight, William; you have not much time to spare; climb to the look-out, and wait there till day dawns; watch them as long as you can, and then come and tell me what you have seen."
Ready's voice became faint after this exertion of speaking so much.
William immediately climbed up the cocoa-nut tree, and waited there till daylight. At the dawn of day, he perceived that the savages were at work, that they had collected all the faggots together opposite to where the old house had stood, and were very busy in making arrangements for the attack. At last, every one shouldered a faggot, and commenced their advance towards the stockade; William immediately descended and called his father, who was talking with Mrs. Seagrave. The muskets were all loaded, and Mrs. Seagrave and Juno took their posts below the planking, to reload them as fast as they were fired.
"We must fire upon them as soon as we are sure of not missing, William," said Mr. Seagrave, "for the more we check their advance, the better."
When the first savages were within fifty yards, they both fired, and two of the men dropped; they continued to fire as their assailants came up, with great success for the first ten minutes; after which the savages advanced in a larger body, and took the precaution to hold the faggots in front of them, for some protection as they approached. By these means they gained the stockade in safety, and commenced laying their faggots. Mr. Seagrave and William still kept up an incessant fire upon them, but not with so much success as before.
Although many fell, the faggots were gradually heaped up, till they almost reached to the holes between the palisades, through which they pointed their muskets; and as the savages contrived to slope them down from the stockade to the ground, it was evident that they meant to mount up and take them by escalade. At last, it appeared as if all the faggots had been placed, and the savages retired farther back, to where the cocoa-nut trees were still standing.
"They have gone away, father," said William; "but they will come again, and I fear it is all over with us."
"I fear so too, my boy," replied Mr. Seagrave; "they are only retreating to arrange for a general assault, and they now will be able to gain an entrance. I almost wish that they had fired the faggots; we might have escaped as Ready pointed out to us, but now I fear we have no chance."
"Don't say a word to my mother," said William; "let us defend ourselves to the last, and if we are overpowered it is the will of God."
"I should like to take a farewell embrace of your dear mother," said Mr. Seagrave; "but, no; it will be weakness just now. Here they come, William, in a swarm. Well, God bless you, my boy; we shall all, I trust, meet in Heaven!"
The whole body of savages were now advancing from the cocoa-nut wood in a solid mass; they raised a yell, which struck terror into the hearts of Mrs. Seagrave and Juno, yet they flinched not. The savages were again within fifty yards of them, when the fire was opened upon them; the fire was answered by loud yells, and the savages had already reached to the bottom of the sloping pile of faggots, when the yells and the reports of the muskets were drowned by a much louder report, followed by the crackling and breaking of the cocoa-nut trees, which made both parties start with surprise; another and another followed, the ground was ploughed up, and the savages fell in numbers.
"It must be the cannon of a ship, father," said William; "we are saved - we are saved!"
"It can be nothing else; we are saved, and by a miracle!" replied Mr. Seagrave in utter astonishment.
The savages paused in the advance, quite stupefied; again, again, again, the report of the loud guns boomed through the air, and the round-shot and grape came whizzing and tearing through the cocoa-nut grove; at this last broadside, the savages turned, and fled towards their canoes: not one was left to be seen.
"We are saved!" cried Mr. Seagrave, leaping off the plank and embracing his wife, who sank down on her knees, and held up her clasped hands in thankfulness to Heaven.
William had hastened up to the look-out on the cocoa-nut tree, and now cried out to them below, as the guns were again discharged: "A large schooner, father; she is firing at the savages, who are at the canoes; they are falling in every direction: some have plunged into the water; there is a boat full of armed men coming on shore; they are close to the beach, by the garden-point. Three of the canoes have got off full of men; there go the guns again; two of the canoes are sunk, father; the boat has landed, and the people are coming up this way." William then descended from the look-out as fast as he could.
As soon as he was down, he commenced unbarring the door of the stockade. He pulled out the last pole just as he heard the feet of their deliverers outside. He threw open the door, and, a second after, found himself in the arms of Captain Osborn.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
66
|
None
|
Before we wind up this history, it will be as well to state to my young readers how it was that Captain Osborn made his appearance at so fortunate a moment. It will be recollected how a brig came off the island some months before this, and the great disappointment that the party on the island experienced in her not making her appearance again. The fact was, that those on board of the brig had not only seen their signals, but had read the name of the "Pacific" upon the flag hoisted; but the heavy gale which came on drove them so far to the southward, that the master of the brig did not consider that he should do his duty to his owners, if he lost so much time in beating up for the island again. He therefore decided upon making all sail for Sydney, to which port he was bound.
When Captain Osborn was put into the boat by Mackintosh and the seamen of the Pacific, he was still insensible; but he gradually recovered, and after a stormy night, Captain Osborn was so far recovered as to hear from Mackintosh what had taken place, and why it was that he found himself in an open boat at sea. The next morning the wind moderated, and they were fortunate enough to fall in with a vessel bound to Van Diemen's Land, which took them all on board.
From the account given by Mackintosh, Captain Osborn had no doubt in his mind but that the Seagrave family had perished, and the loss of the vessel, with them on board, was duly reported to the owners. When at Van Diemen's Land, Captain Osborn was so much taken with the beauty and fertility of the country, and perhaps not so well inclined to go to sea again after such danger as he had incurred in the last voyage, that he resolved to purchase land and settle there. He did so, and had already stocked his farm with cattle, and had gone round to Sydney in a schooner to await the arrival of a large order from England which he had sent for, when the brig arrived and reported the existence of some white people on the small island, and also that they had hoisted a flag with the name Pacific worked on it.
Captain Osborn, hearing this, went to the master of the brig, and questioned him. He found the latitude and longitude of the island to be not far from that of the ship when she was deserted, and he was now convinced that, by some miracle, the Seagrave family had been preserved. He therefore went to the Governor of New South Wales, and made him acquainted with the facts which had been established, and the Governor instantly replied, that the government armed schooner was at his service, if he would himself go in quest of his former shipmates. Inconvenient as the absence at that time was to Captain Osborn, he at once acquiesced, and in a few days the schooner sailed for her destination. She arrived off the island on the same morning that the fleet of canoes with the savages effected their landing, and when William made the remark to Ready as they were hastening into the stockade, that there was another vessel under sail off the garden-point, had Ready had time to put his eye to the telescope, he would have discovered that it was the schooner.
The schooner stood in to the reefs, and then hauled off again, that she might send her boat in to sound for an anchorage. The boat, when sounding, perceived the canoes and the savages, and afterwards heard the report of firearms on the first attack. On her return on board the schooner, they stated what they had seen and heard, and their idea that the white people on the island were being attacked by the savages. As the boat did not return on board till near dusk, they had not time to canvas, the question when the night attack was made, and they again heard the firing of the muskets. This made Captain Osborn most anxious to land as soon as possible, but as the savages were in such numbers, and the crew of the schooner did not consist of more than twenty-five men, the commander considered it was rash to make the attempt. He did, however, show the utmost anxiety to bring his schooner to an anchor, so as to protect his men, and then agreed that they should land.
The boat had reported deep water and good anchorage close to the garden-point, and every preparation was made for running at daylight on the following morning; but unfortunately, it fell calm for the best part of the day, and it was not until the morning after, just as the savages were making their last attack upon the stockade, that she could get in. As soon as she did, she opened the fire of her carronades, and the result is already known.
My readers must, if they can, imagine the joy of Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave when they beheld their old friend Captain Osborn. All danger was now over; the party who had landed with him went out under the command of the mate, to ascertain if there were any more of the savages to be found; but, except the dead and dying, all had escaped in some of the smaller canoes. Captain Osborn remained with the Seagraves, and they informed him of the state of poor old Ready, whom William had gone to attend as soon as Captain Osborn was engaged with his father and mother. Captain Osborn hurried out to see him; Ready knew his voice, for his eyes were already so dim that he could not see.
"That is Captain Osborn, I know," said Ready in a faint voice. "You have come in good time, sir; I knew you would come, and I always said so: you have the thanks of a dying man."
"I hope it is not so bad as that, Ready; we have a surgeon on board, and I will send for him at once."
"No surgeon can help me, sir," replied Ready; "another hour of time will not pass before I shall be in Eternity."
The old man then joined his hands across his breast, and remained for some time in silent prayer. Then he bade them farewell in a faint voice, which at last was changed to a mere whisper. They still remained, in silence and in tears, standing round him, William only kneeling and holding his hand, when the old man's head fell back, and he was no more!
"It is all over," said Mr. Seagrave mournfully, "and he has, I have no doubt, gone to receive the reward of a good and just man. `Happy are those who die in the Lord.'"
Mr. Seagrave then led away his wife and children, leaving Juno and William. William closed his eyes, and Juno went and fetched the ship's ensign, which they laid over the body, after which they joined the rest of the party in the house.
It was decided that the following day should be passed in packing up and getting on board their luggage, and that the day after the family should embark. William then mentioned the wish of poor old Ready as to his burial. The commander of the schooner immediately gave directions for a coffin to be made, and for his men to dig the grave at the spot that William should point out.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
67
|
None
|
The hurry and bustle of preparing for their departure from the island, and the rapid succession of events which had been crowded together within so very few days, had not allowed time for much thought or reflection to Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave and William; at length, however, every preparation had been made, and they were no longer urged by the commander of the schooner to hasten their packing up and arrangements; for everything had been sent on board during the afternoon, and it was proposed that they should sail on the following day.
Now they had time to feel, and bitterly did they lament the loss of their old friend, and deplore that he had not survived to sail with them to Sydney. They had always indulged the hope that one day they should be taken off the island, and in that hope they had ever looked forward to old Ready becoming a part of their future household. Now that their wishes had been granted - so much was the feeling of joy and gratitude mingled with regret - that could he have been restored to them, they felt as if they would have gladly remained on the island.
Captain Osborn, the commander, and the crew of the schooner had taken leave of them for the night, and had gone on board, having made arrangements for the interment of Ready, previous to their sailing, on the following day. The children had been put to bed, and Juno had quitted the house; Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave and William were sitting together in their now half-dismantled room, when Juno entered; the poor girl had evidently been weeping.
"Well, Juno," observed Mr. Seagrave, with a view to break the silence which had continued for some time previous to her entrance, "are you not glad to leave the island?"
"One time I think I would be very glad, but now I not care much," replied Juno. "Island very nice place, all very happy till savage come. Suppose they not kill old Ready, I not care."
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Seagrave, "it is a sad blow to us all; I did hope to have fostered the good old man, and to have been able to have shown him our gratitude, but--" "It is the will of Heaven that it should be otherwise," continued Mr. Seagrave; "I would give half that I am possessed of, that he had not perished."
"Oh, Massa!" said Juno, "I sit by him just now; I take off the flag and look at his face, so calm, look so happy, so good, I almost tink he smile at me, and then I cry. Oh! Massa Tommy, all because you idle boy."
"It adds much to my regret," replied Mr. Seagrave, "that his life should have been sacrificed through the thoughtlessness of one of my own children; what a lesson it will be to Tommy when he is old enough to comprehend the consequences of his conduct."
"That he must not know, papa," said William, who had been leaning mournfully over the table; "one of Ready's last injunctions was that Tommy was never to be told of it."
"His last wishes shall be religiously attended to, my dear boy," replied Mr. Seagrave; "for what do we not owe to that good old man? When others deserted us and left us to perish, he remained with us to share our fate. By his skill we were saved and landed in safety. He provided for our wants, added to our comforts, instructed us how to make the best use of our means. Without his precautions we should have perished by the spears of the savages. What an example of Christian fortitude and humility did he ever show us! and indeed, I may truly say, that by his example, sinful as I must ever be, I have become, I trust, a better man. Would that he were now sitting by us, - but the Lord's will be done!"
"I feel as if I had lost a stay or prop," replied Mrs. Seagrave. "So accustomed have I been to look to him for advice since we have been on this island. Had he not been thus snatched from us - had he been spared to us a few years, and had we been permitted to surround his death-bed, and close his eyes in peace--" and Mrs. Seagrave wept upon the shoulder of her husband.
After a time, Mrs. Seagrave recovered herself; but silence ensued, only broken by an occasional sob from poor Juno. William's heart was too full; he could not for a long while utter a word; at last he said in a low voice: "I feel that, next to my dear father and mother, I have lost my best friend. I cannot forgive myself for allowing him to go for the water; it was my duty to go, and I ought to have gone."
"And yet we could have ill spared you, my dear boy; you might have perished," replied Mrs. Seagrave.
"It would have been as God willed," replied William; "I might have perished, or I might not."
"We never know what the morrow may bring forth," said Mr. Seagrave, "or what may be in store for us. Had not this misfortune happened, had old Ready been spared to us, how joyfully should I and all of you have quitted this island, full of anticipation, and indulging in worldly prospects. What a check have I received! I now am all thought and anxiety. I have said to myself, `we have been happy on this island; our wants have been supplied; even our comforts have been great. We have been under no temptations, for we have been isolated from the world; am I so sure that I shall be as happy in future as I have been? Am I confident, now my long-wished-for return to the world is about to take place, that I shall have no cause to lament that I ever quitted this peaceful, quiet spot?' I feel that it is a duty to my family that I should return to society, but I am far from feeling that our happiness may be increased. We have, however, a plain precept to follow, which is, to do our duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call us."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Seagrave; "I feel the truth of all you have just said. We are in his hands; let us put our trust in him."
"We will," replied Mr. Seagrave; "but it is late, and we have to rise early to-morrow morning. This is the last evening which we shall pass on this island; let us return our thanks for the happiness we have enjoyed here. We thought to have quitted this spot in joy, - it is his will that we should leave it in sorrow."
Mr. Seagrave took down the Bible, and after he had read a chapter, he poured forth a prayer suited to their feelings, and they all retired to repose.
The next morning they were up early, and packed up the few articles which still remained to go on board. Mr. Seagrave read the prayers, and they went to breakfast. Few words were exchanged, for there was a solemn grief upon all of them. They waited for the arrival of Captain Osborn and the crew of the schooner to attend the funeral of poor old Ready. William, who had gone out occasionally to look at the vessel, now came in, and said that two boats were pulling on shore. A few minutes afterwards, Captain Osborn and the commander of the schooner soon made their appearance. The coffin had been brought on shore; the body of Ready was put into it, and it was screwed down.
In half an hour all was prepared, and the family were summoned from the house. The coffin, covered with the Union Jack as a pall, was raised on the shoulders of six of the seamen, and they bore it to the grave, followed by Mrs. Seagrave and the children, the commander of the schooner, and several of the men. Mr. Seagrave read the funeral service, the grave was filled up, and they all walked back in silence. At the request of William, the commander of the schooner had ordered the carpenter to prepare an oak paling to put round the grave, and a board on which was written the name of the deceased and day of his death. As soon as this had been fixed up, William, with a deep sigh, followed the commander of the schooner to the house to announce that all was finished, and that the boat waited for them to embark.
"Come, my dear," said Mr. Seagrave to his wife.
"I will, I will," replied Mrs. Seagrave, "but I don't know how it is, now that the hour is come, I really feel such pain at quitting this dear island. Had it not been for poor Ready's death, I really do think I should wish to remain."
"I don't doubt but that you feel sorrow, my dear, but we must not keep Captain Osborn waiting."
As Mr. Seagrave was aware that the commander of the schooner was anxious to get clear of the islands before night, he now led his wife down to the boat. They all embarked, and were soon on the deck of the schooner, from whence they continued to fix their eyes upon the island, while the men were heaving up the anchor. At last sail was made upon the vessel, the garden-point was cleared, and, as they ran away with a fair wind, each object on the shore became more indistinct. Still their eyes were turned in that direction.
As they ran down to the westward, they passed the cove where they had first landed, and Mr. Seagrave directed Mrs. Seagrave's attention to it. She remained for some time looking at it in silence, and then said as she turned away: "We shall never be more happy than we were on that island, Seagrave."
"It will indeed be well, my dear, if we never are less happy," replied her husband.
The schooner now ran fast through the water, and the island was every minute less distinct; after a time, the land was below the horizon, and the tops of the cocoa-nut trees only to be seen; these gradually disappeared. Juno watched on, and when at last nothing could be seen, she waved her handkerchief in the direction of the island, as if to bid it farewell, and then went down below to hide her grief.
The wind continued fair, and, after a favourable passage of little more than four weeks, they arrived at Sydney Cove, the port to which they were bound when they embarked from England on board of the good ship Pacific.
P.S. - As my young readers will probably wish to know a little more about the Seagrave family, I will inform them that Mr. Seagrave, like the patriarch Job after his tribulation, found his flocks and herds greatly increased on his arrival at Sydney. Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave lived to see all their children grown up. William inherited the greater part of the property from his father, after having for many years assisted him in the management of it. Tommy, notwithstanding all his scrapes, grew up a very fine fellow, and entered the army. Caroline married a young clergyman, and made him an excellent wife; little Albert went into the navy, and is at present a commander.
Juno is still alive, and lives at Seagrave plantation with William, and her greatest pleasure is to take his children on her knee, and tell them long stories about the island, and make them cry when she goes through the history of old Ready's death and burial.
|
{
"id": "1412"
}
|
1
|
None
|
The first Penhallow crossed the Alleghanies long before the War for Independence and on the frontier of civilisation took up land where the axe was needed for the forest and the rifle for the Indian. He made a clearing and lived a hard life of peril, wearily waiting for the charred stumps to rot away.
The younger men of the name in Colonial days and later left the place early, and for the most part took to the sea or to the army, if there were activity in the way of war. In later years, others drifted westward on the tide of border migration, where adventure was always to be had. This stir of enterprise in a breed tends to extinction in the male lines. Men are thinned out in their wooing of danger--the _belle dame sans merci_. Thus there were but few Penhallows alive at any one time, and yet for many years they bred in old-fashioned numbers.
As time ran on, a Penhallow prospered in the cities, and clinging to the land added fresh acres as new ambitions developed qualities which are not infrequently found in descendants of long-seated American families. It was not then, nor is it now, rare in American life to find fortune-favoured men returning in later days to the homes of their youth to become useful in many ways to the communities they loved. One of these, James Penhallow,--and there was always a James,--after greatly prospering in the ventures of the China trade, was of the many who about 1800 bought great tracts of land on the farther slope of the Pennsylvania Alleghanies. His own purchases lay near and around the few hundred acres his ancestor took up and where an aged cousin was left in charge of the farm-house. When this tenant died, the house decayed, and the next Penhallow weary of being taxed for unproductive land spent a summer on the property, and with the aid of engineers found iron in plenty and soft coal. He began about 1830 to develop the property, and built a large house which he never occupied and which was long known in the county as "Penhallow's Folly." It was considered the more notably foolish because of being set, in unAmerican fashion, deep in the woods, and remote from the highway. What was believed to be the oldest pine-tree in the county gave to the place the popular name of "Grey Pine" and being accepted by the family when they came there to live, "Penhallow's Folly" ceased to be considered descriptive.
The able and enterprising discoverer of mines had two sons. One of them, the youngest, married late in life, and dying soon after left a widow and a posthumous son John, of whom more hereafter. The elder brother was graduated from West Point, served some years with distinction, and marrying found himself obliged to resign his captaincy on his father's death to take charge of the iron-mills and mines, which had become far more important to the family than their extensive forest-holdings on the foot-hills of the western watershed of the Alleghanies.
The country had long been well settled. The farmers thrived as the mills and mines needed increasing supplies of food and the railway gave access to market. The small village of Westways was less fortunate than the county. Strung along the side of the road opposite to Penhallow's woods, it had lost the bustling prosperity of a day when the Conestoga wagons stopped over-night at the "General Wayne Inn" and when as yet no one dreamed that the new railroad would ruin the taverns set at intervals along the highway to Pittsburgh. Now that Westways Crossing, two miles away, had been made the nearest station, Westways was left to live on the mill-wages and such profits as farming furnished.
When Captain James Penhallow repaired the neglected house and kept the town busy with demands for workmen, the village woke up for a whole summer. In the autumn he brought to Grey Pine his wife, Ann Grey, of the well-known Greys of the eastern shore of Maryland. A year or two of discomfort at Western army-posts and a busy-minded, energetic personality, made welcome to this little lady a position which provided unaccustomed luxuries and a limitless range of duties, such as were to her what mere social enjoyments are to many women. Grey Pine--the house, the flower and kitchen-gardens, the church to be built--and the schools at the mills, all were as she liked it, having been bred up amid the kindly despotism of a great plantation with its many dependent slaves.
When Ann Penhallow put Grey Pine and the Penhallow crest on her notepaper, her husband said laughing that women had no rights to crests, and that although the arms were surely his by right of good Cornish descent, he thought their use in America a folly. This disturbed Ann Penhallow very little, but when they first came to Grey Pine the headings of her notepaper were matters of considerable curiosity to the straggling village of Westways, where she soon became liked, respected, and moderately feared. A busy-minded woman, few things in the life of the people about her escaped her notice, and she distributed uninvited counsel or well-considered charity and did her best to restrain the more lavish, periodical assistance when harvests were now and then bad--which made James Penhallow a favourite in the county.
Late in the summer of 1855, John Penhallow's widow, long a wandering resident in Europe, acquired the first serious illness of a self-manufactured life of invalidism and promptly died at Vevey. Her only child, John, was at once ordered home by his uncle and guardian, James Penhallow, and after some delay crossed the sea in charge of his tutor. The dependent little fellow hid under a natural reserve what grief he felt, and accustomed to being sent here and there by an absent mother, silently submissive, was turned over by the tutor to James Penhallow's agent in Philadelphia. On the next day, early in November, he was put in charge of a conductor to be left at Westways Crossing, where he was told that some one would meet him.
The day was warm when in the morning he took his seat in the train, but before noon it became clouded, and an early snow-storm with sudden fall of temperature made the boy sensible that he was ill-clothed to encounter the change of weather. He had been unfortunate in the fact that his mother had for years used the vigilant tyranny of feebleness to enforce upon the boy her own sanitary views. Children are easily made hypochondriac, and under her system of government he became self-attentive, careful of what he ate and extremely timid. There had been many tutors and only twice long residence at schools in Vevey and for a winter in Budapest. The health she too sedulously watched she was fast destroying, and her son was at the time of her death a thin, pallid, undersized boy, who disliked even the mild sports of French lads, and had been flattered and considered until he had acquired the conviction that he was an important member of an important family. His other mother--nature--had given him, happily, better traits. He was an observer, a born lover of books, intelligent, truthful, and trained in the gentle, somewhat formal, manners of an older person. Now for the first time in his guarded life he was alone on a railway journey in charge of the conductor. A more unhappy, frightened little fellow could hardly have been found.
The train paused at many stations; men and women got on or got out of the cars, very common-looking people, surely, he concluded. The day ran by to afternoon. The train had stopped at a station for lunch, but John, although hungry, was afraid of being left and kept the seat which he presumed to be his own property until a stout man took half of it. A little later, a lean old woman said, "Move up, sonny," and sat down. When she asked his name and where he lived, he replied in the coldly civil manner with which he had heard his mother repress the good-natured advances of her wandering countrymen. When again the seat was free, he fell to thinking of the unknown home, Grey Pine, which he had heard his mother talk of to English friends as "our ancestral home," and of the great forests, the mines and the iron-works. Her son would, of course, inherit it, as Captain Penhallow had no child. "Really a great estate, my dear," his mother had said. It loomed large in his young imagination. Who would meet him? Probably a carriage with the liveried driver and the groom immaculate in white-topped boots, a fur cover on his arm. It would, of course, be Captain Penhallow who would make him welcome. Then the cold, which is hostile to imagination, made him shiver as he drew his thin cloak about him and watched the snow squadrons wind-driven and the big flakes blurring his view as they melted on the panes. By and by, two giggling young women near by made comments on his looks and dress. Fragments of their talk he overheard. It was not quite pleasant. "Law! ain't he got curly hair, and ain't he just like a girl doll," and so on in the lawless freedom of democratic feminine speech. The flat Morocco cap and large visor of the French schoolboy and the dark blue cloak with the silver clasp were subjects of comment. One of them offered peanuts or sugar-plums, which he declined with "Much obliged, but I never take them." Now and then he consulted his watch or felt in his pocket to be certain that his baggage-check was secure, or looked to see if the little bag of toilet articles at his feet was safe. The kindly attentions of those who noticed his evident discomfort were neither mannerless nor, as he thought, impertinent. A woman said to him that he seemed cold, wouldn't he put around him a shawl she laid on his knees. He declined it civilly with thanks. In fact, he was thinly and quite too lightly clad, and he not only felt the cold, but was unhappy and utterly unprepared by any previous experience for the mode of travel, the crowded car and the rough kindness of the people, who liking his curly hair and refined young childlike face would have been of service if he had accepted their advances with any pleasure. Presently, after four in the afternoon, the brakeman called "All out for Westways Crossing."
John seized his bag and was at the exit-door before the train came to a stand. The conductor bade him be careful, as the steps were slippery. As the engine snorted and the train moved away, the conductor cried out, "Forgot your cane, sonny," and threw the light gold-mounted bamboo from the car. He had a new sense of loneliness as he stood on the roofless platform, half a foot deep in gathering snow, which driven by a pitiless gale from the north blew his cloak about as he looked to see that his trunk had been delivered. A man shifted a switch and coming back said, "Gi'me your check." John decided that this was not safe, and to the man's amusement said that he would wait until the carriage of Captain Penhallow arrived. The man went away. John remained angrily expectant looking up the road. Presently he heard the gay jingle of bells and around a turn of the road came a one-horse sleigh. It stopped beside him. He first saw only the odd face of the driver in a fur cap and earlets. Then, tossing off the bear skins, bounded on to the platform a young girl and shook herself snow-free as she threw back a wild mane of dark red hair.
"Halloa! John Penhallow," she cried, "I'm Leila Grey. I'm sent for you. I'm late too. Uncle James has gone to the mills and Aunt Ann is busy. Been here long?"
"Not very," said John, his teeth chattering with cold.
"Gracious! you'll freeze. Sorry I was late." She saw at a glance the low shoes, the blue cloak, the kid gloves, the boy's look of suffering, and at once took possession of him.
"Get into the sleigh. Oh! leave your check on the trunk or give it to me." She was off and away to the trunk as he climbed in, helpless. She undid the counter check, ran across to the guard's house, was back in a moment and tumbled in beside him.
"But, is it safe? My trunk, I mean," said John.
"Safe. No one will steal it. Pat will come for it. There he is now. Tuck in the rugs. Put this shawl around you and over your head." She pinned it with ready fingers.
"Now, you'll be real comfy." The chilled boy puzzled and amused her.
As he became warm, John felt better in the hands of this easy despot, but was somewhat indignant. "To send a chit of a girl for him--John Penhallow!"
"Now," she cried to the driver, "be careful. Why did they send _you_?"
Billy, a middle-aged man, short-legged and long of body, turned a big-featured head as he replied in an odd boyish voice, "The man was busy giving a ball in the stable."
"A ball"--said John--"in the stable?"
"Oh! that is funny," said the girl. "A ball's a big pill for Lucy, my mare. She's sick."
"Oh! I see." And they were off and away through the wind-driven snow.
The girl, instinctively aware of the shyness and discomfort of her companion, set herself to put him at ease. The lessening snow still fell, but now a brilliant sun lighted the white radiance of field and forest. He was warmer, and the disconnected chat of childhood began.
"The snow is early. Don't you love it?" said the small maid bent on making herself agreeable.
"No, I do not."
"But, oh! --see--the sun is out. Now you will like it. I suppose you don't know how to walk in snow-shoes, or it would be lovely to go right home across country."
"I never used them. Once I read about them in a book."
"Oh! you'll learn. I'll teach you."
John, used to being considered and flattered, as he became more comfortable began to resent the way in which the girl proposed to instruct him. He was silent for a time.
"Tuck in that robe," she said. "How old are you?"
"This last September, fifteen. How old are you?"
"Guess."
"About ten, I think." Now this was malicious.
"Ten, indeed! I'm thirteen and ten months and--and three days," she returned, with the accuracy of childhood about age. "Were you at school in Europe?"
"Yes, in France and Hungary."
"That's queer. In Hungary and France--Oh! then you can speak French."
"Of course," he replied. "Can't you?"
"A little, but Aunt Ann says I have a good accent when I read to her--we often do."
"You should say 'without accent,'" he felt better after this assertion of superior knowledge. She thought his manners bad, but, though more amused than annoyed, felt herself snubbed and was silent for a time. He was quick to perceive that he had better have held his critical tongue, and said pleasantly, "But really it don't matter--only I was told that in France."
She was as quick to reply, "You shouldn't say 'don't matter,' I say that sometimes, and then Uncle James comes down on me."
"Why? I am really at a loss--" "Oh! you must say 'doesn't'--not 'don't.'" She shook her great mass of hair and cried merrily, "I guess we are about even now, John Penhallow."
Then they laughed gaily, as the boy said, "I wasn't very--very courteous."
"Now that's pretty, John. Good gracious, Billy!" she cried, punching the broad back of the driver. "Are you asleep? You are all over the road."
"Oh! I was thinkin' how Pole, the butcher, sold the Squire a horse that's spavined--got it sent back--funny, wasn't it?"
"Look out," said Leila, "you will upset us."
John looked the uneasiness he felt, as he said, "Do you think it is safe?"
"No, I don't. Drive on, Billy, but do be careful."
They came to the little village of Westways. At intervals Billy communicated bits of village gossip. "Susan McKnight, she's going to marry Finney--" "Bother Susan," cried Leila. "Be careful."
John alarmed held on to his seat as the sleigh rocked about, while Billy whipped up the mare.
"This is Westways, our village. It is just a row of houses. Uncle James won't sell land on our side. Look out, Billy! Our rector lives in that small house by the church. His name is Mark Rivers. You'll like him. That's Mr. Grace, the Baptist preacher." She bade him good-day. "Stop, Billy!"
He pulled up at the sidewalk. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Crocker," she said, as the postmistress came out to the sleigh. "Please mail this. Any letters for us?"
"No, Leila." She glanced at the curly locks above the thin face and the wrapped up form in the shawl. "Got a nice little girl with you, Leila."
John indignant said nothing. "This is a boy--my cousin, John Penhallow," returned Leila.
"Law! is that so?"
"Get on," cried Leila. "Stop at Josiah's."
Here a tall, strongly built, very black negro came out. "Fine frosty day, missy."
"Come up to the house to-night. Uncle Jim wants you."
"I'll come--sure."
"Now, get along, Billy."
The black was strange to the boy. He thought the lower orders here disrespectful.
"Josiah's our barber," said Leila. "He saved me once from a dreadful accident. You'll like him."
"Will I?" thought John, but merely remarked, "They all seem rather intimate."
"Why not?" said the young Republican. "Ah! here's the gate. I'll get out and open it. It's the best gate to swing on in the whole place."
As she tossed the furs aside, John gasped, "To swing on--" "Oh, yes. Aunt Ann says I am too old to swing on gates, but I do. It shuts with a bang. I'll show you some day."
"What is swinging on a gate?" said John, as she jumped out and stood in the snow laughing. Surely this was an amazing kind of boy. "Why, did you never hear the rhyme about it?"
"No," said John, "I never did."
"Well, you just get on the gate when it's wide open and give a push, and you sing-- "If I was the President of these United States, I'd suck molasses candy and swing upon the gates.
"There! Then it shuts--bang!" With this bit of child folklore she scampered away through the snow and stood holding the gate open while Billy drove through. She reflected mischievously that it must have been three years since she had swung on a gate.
John feeling warm and for the first time looking about him with interest began to notice the grandeur of the rigid snow-laden pines of an untouched forest which stood in what was now brilliant sunshine.
As Leila got into the sleigh, she said, "Now, Billy, go slowly when you make the short turn at the house. If you upset us, I--I'll kill you."
"Yes, miss. Guess I'll drive all right." But the ways of drivers are everywhere the same, and to come to the end of a drive swiftly with crack of whip was an unresisted temptation. " _Sang de Dieu! _" cried John, "we will be upset."
"We are," shouted Leila. The horse was down, the sleigh on its side, and the cousins disappeared in a huge drift piled high when the road was cleared.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
2
|
None
|
John was the first to return to the outer world. He stood still, seeing the horse on its legs, Billy unharnessing, Leila for an instant lost to sight. The boy was scared. In his ordered life it was an unequalled experience. Then he saw a merry face above the drift and lying around it a wide-spread glory of red hair on the white snow. In after years he would recall the beauty of the laughing young face in its setting of dark gold and sunlit silver snow.
"Oh, my!" she cried. "That Billy! Don't stand there, John; pull me out, I'm stuck."
He gave her a hand and she bounded forth out of the drift, shaking off the dry snow as a wet dog shakes off water. "What's the matter, John?"
He was trying to empty neck, pocket and shoes of snow, and was past the limits of what small endurance he had been taught. "I shall catch my death of cold. It's down my back--it's everywhere, and I--shall get--laryngitis."
The brave blue eyes of the girl stared at his dejected figure. She was at heart a gentle, little woman-child, endowed by nature with so much of tom-boy barbarism as was good for her. Just now a feeling of contemptuous surprise overcame her kindliness and her aunt's training. "There's your bag on the snow, and Billy will find your cap. What does a boy want with a bag? A boy--and afraid of snow!" she cried. "Help him with that harness."
He made no reply, but looked about for his lost cane. Then the young despot turned upon the driver. "Wait till Uncle James hears; he'll come down on you."
"My lands!" said Billy, unbuckling a trace, "I'll just say, I'm sorry; and the Squire he'll say, don't let it happen again; and I'll say, yes, sir."
"Yes, until Aunt Ann hears," said Leila, and turned to John. His attitude of utter helplessness touched her.
"Come into the house; you must be cold." She was of a sudden all tenderness.
Through an outside winter doorway-shelter they entered a hall unusually large for an American's house and warmed by two great blazing hickory wood-fires. "Come in," she cried, "you'll be all right. Sit down by the fire; I'll be down in a minute, I want to see where Aunt Ann has put you."
"I am much obliged," said John shivering. He was alone, but wet as he was the place captured an ever active imagination. He looked about him as he stood before the roaring fire. To the right was an open library, to the left a drawing-room rarely used, the hall being by choice the favoured sitting-room. The dining-room was built out from the back of the hall, whence up a broad stairway Leila had gone. The walls were hung with Indian painted robes, Sioux and Arapahoe weapons, old colonial rifles, and among them portraits of three generations of Penhallows. Many older people had found interesting the strange adornment of the walls, where amid antlered trophies of game, buffalo heads and war-worn Indian relics, could be read something of the owner's tastes and history. John stood by the fire fascinated. Like many timid boys, he liked books of adventure and to imagine himself heroic in situations of peril.
"It's all right. Come up," cried Leila from the stair. "Your trunk's there now. There's a fine fire."
Forgetful of the cold ride and of the snow down his back, he was standing before the feathered head-dress of a Sioux Chief and touching the tomahawk below it. He turned as she spoke. "Those must be scalp-locks--three." He saw the prairie, the wild pursuit--saw them as she could not. He went after her upstairs, the girl talking, the boy rapt, lost in far-away battles on the plains.
"This is your room. See what a nice fire. You can dry yourself. Your trunk is here already." She lighted two candles. "We dine at half-past six."
"Thank you; I am very much obliged," he said, thinking what a mannerless girl.
Leila closed the door and stood still a moment. Then she exclaimed, "Well, I never! What will Uncle Jim say?" She listened a moment. No one was in the hall. Then she laughed, and getting astride of the banister-rail made a wild, swift and perilous descent, alighting at the foot in the hall, and readjusting her short skirts as she heard her aunt and uncle on the porch. "I was just in time," she exclaimed. "Wouldn't I have caught it!"
The Squire, as the village called him, would have applauded this form of coasting, but Aunt Ann had other views. "Well!" he said as they came in, "what have you done with your young man?"
Now he was for Leila anything but a man or manly, but she was a loyal little lady and unwilling to expose the guest to Uncle Jim's laughter. "He's all right," she said, "but Billy upset the sleigh." She was longing to tell about that ball in the stable, but refrained.
"So Billy upset you; and John, where is he?"
"He's upstairs getting dried."
"It is rather a rough welcome," remarked her aunt.
"He lost his cap and his cane," said Leila.
"His cane!" exclaimed her uncle, "his cane!"
"I must see him," said his wife.
"Better let him alone, Ann." But as usual she took her own way and went upstairs. She came down in a few minutes, finding her husband standing before the fire--an erect, soldierly figure close to forty years of age.
"Well, Ann?" he queried.
"A very nice lad, with such good manners, James."
"Billy found his cap," said Leila, "but he couldn't get the sleigh set up until the stable men came."
"And that cane," laughed Penhallow. "Was the boy amused or--or scared?"
"I don't know," which was hardly true, but the chivalry of childhood forbade tale-telling and he learned very little. "He was rather tired and cold, so I made him go to his room and rest."
"Poor child!" said Aunt Ann.
James Penhallow looked at Leila. Some manner of signals were interchanged. "I saw Billy digging in the big drift," he said. "I trust he found the young gentleman's cane." Some pitying, dim comprehension of the delicately nurtured lad had brought to the social surface the kindliness of the girl and she said no more.
"It is time to dress for dinner," said Ann. Away from the usages of the city she had wisely insisted on keeping up the social forms which the Squire would at times have been glad to disregard. For a moment Ann Penhallow lingered. "We must try to make him feel at home, James."
"Of course, my dear. I can imagine how Susan Penhallow would have educated a boy, and now I know quite too well what we shall have to undo--and--do."
"You won't, oh! you will not be too hard on him."
"I--no, my dear--but--I suspect his American education has begun already."
"What do you mean?"
"Ask Leila--and Billy. But that can wait." They separated.
While his elders were thus briefly discussing this new addition to the responsibilities of their busy lives, the subject of their talk had been warmed into comfortable repossession of his self-esteem. He set in order his elaborate silver toilet things marked with the Penhallow crest, saw in the glass that his dress and unboylike length of curly hair were as he had been taught they should be; then he looked at his watch and went slowly downstairs.
"Halloa! John," he heard as he reached the last turn of the stairs. "Most glad to see you. You are very welcome to your new home." The man who hailed him was six feet two inches, deep-chested, erect--the West Point figure; the face clean-shaven, ruddy, hazel-eyed, was radiant with the honest feeling of desire to put this childlike boy at ease.
The little gentleman needed no aid and replied, "My dear uncle, I cannot sufficiently thank you." A little bow went with his words, and he placidly accepted his aunt's embrace, while the hearty Miss Leila looked on in silence. The boy's black suit, the short jacket, the neat black tie, made the paleness of his thin large-featured face too obvious. Then Leila took note of the court shoes and silk socks, and looked at Uncle Jim to see what he thought. The Squire reserved what criticism he may have had and asked cheerfully about the journey, Aunt Ann aiding him with eager will to make the boy feel at home. He was quite enough at home. It was all agreeable, these handsome relations and the other Penhallows on the walls. He had been taught that which is good or ill as men use it, pride of race, and in his capacity to be impressed by his surroundings was years older than Leila. He felt sure that he would like it here at Grey Pine, but was surprised to see no butler and to be waited on at dinner by two neat little maids.
When Ann Penhallow asked him about his schools and his life in Europe, he became critical, and conversed about picture-galleries and foreign life with no lack of accuracy, while the Squire listened smiling and Leila sat dumb with astonishment as the dinner went on. He ate little and kept in mind the endless lessons in regard to what he should or should not eat. Meanwhile, he silently approved of the old silver and these well-bred kinsfolk, with a reserve of doubt concerning his silent cousin.
His uncle had at last his one glass of Madeira, and as they rose his aunt said, "You may be tired, John; you ought to go to bed early."
"It is not yet time," he said. "I always retire at ten o'clock."
"He 'retires,'" murmured his uncle. "Come, Ann, we will leave Leila to make friends with the new cousin. Try John at checkers, Leila. She defeats me easily."
"I--never saw any one could beat me at _jeu des dames_," said John. It was a fine chance to get even with Leila for the humiliating adventures of a not very flattering day.
"Well, take care," said the Squire, not altogether amused. "Come, Ann." Entering the large library room he closed the door, drew over it a curtain, filled his pipe but did not light it, and sat down at the fire beside his wife.
"Well, James," she said, "did you ever see a better mannered lad, and so intelligent?"
"Never--nor any lad who has as good an opinion of his small self. He is too young for his years, and in some ways too old. I looked him over a bit. He is a mere scaffolding, a sickly-looking chap. He eats too little. I heard him remark to you that potatoes disagreed with him and that he never ate apples."
"But, James, what shall we do with him? It is a new and a difficult responsibility."
"Do with him? Oh! make a man of him. Give him and Leila a week's holiday. Turn him loose with that fine tom-boy. Then he must go to school to Mark Rivers with Leila and those two young village imps, the doctor's boy and Grace's, that precious young Baptist. They will do him good. When Mark reports, we shall see further. That is all my present wisdom, Ann. Has the _Tribune_ come? Oh! I see--it is on the table."
Ann was still in some doubt and returned to the boy. "And where do I come in?"
"Feed the young animal and get the tailor in the village to make him some warm rough clothes, and get him boots for the snow--and thick gloves--and a warm ready-made overcoat."
"I will. But, James, Leila will half kill him. He is so thin and pale. He looks hardly older than she does." Then Ann rose, saying, "Well, we shall see, I suppose you are right," and after some talk about the iron-works left him to his pipe.
When she returned to the hall, the two children were talking of Europe--or rather Leila was listening. "Well," said the little lady, Ann Penhallow, "how did the game go, John?"
"I am rather out of practice," said John. Leila said nothing. He had been shamefully worsted. "I think I shall go to bed," he remarked, looking at his watch.
"I would," she said. "There are the candles. There is a bathroom next to you."
He was tired and disgusted, but slept soundly. When at breakfast he said that he was not allowed tea or coffee, he was fed with milk, to which with hot bread and new acquaintance with griddle cakes he took kindly. After breakfast he was driven to the village with his aunt and equipped with a rough ready-made overcoat and high boots. He found the dress comfortable, but not to his taste.
When he came back, the Squire and Leila had disappeared and he was left to his own devices. He was advised by his aunt to walk about and see the stables and the horses. That any boy should not want to see the horses was inconceivable in this household. He did go out and walk on the porch, but soon went in chilled and sat down to lose himself in a book of polar travel. He liked history, travel and biographies of soldiers, fearfully desiring to have his own courage tested--a more common boy-wish than might be supposed. He thought of it as he laid down the book and began to inspect again the painted buffalo skins on the wall, letting his imagination wander when once more he touched a Sioux tomahawk with its grim adornment of scalp-locks. He was far away when he heard his aunt say, "You were not out long, John. Did they show you the horses?"
Shy and reserved in novel surroundings, he was rather too much at his ease amid socially familiar things, and now said lightly that he had not seen the stables. "Really, Aunt Ann, I prefer to read or to look at these interesting Indian relics."
"Ask your uncle about them," she said, "but you will find out that horses are important in this household." She left him with the conviction that James Penhallow was, on the whole, right as to the educational needs of this lad.
After lunch his uncle said, "Leila will show you about the place. You will want to see the horses, of course, and the dogs."
"And my guinea pigs," added Leila.
He took no interest in either, and the dogs somewhat alarmed him. His cousin, a little discouraged, led him away into the woods where the ancient pines stood snow laden far apart with no intrusion between them of low shrubbery. Leila was silent, half aware that he was hard to entertain, and then mischievously wilful to give this indifferent cousin a lesson. Presently he stood still, looking up at the towering cones of the motionless pines.
"How stately they are--how like old Vikings!" he said. His imagination was the oldest mental characteristic of this over-guarded, repressed boyhood.
Leila turned, surprised. This was beyond her appreciative capacity. "Once I heard Uncle Jim say something like that. He's queer about trees. He talks to them sometimes just like that. There's the biggest pine over there--I'll show it to you. Why! he will stop and pat it and say, 'How are you?' --Isn't it funny?"
"No, it isn't funny at all. It's--it's beautiful!"
"You must be like him, John."
"I--like him! Do you think so?" He was pleased. The Indian horseman of the plains who could talk to the big tree began to be felt by the boy as somehow nearer.
"Let's play Indian," said Leila. "I'll show you." She was merry, intent on mischief.
"Oh! whatever you like." He was uninterested.
Leila said, "You stand behind this tree, I will stand behind that one." She took for herself the larger shelter. "Then you, each of us, get ready this way a pile of snowballs. I say, Make ready! Fire! and we snowball one another like everything. The first Indian that's hit, he falls down dead. Then the other rushes at him and scalps him."
"But," said John, "how can he?"
"Oh! he just gives your hair a pull and makes believe."
"I see."
"Then we play it five times, and each scalp counts one. Now, isn't that real jolly?"
John had his doubts as to this, but he took his place and made some snowballs clumsily.
"Make ready! Fire!" cried Leila. The snowballs flew. At last, the girl seeing how wildly he threw exposed herself. A better shot took her full in the face. Laughing gaily, she dropped, "I'm dead."
The game pleased him with its unlooked-for good luck. "Now don't stand there like a ninny--scalp me," she cried.
He ran to her side and knelt down. The widespread hair affected him curiously. He touched it daintily, let it fall, and rose. "To pull at a girl's hair! I couldn't do it."
Leila laughed. "A good pull, that's how to scalp."
"I couldn't," said John.
"Well, you are a queer sort of Indian!" She was less merciful, but in the end, to her surprise, he had three scalps. "Uncle Jim will laugh when I tell him," she said. "Shall we go home?"
"No, I want to see Uncle Jim's big tree."
"Oh! he's only Uncle Jim to me. Aunt don't like it. He will tell you some day to call him Uncle Jim. He says I got that as brevet rank the day my mare refused the barnyard fence and pitched me off. I just got on again and made her take it! That's why he's Uncle Jim."
John became thoughtful about that brevet privilege of a remote future. He had, however, persistent ways. "I want to see the big pine, Leila."
"Oh! come on then. It's a long way. We must cut across." He followed her remorselessly swift feet through the leafless bushes and drifts until they came upon a giant pine in a wide space cleared to give the veteran royal solitude. "That's him," cried Leila, and carelessly cast herself down on the snow.
The boy stood still in wonder. Something about the tree disturbed him emotionally. With hands clasped behind his back, he stared up at its towering heights. He was silent.
"What's the matter? What do you see?" She was never long silent. He was searching for a word.
"It's solemn. I like it." He moved forward and patted the huge hole with a feeling of reverence and affection. "I wish he could speak to us. How are you, old fellow?"
Leila watched him. As yet she had no least comprehension of this sense of being kindred to nature. It is rare in youth. As he spoke, a little breeze stirred the old fellow's topmost crest and a light downfall of snow fell on the pair. Leila laughed, but the boy cried, "There! he has answered. We are friends."
"Now, if that isn't Uncle Jim all over. He just does make me laugh."
John shook off the snow. "Let's go home," he said. He Was warm and red with the exercise, and in high good-humour over his success. "Did you never read a poem called 'The Talking Oak'? I had a tutor used to read it to me."
"Now, the idea of a tree talking!" she said. "No, I never heard of it. Come along, we'll be late. That's funny about a tree talking. Can you run?"
They ran, but not far, because deep snow makes running hard. It was after dark when they tramped on to the back porch. John's experience taught him to expect blame for being out late. No one asked a question or made a remark. He was ignored, to his amazement. Whether, as he soon learned, he was in or out, wet or dry, seemed to be of no moment to any one, provided he was punctual at meal-times. It was at first hard to realize the reasonable freedom suddenly in his possession. The appearance of complete want of interest in his health and what he did was as useful a moral tonic as was for the body the educational out-of-doors' society of the fearless girl, his aunt's niece whom he was told to consider as his cousin. To his surprise, he was free to come and go, and what he or Leila did in the woods or in the stables no one inquired. Aunt Ann uneasy would have known all about them, but the Squire urged, that for a time, "let alone" was the better policy. This freedom was so unusual, so unreservedly complete, as to rejoice Leila, who was very ready to use the liberty it gave. In a week the rector's school would shut them up for half of the day of sunlit snow. Meanwhile, John wondered with interest every morning where next those thin active young legs would lead him.
The dogs he soon took to, when Leila's whistle called them,--a wild troop, never allowed beyond the porch or in the house. For some occult reason Mrs. Ann disliked dogs and liked cats, which roamed the house at will and were at deadly feud with the stable canines. No rough weather ever disturbed Leila's out-of-door habits, but when for two days a lazy rain fell and froze on the snow, John declared that he could not venture to get wet with his tendency to tonsilitis. As Leila refused indoor society and he did not like to be left alone, he missed the gay and gallant little lady, and still no one questioned him. On the third day at breakfast Leila was wildly excited. The smooth ice-mailed snow shone brilliant in the sunshine.
"Coasting weather, Uncle Jim," Leila said.
"First class," said her uncle. "Get off before the sun melts the crust."
"Do be careful, dear," said Ann Penhallow, "and do not try the farm hill."
"Yes, aunt." The Squire exchanged signal glances with Leila over the teacup he was lifting. "Come, John," she said. "No dogs to-day. It's just perfect. Here's your sled."
John had seen coasting in Germany and had been strictly forbidden so perilous an amusement. As they walked over the crackling ice-cover of the snow, he said, "Why do you want to sled, Leila? I consider it extremely dangerous. I saw two persons hurt when we were in Switzerland." His imagination was predicting all manner of disaster, but he had the moral courage which makes hypocrisy impossible. From the hill crest John looked down the long silvery slope and did not like it. "It's just a foolish risk. Do you mean to slide down to that brook?"
"Slide! We coast, we don't slide. I think you had better go back and tell Uncle Jim you were afraid."
He was furious. "I tell you this, Miss Grey--I am afraid--I have been told--well, never mind--that--well---I won't say I'm not afraid--but I'm more afraid of Uncle James than--than--of death."
She stood still a moment as she faced him, the two pair of blue eyes meeting. He was very youthful for his years and was near the possibility of the tears of anger, and, too, the virile qualities of his race were protesting forces in the background of undeveloped character. The sweet girl face grew red and kinder. "I was mean, John Penhallow. I am sorry I was rude."
"No--no," he exclaimed, "it was I who was--was--ill-mannered. I--mean to coast if I die."
"Die," she laughed gaily. "Let me go first."
"Go ahead then." She was astride of the sled and away down the long descent, while he watched her swift flight. He set his teeth and was off after her. A thrill of pleasure possessed him, the joy of swift movement. Near the foot was an abrupt fall to a frozen brook and then a sharp ascent. He rolled over at Leila's feet seeing a firmament of stars and rose bewildered.
"Busted?" cried Leila, who picked up the slang of the village boys to her aunt's disgust.
"I am not what you call busted," said John, "but I consider it most disagreeable." Without a word more he left her, set out up the hill and coasted again. He upset half-way down, rolled over, and got on again laughing. This time somehow he got over the brook and turned crossly on Leila with, "I hope now you are satisfied, Miss Grey."
"You'll do, I guess," said she. "I just wondered if you would back out, John. Let's try the other hills." He went after her vexed at her way of ordering him about, and not displeased with John Penhallow and his new experience in snatching from danger a fearful joy.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
3
|
None
|
The difficult lessons on the use of snow-shoes took up day after day, until weary but at last eager he followed her tireless little figure far into the more remote woods. "What's that?" he said.
"I wanted you to see it, John." It was an old log cabin. "That's where the first James Penhallow lived. Uncle Jim keeps it from tumbling to pieces, but it's no use to anybody."
"The first Penhallow," said John. "It must be very old."
"Oh! I suppose so--I don't know--ask Uncle Jim. They say the Indians attacked it once--that first James Penhallow and his wife fought them till help came. I thought you would like to see it."
He went in, kicking off his snow-shoes. She was getting used to his silences, and now with some surprise at his evident interest followed him. He walked about making brief remarks or eagerly asking questions.
"They must have had loop-holes to shoot. Did they kill any Indians?"
"Yes, five. They are buried behind the cabin. Uncle Jim set a stone to mark the place."
He made no reply. His thoughts were far away in time, realizing the beleaguered cabin, the night of fear, the flashing rifles of his ancestors. The fear--would he have been afraid?
"When I was little, I was afraid to come here alone," said the girl.
"I should like to come here at night," he returned.
"Why? I wouldn't. Oh! not at night. I don't see what fun there would be in that."
"Then I would know--" "Know what, John? What would you know?"
"Oh! no matter." He had a deep desire to learn if he would be afraid. "Some day," he added, "I will tell you. Let's go home."
"Are you tired?"
"I'm half dead," he laughed as he slipped on his snow-shoes.
A long and heavy rain cleared away the snow, and the more usual softness of the end of November set in. Their holiday sports were over for a time, to John's relief. On a Monday he went through the woods with Leila to the rectory. Mark Rivers, who had only seen John twice, made him welcome. The tall, thin, pale man, with the quiet smile and attentive grey eyes, made a ready capture of the boy. There were only two other scholars, the sons of the doctor and the Baptist preacher, lads of sixteen, not very mannerly, rather rough country boys, who nudged one another and regarded John with amused interest. In two or three days John knew that he was in the care of an unusually scholarly man, who became at once his friend and treated the lazy village boys and him with considerate kindliness. John liked it. To his surprise, no questions were asked at home about the school, and the afternoons were often free for lonely walks, when Leila went away on her mare and John was at liberty to read or to do as best pleased him. At times Leila bored him, and although with his well-taught courteous ways he was careful not to show impatience, he had the imaginative boy's capacity to enjoy being alone and a long repressed curiosity which now found indulgence among people who liked to answer questions and were pleased when he asked them. Very often, as he came into easier relations with his aunt, he was told to take some query she could not answer to Uncle James or the rector. A rather sensitive lad, he soon became aware that his uncle appeared to take no great interest in him, and, too, the boy's long cultivated though lessening reserve kept them apart. Meanwhile, Ann watched with pleasure his gain in independence, in looks and in appetite. While James Penhallow after his game of whist at night growled in his den over the bitter politics of the day, North and South, his wife read aloud to the children by the fireside in her own small sitting-room or answered as best she could John's questions, confessing ignorance at times or turning to books of reference. It was not always easy to satisfy this restless young mind in a fast developing body. "Were guinea pigs really pigs? What was the hematite iron-ore his uncle used at the works?" Once he was surprised. He asked one evening, "What was the Missouri Compromise?" He had read so much about it in the papers. "Hasn't it something to do with slavery? Aunt Ann, it must seem strange to own a man." His eager young ears had heard rather ignorant talk of it from his mother's English friends.
His aunt said quietly, "My people in Maryland own slaves, John. It is not a matter for a child to discuss. The abolitionists at the North are making trouble. It is a subject--we--I do not care to talk about."
"But what is an abolitionist, aunt?" he urged.
She laughed and said gaily, "I will answer no more conundrums; ask your uncle."
Leila who took no interest in politics fidgeted until she got her chance when Mrs. Ann would not answer John. "I want to hear about that talking oak, John."
She was quicker than he to observe her aunt's annoyance, and Ann, glad to be let off easily, found the needed book, and for a time they fell under the charm of Tennyson, and then earlier than usual were sent to bed.
The days ran on into weeks of school, and now there were snow-shoe tramps or sleigh rides to see some big piece of casting at the forge, where persistently-curious John did learn from some one what hematite was. The life became to him steadily more and more pleasant as he shed with ease the habits of an over regulated life, and living wholesome days prospered in body and mind.
Christmas was a disappointment to Leila and to him. There was an outbreak of measles at Westways and there would be no carols, nor children gathered at Grey Pine. Ann's usual bounty of toys was sent to the village. John's present from his uncle was a pair of skates, and then Leila saw a delightful chance to add another branch of education. Next morning, for this was holiday-week, she asked if he would like to learn to skate. They had gone early to the cabin and were lazily enjoying a rest after a snow-shoe tramp. He replied, in an absent way, "I suppose I may as well learn. How many Indians were there?"
"I don't know. Who cares now?"
"I do."
"I never saw such a boy. You can't ride and you can't skate. You are just good for nothing. You're just fit to be sold at a rummage-sale."
He was less easily vexed than made curious. "What's a rummage-sale?"
"Oh! we had one two years ago. Once in a while Aunt Ann says there must be one, so she gathers up all the trash and Uncle Jim's old clothes (he hates that), and the village people they buy things. And Mr. Rivers sells the things at auction, you know--and oh, my! he was funny."
"So they sell what no one wants. Then why does any one buy?"
"I'm sure, I don't know."
"I wonder what I would fetch, Leila?"
"Not much," she said.
"Maybe you're right." He had one of the brief boy-moods of self-abasement.
Leila changed quickly. "I'll bid for you," she said coyly.
He laughed and looked up, surprised at this earliest indication of the feminine. "What would you give?" he asked.
"Well, about twenty-five cents."
He laughed. "I may improve, Leila, and the price go up. Let us go and learn to skate--you must teach me."
"Of course," said Leila, "but you will soon learn. It's hard at first."
At lunch, on Christmas day, John had thanked his uncle for the skates in the formal way which Ann liked and James Penhallow did not. He said, "I am very greatly obliged for the skates. They appear to me excellent."
"What a confoundedly civil young gentleman," thought Penhallow. "I have been thinking you must learn to skate. The pond has been swept clear of snow."
"Thank you," returned the boy, with a grin which his uncle thought odd.
"Leila will teach you."
John was silent, regarding his uncle with never dying interest, the soldier of Indian battles, the perfect rider and good shot, adored in the stables and loved, as John was learning, in all the country side. John was in the grip of a boy's admiration for a realized ideal--the worship, by the timid, of courage. Of the few things he did well, he thought little; and an invalid's fears had discouraged rough games until he had become like a timorous girl. He had much dread of horses, and was alarmingly sure that he would some day be made to ride. Once in Paris he had tried, had had a harmless accident and, willingly yielding to his mother's fears, had tried no more.
Late in the afternoon, Leila, with her long wake of flying hair, burst into the Squire's den. "What the deuce is the matter?" asked Penhallow.
"Oh! Uncle Jim, he can skate like--like a witch. I couldn't keep near him. He skated an 'L' for my name. Uncle Jim, he's a fraud."
Penhallow knew now why the boy had grinned at him. "I think, Leila, he will do. Where did he learn to skate?"
"At Vevey, he says, on the Lake."
"Yes, of Geneva."
"Tom McGregor was there and Bob Grace. We played tag. John knows a way to play tag on skates. You must chalk your right hand and you must mark with it the other fellow's right shoulder. It must be jolly. We had no chalk, but we are to play it to-morrow. Isn't it interesting, Uncle John?"
Penhallow laughed. "Interesting, my dear? Oh! your aunt will be after you with a stick."
"Aunt Ann's--stick!" laughed Leila.
"My dear Leila," he said gravely, "this boy has had all the manliness coddled out of him, but he looks like his father. I have my own ideas of how to deal with him. I suppose he will brag a bit at dinner."
"He will not, Uncle Jim."
"Bet you a pound of bonbons, Leila."
"From town?"
"Yes."
"All right."
"Can he coast? I did not ask you."
"Well! pretty well," said Leila. For some unknown reason she was unwilling to say more.
"Doesn't the rector dine here, to-day, Leila?"
"Yes, but--oh! Uncle Jim, we found a big hornets' nest yesterday on the log cabin. They seemed all asleep. I told John we would fight them in the spring."
"And what did he say?"
"He said: 'Did they sting?' --I said: 'That was the fun of it!'"
"Better not tell your aunt."
"No, sir. I'm an obedient little girl."
"You little scamp! You were meant to be a boy. Is there anything you are afraid of?"
"Yes, algebra."
"Oh! get out," and she fled.
At dinner John said no word of the skating, to the satisfaction of Leila who conveyed to her uncle a gratified sense of victory by some of the signs which were their private property.
Leaving the cousins to their game of chess, Penhallow followed his wife and Mark Rivers into his library. "Well, Mark," he said, "you have had this boy long enough to judge; it is time I heard what you think of him. You asked me to wait. The youngster is rather reticent, and Leila is about the only person in the house who really knows much about him. He talks like a man of thirty."
"I do not find him reticent," remarked Mrs. Ann, "and his manners are charming--I wish Leila's were half as good."
"Well, let's hear about him."
"May I smoke?" asked the rector.
"Anywhere but in my drawing-room. I believe James would like to smoke in church."
"It might have its consolations," returned Penhallow.
"Thanks," said Rivers smiling. Neither man took advantage of her unusual permission. "But you, Squire, have been closer than I to this interesting boy. What do you make of him?"
"He can't ride--he hardly knows a horse from a mule."
"That's not his fault," said Mrs. Penhallow, "he's afraid of horses."
"Afraid!" said her husband. "By George! afraid of horses."
"He speaks French perfectly," said Mark Rivers.
"He can't swim. I got that out of Leila. I understand he tried it once and gave it up."
"But his mother made him, James. You know Susan. She was as timid as a house-fly for herself, and I suppose for him."
"I asked him," said Rivers, "if he knew any Latin. He answered me in Latin and told me that at Budapest where he was long at school the boys had to speak Latin."
"And the rest, Rivers. Is he well up in mathematics?"
"No, he finds that difficult. But, upon my word, Squire, he is the most doggedly persistent fellow I have ever had to teach and I handled many boys when I was younger. I can take care of my side of the boy."
"He can skate, James," said Mrs. Ann.
"Yes, so I hear. I suppose that under Leila's care and a good out-of-door life he will drop his girl-ways--but--" "But what, James?"
"Oh! he has been taught that there is no shame in failure, no disgrace in being afraid."
"How do you know he is afraid, my dear James?"
"Oh! I know." Leila's unwillingness to talk had given him some suspicion of the truth. "Well, we shall see. He needs some rough boy-company. I don't like to have the village boys alone with Leila, but when she has John with her it may be as well to ask Dr. McGregor's son Tom to coast and play with them."
"He has no manners," said Mrs. Penhallow.
"Then he may get some from John. He never will from Leila. I will take care of the rest, Rivers. He has got to learn to ride."
"You won't be too hard on him, James?" said his wife.
"Not unless he needs it. Let us drop him."
"Have you seen yesterday's papers?" asked Rivers. "Our politics, North and South, look to me stormy."
Penhallow shook his head at the tall rector. The angry strife of sections and parties was the one matter he never discussed with Ann Penhallow. The rector recalled it as he saw Mrs. Ann sit up and drop on her lap the garment upon which her ever industrious hands were busy. Accepting Penhallow's hint, Rivers said quickly, "But really there is nothing new," and then, "Tom McGregor will certainly be the better for our little gentleman's good manners, and he too has something to learn of Tom."
"I should say he has," said Penhallow.
"A little dose of West Point, I suppose," laughed Mrs. Ann. "It is my husband's one ideal of education."
"It must once, I fancy, have satisfied Ann Grey," retorted the Squire smiling.
"I reserve any later opinion of James Penhallow," she said laughing, and gathering up her sewing bag left them, declaring that now they might smoke. The two men rose, and when alone began at once to talk of the coming election in the fall of 1856 and the endless troubles arising out of the Fugitive Slave Act.
The boy who had been the subject of their conversation was slowly becoming used to novel surroundings and the influence they exerted. Ann talked to him at times of his mother, but he had the disinclination to speak of the dead which most children have, and had in some ways been kept so much of a child as to astonish his aunt. Neither Leila nor any one could have failed to like him and his gentle ways, and as between him and the village boys she knew Leila preferred this clever, if too timid, cousin. So far they had had no serious quarrels. When she rode with the Squire, John wandered in the woods, enjoying solitude, and having some appreciative relation to nature, the great pine woods, the strange noises of the breaking ice in the river, the sunset skies.
Among the village boys with whom at the rector's small school and in the village John was thrown, he liked least the lad McGregor, who had now been invited to coast or skate with the Grey Pine cousins. Tom had the democratic boy-belief that very refined manners imply lack of some other far more practical qualities, and thus to him and the Westways boys John Penhallow was simply an absurd Miss Nancy kind of lad, and it was long after the elders of the little town admired and liked him that the boys learned to respect him. It was easy to see why the generous, good-tempered and pleasant lad failed to satisfy the town boys. John had been sedulously educated into the belief that he was of a class to which these fellows did not belong, and of this the Squire had soon some suspicion when, obedient as always, John accepted his uncle's choice of his friend the doctor's son as a playmate.
He was having his hair cut when Tom McGregor came into the shop of Josiah, the barber. "Wait a minute," said John. "Are you through, Mr. Josiah?"
Tom grinned, "Got a handle to your name?"
"Yes, because Master John is a gentleman."
"Then I'll call you Mister too."
"It won't ever make you Mister," said the barber, "that kind's born so."
John disliked this outspoken expression of an opinion he shared. "Nonsense," he said. "Come up, Tom, this afternoon. Don't forget the muskrat traps, Mr. Josiah."
"No, sir. Too early yet."
"All right," returned Tom. "I'll come."
March had come and the last snow still lay on the land when thus invited Tom joined John and Leila in the stable-yard. "Let's play tag," cried Leila. Tom was ready.
"Here's a stick." They took hold of it in turn. Tom's hand came out on top. "I'm tagger. Look out!" he cried.
They played the game. At last he caught Leila, and crying out, "You're tagged," seized her boy-cap and threw it up on to the steep slope of the stable roof.
"Oh! that's not fair," cried the girl. "You are a rude boy. Now you've got to get it."
"No, indeed. Get the stable-man to get it."
She turned to John, "Please to get it."
"How can I?" he said.
"Go up inside--there's a trap door. You can slide down the snow and get it."
"But I might fall."
"There's your chance," said Tom grinning. John stood, still irresolute. Leila walked away into the stable.
"She'll get a man," said Tom a little regretful of his rudeness, as she disappeared.
In a moment Leila was up in the hayloft and out on the roof. Spreading out arms and thin legs she carefully let herself slide down the soft snow until, seizing her cap, she set her feet on the roof gutter, crying out, "Get a ladder quick." Alarmed at her perilous position, they ran and called out a groom, a ladder was brought, and in a moment she was on the ground.
Leila turned on the two lads. "You are a coward, Tom McGregor, and you too, John Penhallow. I never--never will play with you again."
"It was just fun," said Tom; "any of the men could have poked it down."
"Cowards," said the girl, tossing back her dark mass of hair and moving away without a look at the discomfited pair.
"I suppose now you will go and tell the Squire," said Tom. He was alarmed.
She turned, "I--a tell-tale!" Her child-code of conduct was imperative. "I am neither a tell-tale nor a coward. 'Tell-tale pick a nail and hang him to a cow's tail!'" and with this well-known declaration of her creed of playground honour, she walked away.
"She'll tell," said Tom.
"She won't," said John.
"Guess I'll go home," said Tom, and left John to his reflections. They were most disagreeable.
John went into the woods and sat down on a log. "So," he said aloud, "she called me a coward--and I am--I was--I can't bear it. What would my uncle say?" His eyes filled. He brushed away the tears with his sleeve. A sudden remembrance of how good she had been to him, how loyally silent, added to his distress. He longed for a chance to prove that he was not that--that--Eager and yet distrustful, he got up and walked through the melting snow to the cabin, where he lay on the floor thinking, a prey to that fiend imagination, of which he had a larger share than is always pleasant when excuses are needed.
Leila was coldly civil and held her tongue, but for a few days would not go into the woods with him and rode alone or with her uncle. Tom came no more for a week, until self-assured that the Squire had not heard of his behaviour, as he met him on the road with his usual hearty greeting. Ann Penhallow saw that the boy was less happy than usual and suspected some mild difficulty with Leila, but in her wise way said nothing and began to use him for some of her many errands of helpfulness in the village and on the farms, where always he made friends. Seeing at last that the boy was too silent and to her eye unhappy, she talked of it to Mark Rivers. The next day, after school, he said to John, "I want to see that old cabin in the woods. Long as I have lived here I have never been that far. Come and show me the way. I tried once to find it and got lost. We can have a jolly good talk, you and I." The word of kindly approach was timely. John felt the invitation as a compliment, and was singularly open to the approval his lessons won from this gentle dark-eyed man. "Oh!" he said, "I should like that."
After lunch, Leila, a little penitent, said with unwonted shyness, "The woods are very nice to-day, and I found the first arbutus under the snow."
When John did not respond, she made a further propitiatory advance, "It will soon be time for that hornets' nest, we must go and see."
"What are you about?" said Mrs. Ann; "you will get stung."
"Pursuit of natural history," said Penhallow smiling.
"You are as bad as Leila, James."
"Won't you come?" asked the girl at last.
"Thank you. I regret that I have an engagement with Mr. Rivers," said John, with the prim manner he was fast losing.
"By George!" murmured Penhallow as he rose.
John looked up puzzled, and his uncle, much amused, went to get his boots and riding-dress. "Wait till I get you on a horse, my Lord Chesterfield," he muttered. "He and Leila must have had a row. What about, I wonder." He asked no questions.
With a renewal of contentment and well-pleased, John called for the rector. They went away into the forest to the cabin.
"And so," said Rivers, "this is where the first Penhallow had his Indian fight. I must ask the Squire."
"I know about it," said John. "Leila told me, and"--he paused, "I saw it."
"Oh! did you? Let's hear." They lay down, and the rector lazily smoked. "Well, go ahead, Jack, I like stories." He had early rechristened him Jack, and the boy liked it.
"Well, sir, they saw them coming near to dusk and ran. You see, it was a clearing then; the trees have grown here since. That was at dusk. They barred the door and cut loop-holes between the logs. Next morning the Indians came on. She fired first, and she cried out, 'Oh! James, I've killed a man.'"
"She said that?" asked Rivers.
"Yes, and she wouldn't shoot again until her man was wounded, then she was like a raging lioness."
"A lioness!" echoed Rivers.
"By evening, help came."
"How did you know all this?"
"Oh! Leila told me some--and the rest--well, sir, I saw it. I've been here often."
The rector studied the excited young face. "Would you like to have been there, Jack?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I should have been afraid, and--" Then quickly, "I suppose he was; she was; any one would have been."
"Like as not. He for her, most of all. But there are many kinds of fear, Jack."
John was silent, and the rector waited. Then the boy broke out, "Leila told me last week I was a coward."
"Indeed! Leila told you that! That wasn't like her, Jack. Why did she say it?"
This was a friendly hearer, whose question John had invited. To-day the human relief of confession was great to the boy. He told the story, in bits, carefully, as if to have it exact were essential. Mark Rivers watched him through his pipe smoke, trying to think of what he could or should say to this small soul in trouble. The boy was lying on the floor looking up, his hands clasped behind his head. "That's all, sir. It's dreadful."
The young rector's directness of character set him on the right path. "I don't know just what to say to you, Jack. You see, you have been taught to be afraid of horses and dogs, of exposure to rain, and generally of being hurt, until--Well, Jack, if your mother had not been an invalid, she would not have educated you to fear, to have no joy in risks. Now you are in more wholesome surroundings--and--in a little while you will forget this small trouble."
The young clergyman felt that in his puzzle he had been rather vague, and added pleasantly, "You have the courage of truth. That's moral courage. Tom would have explained or denied, or done anything to get out of the scrape, if the Squire had come down on him. You would not."
"Oh! thank you," said John. "I'm sorry I troubled you."
"You did in a way; but you did not when you trusted a man who is your friend. Let us drop it. Where are those Indian graves?"
They went out and wandered in the woods, until John said, "Oh! this must be that arbutus Leila talks about, just peeping out from under the snow." They gathered a large bunch.
"It is the first breath of the fragrance of spring," said Rivers.
"Oh! yes, sir. How sweet it is! It does not grow in Europe."
"No, we own it with many other good and pleasant things."
When they came to the house, Leila was dismounting after her ride. John said, "Here Leila, I gathered these for you."
When she said, "Thank you, John," he knew by her smiling face that he was forgiven, and without a word followed her into the hall, still pursued by the thought; but I was afraid. He put aside this trouble for a time, and the wood sports with Leila were once more resumed. What thought of his failure the girl still kept in mind, if she thought of it at all, he never knew, or not for many days. He had no wish to talk of it, but fearfully desired to set himself right with her and with John Penhallow.
One day in early April she asked him to go to the stable and order her horse. He did so, and alone with an unpleasant memory, in the stable-yard he stood still a moment, and then with a sudden impulse threw his cap up on to the roof. He took a moment to regret it, and then saying, "I've got to do it!" he went into the stable and out of the hay-loft on to the sloping roof. He did not dare to wait, but let himself slide down the frozen snow, seized his cap, and knew of a sudden that the smooth ice-coating was an unsuspected peril. He rolled over on his face, straightened himself, and slid to the edge. He clutched the gutter, hung a moment, and dropped some fifteen feet upon the hard pavement. For a moment the shock stunned him. Then, as he lay, he was aware of Billy, who cried, "He's dead! he's dead!" and ran to the house, where he met Mrs. Ann and Leila on the porch. "He's killed--he's dead!"
"Who? Who?" they cried.
"Mr. John, he's dead!"
As Billy ran, the dead got his wits about him, sat up, and, hearing Billy howling, got on his feet. His hands were torn and bleeding, but he was not otherwise damaged. He ran after Billy, and was but a moment behind him.
Mrs. Ann was shaking the simple fellow, vainly trying to learn what had happened. Leila white to the lips was leaning against a pillar. John called out, "I'm all right, aunt. I had a fall--and Billy, do hold your tongue."
Billy cried, "He's not dead!" and fled as he had come.
"My poor boy," said Mrs. Ann, "sit down." He gladly obeyed.
At this moment James Penhallow came downstairs. "What's all this row about, Ann? I heard Billy--Oh, so you're the dead man, John. How did you happen to die?"
"I fell off the stable roof, sir."
"Well, you got off easily." He asked no other questions, to John's relief, but said, "Your hands look as if you had fought our big tom-cat."
John had risen on his uncle's approach. Now Penhallow said, "Sit down. Put some court-plaster on those scratches, Ann, or a postage stamp--or--so--Come, Leila, the horses are here. Run upstairs and get my riding-whip. That fool brought me down in a hurry. When the chimney took fire last year he ran through the village yelling that the house was burned down. Don't let your aunt coddle you, John."
"Do let the boy alone, James."
"Come, Leila," he said.
"I think I won't ride to-day, Uncle Jim."
A faint signal from his wife sent him on his way alone with, "All right, Leila. Any errands, my dear?"
"No--but please call at the grocer's and ask him why he has sent no sugar--and tell Mrs. Saul I want her. If Pole is in, you might mention that when I order beef I do not want veal."
While John was being plastered and in dread of the further questions which were not asked, Leila went upstairs, and the Squire rode away to the iron-works smiling and pleased. "He'll do," he murmured, "but what the deuce was my young dandy doing on the roof?" The Captain had learned in the army the wisdom of asking no needless questions. "Leila must have been a pretty lively instructor in mischief. By and by, Ann will have it out of the boy, and--I must stop that. Now she will be too full of surgery. She is sure to think Leila had something to do with it." He saw of late that Ann was resolute as to what to him would be a sad loss. Leila was to be sent to school before long--accomplishments! "Damn accomplishments! I have tried to make a boy out of her--now the inevitable feminine appears--she was scared white--and the boy was pretty shaky. I am sure Leila will know all about it." That school business had already been discussed with his wife, and then, he thought, "There is to come a winter in the city, society, and--some nice young man, and so good-bye, my dear comrade. Get up, Brutus." He dismissed his cares as the big bay stretched out in a gallop.
After some surgical care, John was told to go to his room and lie down. He protested that he was in no need of rest, but Ann Penhallow, positive in small ways with every one, including her husband, sent John away with an imperative order, nor on the whole was he sorry to be alone. No one had been too curious. He recognized this as a reasonable habit of the family. And Leila? He was of no mind to be frank with her; and this he had done was a debt paid to John Penhallow! He may not have so put it, but he would not admit to himself that Leila's contemptuous epithet had had any influence on his action. The outcome was a keen sense of happy self-approval. When he had dressed for dinner, feeling pretty sore all over, he found Leila waiting at the head of the stairs.
"John Penhallow, you threw your cap on the roof and went up to get it, you did."
"I did, Leila, but how did you know?"
She smiled and replied, "I--I don't know, John. I am sorry for what I said, and oh! John, Uncle Jim, he was pleased!"
"Do you think so?"
"Yes." She caught his hand and at the last landing let it fall. At dinner, the Squire asked kindly: "Are you all right, my boy?"
"Yes, sir," and that was all.
Mark Rivers, who had heard of this incident from Mrs. Penhallow, and at last from Leila, was alone in a position to comprehend the motives which combined to bring about an act of rashness. The rector had some sympathy with the boy and liked him for choosing a time when no one was present to witness his trial of himself. He too had the good sense like the Squire to ask no questions.
Meanwhile, Tom McGregor came no more, feeling the wound to his pride, but without the urgent need felt by John to set himself in a better position with himself. He would have thought nothing of accepting Leila's challenge, but very much wanted to see the polite girl-boy brought to shame. In fact, even the straightforward Squire, with all his ready cordiality, at times found John's extreme politeness ridiculous at his age, but knew it to be the result of absurd training and the absence of natural association with other and manly boys. To Tom it was unexplained and caused that very common feeling of vague suspicion of some claim to superiority which refined manners imply to those who lack manners altogether.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
4
|
None
|
April passed, the arbutus fragrance was gone, while the maples were putting forth ruddy buds which looked like a prophecy of the distant autumn and made gay with colour the young greenery of spring. Meanwhile, school went on, and John grew stronger and broader in this altogether wholesome atmosphere of outdoor activity and indoor life of kindness and apparently inattentive indifference on the part of his busy uncle.
On an evening late in May, 1856 (John long remembered it), the Squire as usual left their little circle and retired to the library, where he busied himself over matters involving business letters, and then fell to reading in the _Tribune_ the bitter politics of Fremont's contest with Buchanan and the still angry talk over Brooks's assault on Senator Sumner. He foresaw defeat and was with cool judgment aware of what the formation of the Republican Party indicated in the way of trouble to come. The repeal of the Missouri Compromise had years before disturbed his party allegiance, and now no longer had he been able to see the grave question of slavery as Ann his wife saw it. He threw aside the papers, set his table in order, and opening the door called John to come in and pay him a visit. The boy rose surprised. Never once had this over-occupied man talked to him at length and he had never been set free to wander in the tempting wilderness of books, which now and then when James Penhallow was absent were remorselessly dusted by Mrs. Ann and the maid, with dislocating consequences over which James Penhallow growled in belated protest.
John went in, glanced up at the Captain's sword over the mantelpiece, and sat down as desired by the still-needed fire.
"John," said his uncle in his usual direct way, "have you ever been on the back of a horse?"
"Yes, sir, once--in Paris at a riding-school."
"Once! You said 'once'--well?"
"I fell off--mother was with me."
"And you got on again?"
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
John flushed and hesitated, watched by the dark-eyed Squire. "I was afraid!" He would not say that his mother forbade it.
"What is your name?"
"John, sir," he returned astonished.
"And the rest--the rest, sir," added his uncle abruptly.
John troubled by the soldier's impatient tones said: "Penhallow, sir." He was near to a too emotional display.
"And you, John Penhallow, my brother's son, were afraid?"
"I was." It was only in part true. His mother had forbidden the master to remount him.
"By George!" said Penhallow angrily, "I don't believe you, I can't!"
John rose, "I may be a coward, Uncle James, but I never lie."
Penhallow stood up, "I beg your pardon, John."
"Oh! no, Uncle James. I--please not." He felt as if the tall soldier was humiliating himself, but could not have put it in words.
"I was hasty, my boy. You must, of course, learn to ride. By the way, do you ever read the papers?"
"Not often, sir--hardly ever. They are kept in your library or Aunt Ann's."
"Well, it is time you did read them. Come in here when you want to be alone--or any time. You won't bother me. Take what books you want, and ask me about the politics of the day. The country is going to the devil, but don't discuss this election with your aunt."
"No, sir." He had gathered from the rector enough to make him understand the warning.
John went out with the idea that this business of learning to ride was somewhere in the future. He was a little disturbed when the next day after breakfast his uncle said, "Come, John, the horses are in the training-ring."
Mrs. Ann said, "James, if you are going to apply West Point riding-school methods to John, I protest."
"Then protest, my dear," he said.
"You will kill him," she returned.
"My dear Ann, I am not going to kill him, I am going to teach him to live. Come, John. I am going to teach him to ride." Raising horses was one of the Squire's amusements, and the training-course where young horses were broken usually got an hour of his busy day.
"May I come?" asked Leila.
"Please, not," said John, anticipating disaster and desiring no amused spectators.
"In a week or so, yes, Leila," said Penhallow, "not now."
There were two stable-boys waiting and a pony long retired on grassy pension. "Now," said Penhallow, "put a foot on my knee and up you go."
"But, there's no saddle."
"There are two. The Lord of horses put one on the back of a horse and another under a man. Up! sir." John got on. "Grip him with your legs, hold on to the mane if you like, but not by the reins." The pony feeling no urgency to move stood still and nibbled the young grass. A smart tap of the Squire's whip started him, and John rolled off.
"Come, sir, get on." The boys from the stable grinned. John set his teeth. "Don't stiffen yourself. That's better."
He fell once again, and at the close of an hour his uncle said, "There that will do for to-day, and not so bad either."
"I'd like to try it again, sir," gasped John.
"You young humbug," laughed Penhallow. "Go and console your distracted aunt. I am off to the mills."
The ex-captain was merciless enough, and day after day John was so stiff that, as he confessed to Leila, a jointed doll was a trifle to his condition. She laughed, "I went through it once, but one day it came."
"What came, Leila?"
"Oh! the joy of the horse!"
"I shall never get to that." But he did, for the hard riding-master scolded, smiled, praised, and when at last John sat in the saddle the bareback lessons gave him a certain confidence. The training went on day after day, under the rule of patient but relentless efficiency. It was far into June when, having backed without serious misadventures two or three well-broken horses, Penhallow mounted him on Leila's mare, Lucy, and set out to ride with him.
"Let us ride to the mills, John." The mare was perfectly gaited and easy. They rode on, talking horses.
"You will have to manage the mills some day," said Penhallow. "You own quite a fifth of them. Now I have three partners, but some day you and I will run them." The boy had been there before with Rivers, but now the Squire presented him to the foreman and as they moved about explained the machinery. It was altogether delightful, and this was a newly discovered uncle. On the way home the Squire talked of the momentous November elections and of his dread of the future with Buchanan in power, while he led the way through lanes and woods until they came to the farm.
"We will cross the fields," he said, and dismounting took down the upper bars of a fence. Then he rode back a little, and returning took the low fence, crying, "Now, John, sit like a sack--loosely. The mare jumps like a frog; go back a bit. Now, then, give her her head!" For a moment he was in the air as his uncle cried, "You lost a stirrup. Try it again. Oh! that was better. Now, once more, come," and he was over at Penhallow's side. He had found the joy of the horse! "A bit more confidence and practice and you will do. I want you to ride Venus. She shies at a shadow--at anything black. Don't forget that."
"Oh, thank you, Uncle James!"
"It is Uncle Jim now, my boy. I knew from the first you would come out all right. I believe in blood--horses and men. I believe in blood." This was James Penhallow all over. A reticent man, almost as tenderly trustful as a woman, of those who came up to his standards of honour, truth and the courage which rightly seemed to him the backbone of all the virtues.
What John thought may be readily imagined. Accustomed to be considered and flattered, his uncle's quiet reserve had seemed to him disappointing, and now of late this abrupt praise and accepting comradeship left the sensitive lad too grateful for words. The man at his side was wise enough to say no more, and they rode home and dismounted without further speech.
After dinner John sought a corner with Leila, where he could share with her his new-born enthusiasm about horses. The Squire called to the rector and Mrs. Ann to come into his library. "Sit down, Mark," he said, "I am rash to invite you; both you and Ann bore me to death with your Sunday schools and the mill men who won't come to church. I don't hear our Baptist friend complain."
"But he does," said Rivers.
"I do not wonder," said Ann, "that they will not attend the chapel."
"If," said Penhallow, "you were to swap pulpits, Mark, it would draw. There are many ways--oh, I am quite in earnest, Ann. Don't put on one of your excommunicating looks. I remember once in Idaho at dusk, I had two guides. They were positive, each of them, that certain trails would lead to the top. I tossed up which to go with. It was pretty serious--Indians and so on--I'll tell you about it some time, rector. Well, we met at dawn on the summit. How about the moral, Ann?"
Ann Penhallow laughed. In politics, morals and religion, she held unchanging sentiments. "My dear James, people who make fables supply the morals. I decline."
"Very good, but you see mine."
"I never see what I do not want to see," which was pretty close to the truth.
"The fact is," said Rivers, "I have preaccepted the Squire's hint. Grace is sick again. I tell him it is that last immersion business. I have promised to preach for him next Sunday, as your young curate at the mills wants to air his eloquence here."
"Not really!" said Mrs. Ann, "at his chapel?"
"Yes, and I mean to use a part of our service."
"If the Bishop knew it."
"If! he would possibly forbid it, or be glad I did it."
Mrs. Ann totally disapproved. She took up her knitting and said no more, while Rivers and Penhallow talked of a disturbance at the works of no great moment. The rector noticed Mrs. Penhallow's sudden loss of interest in their talk and her failure to comment on his statement, an unusual thing with this woman, who, busy-minded as the bee, gathered honey of interest from most of the affairs of life. In a pause of the talk he turned to her, "I am sorry to have annoyed you," he said--"I mean about preaching for Grace."
"But why do you do it?"
"Because," he returned, "my Master bids me. Over and over one finds in His Word that he foreknew how men would differ and come to worship Him and use His revelations in ways which would depend on diversity of temperaments, or under the leadership of individual minds of great force. It may be that it was meant that we should disagree, and yet--I--yet as to essentials we are one. That I never can forget."
"Then," she said quickly, "you are of many creeds."
"No and yes," he returned smiling. "In essentials yes, in ceremonial usage no; in some other morsels of belief held by others charitably dubious--I dislike argument about religion in the brief inadequateness of talk--especially with you from whom I am apt to differ and to whom I owe so much--so very much."
She took up her knitting again as she said, "I am afraid the balance of debt is on our side."
"Then," said Penhallow, who, too, disliked argument on religion, "if you have got through with additions to the useless squabbles of centuries, which hurt and never help, I--" "But," broke in his wife, "I have had no answer."
"Oh, but you have, Ann; for me, Rivers is right."
"Then I am in a minority of one," she returned, "but I have not had my say."
"Well, dear, keep it for next time. Now I want, as I said, a little counsel about John."
"And about Leila, James. Something has got to be done."
The Squire said ruefully, "Yes, I suppose so. I do not know that anything needs to be done. You saw John's condition before dinner. He had a swollen nose and fair promise of a black eye. I asked you to take no notice of it. I wanted first to hear what had happened. I got Leila on the porch and extracted it by bits. It seems that Tom was rude to Leila."
"I never liked your allowing him to play with the children, James."
"But the boy needs boy-company."
"And what of Leila? She needs girl-company."
"I fear," said Rivers, "that may be the case."
"It is so," said Mrs. Ann decisively, pleased with his support. "What happened, James?"
"I did not push Leila about what Tom did. John slapped his face and got knocked down. He got up and went at Tom like a wildcat. Tom knocked him down again and held him. He said that John must say he had had enough."
"He didn't," said Rivers, "I am sure he didn't."
"No, Mark, he said he would die first, which was what he should have said. Then Billy had the sense to pull the big boy off, and as Leila was near tears I asked no more questions. It was really most satisfactory."
"How can you say that?" said his wife. "It was brutal."
"You do not often misunderstand me, Ann. I mean, of course, that our boy did the right thing. How does it strike you, Mark?"
He had a distinct intention to get the rector into trouble. "Not this time, Squire," and he laughed. "The boy did what his nature bade him. Of course, being a nice little boy, he should have remonstrated. There are several ways--" "Thanks," said Penhallow. "Of course, Ann, the playing with Tom will end. I fancy there is no need to interfere."
"He should be punished for rudeness to Leila," said Mrs. Penhallow.
"Oh, well, he's a rough lad and like enough sorry. How can I punish him without making too much of a row."
"You are quite right, as I see it," said Rivers. "Let it drop; but, indeed, it is true that Leila should have other than rough lads as school-companions."
"Oh, Lord! Rivers."
"I am glad to agree with you at least about one thing," said Mrs. Penhallow. "In September John will be sixteen, and Leila a year or so younger. She is now simply a big, daring, strong boy."
"If you think that, Ann, you are oddly mistaken."
"I am," she said; "I was. It was only one end of my reasons why she must go to school. Before John came and when we had cousins here--girls, she simply despised them or led them into dreadful scrapes."
"Well, Ann, we will talk it over another time."
Rivers smiled and Ann Penhallow went out, longing to attend to the swollen face now bent low over a book. The two men she left smoked in such silence as is one of the privileges of friendship. At last Penhallow said, "Of course, Mark, my wife is right, but I shall miss the girl. My wife cannot ride with me, and now I am to lose Leila. After school come young men. Confound it, rector, I wish the girl had less promise of beauty--of--well, all the Greys have it--attractiveness for our sex. Some of them are fools, but they have it all the same, and they keep it to the end. What is most queer about it is that they are not easily won. The men who trouble hearts for a game do not win these women."
"Some one will suffer," said Rivers reflectively. He wondered if the wooing of Ann Grey by this masterful man had been a long one. A moment he gave to remembrance of his own long and tender care of the very young wife he had won easily and seen fade with terrible slowness as her life let fall its joys as it were leaf by leaf, with bitter sense of losing the fair heritage of youth. Now he said, "Were all these women, Squire, who had the gift of bewitchment, good?"
"No, now and then hurtful, or honest gentlewomen, or like Ann Grey too entirely good for this wicked world--" "As Westways knows," said Rivers, thinking how the serene beauty of a life of noble ways had contributed spiritual charm to whatever Ann Penhallow had of attractiveness. "But," he went on, "Leila cannot go until the fall, and you will still have the boy. I had my doubts of your method of education, but it has worked well. He has a good mind and is so far ahead of his years in education that he will be ready for college too early."
"Well, I hate to think of these changes. He must learn to box."
"Another physical virtue to be added," laughed Rivers.
"Yes, he must learn to face these young country fellows." After a brief pause he added, "I am looking forward to Buchanan's nomination and election, Mark, with anxiety. Both North and South are losing temper."
"Yes, but shall you vote for him? I presume you have always been a Democrat, more or less--less of late."
"I shall vote for Fremont if he is nominated; not wholly a wise choice. I am tired of what seems like an endless effort North and South, to add more exasperations. It will go on and on. Each section seems to want to make the other angry."
"It is not Mrs. Penhallow's opinion, I fear. The wrongdoing is all on our side."
Said the Squire gravely, "That is a matter, Mark, we never now discuss--the one matter. Her brothers in Maryland, are at odds. One at least is bitter, as I gather from their letters."
"Well, after the election things will quiet down, as usual."
"They will not, Mark. I know the South. Unhappily they think we live by the creed of day-book and ledger. We as surely misunderstand them, and God alone knows what the future holds for us."
This was unusual talk for Penhallow. He thought much, but talked little, and his wife's resolute attitude of opinions held from youth was the one trouble of an unusually happy life.
"We can only hope for the best," said Rivers. "Time is a great peacemaker."
"Or not," returned his host as Rivers rose. "Just a word, Mark, before you go. I am desirous that you should not misunderstand me in regard to my politics. I see that slavery is to be more and more in question. My own creed is, 'let it alone, obey the laws, return the runaways,--oh! whether you like it or not,--but no more slave territory.' And for me, my friend, the States are one country and above all else, above slave questions, is that of an unbroken union. I shall vote for Fremont. I cannot go to party meetings and speak for him because, Mark, I am in doubt about the man, and because--oh! you know."
Yes, he knew more or less, but knowing did not quite approve. The Squire of Grey Pine rarely spoke at length, but now he longed, as he gave some further clue to his reticence, to make public a political creed which was not yet so fortified by the logic of events as to be fully capable of defence.
"The humorous side of it," he said, "is that my very good wife has been doing some pretty ardent electioneering while I am sitting still, because to throw my weight into the local contest would oblige me to speak out and declare my whole political religion of which I am not quite secure enough to talk freely."
The young rector looked at his older friend, who was uneasy between his uncertain sense of duty and his desire not to go among people at the mills and in the town and struggle with his wife for votes.
"I may, Mark, I may do no more than let it be known how I shall vote. That is all. It will be of use. I could wish to do more. I think that here and at the mills the feeling is rather strong for Buchanan, but why I cannot see."
Mrs. Ann had been really active, and her constant kindness at the mills and in the little town gave to her wishes a certain influential force among these isolated groups of people who in their remoteness had not been disturbed by the aggressive policy of the South.
"Of course, Mark, my change of opinion will excite remark. Whoever wins, I shall be uneasy about the future. Must you go? Good-night."
He went to the hall door with the rector, and then back to his pipe, dismissing the subject for the time. On his return, he found John in the library looking at the sword hanging over the mantelpiece. "Well, Jack," he said, "a penny for your thoughts."
"Oh; I was thinking what the sword had seen."
"I hope it will see no more, but it may--it may. Now I want to say a word to you. You had a fight with Tom McGregor and got the worst of it."
"I did."
"I do not ask why. You seem to have shown some pluck."
"I don't know, uncle. I was angry, and I just slapped his face. He deserved it."
"Very well, but never slap. I suppose that is the French schoolboy way of fighting. Hit hard--get in the first blow."
"Yes, sir. I hadn't a chance."
"You must take my old cadet boxing-gloves from under the sword. I have spoken to Sam, the groom. I saw him last year in a bout with the butcher's boy. After he has knocked you about for a month, you will be better able to take care of the Penhallow nose."
"I shall like that."
"You won't, but it will help to fill out your chest." Then he laughed, "Did you ever get that cane?"
"No, sir. Billy found it. Leila gave him twenty-five cents for it, and now she won't give it to me."
"Well, well, is that so? The ways of women are strange."
"I don't see why she keeps it, uncle."
"Nor I. Now go to bed, it is late. She is a bit of a tease, John. Mark Rivers says she is now just one half of the riddle called woman."
John understood well enough that he was some day expected by his uncle to have it out with Tom. He got two other bits of advice on this matter. The rector detained him after school, a few days later. "How goes the swimming, John?" he asked.
The Squire early in the summer had taken this matter in hand, and as Ann Penhallow said, with the West Point methods of kill or cure. John replied to the rector that he was now given leave to swim with the Westways boys. The pool was an old river-channel, now closed above, and making a quiet deep pool such as in England is called a "backwater" and in Canada a "bogan." The only access was through the Penhallow grounds, but this was never denied.
"Does Tom McGregor swim there?" asked Rivers.
"Yes, and the other boys. It is great fun now; it was not at first."
"About Tom, John. I hope you have made friends with him."
Said John, with something of his former grown-up manner, "It appears to me that we never were friends. I regret, sir, that it seems to you desirable."
"But, John, it is. For two Christian lads like you to keep up a quarrel--" "He's a heathen, sir. I told him yesterday that he ought to apologize to Leila."
"And what did he say?"
"He said, he guessed I wanted another licking. That's the kind of Christian he is."
"I must speak to him."
"Oh, please not to do that! He will think I am afraid." Here were the Squire and Rivers on two sides of this question.
"Are you afraid, John? You were once frank with me about it."
"I do not think, Mr. Rivers, you ought to ask me that." He drew up his figure as he spoke.
The rector would have liked to have whistled--a rare habit with him when alone and not in one of his moods of depression. He said, "I beg your pardon, John," and felt that he had not only done no good, but had made a mistake.
John said, "I am greatly obliged, sir." When half-way home he went back and met Rivers at his gate.
"Well," said the rector, "left anything?"
"No, sir," said the boy, his young figure stiffening, his head up. "I wasn't honest, sir." And again with his old half-lost formal way, "I--I--you might have thought--I wasn't--quite honourable. I mean--I'll never be able to forgive that blackguard until I can--can get even with him. You see, sir?"
"Yes, I see," said Rivers, who did not see, or know for a moment what to say. "Well, think it over, John. He is more a rough cub than a blackguard. Think it over."
"Yes, sir," and John walked away.
The rector looked after the boy thinking--he's the Squire all over, with more imagination, a gentleman to the core. But how wonderfully changed, and in only eight months.
John was now, this July, allowed to ride with Leila when his uncle was otherwise occupied. He had been mounted on a safe old horse and was not spared advice from Leila, who enjoyed a little the position of mistress of equestrianism. She was slyly conscious of her comrade's mildly resentful state of mind.
"Don't pull on him so hard, John. The great thing is to get intimate with a horse's mouth. He's pretty rough, but if you wouldn't keep so stiff, you wouldn't feel it."
John began to be a little impatient. "Let us talk of something else than horses. I got a good dose of advice yesterday from Uncle Jim. I am afraid that you will be sent to school in the fall. I hate schools. You'll have no riding and snowballing, and I shall miss you. You see, I was never friends with a girl before."
"Uncle Jim would never let me go."
"But Aunt Ann?" he queried. "I heard her tell Mr. Rivers that you must go. She said that you were too old, or would be, for snowballing and rough games and needed the society of young ladies."
"Young ladies!" said Leila scornfully. "We had two from Baltimore year before last. I happened to hit one of them in the eye with a snowball, and she howled worse than Billy when he plays bear."
"Oh, you'll like it after a while," he said, with anticipative wisdom, "but I shall be left to play with Tom. I want you to miss me. It is too horrid."
"I shall miss you; indeed, I shall. I suppose I am only a girl, but I won't forget what you did when that boy was rude. I used to think once you were like a girl and just afraid. I never yet thanked you," and she leaned over and laid a hand for a moment on his. "I believe you wouldn't be afraid now to do what I dared you to do."
He laughed. There had been many such dares. "Which dare was it, Leila?"
"Oh, to go at night--at night to the Indian graves. I tried it once and got half way--" "And was scalped all the way back, I suppose."
"I was, John. Try it yourself."
"I did, a month after I came."
"Oh! and you never told me."
"No, why should I?"
It had not had for him the quality of bodily peril. It was somehow far less alarming. He had started with fear, but was of no mind to confess. They rode on in silence, until at last she said. "I hope you won't fight that boy again."
"Oh," he said, "I didn't mind it so very much."
She was hinting that he would again be beaten. "But I minded, John. I hated it."
He would say no more. He had now had, as concerned Tom, three advisers. He kept his own counsel, with the not unusual reticence of a boy. He did not wish to be pitied on account of what he did not consider defeat, and wanted no one to discuss it. He was better pleased when a week later the English groom talked to him after the boxing-lesson. "That fellow, Tom, told me about your slapping him. He said that he didn't want to lick you if you hadn't hit him."
"It's not a thing I want to talk about, Sam. I had to hit him and I didn't know how; that's all. Put on the gloves again."
"There, that'll do, sir. You're light on your pins, and he's sort of slow. If you ever have to fight him, just remember that and keep cool and keep moving."
The young boxing-tutor was silently of opinion that John Penhallow would not be satisfied until he had faced Tom again. John made believe, as we say, that he had no such desire. He had, however, long been caressed and flattered into the belief that he was important, and was, in his uncle's army phrase, to be obeyed and respected accordingly by inferiors. His whole life now for many months had, however, contributed experiences contradictory to his tacitly accepted boy-views. Sometimes in youth the mental development and conceptions of what seem desirable in life appear to make abrupt advances without apparent bodily changes. More wholesomely and more rarely at the plastic age characteristics strengthen and mind and body both gather virile capacity. When John Penhallow met his cousin on his first arrival, he was in enterprise, vigour, general good sense and normal relation to life, really far younger than Leila. In knowledge, mind and imagination, he was far in advance. In these months he had passed her in the race of life. He felt it, but in many ways was also dimly aware that Leila was less expressively free in word and action, sometimes to his surprise liking to be alone at the age when rare moods of mild melancholy trouble the time of rapid female florescence. There was still between them acceptance of equality, with on his part a certain growth of respectful consideration, on hers a gentle perception of his gain in manliness and of deference to his experience of a world of which she knew as yet nothing, but with some occasional resentment when the dominating man in the boy came to the surface. When his aunt praised his manners, Leila said, "He isn't always so very gentle." When his uncle laughed at his awkward horsemanship, she defended him, reminding her uncle, to his amusement, of her own early mishaps.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
5
|
None
|
John's intimacy with the Squire prospered. Leila had been a gay comrade, but not as yet so interested as to tempt him to discussion of the confusing politics of the day. "She has not as yet a seeking mind," said the rector, who in the confessional of the evening pipe saw more and more plainly that this was a divided house. The Squire could not talk politics with Ann, his wife. She held a changeless belief in regard to slavery, a conviction of its value to owner and owned too positive to be tempted into discussing it with people who knew so little of it and did not agree with her. James Penhallow, like thousands in that day of grim self-questioning, had been forced to reconsider opinions long held, and was reaching conclusions which he learned by degrees made argument with the simplicity of his wife's political creed more and more undesirable. Leila was too young to be interested. The rector was intensely anti-slavery and saw but one side of the ominous questions which were bewildering the largest minds. The increasing interest in his nephew was, therefore, a source of real relief to the uncle. Meanwhile, the financial difficulties of the period demanded constant thought of the affairs of the mills and took him away at times to Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. Thus the summer ran on to an end. Buchanan and Breckenridge had been nominated and the Republicans had accepted Fremont and Dayton.
Birthdays were always pleasantly remembered at Grey Pine, and on September 20th, when John, aged sixteen, came down to breakfast, as he took his seat Ann came behind him and said as she kissed him, "You are sixteen to-day; here is my present."
The boy flushed with pleasure as he received a pair of silver spurs. "Oh! thank you, Aunt Ann," he cried as he rose.
"And here is mine," said Leila, and laughing asked with both hands behind her back, "Which hand, John?"
"Oh! both--both."
"No."
"Then the one nearest the heart." Some quick reflection passed through Ann Penhallow's mind of this being like an older man's humour.
Leila gave him a riding-whip. He had a moment's return of the grown-up courtesies he had been taught, and bowed as he thanked her, saying, "Now, I suppose, I am your knight, Aunt Ann."
"And mine," said Leila.
"I do not divide with any one," said Mrs. Ann. "Where is your present, James?"
He had kept his secret. "Come and see," he cried. He led them to the porch. "That is mine, John." A thorough-bred horse stood at the door, saddled and bridled. Ann thought the gift extravagant, but held her tongue.
"Oh, Uncle Jim," said John. His heart was too full for the words he wanted to say. "For me--for me." He knew what the gift meant.
"You must name him," said Leila. "I rode him once, John. He has no name. Uncle Jim said he should have no name until he had an owner. Now I know."
John stood patting the horse's neck. "Wasn't his mother a Virginia mare, James?" said Ann.
"Yes."
"Oh, then call him Dixy."
For a moment the Squire was of a mind to object, but said gaily, "By all means, Ann, call him Dixy if you like, and now breakfast, please." Here they heard Dixy's pedigree at length.
"Above all, Jack, remember that Dixy is of gentle birth; make friends with him. He may misbehave; never, sir, lose your temper with him. Be wary of use of whip or spur."
There was more of it, until Mrs. Ann said, "Your coffee will be cold. It is one of your uncle's horse-sermons."
John laughed. How delightful it all was! "May I ride today with you, uncle?"
"Yes, I want to introduce you to--Dixy--yes--" "And may I ride with you?" asked Leila.
"No, my dear," said the aunt, "I want you at home. There is the raspberry jam and currant jelly and tomato figs."
"Gracious, Leila, we shall not have a ride for a week."
"Oh, not that bad, John," said Mrs. Ann, "only two days and--and Sunday. After that you may have her, and I shall be glad to be rid of her. She eats as much as she preserves."
"Oh! Aunt Ann."
A few days went by, and as it rained in the afternoon there was no riding, but there was the swimming-pool, and for rain John now cared very little. On his way he met a half dozen village lads. They swam, and hatched (it was John's device) a bit of mischief involving Billy, who was fond of watching their sports when he was tired of doing chores about the stable. John heard of it later. The likelihood of unpleasant results from their mischief was discussed as they walked homeward. There were in all five boys from the village, with whom by this time John had formed democratic intimacies and moderate likings which would have shocked his mother. He had had no quarrels since long ago he had resented Tom McGregor's rudeness to Leila and had suffered the humiliation of defeat in his brief battle with the bigger boy. The easy victor, Tom, had half forgotten or ignored it, as boys do. Now as they considered an unpleasant situation, Joe Grace, the son of the Baptist preacher, broke the silence. He announced what was the general conclusion, halting for emphasis as he spoke.
"I say, fellows, there will be an awful row."
"That's so," said William, the butcher's son.
"Anyhow," remarked Ashton, whose father was a foreman at the mills, "it was great fun; didn't think Billy could run like that."
It will be observed that the young gentleman of ten months ago had become comfortably democratic in his associations and had shed much of his too-fine manners as the herding instincts of the boy made the society of comrades desirable when Leila's company was not attainable.
"Oh!" he said, "Billy can run, but I had none of the fun." Then he asked anxiously, "Did Billy get as far as the house?"
"You bet," said Baynton, the son of the carpenter, "I saw him, heard him shout to the Squire. Guess it's all over town by this time."
"Anyhow it was you, John, set it up," said a timid little boy, the child of the blacksmith.
"That's so," said Grace, "guess you'll catch it hot."
John considered the last spokesman with scorn as Tom, his former foe, said, "Shut up, Joe Grace, you were quick enough to go into it--and me too."
"Thanks," said John, reluctantly acknowledging the confession of partnership in the mischief, "I am glad one of you has a little--well, honour."
They went on their way in silence and left him alone. Nothing was said of the matter at the dinner-table, where to John's relief Mr. Rivers was a guest. John observed, however, that Mrs. Ann had less of her usual gaiety, and he was not much surprised when his uncle leaving the table said, "Come into the library, John." The Captain lighted his pipe and sat down.
"Now, sir," he said, "Billy is a poor witness. I desire to hear what happened."
The stiffened hardness of the speaker in a measure affected the boy. He stood for a moment silent. The Captain, impatient, exclaimed, "Now, I want the simple truth and nothing else."
The boy felt himself flush. "I do not lie, sir. I always tell the truth."
"Of course--of course," returned Penhallow. "This thing has annoyed me. Sit down and tell me all about it."
Rather more at his ease John said, "I went to swim with some of the village boys, sir. We played tag in the water--" The Squire had at once a divergent interest, "Tag--tag--swimming? Who invented that game? Good idea--how do you play it?"
John a little relieved continued, "You see, uncle, you can dive to escape or come up under a fellow to tag him. It's just splendid!" he concluded with enthusiasm.
Then the Captain remembered that this was a domestic court-martial, and self-reminded said, "The tag has nothing to do with the matter in question; go on."
"We got tired and sat on the bank. Billy was wandering about. He never can keep still. I proposed that I should hide in the bushes and the boys should tell Billy I was drowned."
"Indeed!"
"We went into the water; I hid in the bushes and the boys called out I was drowned. When Billy heard it, he gathered up all my clothes and my shoes, and before I could get out he just yelled, 'John's drowned, I must take his clothes home to his poor aunt.' Then he ran. The last I heard was, 'He's drowned, he's drowned!'"
"And then?"
"Well, the other fellows put on something and went after him; they caught him in the cornfield and took away my clothes. Then Billy ran to the house. That is all I know."
The Squire was suppressing his mirth. "Aren't you ashamed?"
"No, sir, but I am sorry."
"I don't like practical jokes. Billy kept on lamenting your fate. He might have told Leila or your aunt. Luckily I received his news, and no one else. You will go to Westways and say there is to be no swimming for a week in my pool."
"Yes, sir."
"You are not to ride Dixy or any other horse for ten days." This was terrible. "Now, be off with you, and tell Mr. Rivers to come in."
"Yes, sir."
When Rivers sat down, the Squire suppressing his laughter related the story. "The boy's coming on, Mark. He's Penhallow all over."
"But, Squire, by the boy's looks I infer you did not tell him that."
"Oh, hardly. I hate practical jokes, and I have stopped his riding for ten days."
"I suppose you are right," and they fell to talking politics and of the confusion of parties with three candidates in the field.
Mrs. Ann who suspected what had been the result of this court-martial was disposed towards pity, but John retired to a corner and a book and slipped away to bed early. Penalties he had suffered at school, but this was a terrible experience, and now he was to let the other boys know that the swimming-pool was closed for a week. At breakfast he made believe to be contented in mind, and asked in his best manner if his uncle had any errands for him in Westways or at the mills. When the Captain said no and remarked further that if he wished to walk, he would find the wood-roads cooler than the highway John expressed himself grateful for his advice with such a complete return of his formal manner as came near to unmasking the inner amusement which the Squire was getting from the evident annoyance he was giving Mrs. Ann, who thought that he was needlessly irritating a boy who to her mind was hurt and sore.
"Come, Leila," she said rising. "We may meet you in the village, John; and do get your hair cut, and see Mr. Spooner and tell him--no, I will write it."
John was pleased to feel that he had other reasons for visiting Westways than his uncle's order. He went down the avenue whistling, and in no hurry.
Leila had some dim comprehension of John's state of mind. Of Billy and of the Squire's court-martial she had heard from Mrs. Ann, and although that lady said little, the girl very well knew that her aunt thought her husband had been too severe. She stood on the porch, vaguely troubled for this comrade, and watched him as he passed from view, taking a short cut through the trees. The girl checked something like a sob as she went into the house.
It was the opinion of the county that Mrs. Penhallow was a right good woman and masterful; but of Leila the judgment of the village was that she was just sweet through and through. The rector said she radiated the good-nature of perfect health. What more there was time would show. Westways knew well these two young people, and Leila was simply Leila to nearly every one. "Quite time," reflected Mrs. Ann, "that she was Miss Leila." As she went with her through the town there were pleasant greetings, until at last they came to the butcher's. Mr. Pole, large after the way of his craft, appeared in a white apron. "Well, now, how you do grow, Leila."
"Not enough yet," said Leila.
"Fine day, Mrs. Penhallow." He was a little uneasy, divining her errand.
"Now, Pole, before I make a permanent change to the butcher at the mills, I wish to say that it is because a pound of beef weighs less at Grey Pine than in your shop."
At this time John was added to the hearers, being in search of William Pole with the Squire's order about the swimming. He waited until his aunt should be through. He was a little amused, which on the whole was, just then, good for him.
"Now ma'am, after all these years you won't drop me like that."
"Short weights are reason enough."
Leila listened, sorry for Pole, who reddened and replied, "Fact is, ma'am, I don't always do the weighing myself, and the boys they are real careless. What with Hannah's asthma keeping me awake and a lot of fools loafing around and talking politics, I do wonder I ever get things right. It's Fremont and it's Buchanan--a man can't tell what to do."
Mrs. Penhallow was not usually to be turned aside, and meant now to deal out even justice. But if the butcher knew it or not, she was offered what she liked and at home could not have. "I hope, Pole, you are not going to vote for Fremont."
"Well, ma'am, it ain't easy to decide. I've always followed the Squire." Ann Penhallow knew, alas! what this would mean.
"I've been thinking I'll stand to vote for Buchanan. Was you wanting a saddle of lamb to-day? I have one here, and a finer I never saw."
"Well, Pole, keep your politics and your weights in order. Send me the lamb."
The butcher smiled as Mrs. Ann turned away. Whether the lady of Grey Pine was conscious of having bought a vote or not, it was pretty clear to her nephew that Peter Pole's weights would not be further questioned as long as his politics were Democratic.
When his aunt had gone, John called Bill Pole out of the shop and said, "There's to be no swimming for a week, for any of us. Where are the other fellows?"
"Guessed we would catch it. They're playing ball back of the church. I'll go along with you."
He was pleased to see how the others would take their deprivation of a swim in the September heat. They came on the other culprit's, who called to John to come and play. He was not so minded, and was in haste to get through with a disagreeable errand. As he hesitated, Pole eager to distribute the unpleasant news cried out, "The Squire says that we can't swim in the pool for a week--none of us. How do you fellows like that?"
"It's mighty mean of him."
"What's that?" said John. "He was right and you know it. I don't like it any better than you do--but--" Bill Baynton, the youngest boy, broke in, "Who told the Squire what fellows was in it?"
"It wasn't Billy," said another lad; "he just kept on yelling you was dead."
"Look here," said Tom McGregor turning to John, "did you tell the Squire we fellows set it up?"
John was insulted. He knew well the playground code of honour, but remembered in time his boxing-master's advice, the more mad you are the cooler you keep yourself. He replied in his old formal way, "The question is one you have no right to ask; it is an insult."
To the boys the failure to say "no" meant evasion. "Then, of course, you told," returned the older lad. "If I wasn't afraid you'd run home and complain, I'd spank you."
It had been impossible for John to be angry with his uncle, although the punishment and the shame of carrying the news to the other boys he felt to be a too severe penalty. But here was cause for letting loose righteous anger. He had meant to wait, having been wisely counselled by his boxing-master to be in no haste to challenge his enemy, until further practice had made success possible; but now his rising wrath overcame his prudence, "Well, try it," he said. "You beat me once. If you think I'll tell if I am licked, I assure you, you are safe. I took the whole blame about Billy and I was asked no names."
Tom hesitated and said, "I never heard that."
"I will accept an apology," said John in his most dignified way. The boys laughed. John flushed a little, and as Tom remained silent added, "If you won't, then lick me if you can."
As he spoke, he slipped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The long lessons in self-defence had given him some confidence and, what was as useful, had developed chest and arms.
"Hit him, Tom," said the small boy. In a moment the fight was on, the non-combatants delighted.
To Tom's surprise his wild blows somehow failed to get home. It was characteristic of John then as in later days that he became cool as he realized his danger, while Tom quite lost his head as the success of the defence disappointed his attack. To hit hard, to rush in and throw his enemy, was all he had of the tactics of offence. The younger lad, untouched, light on his feet, was continually shifting his ground; then at last he struck right and left. He had not weight enough to knock down his foe, but as Tom staggered, John leaped aside and felt the joy of battle as he got in a blow under the ear and Tom fell.
"Get on him--hit him," cried the boys. "By George, if he ain't licked!"
John stood still. Tom rose, and as he made a furious rush at the victor, a loud voice called out, "Halloa! quit that."
Both boys stood still as Mark Rivers climbed over the fence and stood between them. John was not sorry for the interruption. He was well aware that in the rough and tumble of a close he had not weight enough to encounter what would have lost him the fight he had so far won. He stood still panting, smiling, and happy.
"Hadn't you boys better shake hands?" said the rector. Tom, furious, was collecting blood from his nose on his handkerchief. Neither boy spoke. "Well, John," said Rivers waiting.
"I'll shake hands, sir, when Tom apologizes."
The rector smiled. Apologies were hardly understood as endings to village fights. "He won't do it," said John with a glance at the swollen face; "another time I'll make him."
"Will you!" exclaimed Tom.
The rector felt that on the whole it might have been better had they fought it out. Now the peacemaking business was clearly not blessed. "You are a nice pair of young Christians," he said. "At all events, you shall not fight any more to-day. Come, John."
The boy put on his jacket and went away with Rivers, who asked presently what was this about. "Mr. Rivers, soon after I came that fellow was rough to Leila; I hit him, and he beat me like--like a dog."
"And you let all these suns go down upon your wrath?"
"There wasn't any wrath, sir. He wouldn't apologize to Leila; he wouldn't do it."
"Oh! indeed."
"Then he said something to-day about Uncle Jim."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, he made it pretty clear that he thought me a liar."
"Well, but you knew you were not."
"Yes, sir, but he didn't appear to know."
"Do you think you convinced him?"
"No, sir, but I feel better."
"Ah! is that so? Morally better, John?" and he laughed as he bade him good-bye.
The lad who left him was tired, but entirely satisfied with John Penhallow. He went to the stable and had a technical talk with the English groom, who deeply regretted not to have seen the fight.
There being no riding or swimming to fill the time, he took a net, some tackle and a bucket, and went down to the river and netted a "hellbender." He put him in a bucket of water and carried him to the stable, where he was visited by Leila and Rivers, and later departed this life, much lamented. In the afternoon, being in a happy mood, John easily persuaded Leila to abandon her ride, and walk with him.
When they sat down beside the Indian graves, to his surprise she suddenly shifted the talk and said, "John, who would you vote for? I asked Aunt Ann, and she said, 'Buchanan, of course'; and when I asked Uncle Jim, he said, 'Fremont'; but I want to understand. I saw in the paper that it was wicked to keep slaves, but my cousins in Maryland have slaves; it can't be wicked."
"Would you like to be bought and sold?" he said.
"But, I am not black, John."
"I believe old Josiah was a slave."
"Every one knows that. Why did he run away, John?"
"Because he wanted to be free, I suppose, and not have to work without pay."
"And don't they pay slaves?" asked Leila.
"No, they don't." John felt unable to make clear to her why the two people they respected and loved never discussed what the village talked about so freely. These intelligent children were in the toils of a question which was disturbing the consciences and the interests of a continent. The simpler side was clear to both of them. The idea of selling the industrious old barber was as yet enough to settle their politics.
"Aunt Ann must have good reasons," said John. "Mr. Rivers says she is the most just woman he ever knew." It puzzled him. "I suppose we are too young to understand."
"Aunt Ann will never talk about slaves. I asked her last week."
"But Uncle Jim will talk, and he likes to be asked when we are alone. I don't believe in slavery."
"It seems so queer, John, to own a man."
John grinned, "Or a girl, Leila."
"Well, no one owns me, I tell you; they'd have a hard time."
She shook what Rivers called her free-flowing cascade of hair in the pride of conscious freedom. The talk ran on. At last she said, "I'll tell you a queer thing. I heard Mr. Rivers say to uncle--I heard him say, we were all slaves. He said that no one owns himself. I think that's silly," said the young philosopher, "don't you, John?"
"I don't know," returned John; "I think it's a big puzzle. Let's go."
No word reached the Squire of the battle behind the church until four days later, when Rivers came in after dinner and found Penhallow in his library deep in thought.
"Worried, Squire?" he asked.
"Yes, affairs are in a bad way and will be until the election is over. It always disturbs commerce. The town will go Democratic, I suppose."
"Yes, as I told you, unless you take a hand and are in earnest and outspoken."
"I could be, but it has not yet the force of imperative duty, and it would hurt Ann more than I feel willing to do. Talk of something else. She would cease her mild canvass if she thought it annoyed me."
"I see--sir. I think I ought to tell you that John has had another battle with Tom McGregor."
"Indeed?" The Squire sat up, all attention. "He does not show any marks of it."
"No, but Tom does."
"Indeed! What happened?"
"Well, I believe, Tom thought John told you what boys were in that joke on Billy. I fancy something was said about you--something personal, which John resented."
"That is of no moment. What else? I ought to be clear about it."
"Well, Squire, Tom was badly mauled and John was tired when I arrived as peacemaker. I stopped the battle, but he was not at all disposed to talk about it. I am sure of one thing--he has had a grudge against Tom--since he was rude to Leila."
The Squire rose and walked about the room. "H'm! very strange that--what a mere child he was when he got licked--boys don't remember injuries that way." Then seeming to become conscious of Rivers' presence, he stopped beside him and added, "What with my education and Leila's, he has grown amazingly. He was as timid as a foal."
"He is not now, Squire, and John has been as useful mentally to Leila. She is learning to think."
"Sorry for it, Mark, women ought not to think. Now if my good Ann wouldn't think, I should be the happier."
"My dear Squire," said Rivers, setting an affectionate hand on his arm, "my dear Mrs. Penhallow doesn't think, except about the every-day things of life. Her politics and religion are sacred beliefs not to be rudely jostled by the disturbance of thinking. If there is illness, debt or trouble, at the mills or in Westways, she becomes seraphic and intelligent enough."
"Yes, Rivers, and if I put before her, as I sometimes do, a perplexing business matter, I am surprised at her competence. Of course, she is as able as you or I to reason, but on one subject she does not reason or believe that it admits of discussion; and by Heaven! my friend, I am sometimes ashamed to keep out of this business. So far as this State is concerned, it is hopeless. You know, dear friend, what you have been to us, and that to no other man on earth could I speak as I have done to you; but Mark, if things get worse--and they will--what then? John asked me what we should do if the Southern States did really secede. Things seem to stick in his mind like burrs--he was at it again next day."
Rivers smiled. "Like me, I suppose."
"Yes, Mark. He is persistent about everything--lessons, sports, oh! everything; an uncomfortably curious lad, too. These Southern opinions about reclaiming a man's slaves bother the boy. He reads my papers, and how can I stop him? I don't want to. There! we are at it again."
"Yes, there is no escape from these questions."
"And he has even got Leila excited and she wants to know--I told her to ask Ann Penhallow--I have not heard of the result. Well, you are going. Good-night."
The Squire sat still in the not very agreeable company of his thoughts. Leila was to go to school this September, Buchanan's election in November was sure, and John--He had come to love the lad, and perhaps he had been too severe. Then he thought of the boy's fight and smiled. The rector and he had disagreed. Was it better for boys to abuse one another or to settle things by a fight? The rector had urged that his argument for the ordeal of battle would apply with equal force to the duel of men. He had said, "No, boys do not kill; and after all even the duel has its values." Then the rector said he was past praying for and had better read the Decalogue.
When next day Mark Rivers was being shaved by the skilled hand of Josiah, he heard the voice of his friend and fishing-companion, the Rev. Isaac Grace, "What about the trout-brook this afternoon?"
"Of course," said Mark, moveless under the razor. "Call for me at five."
"Seen yesterday's _Press_?"
"No. I can't talk, Grace."
"This town's all for Buchanan and Breckenridge. How will the Squire vote?"
"Ask him. Take care, Josiah."
"If the Squire isn't taking any active part, Mrs. Penhallow is. She is taking a good deal of interest in the roof of my chapel and--and--other things."
The rector did not like it. "I can't talk, Grace."
"But I can." --"Well," thought the rector, "for an intelligent man you are slow at taking hints." The good-natured rotund preacher went on, amazing his helpless friend, "I wonder if the Squire would like her canvassing--" "Ask him."
"Guess not. She's a good woman, but not just after the fashion of St. Paul's women."
"She hasn't done no talking to me," said Josiah, chuckling. "There, sir, I'm through."
Then the released rector said, "If you talk politics again to me for the next two months, Grace, I will never tie for you another trout-fly. Your turn," and he left the chair to Grace, who sat down saying with the persistency of the good-humoured and tactless, "If I want a roof to my chapel, I've got to keep out of talking Republican polities, that's clear--" "And several other things," returned Mark sharply.
"Such as," said Grace, but the rector had gone and Josiah was lathering the big red face.
"Got to make believe sometimes, sir," said Josiah. "She's an uncommon kind lady, and the pumpkins she gives me are fine. A fellow's got time to think between this and November. Pumpkins and leaky roofs do make a man kind of thoughtful." He grinned approval of his own wisdom. "Now don't talk, sir. Might chance to cut you."
This sly unmasking of motives, his own and those of others, was disagreeable to the good little man who was eager to get his chapel roofed and no more willing than Mrs. Penhallow to admit that how he would vote had anything to do with the much needed repairs. His people were poor and the leaks were becoming worse and worse. He kept his peace, and the barber smiling plied the razor.
Now the Squire paused at the open door, where he met his nephew. "Come to get those scalp-locks trimmed, John? They are perilously long. If you were to get into a fight and a fellow got hold of them, you would have a bad time." Then as his uncle went away laughing, John knew that the Squire must have heard of his battle from Mark Rivers. He did not like it. Why he did not know or ask himself, being as yet too immature for such self-analysis.
Mr. Grace got up clean-shaven, adjusted a soiled paper-collar, and said, "Good-morning, John. I am sorry to hear that a Christian lad like you should be fighting. I am sure that neither Mr. Rivers nor your aunt would approve of it. My son told me about it, and I think it my duty--" John broke in, "Then your son is a tell-tale, Mr. Grace, and allow me to say that this is none of his business. When I am insulted, I resent it." To be chaffed by his own uncle when under sentence of a court-martial had not been agreeable, but this admonition was unendurable. He entered the shop.
"Well, I never," exclaimed the preacher, as John went by him.
The barber was laughing. "Set down, Mr. John."
"I suppose the whole of Westways knows it, Mr. Josiah?"
"They do, sir. Wish I'd seen it."
"Damn!" exclaimed John, swearing for the first time in his life. "Cut my hair short, please, and don't talk."
"No, sir. You ain't even got a scratch."
"Oh, do shut up," said John. There was a long silence while the curly locks fell.
"You gave it to the Baptist man hot. I don't like him. He calls me Joe. It isn't respectable. My name's Josiah."
"Haven't you any other name?" said John, having recovered his good-humour.
"Yes, sir, but I keeps that to myself."
"But why?" urged John.
Josiah hesitated. "Well, Mr. John, I ran away, and--so it was best to get a new name."
"Indeed! Of course, every one knows you must have run away--but no one cares."
"Might say I was run away with--can't always hold a horse," he laughed aloud in a leisurely way. "When he took me over the State-line, I didn't go back."
"I see," said John laughing, as he rose and paid the barber. The cracked mirror satisfied him that he was well shorn.
"You looks a heap older now you're shorn. Makes old fellows look younger--ever notice that?"
"No."
Then Josiah, of a sudden wisely cautious, said, "You won't tell Mrs. Penhallow, nor no one, about me, what I said?"
"Of course not; but why my aunt, Mr. Josiah? She, like my uncle, must know you ran away."
When John first arrived the black barber's appearance so impressed the lad that he spoke to him as Mr. Josiah, and seeing later how much this pleased him continued in his quite courteous way to address him now and then as Mr. Josiah. The barber liked it. He hesitated a moment before answering.
"You needn't talk about it if you don't want to," said John.
"Guess whole truth's better than half truth--nothin' makes folk curious like knowin' half. When I first came here, I guessed I'd best change my name, so I said I was Josiah. Fact is, Mr. John, I didn't know Mrs. Penhallow came from Maryland till I had been here quite a while and got to like the folks and the Captain."
John's experience was enlarging. He could hardly have realized the strange comfort the black felt in his confession. What it all summed up for Josiah in the way of possible peril of loss of liberty John presently had made plain to him. He was increasingly urgent in his demand for answers to the many questions life was bringing. The papers he read had been sharp schoolmasters, and of slave life he knew nothing except from his aunt's pleasant memories of plantation life when a girl on a great Maryland manor. That she could betray to servitude the years of grey-haired freedom seemed to John incredible of the angel of kindly helpfulness. He stood still in thought, troubled by his boy-share of puzzle over a too mighty problem.
Josiah, a little uneasy, said, "What was you thinkin', Mr. John?"
The young fellow replied smiling, "Do you think Aunt Ann would hurt anybody? Do you think she would send word to some one--to take you back? Anyhow she can't know who was your master."
The old black nodded slowly, "Mr. John, she born mistress and I born slave; she can't help it--and they was good people too--all the people that owned me. They liked me too. I didn't have to work except holdin' horses and trainin' colts--and housework. They was always kind to me."
"But why did you run away?"
"Well, Mr. John, it was sort of sudden. You see ever since I could remember there was some one to say, Caesar you do this, or you go there. One day when I was breakin' a colt, Mr. Woodburn says to me--I was leanin' against a stump--how will that colt turn out? I said, I don't know, but I did. It wasn't any good. My mind was took up watchin' a hawk goin' here and there over head like he was enjoyin' hisself. Then--then it come over me--that he'd got no boss but God. It got a grip on me like--" The lad listened intently.
"You wanted to be free like the hawk."
"I don't quite know--never thought of it before--might have seen lots of hawks. I ain't never told any one."
"Are you glad to be free?"
"Ah, kind of half glad, sir. I ain't altogether broke in to it. You see I'm old for change."
As he ended, James Penhallow reappeared. "Got through, John? You look years older. Your aunt will miss those curly locks." He went into the shop as John walked away, leaving Josiah who would have liked to add a word more of caution and who nevertheless felt somehow a sense of relief in having made a confession the motive force of which he would have found it impossible to explain.
John asked himself no such question as he wandered deep in boy-thought along the broken line of the village houses. Josiah's confidence troubled and yet flattered him. His imagination was captured by the suggested idea of the wild freedom of the hawk. He resolved to be careful, and felt more and more that he had been trusted with a secret involving danger.
While John wandered away, the barber cut the Squire's hair, and to his surprise Josiah did not as usual pour out his supply of village gossip.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
6
|
None
|
It was now four days since John's sentence had been pronounced, and not to be allowed to swim in the heat of a hot September added to the severity of the penalty. The heat as usual made tempers hot and circumstances variously disturbed the household of Grey Pine. Politics vexed and business troubled the master. Of the one he could not talk to his wife--of the other he would not at present, hoping for better business conditions, and feeling that politics and business were now too nearly related to keep them apart. Ann, his wife, thought him depressed--a rare mood for him. Perhaps it was the unusual moist heat. He said, "Yes, yes, dear, one does feel it." She did not guess that the obvious unhappiness of the lad who had won the soldier's heart was being felt by Penhallow without his seeing how he could end it and yet not lessen the value of a just verdict.
Of all those concerned Leila was the one most troubled. On this hot afternoon she saw John disappear into the forest. When Mrs. Ann came out on the porch where she had for a minute left the girl, she saw her sewing-bag on a chair and caught sight of the flowing hair and agile young figure as she set a hand on the low stone wall of the garden and was over and lost among the trees. "Leila, Leila," cried Mrs. Ann, "I told you to finish--" It was useless. "Everything goes wrong to-day," she murmured. "Well, school will civilize that young barbarian, and she must have longer skirts." This was a sore subject and Leila had been vainly rebellious.
Meanwhile the flying girl overtook John, who had things to think about and wished to be alone. "Well," he said, with some impatience, "what is it?"
"Oh, I just wanted a walk, and don't be cross, John."
He looked at her, and perhaps for the first time had the male perception of the beauty of the disordered hair, the pleading look of the blue eyes, and the brilliant colour of the eager flushed face. It was the hair--the wonderful hair. She threw it back as she stood. No one could long be cross to Leila. Even her resolute aunt was sometimes defeated by her unconquerable sweetness.
"I am so sorry for you, John," she said.
"Well, I am not, Leila, if you mean that Uncle Jim was hard on me."
"Yes, he was, and I mean to tell him--I do."
"Please not." She said nothing in the way of reply, but only, "Let us go and see the spring."
"Well, come along."
They wandered far into the untouched forest. "Ah! here it is," she cried. A spring of water ran out from among the anchoring roots of a huge black spruce. He stood gazing down at it.
"Oh, Leila, isn't it wonderful?"
"Were you never here before, John?"
"No, never. It seems as if it was born out of the tree. No wonder this spruce grew so tall and strong. How cold it must keep the old fellow's toes."
"What queer ideas you have, John." She had not yet the gift of fancy, long denied to some in the emergent years of approaching womanhood. "I am tired, John," she said, as she dropped with hands clasped behind her head and hidden in the glorious abundance of darkening red hair, which lay around her on the brown pine-needles like the disordered aureole of some careless-minded saint.
John said, "It is this terrible heat. I never before heard you complain of being tired."
"Oh, it's just nice tired." She lay still, comfortable, with open eyes staring up at the intense blue of the September sky seen through the wide-east limbs of pine and spruce. The little rill, scarce a finger thickness of water, crawled out lazily between the roots and trickled away. The girl was in empty-minded enjoyment of the luxury of complete relaxation of every muscle of her strong young body. The spring was noiseless, no leaf was astir in all the forest around them. The girl lay still, a part of the vast quietness.
John Penhallow stood a moment, and then said, "Good gracious! Leila, your eyes are blue." It was true. When big eyes are wide open staring up at the comrade blue of the deep blue sky, they win a certain beauty of added colour like little quiet lakelets under the azure sky when no wind disturbs their power of reflecting capture.
"Oh, John, and didn't you know my eyes were blue?" She spoke with languid interest in the fact he announced.
"But," he said, looking down at her as he stood, "they're so--so very blue."
"Oh, all the Greys have blue eyes."
He laughed gentle laughter and dropped on the pine-needles of the forest floor. The spring lay between them. He felt, as she did not, the charm of the stillness. He wanted to find words in which to put his desire for expression. She broke into his mood of imaginative seekings.
"How cold it is," she said, gathering the water in the cup of her hand, and then with both hands did better and got a refreshing drink.
"That makes a better cup," he said. "Let us follow the water to the river."
"It never gets there. It runs into Lonesome Man's swamp, and that's the end of him."
"Who, Lonesome Man or the spring? And who was Lonesome Man?"
"Nobody knows. What does it matter?"
He watched her toy with the new-born rill, a mere thread of water, build a Lilliputian dam, and muddle the clear outflow as it broke, and then build again. He had the thought that she had suddenly become younger, more like a child, and he himself older.
"Why don't you talk, John?" she said.
"I can't. I am wondering about that Lonesome Man and what the trees are thinking. Don't you feel how still it is? It's disrespectful to gabble before your betters." He felt it and said it without affectation, but as usual his mood of wandering thought failed to interest Leila.
"I hate it when it's quiet! I like to hear the wind howl in the pines--" He expressed his annoyance. "You never want to talk anything but horses and swimming. Wait till you come back next spring with long skirts--such a nice well-behaved Miss Grey." He was, in familiar phrase, out of sorts, with a bit of will to annoy a disappointing companion. His mild effort had no success.
"Oh, John, it's awful! You ought to be sorry for me. The more you grow up the more your skirts grow down. Bother their manners! Who cares! Let's go home. It feels just as if it was Sunday."
"It is, in the woods. Well, come along." He walked on in the silence, she thinking of that alarming prospect of school, and he of the escaped slave's secret and, what struck the boy most--the hawk. Never before had he been told anything which was to be sacredly guarded from others. It gave him now a pleasant feeling of having been trusted. Suppose Leila had been told such a thing, how would she feel, and Aunt Ann? He was like a man who has too large a deposit in a doubtful bank. He was vaguely uneasy lest he might tell or in some way betray his sense of possessing a person's confidence.
As they came near the house, Leila said, "Catch me, I'll run you home."
"Tag," he cried.
As they came to the side porch, Ann Penhallow said, "Finish that handkerchief--now, at once. It is time you were taught other than tom-boy ways."
John went by into the house. After dinner the Squire had his usual game of whist, always to the dissatisfaction of Leila, whose thoughts wandered like birds on the wing, from twig to twig. John usually played far better, but just now worse than his cousin, and forgot or revoked, to his uncle's disgust. A man of rather settled habits, now as usual Penhallow went to his library for the company of the pipe, which Ann disliked, and the _Tribune_, which she regarded as the organ of Satanic politics. Seeing both John and her aunt absorbed in their books, Leila passed quickly back of them, opened the library door, and said softly, "May I come in, Uncle Jim?"
During the last few days he had missed, and he well knew why, John's visits and intelligent questions. Leila was welcome. "Why, of course, pussy cat. Come in. Shut the door; your aunt dislikes the pipe smoke. Sit down." For some reason she desired to stand. "Don't stand," he said, "sit down on my knee." She obeyed. "There," he said, "that's comfy. How heavy you are. Good gracious, child! what am I to do without you?"
"Isn't it awful, Uncle Jim."
"It is--it is. What do you want, my dear? Anything wrong with the horses?"
"No, sir. It's--John--" "Oh! it's John. Well, what is it?"
"It isn't John--it's John and the horses--I mean John and Dixy. Patrick rides Dixy for exercise every day."
"Well, what's the matter? First it's John, then Dixy, then John and Dixy, and then John and Dixy and Pat."
The girl saw through the amusement he had in teasing her and said with gravity, "I wish you would be serious, Uncle Jim. I want five minutes of uninterrupted attention."
The Squire exploded, "Good gracious! that is Ann Grey all over. You must have heard her say it."
"I did, and you listen, too. Sometimes you don't, Uncle Jim. I guess you weren't well broke when you were young."
"Great Scott! you minx! Some day a girl I know will have to stand at attention. Go ahead."
"Pat's ruining Dixy's mouth. You ought to see him sawing at the curb. You always rode him on the snaffle."
"That boy Pat needs a good licking, Leila."
"But Dixy don't. The fact is, Uncle Jim, you're neglecting the stables for politics."
"Is that your own wisdom, Miss Grey? What with the weight of wisdom and years, you're getting heavy. Try a chair."
"No, I'm quite comfy. It was Josiah who told me. He often comes up to look over the colts, of a Sunday--" "Nice work for Sunday, Miss Grey."
She made no direct reply. "He told me that horse ought to be ridden by--by John or you, and no one else. He says the way to ruin a horse is to have a lot of people ride him like Pat--they're just spoiling Dixy--" "What! in four days? Nonsense."
"But," said the counsel in the case, "it's to be ten. It isn't about John, it's Dixy's mouth, uncle."
"Oh, you darling little liar!" Here she kissed him and was silent. "It won't do," he said. "There's no logic in a kiss, Miss Grey. First comes Ann Grey and says, too much army discipline; and then you tell me what that gossiping old darkey says, and then you try the final argument--a kiss. Can't do it. There will be an end of all discipline. I hate practical jokes. There!"
If he thought to finish the matter thus, he much undervalued the ingenuity and persistency of the young Portia who was now conducting the case.
"Suppose you take a chair, Miss Grey. It is rather warm to provide permanent human seats for stout young women--" "I'm not stout," said Leila with emphasis, accepting the hint by dropping with coiled legs upon a cushion at his feet. "I'm not stout. I weigh one hundred and thirty and a half pounds. And oh! isn't it hot. I haven't had a swim for--oh, at least five days counting Sunday." The pool was kept free until noon for Leila and her aunt.
"Why didn't you swim?" he asked lightly, being too intellectually busy clearing his pipe to see where the leading counsel was conducting him.
"Why, Uncle Jim, I wouldn't swim if John wasn't allowed too; I just couldn't. I'm going to bed--but, please, don't let Pat ride Dixy."
"I can attend to my stables, Miss Grey. John won't die of heat for want of a swim. You don't seem to concern yourself with those equally overbaked young scamps in Westways."
"Uncle Jim, you're just real mean to-night. Josiah told me yesterday that my cousin beat Tom McGregor because he said it was mean of you to stop the swimming. John said it was just, and Tom said he was a liar, and--oh, my! John licked him--wish I'd seen it."
This was news quite to his liking. He made no reply, lost in wonder over the ways of the mind male and female.
"You ought to be ashamed, you a girl, to want to see a fight. It's time you went to school. Isn't the rector on the porch? I thought I heard him."
Now, of late Leila had got to that stage of the game of thought-interchange when the young proudly use newly acquired word-counters. "I think, Uncle Jim, you're--you're irreverent."
The Squire shut the door on all outward show of mirth, and said gravely, "Isn't it pronounced irrelevant, my dear Miss Malaprop?"
"Yes--yes," said Leila. "That's a word John uses. It's just short for 'flying the track'!"
"Any other stable slang, Leila?"
He was by habit averse to changing his decisions, and outside of Ann Penhallow's range of authority the Squire's discipline was undisputed and his decrees obeyed. He had been pleased and gaily amused for this half hour, but was of a mind to leave unchanged the penalties he had inflicted.
"Are you through, with this nonsense, Leila?" he said as he rose. "Is this an ingenious little game set up between you and John?" To his utter amazement she began to cry.
"By George!" he said, "don't cry," which is what a kind man always says when presented with the riddle of tears.
She drew a brown fist across her wet cheeks and said indignantly, "My cousin is a gentleman."
She turned to go by him. "No, dear, wait a moment." He held her arm.
"Please, let me go. When John first came, you said he was a prig--and if he would just do some boy-mischief and kick up his heels like a two-year-old with some fun in him--you said he was a sort of girl-boy--" There were for punctuation sobs and silences.
"And where did you get all this about a prig?" he broke in, amazed.
"Oh, I heard you tell Aunt Ann. And now," said Portia, "the first time he does a real nice jolly piece of mischief you come down on him like--like a thousand of bricks." Her slang was reserved for the Squire, as he well knew.
The blue eyes shining with tears looked up from under the glorious disorder of the mass of hair. It was too much for the man.
"How darned logical you are!" He acknowledged some consciousness of having been inconsistent. He had said one thing and done another. "You are worse than your aunt." Then Leila knew that Ann Penhallow had talked to the Squire. "Well," he said, "what's your opinion, Miss Grey?"
"I think you're distanced."
"What--what! Wait a little. You may tell that young man to ride when he pleases and to swim, and to tell those scamps it's too hot to deprive them of the use of the pool. There, now get out!"
"But--Uncle Jim--I--can't. Oh, I really can't. You've got to do it yourself." This he much disliked to do.
"I hear your aunt calling. Mr. Rivers is going."
She kissed him. "Now, don't wait, Uncle Jim, and don't scold John. He's been no use for these four days. Goodnight," and she left him.
"Well, well," he said, "I suppose I've got to do it."
He found Ann alone.
"About John! I can't stand up against you two. He is to be let off about the riding and swimming. I think you may find it pleasant to tell him, my dear."
She said gravely, "It will come with more propriety from you; but I do think you are right." Then he knew that he had to do it himself.
"Very well, dear," he said. "How that girl is developing. It is time she had other company than John, but Lord! how I shall miss her--" "And I, James."
He went out for the walk he generally took before bed-time. She lingered, putting things in order on her work-table, wondering what Leila could have said to thus influence a man the village described as "set in his ways." She was curious to know, but not of a mind to question Leila. Before going to bed, she went to her own sitting-room on the left of the hall. It was sacred to domestic and church business. It held a few books and was secured by long custom from men's tobacco smoke. She sat down and wrote to her cousin, George Grey.
"DEAR GEORGE: If politics do not keep you, we shall look for you this month. There are colts to criticize and talk over, Leila is eager to see her unknown cousin before she goes to school near Baltimore this September.
"I believe this town will go for Buchanan, but I am not sure. James and I, as you know, never talk politics. I am distressed to believe as I do that he will vote for Fremont; that 'the great, the appalling issue,' as Mr. Buchanan says, 'is union or disunion' does not seem to affect him. I read Forney's paper, and James reads that wild abolition _Tribune_. It is very dreadful, and I am without any one I can talk to. My much loved rector is an extreme antislavery man.
"Yours always, ANN PENHALLOW.
"I am not at all sure of you. Be certain to let us know when to expect you. You know you are--well, I leave your social conscience to say what.
"Yours sincerely, ANN PENHALLOW."
At breakfast Ann Penhallow sat down to the coffee-urn distributing cheerful good-mornings. The Squire murmured absently over his napkin, "May the Lord make us thankful for this and all the blessings of life." He occasionally varied his grace, and sometimes to Ann's amazement. Why should he ask to be made thankful, she reflected. These occasional slips and variations on the simple phrase of gratitude she had come to recognize as signs of preoccupation, and now glanced at her husband, anxious always when he was concerned. Then, as he turned to John, she understood that between his trained belief in the usefulness of inexorable discipline and an almost womanly tenderness of affection the heart had somehow won. She knew him well and at times read with ease the signs of distress and annoyance or resolute decision. Usually he was gay and merry at breakfast, chaffing the children and eating with the appetite of a man who was using and renewing his tissues in a wholesome way. Now he was silent, absent, and ate little. He was the victim of a combination of annoyances. Had he been wise to commit himself to a reversal of his sentence? Other and more important matters troubled him, but as usual where bothers come in battalions it is the lesser skirmishers who are felt for the moment.
"I see in the hall, Ann," he said, "a letter for George Grey--I will mail it. When does he come?"
"I do not know."
"John," he said, "you will oblige me by riding to the mill and asking Dr. McGregor to come to Westways and see old Josiah. Of course, he will charge it to me." The Squire was a little ashamed of this indirect confession of retreat.
John looked up, hesitated a moment, and said, "What horse, sir?"
"Dixy, of course."
"Another cup, James," said Mrs. Ann tranquilly amused.
John rose, went around the table to his uncle, and said in his finest manner, "I am greatly obliged, sir."
"Oh, nonsense! He's rather fresh, take care."
Then Leila said, "It's very hot, Uncle Jim."
"You small fiend," said Penhallow. "Hot! On your way, John, tell those rascals at Westways they may use the pond." The faint smile on Ann Penhallow's face somehow set the whole business in an agreeably humorous light. The Squire broke into the relief of laughter and rose saying, "Get out of this, all of you, if you want to keep your scalps."
John went to the stable not quite pleased. He had felt that his punishment for a boy-frolic and the unexpected results of Billy's alarm had been pretty large. His aunt had not said so to him, but had made it clear to her husband that the penalty was quite disproportioned to the size of the offence; a remark which had made him the more resolute not to disturb the course of justice; and now this chit of a girl had made him seem like an irresolute fool, and he would have to explain to Rivers, who would laugh. As he went out of the hall-door, he felt a pretty rough little paw in his hand and heard a whisper. "You're just the dearest thing ever was."
Concerning John Penhallow, it is to be said that he did not understand why he was let off so easily. He had a suspicion that Leila was somehow concerned, and also the feeling that he would rather have suffered to the end. However, it would be rather good fun to announce this swimming-permit to the boys.
Seeing from his shop door John riding down the avenue, Josiah came limping across the road. He leaned on the gate facing the boy and looking over the horse and rider with the pleasure of one who, as the Squire liked to say, knew when horse-flesh and man-flesh were suitably matched.
"Girth's a bit slack, Master John. Always look it over, sir, before you mount."
"Thanks, Josiah. Open the gate, please. How lame you are. I am to send the doctor to look after you and Peter Lamb."
The big black man opened the gate and adjusted the girth. "That's right now. I've got the worst rheumatics I ever did have. Peter Lamb's sick too. That's apple-whisky. The Squire's mighty patient with that man, because his mother nursed the Squire when he was a baby. They're near of an age, but you wouldn't think it to look at Peter and the Captain; whisky does hurry up Old Time a lot." And so John got the town gossip. "I ain't no faith in doctorin' rheumatics; wouldn't have him now if I hadn't lost my old buck-eye. My rabbit-foot's turned grey this week. That's a sign of trouble."
John laughed and rode from the gate on which Leila had invited him to indulge in the luxury of swinging. It seemed years ago since she had sung to his astonishment the lyric of the gate. She appeared to him now not much older. And how completely he felt at home. He rode along the old pike through Westways, nodding to Mrs. Lamb, the mother of the scamp whom the Squire was every now and then saving from the consequences of the combination of a revengeful nature and bad whisky. Then Billy hailed John with malicious simplicity.
"Halloa! --John--can't swim--can't swim--ho, ho!"
The butcher's small boy was loading meat on a cart. John stayed to say a word to him, pleased to have the chance, as the boy grinned at Billy's mocking malice. "Halloa! Pole," he called. "My uncle says we fellows may swim. Tell the other fellows."
"Gosh! but that's good--John. I'll tell 'em."
John rode on and fell to thinking of Leila, with some humiliating suspicion in regard to her share in the Squire's change of mind; or was it Aunt Ann's influence? And why did he himself not altogether like it? Why should his aunt and Leila interfere? He wished they had let the matter alone. What had a girl to do with it? He was again conscious that he felt of a sudden older than Leila, and did not fully realize that in the race of life he had gone swiftly past her during these few months, and that in the next year she in turn would sweep past him in the developmental changes of life. Now she seemed to him more timid, more childlike than usual; but long thinkings are not of the psychic habits of normal youth, and Dixy recovered his attention.
He satisfied the well-bred horse, who of late had been losing his temper in the society of a rough groom, ignorant of the necessity for good manners with horses. Neither strange noises nor machines disturbed Dixy as John rode through the busy iron-mills to the door of a small brick house, so well known that no sign announced it as the home of the only medical man available at the mills or in Westways. John tied Dixy to the hitching-post, gnawed by the doctor's horse during long hours of waiting on an unpunctual man.
The doors were open, and as John entered he was aware of an odour of drugs and saw Dr. McGregor sound asleep in an armchair, a red silk handkerchief over his bald head, and a swarm of disappointed flies hovering above him. In the back room the clink and rattle of a pestle and mortar ceased as Tom appeared.
John, in high good-humour, said, "Good afternoon, Tom. My uncle has let up on the swimming. He asked me to let you fellows know."
"It's about time," said Tom crossly. "After all it was your fault and we had to pay for it."
"Now, Tom, you made me pretty angry when you talked to me the other day, and if you want to get me into another row, I won't object; but I was not asked for any names, and I did not put the blame on any one. Can't you believe a fellow?"
"No, I can't. If that parson hadn't come, I'd have licked you."
"Perhaps," said John.
"Isn't any perhaps about it. You look out, that's all."
John laughed. He was just now what the Squire described as horse-happy and indisposed to quarrel. "Suppose you wake up the old gentleman. He _can_ snore."
Tom shook the doctor's shoulder, "Wake up, Dad. Here's John Penhallow."
The Doctor sat up and pulled off his handkerchief. The flies fell upon his bald pate. "Darn the flies," he said. "What is it, John?"
"My uncle wants you to come to Westways to-morrow and doctor old Josiah's rheumatism."
"I'll come."
"He wants you to look after Peter Lamb. He's been drinking again."
"What! that whisky-rotted scamp. It's pure waste of time. How the same milk came to feed the Squire and that beast the Lord knows. He has no more morals than a tom-cat. I'll come, but it's waste of good doctoring." Here he turned his rising temper on Tom. "You and my boy have been having a fight. You licked him and saved me the trouble. I heard from Mr. Rivers what Tom said."
"It was no one's business but Tom's and mine," returned John much amused to know that the peaceful rector must have watched the fight and overheard what caused it. Tom scowled, and the peacemaking old doctor got up, adding, "Be more gentle with Tom next time."
Tom knew better than to reply and went back to pill-making furious and humiliated.
"Good-bye, John," said the Doctor. "I'll see the Squire after I have doctored that whisky sponge." Then John rode home on Dixy.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
7
|
None
|
Before the period of which I write, the county and town had unfailingly voted the Democratic ticket. But for half a decade the unrest of the cities reflected in the journals had been disturbing the minds of country communities in the Middle States. In the rural districts of Pennsylvania there had been very little actively hostile sentiment about slavery, but the never ending disputes over Kansas had at last begun to weaken party ties, and more and more to direct opinion on to the originating cause of trouble.
The small voting population of Westways had begun to suspect of late that James Penhallow's unwillingness to discuss politics meant some change in his fidelity to the party of which Buchanan was the candidate. What Mrs. Ann felt she had rather freely allowed to be known. The little groups which were apt to gather about the grocer's barrels at evening discussed the grave question of the day with an interest no previous presidential canvass had caused, and this side eddy of quiet village life was now agreeably disturbed by the great currents of national politics. Westways began to take itself seriously, as little towns will at times, and to ask how this man or that would vote at the coming election in November. The old farmers who from his youth still called the Squire "James" were Democrats. Swallow, the only lawyer the town possessed, was silent, which was felt as remarkable in a man who usually talked much more than occasion demanded and wore a habit-mask of good-fellowship, which had served to deceive many a blunt old farmer, but not James Penhallow.
At Grey Pine there was a sense of tension. Penhallow was a man slow in thinking out conclusions, but in times demanding action swiftly decisive. He had at last settled in his mind that he must leave his party and follow a leader he had known in the army and never entirely trusted. Whether he should take an active share in the politics of the county troubled him, as he had told Rivers. He must, of course, tell his wife how he had resolved to vote. To speak here and there at meetings, to throw himself into the contest, was quite another matter. His wife would feel deeply grieved. Between the two influential feelings the resolution of forces, as he put it to himself with a sad smile, decided him to hold his tongue so far as the outer world was concerned, to vote for the principles unfortunately represented by Fremont, but to have one frank talk with Ann Penhallow. There was no need to do this as yet, and he smiled again at the thought that Mrs. Ann was, as he pretty well knew, playing the game of politics at Westways. He might stop her. He could ask her to hold her hand, but to let her continue on her way and to openly make war against her, that he could not do. It did not matter much as the State in any case would go for Buchanan. He hesitated, and had better have been plain with her. She knew that he had been long in doubt, but did not as yet suspect how complete was his desertion of opinions she held to as she did to her religious creed. He found relief in his decision, and too in freedom of talk with Rivers, who looked upon slavery as simply wicked and had no charity for the section so little responsible for an inherited curse they were now driven by opponent criticism to consider a blessing for all concerned.
John too was asking questions and beginning now and then to wonder more and more that what Westways discussed should never be mentioned at Grey Pine. He rode Dixy early in the mornings with Leila at his side, fished or swam in the afternoons, and so the days ran on. On September 30th, Ann was to take Leila to the school in Maryland. Three days before this terrible exile was to begin, as they turned in at the gate of the stable-yard, Leila said, "I have only three days. I want to go and see the Indian graves and the spring, and all the dear places I feel as if I shall never see again."
"What nonsense, Leila. What do you mean?"
"Oh, Aunt Ann says I will be so changed in a year, I won't know myself."
"You mean, you won't see things then as they are seen now."
"Yes, that's what I wanted to say, but you always know how to find the right words."
"Perhaps," he said. "Things never look just the same tomorrow, but they may look--well, nicer--or--I can't always find the right word. Suppose we walk to the graves after lunch and have a good talk." It was so agreed.
They were never quite free from the chance of being sent on errands, and as Aunt Ann showed signs they well knew, they slipped away quietly and were gone before the ever-busy lady had ready a basket of contributions to the comfort of a sick woman in the village. They crossed the garden and were lost to view in the woods before Leila spoke. "We just did it. Billy will have to go." They laughed merrily at their escape.
"Just think, John, how long it is since you came. It seems years. Oh, you _were_ a queer boy! I just hated you."
"I do suppose, Leila, I must have looked odd with that funny cap and the cane--" "And the way you looked when I told you about swinging on the gate. I hadn't done that for--oh, two years. What did you think of me?"
"I thought you were very rude, and then--oh, Leila! when you came up out of the drift--" He hesitated.
"Oh, go on; I don't mind--not now."
"I thought you beautiful with all that splendid hair on the snow."
"Oh, John! How silly!" Whether or not she was unusually good to look at had hardly ever before occurred to her. She flushed slightly, pleased and wondering, with a new seed of gentle vanity planted in her simple nature, a child on the threshold of the womanly inheritance of maidenhood.
Then he said gravely, "It is wonderful to me how we have changed. I shall miss you. To think you are the only girl I ever played with, and now when you come back at Christmas--" "I am not to come back then, John. I am to stay with my uncles in Baltimore and not come home until next June."
"You will be a young lady in long skirts and your hair tucked up. It's dreadful."
"Can't be helped, John. You will look after Lucy, and write to me."
"And you will write to me, Leila?"
"If I may. Aunt says they are very strict. But I shall write to Aunt Ann, of course."
"That won't be the same."
"No."
They walked on in silence for a little while, the girl gazing idly at the tall trees, the lad feeling strangely aware, freshly aware, as they moved, of the great blue eyes and of the sun-shafts falling on the abundant hair she swept back from time to time with a careless hand. Presently she stood still, and sat down without a word on the moss-cushioned trunk of a great spruce, fallen perhaps a century ago. She was passing through momentary moods of depression or of pleasure as she thought of change and travel, or nourishing little jealous desires that her serious-minded cousin should miss her.
The cousin turned back. "You might have invited me to sit down, Miss Grey." He laughed, and then as he fell on the brown pine-needles at her feet and looked up, he saw that her usual quick response to his challenge of mirth was wanting.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Oh, about Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim, and--and--Lucy, and who will ride her--" "You can trust Uncle Jim about Lucy."
"I suppose so," said the girl rather dolefully and too near to the tears she had been sternly taught to suppress.
"Isn't it queer," he said, "how people think about the same things? I was just going to speak of Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim. Uncle Jim often talks to me and to Mr. Rivers about the election, but if I say a word or ask a question at table, Aunt Ann says, 'we don't talk politics.'"
"But once, John, I heard Mr. Rivers say that slavery was a curse and wicked. Uncle Jim, he said Aunt Ann's people held slaves, and he didn't want to talk about it. I couldn't hear the rest. I told you once about this."
"How you hear things, Leila. Prince Fine Ear was a trifle to you."
"Who was Prince Fine Ear?" she asked.
"Oh, he was the fairy prince who could hear the grass grow and the roses talk. It's a pretty French fairy tale."
"What a gabble there must be in the garden, John."
"It doesn't need Prince Fine Ear to hear. Don't these big pines talk to you sometimes, and the wind in the pines--the winds--?"
"No, they don't, but Lucy does."
Something like a feeling of disappointment faintly disturbed the play of his fancies. "Let us go to the graves."
"Yes, all right, come."
They got no further than the cabin and again sat down near by, Leila carelessly gathering the early golden-rod in her lap as they sat leaning against the cabin logs.
"This is our last walk," she said, arranging the golden plumes. "There is a white golden-rod; find me another, John."
He went away to the back of the cabin and returning threw in her lap a half dozen. "Old Josiah says the blacks in the South think it is good luck to find the first white golden-rod. Then, he says, you must have a luck-wish. What shall it be? Come--quick now."
"Oh, I--don't know. Yes, I wish to have Lucy at that terrible boarding-school."
John laughed. "Oh, Leila, is that the best you can do?"
"Yes, wish a wish for me, if mine doesn't suit."
Then he said, "I wish the school had small-pox and you had to stay at Grey Pine."
"I didn't think you'd care as much as that. Aren't these flowers beautiful? Wish me a real wish."
"Then, I wish that when we grow up you would marry me."
"Well, John, you are a silly." She took on an air of authoritative reprimand. "Why, John, you are only a boy, but you ought to know better than to talk such nonsense."
"And you," he said, "are just a little girl."
"Oh, I'm not so very little," returned Miss Grey.
"When I'm older, I shall ask you again; and if you say no, I'll ask again--and--until--" "What nonsense, John. Let's go home."
He rose flushed and troubled, and said, "Are you vexed, Leila?"
"No, of course not; but it was foolish of you."
He made no reply, in fact hardly heard her. He was for the moment older in some ways than his years. What had strangely moved him disturbed Leila not at all. She talked on lightly, laughing at times, and was answered briefly; for although he had no desire to speak, the unfailing courteous ways of his foreign education forced him to disregard his desire to say. "Oh, do let me alone; you don't understand." He hardly understood himself or the impulsive stir of emotion--a signal of coming manhood. Annoyed by his unwillingness to talk, she too fell to silence, and they walked homeward.
During the time left to them there was much to do in the way of visits to the older village people and some of the farmer families who had been here on the soil nearly as long as the Penhallows. There were no other neighbours near enough for country intercourse, and the life at Grey Pine offered few attractions to friends or relatives from the cities unless they liked to tramp with the Squire in search of game. The life was, therefore, lonely and would for some women have been unendurable; but as the Baptist preacher said to Rivers, "Duties are enough to satisfy Mrs. Penhallow, and I do guess she enjoys her own goodness like the angels must do."
Mark Rivers answered, "That is pretty nearly true, but I wish she would not invent duties which don't belong to women."
"About the election, you mean?"
"Yes. It troubles me, and I am sure it troubles the Squire. What about yourself, Grace?" and a singularly sad smile went with the query and a side glance at his friend's face. He had been uneasy about him since Grace had bent a little in the House of Rimmon.
"Oh, Rivers, the roof has got to leak. I have kept away from Mrs. Penhallow. I can't accept her help and then preach against her party, and--I mean to do it. I've wrestled with this little sin and--I don't say I wasn't tempted--I was. Now I am clear. We Baptists can stand what water leaks down on us from Heaven."
"You mean to preach politics, Grace?"
"Yes, that's what I mean to do. Oh! here comes Mrs. Penhallow."
They had met in front of Josiah's shop. As Mrs. Penhallow approached, Mr. Grace discovering a suddenly remembered engagement hurried away, and Rivers went with her along the rough sidewalk of Westways.
"I go away to-morrow with Leila," she said, "and Mr. Penhallow goes to Pittsburgh. We shall leave John to you for at least a week. He will give you no trouble. He has quite lost his foreign boyish ways, and don't you think he is like my husband?"
"He is in some ways very like the Squire."
"Yes, in some things--I so rarely leave home that this journey to Baltimore with Leila seems to me like foreign travel."
"Does Leila like it?"
"No, but it is time she was thrown among girls. She is less than she was a mere wild boy. It is strange, Mark, that ever since John came she has been less of a hoyden--and more of a simple girl."
"It is," he said, "a fine young nature in a strong body. She has the promise of beauty--whatever that may be worth."
"Worth! It is worth a great deal," said Mrs. Ann. "It helps. The moral value of beauty! Ah, Mark Rivers, I should like to discuss that with you. She is at the ugly duck age. Now I must go home. I want you to look after some things while I am away, and Mr. Penhallow is troubled about his pet scamp, Lamb."
She went on with her details of what he was to do, until he said laughing, "Please to put it on paper."
"I will. Not to leave John quite alone, I have arranged for you to dine with him, and I suppose he will go to you in the mornings for his lessons as usual."
"Oh, yes, of course. I enjoy these fellows, but the able ones are John and Tom McGregor. Tom is in the rough as yet, but he will come out all right. I shall lose him in a year. He is over seventeen and is to study medicine. But what about Lamb?"
"I am wicked enough to wish he were really ill. It is only the usual drunken bout, but he is a sort of Frankenstein to the Squire because of that absurd foster-brother feeling. He is still in bed, I presume."
"As you ask it," said Rivers, "I will see him, but if he belongs to any flock, he is a black sheep of Grace's fold. Anything else, Mrs. Penhallow?" he asked smiling--"but don't trust my memory."
"If I think of anything more, I shall make a note of it and, of course, you will see us at the station--the ten o'clock train--and give me a list of the books you wanted. I may find them in Philadelphia."
"Thank you."
"Oh," she said, turning back, "I forgot. My cousin, George Grey, is coming, but he is so uncertain that he may come as he advises me in ten days, or as is quite possible to-morrow, or not at all."
"Very good. If he comes, we will try to make Grey Pine agreeable."
"That is really all, Mark, I think," and the little lady went away, with a pleasant word for the long familiar people as she went by.
In the afternoon Leila saw the Squire ride to the mills with John, and went herself to the stable for a last mournful interview with Lucy. It was as well that her aunt with unconscious good sense kept her busy until dinner-time. The girl was near to accepting the relieving bribe of unrestrained tears, being sad and at the age of those internal conflicts which at the time of incomplete formation of character are apt to trouble the more sensitive sex. A good hard gallop would have cured her anticipative homesickness, for it must be a very black care indeed that keeps its seat behind the rider.
The next morning the rector and John were at the station of Westways Crossroads when the Grey Pine carriage drove up. Mrs. Ann and Leila were a half hour too early, as was Mrs. Penhallow's habit. Billy was on the cart with the baggage, grinning as usual and full of self-importance.
"Well, Billy," said Leila, talking to every one to conceal her child-grief at this parting with the joyous activities of her energetic young life. "Well, Billy, it's good-bye for a year."
"Won't have no more fun, Miss Leila--and nobody to snowball Billy, this winter."
"No, not this winter."
"Found another ground-hog yesterday. I'll let her alone till you come back."
John laughed. "Miss Leila will have long skirts and--hoops, Billy. There will be no more coasting and no more snowballing or digging up ground-hogs."
"Hoops--what for?" said Billy. John laughed.
"Please don't, John," she said, "it's too dreadful. Oh! I hear the whistle."
"Mark," said Mrs. Ann, "if George Grey comes--James, did you leave the wine-closet key?"
"Yes, my dear."
He turned to Leila, and kissing her said, "A year is soon over. Be a good girl, my child. It is about as bad for me as for you. God bless you. There, get on, Ann. Yes, the trunks are all right. Good-bye."
He stood a moment with John looking after the vanishing train. Then, he said, "No need to stay here with me, Mark," and the rector understanding him left him waiting for the westbound train and walked home across the fields with John Penhallow.
John was long silent, but at last said, "It will be pretty lonesome without Leila."
"Nice word, lonesome, John. Old English, I believe--has had its adventures like some other words. Lonely doesn't express as well the idea of being alone and sorrowful. We must do our best for your uncle and aunt. Your turn to leave us will come, and then Leila will be lonesome."
"I don't think she will care as much."
Rivers glanced at the strong young face. "Why do you say that?"
"I don't know, Mr. Rivers. I--she is more of a child than I am."
"That hardly answers my question. But I must leave you. I am going to see that scamp misnamed Lamb. See you at dinner. Don't cultivate lonesomeness, John. No one is ever really alone."
Leaving his pupil to consider what John thought rather too much of an enigma, the young clergyman took to the dusty highway which led to Westways. John watched the tall figure awkwardly climbing a snake fence, and keeping in mind for explanation the clergyman's last remark he went away through the woods.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
8
|
None
|
Penhallow had gravely told John that in his absence he must look after the stables and the farm, so that now he had for the first time in his life responsibilities. The horses and the stables were to be looked over every day. Of course, too, he must ride to the Squire's farm, which was two miles away, and which was considered a model of all that a farm should be. The crop yield to the acre was most satisfactory, but when some one of the old Quaker farmers, whose apple-orchards the Squire had plundered when young, walked over it and asked, "Well, James, how much did thee clear this last year?" the owner would honestly confess that Mrs. Ann's kitchen-garden paid better; but then she gave away what the house did not use.
Very many years before slavery had become by tacit consent avoided as a subject for discussion, Mrs. Ann critical of what his farm cost, being herself country-bred, had said that if it were worked with Maryland blacks it would pay and pay well.
"You mean, dear, that if I owned the labour, it would pay."
"Yes," she returned gaily, "and with me for your farmeress."
"You are, you are!" he laughed, "and you have cultivated me. I am well broken to your satisfaction, I trust; but to me, Ann, the unpaid labour of the slave seems impossible."
"Oh, James, it is not only possible, but right for us who know what for all concerned is best."
"Well, well," he laughed, "the vegetable garden seems to be run at a profit without them--ah! Ann, how about that?"
The talk was, as they both knew, more serious than it would have seemed to any one who might have chanced to be present. The tact born of perfect love has the certainty of instinct, and to be sensitive even to tenderness in regard to the prejudices or the fixed opinions of another does much to insure happiness both in friendship and in love. Here with these two people was a radical difference of belief concerning what was to be more and more a hard subject as the differences of sentiment North and South became sharply defined. Westways and the mills understood her, and what were her political beliefs, but not the laughingly guarded silence of the much loved and usually outspoken Squire, who now and then relieved his mind by talking political history to John or Rivers.
The stables and farm were seriously inspected and opinions expressed concerning colts and horses to the amusement of the grooms. He presided in Penhallow's place at table with some sense of newly acquired importance, and on the fourth day of his uncle's absence, at Mark Rivers's request, asked Mr. Grace to join them. The good Baptist was the more pleased to come in the absence of Mrs. Penhallow, who liking neither his creed nor his manners, respected the goodness of a life of self-denial, which, as his friend Rivers knew, really left him with hardly enough to keep his preaching soul alive.
"Grace is late, as usual," said Rivers to John. "He has, I believe, no acquaintance with minutes and no more conception of time than the angels. Ah! I see him. His table-manners really distress your aunt; but manners are--well, we will leave that to another time. Good evening, Grace."
"Glad to see you, sir," said John.
On a word from Rivers, the guest offered thanks, which somewhat amazed John by its elaborate repetitions.
The stout little preacher, carefully tucking his napkin between his paper shirt-collar and his neck, addressed himself to material illustration of his thankfulness, while the rector observed with a pitiful interest the obvious animal satisfaction of the man. John with more amusement saw the silver fork used for a time and at last abandoned for use of the knife. Unconsciously happier for an unusually good dinner, Grace accepted a tumbler of the Penhallow cider, remarking, "I never take spirits, Rivers, but I suppose cider to be a quite innocent beverage."
Rivers smiled. "It will do you no harm."
"It occurs to me, Rivers," said Grace, "that although wine is mentioned in the Bible, cider is not. There is no warning against its use."
It also occurred to Rivers that there was none against applejack. "Quite right," he said. "You make me think of that scamp, Lamb. McGregor tells me that he is very ill."
"A pity he wouldn't die," remarked the young host, who had indiscreetly taken two full tumblers of old hard cider before Rivers had noticed his unaccustomed use of this rather potent drink.
"You should not desire the death of any man, John," said Grace, "least of all the death of a sinner like Lamb."
"Really," said John with the dignity of just a trifle too much cider, "my phrase did not admit of your construction."
"No," laughed Rivers, seeing it well to intervene, "and yet to say it is a pity may be a kindly wish and leaves it open to charitable interpretation."
"He is quite unprepared to die," insisted Grace, with the clerical intonation which Rivers disliked.
"How do you know that?" asked Rivers.
"I know," said John confidently. "He told me he was a born thief and loved to lie. He was pretty drunk at the time."
"That is too nearly true to be pleasant," remarked Rivers, "'_in vino veritas_.' The man is a very strange nature. I think he never forgives a benefit. I sometimes think he has no sense of the difference between right and wrong--an unmoral nature, beyond your preaching or mine, Grace, even if he ever gave us a chance."
"I think he is a cruel beast," said John. "I saw him once--" Rivers interrupted him saying, as he rose, "Suppose we smoke."
With unconscious imitation of the courteous Squire he represented, John said, "We will smoke in the library if you have had enough wine."
Rivers said, "Certainly, Squire," not altogether amused as John, a little embarrassed, said quickly, "I should have said cider."
"Of course, we have had no wine, quite a natural mistake," remarked Grace, which the representative squire felt to be a very disagreeable comment.
"You will find cigars and pipes on the table," said the rector, "and I will join you in a moment." So saying he detained John by a hand on his arm and led him aside as they crossed the hall.
"You are feeling that old hard cider, my boy. You had better go to bed. I should have warned you."
"Yes, sir--I--did not--I mean--I--" "_C'est une diablesse_--a little devil. There are others, and worse ones, John. Good-night."
On the stairs the young fellow felt a deepening sense of humiliation and surprise as he became aware of the value of the banister-rail.
Rivers went into the library blaming his want of care, and a little sorry for the lad's evident distress. "What, not smoking, Grace?"
"No, I have given it up."
"But, why?"
"Well, I can't smoke cheap strong tobacco, and I can't afford better stuff."
"Then, be at ease, my friend. The Squire has sent me a large supply. I am to divide with you," which was as near to a fib as the young clergyman ever got in his blameless life.
"I shall thank him," returned Grace simply, "and return to my pipe, but I do sometimes think it is too weak an indulgence of a slavish habit."
"Hardly worth while to thank Penhallow; he will have forgotten all about it."
"But I shall not."
They smoked and talked politics, and the village and their work, until at last, after one of the pipe-filling pauses, Grace said, "I ought not to have taken that cider, but it singularly refreshed me. You did not partake."
"No, it disagrees with me."
"I feel it, Brother Rivers. I feel it slightly, and--I--a man who preaches temperance, total abstinence--" "My dear Grace, that is not temperance. There may be intemperance in the way a man puts his opinions before others--a man may hurt his own cause--" Grace returned quickly, "You were in our church Wednesday night--I saw you. You think I was intemperate?"
"Frankly, yes. You were abusive. You are too well self-governed to understand the working-man's temptations. You preached from the heart as you felt, without the charity of the head."
"Perhaps--perhaps," he returned humbly; and then with a quite gentle retort, "Don't you sometimes preach too much from the head, Brother Rivers?"
"Yes, that may be the case. I am conscious sometimes that I lack your power of direct appeal--your personal application of the truth. I ought to preach the first half of the sermon--the appeal to the reason, the head part--and ask you to conclude with the heart share--the personal application of my cold logic."
"Let us try it," said Grace rising and much amused; "cold, Rivers! your cold logic! There is nothing cold in all your nature. Let us go home; we have had a good talk."
As they walked down the avenue Grace said, "What are you doing about Lamb? Is it really wise to talk to him?"
"Just now," said the rector, "he has acquired a temporary conscience in the shape of a congested stomach. I talked to him a little. He is penitent, or says he is, and as his mother is sometimes absent, I have set Billy to care for him; some one must. I have found that to keep Billy on a job you must give him a daily allowance of chewing tobacco; that answers."
"Bad company, Brother Rivers."
"Oh, there is no guile in Billy."
They parted at the Grey Pine gate. Rivers had innocently prepared remote mischief, which by no possible human foresight could he have anticipated. When, walking in the quiet of a lonely wood, a man sets his foot on a dead branch, the far end stirs another, and the motion so transmitted agitates a half dozen feet away the leaves of a group of ferns. The man stops and suspects some little woodland citizen as the cause of the unexplained movement; thus it is in the affairs of life. We do some innocent thing and are puzzled to explain how it brings about remote mischief.
Meanwhile an unendurable craving for drink beset the man Lamb, who was the prey of slowly lessening delusions. Guardian Billy chewed his daily supply of tobacco and sat at the window in the hot second-storey room feeding Lamb with brief phrases concerning what he saw on the street.
"Oh! there go Squire's horses for exercise; Joe's on Lucy."
"Damn Lucy! Do you go to mother's room--" "What for?"
"Oh, she keeps her money in it, and Mrs. Penhallow paid her in advance the day she left."
"Can't do it," said Billy, who had strict orders not to leave Lamb alone.
"Oh, just look in the top drawer. She keeps a bit of money rolled up in one of her stockings. That will get me a little whisky and you lots of tobacco."
"Can't do it," said Billy. "Want me to steal? Won't do it."
"Then I'll get even with you some day."
Billy laughed. "Why I could lick you--like Mr. John licked the doctor's son. Gosh! there goes Pole's wagon."
Lamb fell to thought of how to get that whisky. The ingenuity of the man who craves alcohol or morphia is sometimes surprising even to the most experienced doctor. The immorality of the means of attainment is never considered. If, as with Lamb, a lie or worse be needed, there is a certain satisfaction in having outwitted nurse and doctor.
On the day after the two clergymen had heard John's final opinion of Lamb, the bed-fast man received his daily visit from his spiritual physician, and the clergyman met at the house door the doctor of the body. "I suppose," said McGregor, "that you and I as concerns this infernal rascal are under orders from Penhallow and his wife. I at least have the satisfaction of being paid--" "Oh, I am paid, Doctor," the clergyman smiled.
"Of course, any one and every one who serves that very efficient and positive saint, Mrs. Penhallow, is paid. She's too terrifyingly good. It must be--well, inconvenient at times. Now she wants this animal looked after because of Mrs. Lamb; and the squire has some sort of absurd belief that because the same breasts that nursed him nursed our patient, he must befriend the fellow--and he does. Truth is, Rivers, that man's father was a sodden drunkard but, I am told, not otherwise bad. It's a pretty sure doom for the child. This man's body has damned his soul, and now the soul is paying it back in kind."
"The damnation will be settled elsewhere," said Rivers gravely. "You are pleading for him when you say he had a father who drank."
"Well, yes, yes. That is true, but I do confoundedly mistrust him. He never remembers a kindness and never forgets the smallest injury. But when Mrs. Penhallow puts a hand on your arm and you look at her, you just go and do what she wants done. Oh, me too! Let's get out of this unreasonable sun and see this fellow."
Billy was chasing blue-bottle flies on the window panes, and the patient in bed was lying still, flushed, with red eyes. He was slowly recovering from an attack of delirium tremens and reassembling his scattered wits.
"Well," said McGregor, "better, I see. Bugs gone?"
"Yes, sir; but if I had a little, just a nip of whisky to taper off on, I'd be all right."
"Not a drop, Peter."
"I'll die if I don't get it."
"Then die sober."
Peter made no reply. McGregor felt his pulse, made his usual careful examination, and said at last, "Now keep quiet, and in a few days you'll be well."
"For God's sake, give me whisky--a little. I'm so weak I can't stand up."
"No," said McGregor, "it will pass. Now I must go. A word with you, Mr. Rivers." When outside of the room he said, "We must trust Billy, I suppose?"
"Yes, there is no one else."
"That man is giving his whole mind to thinking how he can get whisky. He will lie, cheat, steal, do anything to get it."
"How can he? Neither Billy nor his old mother will help him. He will get well, Doctor, I suppose?"
"Yes, I told him he would. More's the pity. He is a permanent nuisance, up to any wickedness, a hopelessly ruined wild beast."
"Perhaps," said Rivers; "perhaps. Who can be sure of that?" He despaired of no one.
The sadly experienced doctor shook his head. "He will live to do much mischief. The good die young; you may be sure the wicked do not. In some ways the man's case has its droll side. Queer case! in some ways interesting."
"How is it interesting?" said Rivers.
"Oh, what he saw--his delusions when he was at his worst."
"What did he see?"
"Oh, bugs--snakes--the common symptoms, and at last the 'Wilmot Proviso.' Imagine it. He knew no more of that than of the physiology of the man in the moon. He described it as a 'plucked chicken.'"
"I suppose that was a wild contribution from the endless political talk of the town."
"Well, a 'plucked chicken' was not so bad. He saw also 'Bleeding Kansas.' A 'stuck pig' that was; and more--more, but I must go."
Rivers went back to the room. "Here is your tobacco, Billy, and wait downstairs; don't go away."
The big man turned over in bed as the clergyman entered. "Mr. Rivers. I'm bad. I might have died. Won't you pray for me?"
Rivers hesitated, and then fell on his knees at the bedside, his face in his hands. Peter lay still smiling, grimly attentive. As Rivers rose to his feet, Lamb said, "Couldn't I have just a little whisky? Doctors don't always know. I've been in this scrape before, and just a little liquor does help and it don't do any harm. I can't think, I'm so harried inside. I can't even pray, and I want to pray. Now, you will, sir, won't you?"
This mingling of low cunning, of childlike appeal and of hypocrisy, obviously suggested anything but the Christian charity of reply; what should he say? Putting aside angry comment, he fell back upon his one constant resource, What would Christ have said to this sinful man? He stood so long silent by the bed, which creaked as Lamb sat up, that the man's agony of morbid thirst caught from his silence a little hope, and he said, "Now you will, I know."
Rivers made no direct answer. Was it hopeless? He tried to read the face--the too thin straight nose, white between dusky red cheeks, the projecting lower lip, and the lip above it long, the eyes small, red, and eagerly attentive. This was not the time for reason. He said, "I should be your worst enemy, Peter. Every one has been good to you; over and over the Squire has saved you from jail. Mrs. Penhallow asked me to help you. Try to bear what your sin has brought on you, oh! do try. Pray God for help to bear it patiently."
"I'm in hell. What's the use of praying in hell? Get me whisky and I'll pray."
Rivers felt himself to be at the end of his resources, and that the enfeebled mind was incapable of response to any appeal to head or heart. "I will come again," he said. "Good-bye."
"Oh, damn everybody," muttered Peter.
Rivers went out and sent Billy up to take charge. Lamb was still sitting up in bed when Billy returned. The simple fellow poured out in brief sentences small bits of what he had seen at the street door.
"Oh, shut up," said Peter. "The doctor says I'll feel better if I'm shaved--ain't been shaved these three weeks. Doctor wants you to go and get Josiah to come and fix me up to-night. You tell him it's the doctor's orders. Don't you be gone long. I'm kind of lonely."
"All right," said Billy, in the cheerful way which made him a favourite despite his disinclination for steady work.
"Now, don't be gone long. I need a good shave, Billy."
"Guess you do--way you look you wouldn't fetch five cents at one of them rummage-sales. Ain't had but one in four years."
"Oh, get out, Billy." Once rid of his guard he tried in vain to stand up and fell back cursing.
The order from the doctor was to be obeyed. "Guess he's too shaky to shave himself," said Josiah. "I'll come about half-past eight."
As Josiah walked to the far end of the village, he thought in his simple way of his last three years. After much wandering and fear of being traced, he had been used at the stables by Penhallow. That he had been a slave was suspected, but that troubled no one in Westways. He had long felt at ease and safe. He lived alone, a man of some forty years, cooked for himself, and had in the county bank a small amount of carefully saved earnings. He had his likes and dislikes, but he had the prudently guarded tongue of servitude. Long before John Penhallow had understood better the tall black man's position and won the confidence of a friendly hour, he saw with his well-bred courtesy how pleased was the man to be called Mr. Josiah. It sounded queer, as Pole remarked, to call a runaway darkey Mister, but this in no way disturbed John. The friendly feeling for the black grew as they fished together in the summer afternoons, or trapped muskrats, or dug up hellbenders. The barber had one half-concealed dislike. The man he was now to shave he both feared and hated. "Couldn't tell you why, Master John. It's like the way Crocker's wife's 'feared of cats. They ain't never hurt her none."
"Well," he said, "here I am," and in unusual silence set about his work by dim candlelight. The patient was as silent. When Josiah had finished, he said no word of his fee, knowing it to be a hopeless debt.
"Guess you do look the better for a shave," he remarked, as he was about to leave. "I'll send up Billy." The uneasy guardian had seized on the chance to get a little relief.
"No, don't go," said Lamb. "I'm in a hell of thirst. I want you to get me some whisky. I'll pay you when I get work."
Josiah was prudent and had no will to oblige the drunkard nor any belief in future repayment. "Couldn't do that--doctor wouldn't like it."
"What, you won't do it?"
"No, I can't do it."
"If you don't, I'll tell what I know about you."
"What do you know?" The long lost terror returned--but what could he know?
"Oh, you ran away--I know all about it. You help me now and I'll keep quiet--you'd better."
A fierce desire rose in the mind of Josiah to kill the rascal, and then, by long habit prudent, he said, "I'll have to think about it." But what could this man know?
"Best to think damn quick, or you'll have your old master down on you. I give you till to-morrow morning early. Do you hear? It's just a nip of whisky I want."
"Yes, I hear--got to think about it." He went out into the night, a soul in fear. No one knew his former master's name. Then his very good intelligence resumed control. No one really knew--only John--and he very little. He put it aside, confident in the young fellow's discretion. Of course, the town suspected that he was a fugitive slave, but nobody cared or seemed to care. And yet, at times in his altogether prosperous happy years of freedom, when he read of the fugitive-slave act, and he read much, he had disturbing hours. He stood still a moment and crossed the road. The Episcopal church, which he punctually attended, was on Penhallow's land, and near by was the rectory where Mark lived with an old woman cook and some help from Mrs. Lamb. The night was warm, the windows were open, and the clergyman was seen writing. Josiah at the window spoke.
"Excuse me, sir, could I talk to you? I am in a heap of trouble."
"In trouble, Josiah? Come in, the front door is open."
As he entered the rector's study, Rivers said, "Sit down."
Something in the look of the man made him think of hunted animals. "No one else is in the house. What is it?" The black poured out his story.
"So then," said Rivers, "he lied to you about the doctor and threatened you with a lie. Why, Josiah, if he had known who was your master, he would have told you, and whether or not you ran away from slavery is none of his business. Mr. Penhallow believes you did, others suspect it, but no one cares. You are liked and you have the respect of the town. There would be trouble if any man tried to claim you."
"I'd like to tell you all about it, sir."
"No--no--on no account. Tell no one. Now go home. I will settle with that drunken liar."
"Thank you. May God bless--and thank you."
The clergyman sat in thought a while, and the more he considered the matter which he had made light of to the scared black, the less he liked it. He dismissed it for a time as a lie told to secure whisky, but the fear Josiah showed was something pitiful in this strong black giant. He knew Lamb well enough to feel sure that Josiah would now have in him an enemy who was sure in some way to get what he called "even" with the barber, and was a man known and spoken of in Westways as "real spiteful."
When next day Rivers entered the room where Lamb lay abed, he saw at once that he was better. He meant to make plain to a revengeful man that Josiah had friends and that the attempt to blackmail him would be dangerous. Lamb was sitting up in bed apparently relieved, and was reading a newspaper. The moment he spoke Rivers knew that he was a far more intelligent person than the man of yesterday.
Lamb said, "Billy, set a chair for Mr. Rivers. The heat's awful for October." Billy obeyed and stepped out glad to escape.
Rivers said, "No, I won't sit down. I have something to say to you, and I advise you to listen. You lied to Billy about the doctor yesterday, and you tried to frighten Josiah into getting you whisky--you lied to him."
Josiah had not returned, and now it was plain that he had told the clergyman of the threat. Lamb was quick to understand the situation, and the cleverness of his defence interested and for a moment half deceived the rector.
"Who says I lied? Maybe I did. I don't remember. It's just like a dream--I don't feel nowise accountable. If--I--abused Josiah, I'm sorry. He did shave me. Let me think--what was it scared Josiah?" He had the slight frown of a man pursuing a lost memory.
"It is hardly worth while, Peter, to go into the matter if you don't recall what you said." He realized that the defence was perfect. Its too ready arguments added to his disbelief in its truth.
Lamb was now enjoying the game. "Was Josiah really here, sir? But, of course, he was, for he shaved me. I do remember that. Won't you sit down, sir?"
"No, I must go. I am pleased to find you so much better."
"Thank you, sir. I don't want whisky now. I'll be fit for work in a week or so. I wonder what I did say to Josiah?"
This was a little too much for Rivers's patience. "Whatever you said had better never be said again or you will find yourself in very serious trouble with Mr. Penhallow."
"Why, Mr. Rivers, I know I drink, and then I'm not responsible, but how could I say to that poor old darkey what I don't mind I said yesterday?"
"Well, you may chance to remember," said Rivers; "at least I have done my duty in warning you."
"I'd like, sir," returned Lamb, leaning forward with his head bent and uplift of lids over watchful eyes--"Oh, I want you to know how much I thank you, sir, for all your kind--" "You may credit the Squire for that. Good-bye," and he went out.
Neither man had been in the least deceived, but the honours of the game were with the big man in the bed, which creaked under his weight as he fell back grinning in pleased self-approval. "Damn that black cuss," he muttered, "and the preacher too. I'll make them sorry."
At the outer doorstep Mark Rivers stood still and wiped the sweat from his forehead. There must be minutes in the life of the most spiritually minded clergyman when to bow a little in the Rimmon House of the gods of profane language would be a relief. He may have had the thought, for he smiled self-amused and remembered his friend Grace. Then he took himself to task, reflecting that he should have been more gently kind, and was there not some better mode of approaching this man? Was he not a spirit in prison, as St. Peter said? What right had he with his beliefs to despair of any human soul? Then he dismissed the matter and went home to his uncompleted sermon. He would have to tell the Squire; yes, that would be advisable.
The days at Grey Pine ran on in the routine of lessons, riding, and the pleasure for John of representing his uncle in the oversight of the young thoroughbred colts and the stables. Brief talks with Rivers of books and politics filled the after-dinner hour, and when he left John fell with eagerness on the newspapers of the day. His uncle's mail he forwarded to Pittsburgh, and heard from him that he would not return until mid-October. His aunt would be at home about the 8th, and Leila was now at her school. The boy felt the unaccustomed loneliness, and most of all the absence of Leila. One letter for his aunt lay on the hall table. It came too late to be sent on its way, nor had she asked to have letters forwarded.
Two days before her return was to be expected, when John came down dressed for dinner, he found Mr. Rivers standing with his back to a fire, which the evening coolness of October in the hills made desirable. The rector was smiling.
"Mr. George Grey came just after you went upstairs. It seems that he wrote to your aunt the letter on the table in the hall. As no one met him at Westways Crossing, he was caught in a shower and pretty well soaked before he got some one to bring him to Grey Pine. I think he feels rather neglected."
"Has he never been here before?" asked John, curious in regard to the guest who he thought, from hearing his aunt speak of him, must be a person of importance.
"No, not for a long while. He is only a second cousin of Mrs. Penhallow; but as all Greys are for her--well, _the_ Greys--we must do our best to make it pleasant for him until your aunt and uncle return."
"Of course," said John, with some faint feeling that it was needless to remind him, his uncle's representative, of his duties as the host. Rivers said, smiling, "It may not be easy to amuse Mr. Grey. I did not tell you that your aunt wrote me, she will not be here until the afternoon train on the 9th. Ah! here is Mr. Grey."
John was aware of a neatly built, slight man in middle life, clad in a suit of dark grey. He came down the stairs in a leisurely way. "Not much of a Grey!" thought Rivers, as he observed the clean-shaven face, which was sallow, or what the English once described as olivaster, the eyes small and dark, the hair black and so long as to darkly frame the thin-featured, clean-shaven refinement of a pleasant and now smiling face.
John went across the hall to receive him, saying, "I am John Penhallow, sir. I am sorry we did not know you were to be here to-day."
"It is all right--all right. Rather chilly ride. Less moisture outside and more inside would have been agreeable; in fact, would be at present, if I may take the liberty."
Seeing that the host did not understand him, Rivers said promptly, "I think, John, Mr. Grey is pleasantly reminding us that we should offer him some of your uncle's rye."
"Of course," said John, who had not had the dimmest idea what the Maryland gentleman meant.
Mr. Grey took the whisky slowly, remarking that he knew the brand, "Peach-flavoured, sir. Very good, does credit to Penhallow's taste. As Mr. Clay once remarked, the mellowing years, sir, have refined it."
"Dinner is ready," said John.
There was no necessity to entertain Mr. Grey. He talked at length, what James Penhallow later described as "grown-up prattle." Horses, the crops, and at length the proper methods of fining wine--a word of encouragement from Rivers set him off again. Meanwhile the dinner grew cold on his plate. At last, abruptly conscious of the lingering meal, Mr. Grey said, "This comes, sir, of being in too interesting society."
Was this mere quaint humour, thought Rivers; but when Grey added, "I should have said, sir, too interested company," he began to wonder at the self-absorption of what was evidently a provincial gentleman. At last, with "Your very good health!" he took freely of the captain's Madeira.
Rivers, who sipped a single glass slowly, was about to rise when to his amusement, using his uncle's phrase, John said, "My uncle thinks that Madeira and tobacco do not go well together; you may like to smoke in the library."
Grey remarked, "Quite right, as Henry Clay once said, 'There is nothing as melancholy as the old age of a dinner; who, sir, shall pronounce its epitaph?' That, sir, I call eloquence. No more wine, thank you." As he spoke, he drew a large Cabana from his waistcoat pocket and lighted it from one of the candles on the table.
Rivers remarked, "We will find it warmer in the library."
When the two men settled down to pipe or cigar at the library fire, John, who had felt the rôle of host rather difficult, was eager to get a look at the _Tribune_ which lay invitingly on the table, and presently caught the eye of Mr. Grey.
"I see you have the _Tribune_" he said. "A mischief-making paper--devilish. I presume Penhallow takes it to see what the other side has to say. Very wise, sir, that."
Rivers, unwilling to announce his friend's political opinions, said, smiling, "I must leave Mr. Penhallow to account for that wicked journal."
Grey sat up with something like the alert look of a suddenly awakened terrier on his thin face. "I presume the captain (he spoke of him usually as the captain) must be able to control a good many votes in the village and at the iron-works."
"I rather fancy," said Rivers, "that he has taken no active part in the coming election."
"Unnecessary, perhaps. It is, I suppose, like my own county. We haven't a dozen free-soil voters. 'Bleeding Kansas' is a dead issue with us. It is bled to death, politically dead, sir, and buried."
"Not here," said John imprudently. "Uncle James says Buchanan will carry the State by a small majority, but he may not carry this county."
"Then he should see to it," said Grey. "Elect Fremont, my boy, and the Union will go to pieces. Does the North suppose we will endure a sectional President? No, sir, it would mean secession--the death-knell of the Union. Sir, we may be driven to more practical arguments by the scurrilous speeches of the abolitionists. It is an attack on property, on the ownership of the inferior race by the supremely superior. That is the vital question."
He spoke with excitement and gesticulated as if at a political meeting. Mark Rivers, annoyed, felt a strong inclination to box John's ears. He took advantage of the pause to say, "Would you like a little more rye, Mr. Grey?"
"Why, yes, sir. I confess to being a trifle dry. But to resume our discussion--" "Pardon me. John, ask for the whisky."
To John this was interesting and astonishing. He had never heard talk as wild. The annoyance on Rivers's face was such as to be easily read by the least observant. Elsewhere Mr. Rivers would have had a ready answer, but as Grey sat still a little while enjoying his own eloquence, the fire and the whisky, Rivers's slight negative hint informed John that he was to hold his tongue.
As the clergyman turned to speak to Grey, the latter said, "I wish to add a word more, sir. You will find that the men at the South cling to State rights; if these do not preserve for me and others my property and the right, sir, to take my body-servant to Boston or Kansas, sure that he will be as secure as my--my--shirt-studs, State rights are of no practical use."
"You make it very plain," said Rivers, feeling at last that he must defend his own opinions. "I have myself a few words to say--but, is that all?"
"Not quite--not quite. I am of the belief that the wants of the Southern States should be considered, and the demand for their only possible labour considered. I would re-open the slave-trade. I may shock you, reverend sir, but that is my opinion."
"And, as I observe," said Rivers, "that also of some governors of States." He disliked being addressed as "reverend," and knew how Penhallow would smile when captained.
There was a brief silence, what Rivers used to call the punctuation value of the pipe. The Maryland gentleman was honestly clear in the statement of his political creed, and Rivers felt some need to be amiable and watchful of his own words in what he was longing to say. John listened, amazed. He had had his lesson in our history from two competent masters and was now intensely interested as he listened to the ultimate creed of the owner of men.
Grey had at last given up the cigar he had lighted over and over and let go out as often. He set down his empty glass, and said with perfect courtesy, "I may have been excessive in statement. I beg pardon for having spoken of, or rather hinted at, the need for a resort to arms. That is never a pleasant hint among gentlemen. I should like to hear how this awful problem presents itself to you, a clergyman of, sir, I am glad to know, my own church."
"Yes, that is always pleasant to hear," said Rivers. "There at least we are on common ground. I dislike these discussions, Mr. Grey, but I cannot leave you without a reply, although in this house (and he meant the hint to have its future usefulness) politics are rarely discussed."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Grey. "At home we talk little else. I do believe the watermelons and the pumpkins talk politics."
Rivers smiled. "I shall reply to you, of course. It will not be a full answer. I want to say that this present trouble is not a quarrel born within the memory of any living man. The colonial life began with colonial differences and aversions due to religion--Puritan, Quaker and Church of England, intercolonial tariffs and what not. For the planter-class we were mere traders; they for us were men too lightly presumed to live an idle life of gambling, sport and hard drinking--a life foreign to ours. The colonies were to one another like foreign countries. In the Revolution you may read clearly the effect of these opinions, when Washington expressed the wish that his officers would forget that they came from Connecticut or Virginia, and remember only they were Americans."
Grey said, "We did our share, sir."
"Yes, but all Washington's important generals were Northern men; but that is not to the point. Washington put down the whisky-tax revolt with small regard for State rights. The Constitution unhappily left those State rights in a condition to keep up old differences. That is clear, I regret to say. Then came the tariff and a new seed of dissension. Slavery and its growing claims added later mischief, but it was not the only cause of our troubles, nor is it to-day with us, although it is with you, the largest. We have tried compromises. They are of the history of our own time, familiar to all of us. Well, Mr. Grey, the question is shall we submit to the threat of division, a broken land and its consequences? --one moment and I have done. I am filled with gloom when I look forward. When nations differ, treaties or time, or what not, may settle disputes; too often war. But, Mr. Grey, never are radical, civil or religious differences settled without the sword, if I have read history aright. You see," and he smiled, "I could not let pass your hint without a word."
"If it comes to that--to war," said Grey, "we would win. In that belief lies the certainty I dread."
"Ah! sir, in that Southern belief lies the certainty I too dread. You think we live merely lives of commerce. You do not realise that there is with us a profound sentiment of affection for the Union. No people worth anything ever lived without the very human desire of national self-preservation. It has the force of a man's personal desire for self-preservation. Pardon me, I suppose that I have the habit of the sermon."
Grey replied, "You are very interesting, but I am tired. A little more rye, John. I must adjourn this discussion--we will talk again."
"Not if I can help it," laughed Rivers. "I ought to say that I shall vote the Republican ticket."
"I regret it--I deeply regret it. Oh! thanks, John." He drank the whisky and went upstairs to bed.
Rivers sat down. "This man is what I call a stateriot. I am or try to be that larger thing, a patriot. I did not say all, it was useless. Your uncle cares little--oh, too little--about slavery, and generally the North cares as little; but the antislavery men are active and say, as did Washington, that the Union of the States was or will be insecure until slavery comes to an end. It may be so, John; it is the constant seed of discord. I would say, let them go in peace, but that would be only to postpone war to a future day. I rarely talk about this matter. What made you start him? You ought to have held your tongue."
The young fellow smiled. "Yes, sir, I suppose so."
"However, we won't have it again if I can help it."
"It was very interesting."
"Quite too interesting, but will he try it on the Squire and your aunt? Now I am going home. I hate these talks. Don't sit up and read the _Tribune_."
"No, sir, and I will take Mr. Grey to ride to-morrow."
"Do, and send him home too tired to talk politics."
"I think if I put him on uncle's big John it will answer."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
9
|
None
|
While the two maids from Westways waited on the family at breakfast, the guest was pleased to express himself favourably in regard to the coffee and the corn bread. John being left alone in care of the guest after the meal proposed a visit to the stables. Mr. Grey preferred for a time the fire, and later would like to walk to the village. Somewhat relieved, John found for him the Baltimore paper, which Mrs. Penhallow read daily. Mr. Grey would not smoke, but before John went away remarked, "I perceive, my boy, no spittoon." He was chewing tobacco vigorously and using the fireplace for his frequent expectoration. John, a little embarrassed, thought of his Aunt Ann. The habit of chewing was strange to the boy's home experience. Certainly, Billy chewed, and others in the town, nor was it at that time uncommon at the North. He confided his difficulty to the groom, his boxing-master, who having in his room the needed utensil placed it beside the hall-fire, to Mr. Grey's satisfaction--a square tray of wood filled with sawdust.
"Not ornamental, but useful, John, in fact essential," said Mr. Grey, as John excused himself with the statement that he had to go to school. When he returned through the woods, about noon, to his relief he saw far down the avenue Mr. Grey and the gold-headed, tasselled cane he carried.
A little later Mr. Grey in the sun of a cool day early in October was walking along the village street in keen search of news of politics. He talked first to Pole, the butcher, who hearing that he was a cousin of Mrs. Penhallow assured him that the town would go solid for Buchanan. Then he met Billy, who was going a-fishing, having refused a wood-cutting job the rector offered.
"A nice fishing-rod that," said Grey.
Billy who was bird-witted and short of memory replied, "Mrs. Penhallow she gave me a dollar to pay pole-tax if I vote for--I guess it was Buchanan. I bought a nice fishing-pole."
Grey was much amused and agreeably instructed in regard to Mrs. Ann's sentiments, as he realized the simple fellow's mental condition. "A fishing-pole-tax--well--well--" and would tell John of his joke. "Any barber in this town?" he asked.
"Yes, there's Josiah," and Billy was no longer to be detained.
Mr. Grey mailed a letter, but the post-mistress would not talk politics and was busy. At last, wandering eastward, he came upon the only unoccupied person in Westways. Peter Lamb, slowly recovering strength, was seated on his mother's doorstep. His search for money had been defeated by the widow's caution, and the whisky craving was being felt anew.
"Good morning," said Grey. "You seem to be the only man here with nothing to do."
"Yes, sir. I've been sick, and am not quite fit to work. Sickness is hard on a working man, sir."
Grey, a kindly person, put his hand in his pocket, "Quite right, it is hard. How are the people here going to vote? I hope the good old ticket."
"Oh! Buchanan and Breckenridge, sir, except one or two and the darkey barber. He's a runaway--I guess. Been here these three or four years. Squire likes him because he's clever about breaking colts."
"Indeed!"
"He's a lazy nigger, sir; ought to be sent back where he belongs."
"What is his name? I suppose he can shave me."
"Calls himself Josiah," said Peter. "Mighty poor barber--cut my face last time he shaved me. You see, he's lost two fingers--makes him awkwarder."
"What! what!" said Grey, of a sudden reflecting, "two fingers--" "Know him?" said Lamb quickly.
"I--no--Do you suppose I know every runaway nigger?"
"Oh, of course not. Might I ask your name, sir?"
"I am a cousin of Mrs. Penhallow. My name is Grey." Peter became cautious and silent. "Here is a little help, my man, until you get work. Stick to the good old Party." He left two dollars in Lamb's eager hands.
Surprised at this unusual bounty, Peter said, "Thank you, sir. God bless you. It'll be a great help." It meant for the hapless drinker whisky, and he was quick to note the way in which Grey became interested in the man who had lost fingers.
Grey lingered. "I must risk your barber's awkwardness," he said.
"Oh, he can shave pretty well when he's sober. He's our only darkey, sir. You can't miss him. I might show you his shop." This Grey declined.
"I suppose, sir," said Peter, curious, "all darkies look so much alike that it is hard to tell them apart."
"Oh, not for us--not for us."
Then Peter was still more sure that the gentleman with the gold-headed cane was from the South. As Grey lingered thoughtful, Lamb was maliciously inspired by the size of Grey's donation and the prospect it offered. He studied the face of the Southern gentleman and ventured to say, "Excuse me, sir, but if you want to get that man back--" "I want him! Good gracious! I did not own him. My inquiries were, I might say, casual, purely casual."
Lamb, thanks to the Penhallows, had had some education at the school for the mill children, but what was meant by "purely casual" he did not know. If it implied lack of interest, that was not the case, or why the questions and this gift, large for Westways. But if the gentleman did not own Josiah's years of lost labour, some one else did, and who was it?
As Grey turned away, he said, "I may see you again. I am with my cousin at Grey Pine. By the bye, how will the county vote?"
Peter assured him that the Democratic Party would carry the county. "I am glad," said Grey, "that the people, the real backbone of the country, desire to do justice to the South." He felt himself on the way to another exposition of constitutional rights, but realising that it was unwise checked the outflow of eloquence. He could not, however, refrain from adding, "Your people then are a law-abiding community."
"Yes, sir," said the lover of law, "we are just that, and good sound Democrats."
Grey, curious and mildly interested, determined to be reassured in regard to this black barber's former status. He walked slowly by Josiah's shop followed at a distance by Peter. The barber was shaving Mr. Pole, and intent on his task. Grey caught sight of the black's face. One look was enough--it was familiar--unmistakable. In place of going in to be shaved he turned away and quickened his steps. Peter grinned and went home. "The darn nigger horse-thief," murmured Grey. "I'll write to Woodburn." Then he concluded that first it would be well without committing himself to know more surely how far this Democratic community would go in support of the fugitive-slave law. He applauded his cautiousness.
A moment later Pole, well shaven, overtook him. Grey stopped him, chatted as they went on, and at last asked if there was in Westways a good Democratic lawyer. Pole was confident that Mr. Swallow would be all that he could desire, and pointed out his house.
Meanwhile Peter Lamb began to suspect that there was mischief brewing for the man who had brought down on him the anger of Mark Rivers, and like enough worse things as soon as Penhallow came home.
As Pole turned into his shop-door, Mr. Grey went westward in deep thought. He was sure of the barber's identity. If Josiah had been his own property, he would with no hesitation have taken the steps needful to reclaim the fugitive, but it was Mr. Woodburn who had lost Josiah's years of service and it was desirable not hastily to commit his friend. He knew with what trouble the fugitive-slave law had been obeyed or not obeyed at the North. He was not aware that men who cared little about slavery were indignant at a law which set aside every safeguard with which the growth of civilization had surrounded the trial of even the worst criminal. As he considered the situation, he walked more and more slowly until he paused in front of Swallow's house. Every one had assured him that since General Jackson's time the town and county had changelessly voted the good old Democratic ticket. Here at least the rights of property would be respected, and there would be no lawless city mobs to make the restoration of a slave difficult. The brick house and ill-kept garden before which he paused looked unattractive. Beside the house a one-storey wooden office bore the name "Henry W. Swallow, Attorney-at-law." There was neither bell nor knocker. Mr. Grey rapped on the office door with his cane, and after waiting a moment without hearing any one, he entered a front room and looked about him.
Swallow was a personage whose like was found too often in the small Pennsylvania villages. The only child of a close-fisted, saving farmer, he found himself on his father's death more than sufficiently well-off to go to college and later to study law. He was careful and penurious, but failing of success in Philadelphia returned to Westways when about thirty years old, bought a piece of land in the town, built a house, married a pretty, commonplace young woman, and began to look for business. There was little to be had. The Squire drew his own leases and sold lands to farmers unaided. Then Swallow began to take interest in politics and to lend money to the small farmers, taking mortgages at carefully guarded, usurious interest. Merciless foreclosures resulted, and as by degrees his operations enlarged, he grew richer and became feared and important in a county community where money was scarce. Some of his victims went in despair to the much loved Squire for help, and got, over and over, relief, which disappointed Swallow who disliked him as he did no other man in the county. The Squire returned his enmity with contemptuous bitterness and entire distrust of the man and all his ways.
Mr. Grey saw in the further room the back of a thin figure in a white jacket seated at a desk. The man thus occupied on hearing his entrance said, without looking back, "Sit down, and in a moment I'll attend to you."
Grey replied, "In a moment you won't see me;" and, his voice rising, "I am accustomed to be treated with civility."
Swallow rose at once, and seeing a well-dressed stranger said, "Excuse me, I was drawing a mortgage for a farmer I expected. Take a seat. I am at your service."
Somewhat mollified, Grey sat down. As he took his seat he was not at all sure of what he was really willing to say or do. He was not an indecisive person at home, but here in a Northern State, on what might be hostile ground, he was in doubt concerning that which he felt he honourably owed as a duty to his neighbour. The word had for him limiting definitions, as indeed it has for most of us. Resolving to be cautious, he said with deliberate emphasis, "I should like what I have to say to be considered, sir, as George Washington used to remark, as 'under the rose'--a strictly professional confidence."
"Of course," said Swallow.
"My name is George Grey. I am at Grey Pine on a visit to my cousin, Mrs. Penhallow."
"A most admirable lady," said the lawyer; "absent just now, I hear." He too determined on caution.
"I have been wandering about your quiet little town this morning and made some odd acquaintances. One Billy, he called himself, most amusing--most amusing. It seems that my cousin gave him money to pay his poll-tax. The poor simple fellow bought a fishing-pole and line. He was, I fancy, to vote for Buchanan. My cousin, I infer, must be like all our people a sound Democrat."
"I have heard as much," returned Swallow. "I am doing what I can for the party, but the people here are sadly misled and our own party is slowly losing ground."
"Indeed! I talked a little with a poor fellow named Lamb, out-of-work and sick. He assured me that the town was solid for Buchanan, and also the county."
Swallow laughed heartily. "What! Peter Lamb. He is our prize drunkard, sir, and would have been in jail long ago but for Penhallow. They are foster-brothers."
"Indeed!" Mr. Grey felt that his knowledge of character had been sadly at fault and that he had been wise in not having said more to the man out-of-work.
"Do you think, Mr. Swallow, that if a master reclaimed a slave in this county that there would be any trouble in carrying out the law?"
"No, sir," said Swallow. "The county authorities are all Democrats and would obey the law. Suppose, sir, that you were frankly to put before me the whole case, relying on my secrecy. Where is the man?"
"Let me then tell you my story. As a sound Democrat it will at least have your sympathy."
"Certainly, I am all attention."
"About the tenth of June over four years ago I rode with my friend Woodburn into our county-town. At the bank we left our horses with his groom Caesar, an excellent servant, much trusted; used to ride quarter races for my father when a boy. When we came out, Woodburn's horse was hitched to a post and mine was gone, and that infernal nigger on him. He was traced to the border, but my mare had no match in the county."
"So he stole the horse; that makes it an easy case."
"No, sir. To be precise, he left the horse at a tavern in this State, with my name and address. Some Quakers helped him on his way."
"And he is in this county?" asked Swallow.
"Yes, sir. His name here is Josiah--seems to be known by that name alone."
"Josiah!" gasped Swallow. "A special favourite of Penhallow. A case to be gravely considered--most gravely. The Squire--" "But surely he will obey the law."
"Yes--probably--but who can say? He was at one time a Democrat, but now is, I hear, likely to vote for Fremont."
"That seems incredible."
"And yet true. I should like, sir, to think the matter over for a day or two. Did the man see you--I mean, recognize you?"
"No, but as I went by his shop, I at once recognized him; and he has lost two fingers. Oh! I know the fellow. I can swear to him, and it is easy to bring his master Woodburn here."
"I see. Well, let me think it over for a day or two."
"Very good," returned Grey, "and pray consider yourself as in my debt for your services."
"All right, Mr. Grey."
With this Mr. Grey went away a thoughtful man. He attracted some attention as he moved along the fronts of the houses. Strangers were rare. Being careful not to go near Josiah's little shop, he crossed the road and climbing the fence went through the wood, reflecting that until this matter was settled he would feel that his movements must be unpleasantly governed by the need to avoid Josiah. He felt this to be humiliating. Other considerations presented themselves in turn. This ungrateful black had run away with his, George Grey's, horse--a personal wrong. His duty to Woodburn was plain. Then, if this black fellow was as Swallow said, a favourite of Captain Penhallow, to plan his capture while himself a guest in Penhallow's house was rather an awkward business. However, he felt that he must inform his friend Woodburn, after which he would turn him over to Swallow and not appear in the business at all. It did not, however, present itself to the Maryland gentleman as a nice situation. If his cousin Ann were, as he easily learned, a strong Democrat, it might be well to sound her on the general situation. She had lived half her life among slaves and those who owned them. She would know how far Penhallow was to be considered as a law-abiding citizen, or whether he might be offended, for after all, as George Grey knew, his own share in the matter would be certain to become known. "A damned unpleasant affair," he said aloud as he walked up the avenue, "but we as Southern gentlemen have got to stand by one another. I must let Woodburn know, and decide for himself."
Neither was the lawyer Swallow altogether easy about the matter on which he had desired time for thought. It would be the first case in the county under the fugitive-slave act. If the man were reclaimed, he, Swallow, would be heard of all through the State; but would that help him before the people in a canvass for the House? He could not answer, for the old political parties were going to pieces and new ones were forming. Moreover, Josiah was much liked and much respected. Then, too, there was the fee. He walked about the room singularly disturbed. Some prenatal fate had decreed that he should be old-aged at forty. He had begun to be aware that his legs were aging faster than his mind. Except the pleasure of accumulating money, which brought no enjoyment, he had thus far no games in life which interested him; but now the shifting politics of the time had tempted him, and possibly this case might be used to his advantage. The black eyebrows under fast whitening hair grew together in a frown, while below slowly gathered the long smile of satisfaction. "How Penhallow will hate it." This thought was for him what the stolen mare was for George Grey. He must look up the law.
Meanwhile George Grey, under the necessity of avoiding the village for a time, was rather bored. He had criticized the stables and the horses, and had been told that the Squire relied with good reason on the judgment of Josiah in regard to the promise of good qualities in colts. Then, used to easy roadsters, he had been put on the Squire's rough trotter and led by the tireless lad had come back weary from long rides across rough country fields and over fences. The clergyman would talk no more politics, John pleaded lessons, and it was on the whole dull, so that Mr. Grey was pleased to hear of the early return of his cousin. A letter to John desired him to meet his aunt on the 8th, and accordingly he drove to the station at Westways Crossing, picking up Billy on the way. Mrs. Ann got out of the car followed by the conductor and brakeman carrying boxes and bundles, which Billy, greatly excited, stowed away under the seats of the Jersey wagon. Mrs. Penhallow distributed smiles and thanks to the men who made haste to assist, being one of the women who have no need to ask help from any man in sight.
"Now, Billy," she said, "be careful with those horses. When you attend, you drive very well."
She settled herself on the back seat with John, delighted to be again where her tireless sense of duty kept her busy--quite too busy at times, thought some of the village dames. "Your Uncle James will soon be at home. Is his pet scamp any better?"
John did not know, but Josiah's rheumatism was quite well.
"Sister-in-law has a baby. Six trout I ketched; they're at the house for you--weighs seven pounds," said Billy without turning round.
"Trout or baby?" said Ann, laughing.
"Baby, ma'am."
"Thanks, but don't talk any more."
"Yes, ma'am."
"How is Leila?" asked John. "Does she like it at school?"
"No, not at all; but she will."
"I don't, Aunt Ann."
"I suppose not."
"Am I to be allowed to write to her?"
"I think not. There is some rule that letters, but--" and she laughed merrily. The rector, who worshipped her, said once that her laugh was like the spring song of birds. "But sometimes I may be naughty enough to let you slip a few lines into my letters."
"That is more than I hoped for. I am--I was so glad to get you back, Aunt Ann, that I forgot to tell you, Mr. George Grey has come."
"How delightful! He has been promising a visit for years. How pleased James will be! I wonder how the old bachelor ever made up his mind. I hope you made it pleasant, John."
"I tried to, aunt." Whether James Penhallow would like it was for John doubtful, but he said nothing further.
"The cities are wild about politics, and there is no end of trouble in Philadelphia over the case of a fugitive slave. I was glad to get away to Grey Pine."
John had never heard her mention this tender subject and was not surprised when she added quickly, "But I never talk politics, John, and you are too young to know anything about them." This was by no means true, as she well knew. "How are my chickens?" She asked endless questions of small moment.
"Got a new fishing-rod," said Billy, but to John's amusement did not pursue the story concerning which George Grey had gleefully enlightened him.
"Well, at last, Cousin George," she cried, as the cousin gave her his hand on the porch. "Glad to see you--most glad. Come in when you have finished your cigar."
She followed John into the hall. "Ah! the dear home." Then her eyes fell on the much used spittoon by the fireside. "Good gracious, John, a--a spittoon!"
"Yes, aunt. Mr. Grey chews."
"Indeed!" She looked at the box and went upstairs. For years to come and in the most incongruous surroundings John Penhallow now and then laughed as he saw again the look with which Mrs. Ann regarded the article so essential to Mr. Grey's comfort. She disliked all forms of tobacco use, and the law of the pipe had long ago been settled at Grey Pine as Mrs. Penhallow decreed, because that was always what James Penhallow decided to think desirable.
"But this! this!" murmured the little lady, as she came down the staircase ready for dinner. She rang for the maid. "Take that thing away and wash it well, and put in fresh sawdust twice a day."
"I hope John has been a good host," she said, as Grey entered the hall.
"Couldn't be better, and I have had some delightful rides. I found the mills interesting--in fact, most instructive." He spoke in short childlike sentences unless excited by politics.
Mrs. Ann noted without surprise the free use of whisky, and later the appreciative frequency of resort to Penhallow's Madeira. A glass of wine at lunch and after dinner were her husband's sole indulgence. The larger potations of her cousin in no way affected him. He talked as usual to Mark Rivers and John about horses, crops and the weather, while Mrs. Ann listened to the flow of disconnected trifles in some wonder as to how James Penhallow would endure it. Grey for the time kept off the danger line of politics, having had of late such variously contributed knowledge as made him careful.
When to Mrs. Ann's relief dinner was over, the rector said his sermon for to-morrow must excuse him and went home. John decided that his role of host was over and retired to his algebra and to questions more easy to solve than of how to entertain Mr. George Grey. It was not difficult, as Mrs. Penhallow saw, to make Grey feel at home; all he required was whisky, cigars, and some mild appearance of interest in his talk. She had long anticipated his visit with pleasure, thinking that James Penhallow would be pleased and the better for some rational male society. Rivers had now deserted her, and she really would not sit with her kinsman's cigar a whole evening in the library. She said, "The night is warm for October, come out onto the porch, George."
"With all the pleasure in the world," said Grey, as he followed her.
By habit and training hospitable and now resigned to her fate, Mrs. Ann said, "Light your cigar, George; I do not mind it out-of-doors."
"I am greatly indebted--I was given to understand that it was disagreeable to you--like--politics--ah! Cousin Ann."
"We are not much given to talking politics," she said rather sharply.
"Not talk politics!" exclaimed Grey. "What else is there to talk about nowadays? But why not, Cousin Ann?"
"Well, merely because while I am Southern--and a Democrat, James has seen fit to abandon our party and become a Republican."
"Incomprehensible!" said Grey. "Ours is the party of gentlemen--of old traditions. I cannot understand it."
"Nor I," said she, "but now at least," and she laughed--"there will be one Republican gentleman. However, George, as we are both much in earnest, we keep politics out of the house."
"It must be rather awkward, Ann."
"What must be rather awkward?"
Did he really mean to discuss, to criticize her relations to James Penhallow? The darkness was for a time the grateful screen.
Grey, a courteous man, felt the reproof in her question, and replied, "I beg pardon, my dear Ann, I have heard of the captain's unfortunate change of opinion. I shall hope, however, to be able to convince him that to elect Fremont will be to break up the Union. I think I could put it so clearly that--" Ann laughed low laughter as vastly amused she laid a hand on her cousin's arm. "You don't know James Penhallow. He has been from his youth a Democrat. There never was any question about how he would vote. But now, since 1850--" and she paused, "in fact, I do not care to discuss with you what I will not with James." Her great love, her birth, training, education and respect for the character of her husband, made this discussion hateful. Her eyes filled, and, much troubled, she was glad of the mask of night.
"But answer me one question, Ann. Why did he change?"
"He was becoming dissatisfied and losing faith in his own party, but it was at last my own dear South and its friends at the North who drove him out." Again she paused.
"What do you mean, Ann?" asked Grey, still persistent.
"It began long ago, George. He said to me one day, 'That fool Fillmore has signed the Fugitive-Slave Act; it is hardly possible to obey it.' Then I said, 'Would you not, James?' I can never forget it. He said, 'Yes, I obey the law, Ann, but this should be labelled 'an act to exasperate the North.' I am done with the Democrat and all his ways. Obey the law! Yes, I was a soldier.' Then he said, 'Ann, we must never talk politics again.' We never do."
"And yet, Ann," said Grey, "that act was needed."
"Perhaps," she returned, and then followed a long silence, as with thought of James Penhallow she sat smiling in the darkness and watched the rare wandering lanterns of the belated fireflies.
The man at her side was troubled into unnatural silence. He had hoped to find an ally in his cousin's husband, and now what should he do? He had concluded that as an honest man he had done his duty when he had written to Woodburn; but now as a man of honour what should he say to James Penhallow? To conceal from his host what he had done was the obvious business-like course. This troubled a man who was usually able to see his way straight on all matters of social conduct and was sensitive on points of honour. While Ann sat still and wondered that her guest was so long silent, he was finding altogether unpleasant his conclusion that he must be frank with Penhallow. He felt sure, however, that Ann would naturally be on his side. He introduced the matter lightly with, "I chanced to see in the village a black man who is said to be a vagabond scamp. He is called Josiah--a runaway slave, I fancy."
Ann sat up in her chair. "Who said he was a scamp?"
"Oh, a man named Lamb." Then he suddenly remembered Mr. Swallow's characterization, and added, "not a very trustworthy witness, I presume."
Ann laughed. "Peter Lamb! He is a drunken, loafing fellow, who to his good fortune chances to have been James's foster-brother. As concerns Josiah, he turned up here some years ago, got work in the stables, and was set up by James as the village barber. No one knew whence he came. I did, of course, suspect him to be a runaway. He is honest and industrious. Last year I was ill when James was absent. We have only maids in the house, and when I was recovering Josiah carried me up and downstairs until James returned. A year after he came, Leila had an accident. Josiah stopped her horse and got badly hurt--" Then with quick insight, she added, "What interest have you in our barber, George? Is it possible you know Josiah?"
Escape from truthful reply was impossible. "Yes, I do. He is the property of my friend and neighbour Woodburn. I knew him at once--the man had lost three fingers--he did not see me."
"Well!" she said coldly, "what next, George Grey?"
"I must inform his master. As a Southern woman you, of course, see that no other course is possible. It is unpleasant, but your sense of right must make you agree with me."
She returned, speaking slowly, "I do wish you would not do it, George." Then she said quickly, "Have you taken any steps in this matter?"
He was fairly cornered. "Yes, I wrote to Woodburn. He will be here in a couple of days. I am sure he will lose no time--and will take legal measures at once to reclaim his property."
"I suppose it is all right," she said despairingly, "but I am more than sorry--what James will say I do not know. I hope he will not be called on to act--under the law he may."
"When does he return?" said Grey. "I shall, of course, be frank with him."
"That will be advisable. He may be absent for a week longer, or so he writes. I leave you to your cigar. I am tired, and to-morrow is Sunday. Shall you go to church?"
"Certainly, Ann. Good-night."
At the door she turned back with a new and relieving thought. "Suppose I--or we--buy this man's freedom."
"If I owned him that would not be required after what you have told me, but Woodburn is an obstinate, rather stern man, and will refuse, I fear, to sell--" "What will he do with Josiah if he is returned to him as the Act orders?"
"Oh! once a runaway--and the man is no good? --he would probably sell him to be sent South."
She rose and for a moment stood still in the darkness, and then crying, "The pity of it, my God, the pity of it!" went away without the usual courtesy of good-night.
George Grey, when left to his own company, somewhat amazed, began to wish he had never had a hand in this business. Ann Penhallow went up to her room, although it was as yet early, leaving John in the library and Grey with a neglected cigar on the porch. In the bedroom over his shop the man most concerned sat industriously reading the _Tribune_.
Ann sat down to think. The practical application of a creed to conduct is not always easy. All her young life had been among kindly considered slaves. Mr. Woodburn had a right to his property. The law provided for the return of slaves if they ran away. She suddenly realized that this man's future fate was in her power, and she both liked and respected him, and he had been hurt in their service. Oh! why was not James at home? Could she sit still and let things go their way while the mechanism of the law worked. Between head and heart there was much argument. Her imagination pictured Josiah's future. Had he deserved a fate so sad? She fell on her knees and prayed for help. At last she rose and went down to the library. John laid down his book and stood up. The young face greeted her pleasantly, as she said, "Sit down, John, I want to talk to you. Can you keep a secret?"
"Why--yes--Aunt Ann. What is it?"
"I mean, John, keep it so that no one will guess you have a secret."
"I think I can," he replied, much surprised and very curious.
"You are young, John, but in your uncle's absence there is no one else to whom I can turn for help. Now, listen. Has Mr. Grey gone to bed?"
"Yes, aunt."
She leaned toward him, speaking low, almost in a whisper, "I do not want to explain, I only want to tell you something. Josiah is a runaway slave, John."
"Yes, aunt, he told me all about it."
"Did he, indeed!"
"Yes, we are great friends--I like him--and he trusted me. What's the matter now?" He was quick to understand that Josiah was in some danger. Naturally enough he remembered the man's talk and his one fear--recapture.
"George Grey has recognised Josiah as a runaway slave of a Mr. Woodburn--" She was most unwilling to say plainly, "Go and warn him."
He started up. "And they mean to take him back?"
She was silent. The indecisions of the habitually decisive are hard to deal with. The lad was puzzled by her failure to say more.
"It is dreadful, Aunt Ann. I think I ought to go and tell Josiah--now--to-night."
She made no comment except to say, "Arrest is not possible on Sunday--and he is safe until Monday or Tuesday."
John Penhallow looked at her for a moment surprised that she did not say go, or else forbid him to go; it was unlike her. He had no desire to wait for Sunday and was filled with anxiety. "I think I must go now--now," he said.
"Then I shall go to bed," she said, and kissing him went away slowly step by step up the stairs.
Staircases are apt to suggest reflections, and there are various ways of rendering the French phrase "_esprit de l'escalier_." Aware that want of moral courage had made her uncertain what to do, or like the Indian, having two hearts, Ann had been unable to accept bravely the counsel of either. The loyal decisiveness of a lad of only sixteen years had settled the matter and relieved her of any need to personally warn Josiah. Some other influences aided to make her feel satisfied that there should be a warning. She was resentful because George Grey had put her in a position where she had been embarrassed by intense sectional sense of duty and by kindly personal regard for a man who not being criminal was to be deprived of all the safeguards against injustice provided by the common law. There were other and minor causes which helped to content her with what she well knew she had done to disappoint Mr. Woodburn of his prey. George Grey was really a bore of capacity to wreck the social patience of the most courteous. The rector fled from him, John always had lessons and how would James endure his vacuous talk. It all helped her to be comfortably angry, and there too was that horrible spittoon.
The young fellow who went with needless haste out of the house and down the avenue about eleven o'clock had no indecisions. Josiah trusted him, and he felt the compliment this implied.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
10
|
None
|
On the far side of the highroad Westways slumbered. Only in the rector's small house were lights burning. The town was in absolute darkness. Westways went to bed early. A pleased sense of the responsibility of his errand went with John as he came near to where Josiah's humble two-storey house stood back from the street line, marked by the well-known striped pole of the barber, of which Josiah was professionally proud. John paused in front of the door. He knew that he must awaken no one but Josiah. After a moment's thought he went along the side of the house to the small garden behind it where Josiah grew the melons no one else could grow, and which he delighted to take to Miss Leila or Mrs. Penhallow. In the novel the heroes threw pebbles at the window to call up fair damsels. John grinned; he might break a pane, but the noise--He was needlessly cautious. Josiah had built a trellis against the back of the house for grapevines which had not prospered. John began to climb up it with care and easily got within reach of the second-storey window. He tapped sharply on the glass, but getting no reply hesitated a moment. He could hear from within the sonorous assurance of deep slumber. Somehow he must waken him. He lifted the sash and called over and over in a low voice, "Josiah!" The snoring ceased, but not the sleep. The lad was resolute and still fearful of making a noise. He climbed with care into the dark room upsetting a little table. Instantly Josiah bounded out of bed and caught him in his strong grip, as John gasped, "Josiah!"
"My God!" cried the black in alarm, "anything wrong at the house?"
"No, sit down--I've got to tell you something. Your old master, Woodburn, is coming to catch you--he will be here soon--I know he won't be here for a day or two--" "Is that so, Master John? It's awful--I've got to run. I always knowed sometime I'd have to run." He sat down on the bed; he was appalled. "God help me! --where can I go? I've got two hundred dollars and seventy-five cents saved up in the county bank, and I've not got fifty cents in the house. I can't get the money out--I'd be afraid to go there Monday. Oh, Lord!"
He began to dress in wild haste. John tried in vain to assure him that he would be safe on Sunday and Monday, or even later, but was in fact not sure, and the man was wailing like a child in distress, thinking over his easy, upright life and his little treasure, which seemed to him lost. He asked no questions; all other emotion was lost in one over-mastering terror.
John said at last, "If I write a cheque for you, can you sign your name to it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I will write a cheque for all of it and I'll get it out for you."
A candle was lighted and the cheque written. "Now write your name here, Josiah--so--that's right." He obeyed like a child, and John who had often collected cheques for his aunt of late, knew well enough how to word it to be paid to bearer. He put it in his pocket.
"But how will I ever get it?" said Josiah, "and where must I go? I'll get away Monday afternoon."
John was troubled, and then said, "I'll tell you. Go to the old cabin in the wood. That will be safe. I will bring you your money Monday afternoon."
The black reflected in silence and then said, "That will do--no man will take me alive, I know--my God, I know! Who set them on me? Who told? It was that drunken rascal, Peter. He told me he'd tell if I didn't get him whisky. How did he know--Oh, Lord! He set 'em on me--I'd like to kill him."
John was alarmed at the fierceness of the threat. "Oh! but you won't--promise me. I've helped you, Josiah."
"I promise, Master John. I'm a Christian man, thank the Lord. I'd like to, but I won't--I won't."
"Now, that's right," said John much relieved. "You'll go to the cabin Monday--for sure."
"Yes--who told you to tell me?"
John, prudently cautious, refused to answer. "Now, let me out, I must go. I can't tell you how sorry I will be--" and he was tempted to add his aunt, but was wise in time. He had done his errand well, and was pleased with the success of his adventure and the flavour of peril in what he had done. He let himself into Grey Pine and went noiselessly upstairs. Then a window was closed and a waiting, anxious woman went to bed and lay long awake thinking.
John understood the unusual affection of his aunt's greeting when before breakfast she kissed him and started George Grey on his easy conversational trot. She had compromised with her political conscience and, notwithstanding, was strangely satisfied and a trifle ashamed that she had not been more distinctly courageous.
At church they had as usual a good congregation of the village folk and men from the mills, for Rivers was eminently a man's preacher and was much liked. John observed, however, that Josiah, who took care of the church, was not in his usual seat near the door. He was at home terribly alarmed and making ready for his departure on Monday. The rector missing him called after church, but his knock was not answered.
When Mr. Grey in the afternoon declared he would take a walk and mail some letters, Mrs. Ann called John into the library. "Well," she said, "did you see Josiah?"
"Yes, aunt." It was characteristic of John Penhallow even thus early in life that he was modest and direct in statement. He said nothing of his mode of reaching Josiah. "I told him of his risk. He will hide in--" "Do not tell me where," said Ann quickly; "I do not want to know."
He wondered why she desired to hear no more. He went on--"He has money in the county bank--two hundred dollars."
"He must have been saving--poor fellow!"
"I wrote a cheque for him, to bearer. I am to draw it tomorrow and take it to him in the afternoon. Then he will be able to get away."
Here indeed was something for Ann to think about. When Josiah was missed and legal measures taken, a pursuit organized, John having drawn his money might be questioned. This would never do--never. Oddly enough she had the thought, "Who will now shave James?" She smiled and said, "I must keep you out of the case--give me the cheque. Oh, I see it is drawn to bearer. I wonder if his owner could claim it. He may--he might--if it is left there."
"That would be mean," said John.
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "Yes--I could give him the money. Let me think about it. Of course, I could draw on my account and leave Josiah's alone. But he has a right to his own money. I will keep the cheque, John. I will draw out his money and give it to you. Good gracious, boy! you are like James Penhallow."
"That's praise for a fellow!" said John.
Ann had the courage of her race and meant at last to see this thing through at all costs. The man had made his money and should have it. She was now resolute to take her share in the perilous matter she had started; and after all she was the wife of James Penhallow of Grey Pine; who would dare to question her? As to George Grey, she dismissed him with a low laugh and wondered when that long-desired guest would elect to leave Grey Pine.
At ten on Monday Billy, for choice, drove her over to the bank at the mills. The young cashier was asked about his sick sister, and then rather surprised as he took the cheque inquired, "How will you have it, ma'am? Josiah must be getting an investment."
"One hundred in fifties and the rest--oh, fifty in fives, the rest in ones."
She drove away, and in an hour gave the notes to John in an envelope, asking no questions. He set off in the afternoon to give Josiah his money.
Meanwhile on this Monday morning a strange scene in this drama was being acted in Josiah's little shop. He was at the door watchful and thinking of his past and too doubtful future, when he saw Peter Lamb pause near by. The man, fresh from the terrors of delirium tremens, had used the gift of Grey with some prudence and was in the happy condition of slight alcoholic excitement and good-humour.
"Halloa!" cried Peter. "How are you? I'm going to the mills to see my girl--want you to shave me--got over my joke; funny, wasn't it?"
A sudden ferocious desire awoke in the good-natured barber--some long-past inheritance of African lust for the blood of an enemy.
"Don't like to kiss with a rough beard," said Peter. "I'll pay--got money--now."
"Come in," said Josiah. "Set down. I'll shut the door--it's a cold morning."
He spread the lather over the red face. "Head back a bit--that's right comfortable now, isn't it?"
"All right--go ahead."
Josiah took his razor. "Now, then," he said, as he set a big strong hand on the man's forehead, "if you move, I'll cut your throat--keep quiet--don't you move. You told I was a slave--you ruined my life--I never did you no harm--I'd kill you just as easy as that--" and he drew the blunt cold back of the razor across the hairy neck.
"My God! --I--" The man shuddered.
"Keep still--or you are a dead man."
"Oh, Lord!" groaned Lamb.
"I would kill you, but I don't want to be hanged. God will take care of you--He is sure. Some day you will do some wickedness worse than this--you just look at me."
There was for Peter fearful fascination in the black face of the man who stood looking down at him, the jaw moving, the white teeth showing, the eyes red, the face twitching with half-suppressed passion.
"Answer me now--and by God, if you lie, I will kill you. You set some one on me? Quick now!"
"I did."
"Who was it? No lies, now!"
"Mr. George Grey." Then Josiah fully realized his danger.
"Why did you?"
"You wouldn't help me to get whisky."
"Well, was that all?"
"You went and got the preacher to set Mr. Penhallow on me. He gave me the devil."
"My God, was that all? You've ruined me for a drink of whisky--you've got your revenge. I'm lost--lost. Your day will come--I'll be there. Now go and repent if you can--you've been near to death. Go!" he cried.
He seized the terrified man with one strong hand, lifted him from the chair, cast open the door and hurled him out into the street. A little crowd gathered around Lamb as he rose on one elbow, dazed.
"Drunk!" said Pole, the butcher. "Drunk again!"
Josiah shut and locked the door. Then he tied up his bundle of clothes, filled a basket with food, and went out into his garden. He cast a look back at the neatly kept home he had recently made fresh with paint. He paused to pick a chilled rosebud and set it in his button-hole--a fashion copied from his adored captain. He glanced tearfully at the glass-framed covers of the yellowing melon vines. He had made money out of his melons, and next year would have been able to send a good many to Pittsburgh. As he turned to leave the little garden in which he took such pride, he heard an old rooster's challenge in his chicken-yard, which had been another means of money-making. He went back and opened the door, leaving the fowl their liberty. When in the lane behind his house, he walked along in the rear of the houses, and making sure that he was unobserved, crossed the road and entered the thick Penhallow forest. He walked rapidly for half an hour, and leaving the wood road found his way to the cabin the first Penhallow built. It was about half after one o'clock when the fugitive lay down on the earth of the cabin with his hands clasped behind his head. He stared upward, wondering where he could go to be safe. He would have to spend some of the carefully saved money. That seemed to him of all things the most cruel. He was not trained to consecutive thinking; memories old or new flitted through his mind. Now and then he said to himself that perhaps he had had no right to run away--and perhaps this was punishment. He had fled from the comforts of an easy life, where he had been fed, clothed and trusted. Not for a moment would he have gone back--but why had he run away? What message that soaring hawk had sent to him from his swift circling sweep overhead he was not able to put in words even if he had so desired. "That wicked hawk done it!" he said aloud.
At last, hearing steps outside, he bounded to his feet, a hand on the knife in his belt. He stood still waiting, ready as a crouching tiger, resolute, a man at bay with an unsated appetite for freedom. The door opened and John entered.
"You sort of scared me, Master John."
"You are safe here, Josiah, and here is your money."
He took it without a word, except, "I reckon, Master John, you know I'm thankful. Was there any one missing me?"
"No, no one."
"I'll get away to-night. I'll go down through Lonesome Man's Swamp and take my old bateau and run down the river. You might look after my muskrat traps. I was meaning to make a purse for the little missy. Now do you just go away, and may the Lord bless you. I guess we won't ever meet no more. You'll be mighty careful, Master John?"
"But you'll write, Josiah."
"I wouldn't dare to write--I'd be takin' risks. Think I'm safe here? Oh, Lord!"
"No one knows where you are--you'll go to-night?"
"Yes, after dark." He seemed more at ease as he said, "It was Peter Lamb set Mr. Grey on me. He must have seen me after that. I told you it was Peter."
"Yes,"--and then with the hopefulness of youth--"but you will come back, I am sure."
"No, sir--never no more--and the captain and Miss Leila--it's awful--where can I go?"
John could not help him further. "God bless you, Master John." They parted at length at the door of the cabin which had seen no other parting as sad.
The black lay down again. Now and then he swept his sleeve across tearful eyes. Then he stowed his money under his shirt in a linen bag hung to his neck, keeping out a few dollars, and at last fell sound asleep exhausted by emotion, Josiah's customers were few in number. Westways was too poor to be able to afford a barber more than once a week, and then it was always in mid-morning when work ceased for an hour. Sometimes the Squire on his way to the mills came to town early, but as a rule Josiah went to Grey Pine and shaved him while they talked about colts and their training. As he was rarely needed in the afternoon, Josiah often closed his shop about two o'clock and went a-fishing or set traps on the river bank. His absence on this Monday afternoon gave rise, therefore, to no surprise, but when his little shop remained closed on Tuesday, his neighbours began to wonder. Peter Lamb wandering by rather more drunken than on Monday, stood a while looking at the shut door, then went on his devious way, thinking of the fierce eyes and the curse. Next came Swallow for his daily shave. He knocked at the door and tried to enter. It was locked. He heard no answer to his louder knock. He at once suspected that his prey had escaped him, and that the large fee he had counted on was to say the least doubtful. But who could have warned the black? Had Mr. Grey been imprudent? Lamb had been the person who had led Grey, as Swallow knew from that gentleman, to suspect Josiah as a runaway; but now as he saw Peter reeling up the street, he was aware that he was in no state to be questioned. He went away disappointed and found that no one he met knew whither Josiah had gone.
At Grey Pine Mrs. Ann, uneasily conscious of her share in the matter, asked John if he had given the money to Josiah. He said yes, and that the man was safe and by this time far away. Meanwhile, the little town buzzed with unwonted excitement and politics gave place about the grocer's door at evening to animated discussion, which was even more interesting when on Wednesday there was still no news and the town lamented the need to go unshaven.
On Thursday morning Billy was sent with a led horse to meet Penhallow at Westways Crossing. Penhallow had written that he must go on to a meeting of the directors of the bank at the mills and would not be at home until dinner-time. The afternoon train brought Mr. Woodburn, who as advised by Grey went at once to Swallow's house, where Mrs. Swallow gave him a note from her husband asking that if he came he would await the lawyer's return.
"Well, Billy, glad to see you," said Penhallow, as he settled himself in the saddle. "All well at Grey Pine?"
"Yes, sir."
The Squire was in high good-humour on having made two good contracts for iron rails. "How are politics, Billy?"
"Don't know, sir."
"Anything new at Westways?"
"Yes, sir," replied Billy with emphasis.
"Well, what is it?"
"Josiah's run away."
"Run away! Why?"
"Don't know--he's gone."
Penhallow was troubled, but asked no other questions, as he was late. He might learn more at home. He rode through the town and on to the mills. There he transacted some business and went thence to the bank. The board of well-to-do farmers was already in session, and Swallow--a member--was talking.
"What is that?" said Penhallow as he entered, hearing Josiah mentioned.
Some one said, "He has been missing since Monday." "He drew out all his money that morning," said Swallow, "all of it."
"Indeed," said Penhallow. "Did _he_ draw it--I mean in person?"
"No," said the lawyer, who was well pleased to make mischief and hated Penhallow.
Penhallow was uneasily curious. "Who drew it?" he asked. "Josiah could hardly have known how to draw a cheque; I had once to help him write one."
"It was a cheque to bearer, I hear," said Swallow smiling. "Mrs. Penhallow drew the money. No doubt Josiah got it before he left."
Penhallow said, "You are insolent."
"You asked a question," returned Swallow, "and I answered it."
"And with a comment I permit no man to make. You said, 'no doubt he got it.' I want an apology at once." He went around the table to where Swallow sat.
The lawyer rose, saying, "Every one will know to-day that Josiah was a runaway slave. His master will be here this evening. Whoever warned him is liable under the Fugitive-Slave Act--Mrs. Penhallow drew the money and--" "One word more, sir, of my wife, and I will thrash you. It is clear that you know all about the matter and connect my wife with this man's escape--you have insulted her."
"Oh, Mr. Penhallow," said the old farmer who presided, "I beg of you--" "Keep quiet," said the Squire, "this is my business."
"I did not mean to insult Mrs. Penhallow," said Swallow; "I apologize--I--" "You miserable dog," said Penhallow, "you are both a coward and a lying, usurious plunderer of hard-working men. You may be thankful that I am a good-tempered man--but take care."
"I shall ask this board to remember what has been said of me," said Swallow. "The law--" "Law! The law of the cowhide is what you will get if I hear again that you have used my wife's name. Good-day, gentlemen."
He went our furious and rode homeward at speed. Before the Squire reached Grey Pine he had recovered his temper and his habitual capacity to meet the difficulties of life with judicial calmness. He had long been sure that Josiah had been a slave and had run away. But after these years, that he should have been discovered in this remote little town seemed to him singular. The man was useful to him in several ways and had won his entire respect and liking, so that he felt personal annoyance because of this valuable servant having been scared away. That Ann had been in any way concerned in aiding his escape perplexed him, as he remembered how entire was her belief in the creed of the masters of slaves who with their Northern allies had so long been the controlling legislative power of the country.
"I am glad to be at home, my dear Ann," he said, as they met on the porch. "Ah! Grey, so you are come at last. It is not too late to say how very welcome you are; and John, I believe you have grown an inch since I left."
They went in, chatting and merry. The Squire cast an amused look at the big spittoon and then at his wife, and went upstairs to dress for dinner. At the meal no one for a variety of good reasons mentioned Josiah. The tall soldier with the readiness of helpless courtesy fell into the talk of politics which Grey desired. "Yes, Buchanan will carry the State, Grey, but by no large majority."
"And the general election?" asked the cousin.
"Yes, that is my fear. He will be elected."
Ann, who dreaded these discussions, had just now a reproachful political conscience. She glanced at her husband expecting him to defend his beliefs. He was silent, however, while Grey exclaimed, "Fear, sir--fear? You surely cannot mean to say--to imply that the election of a black Republican would be desirable." He laid down his fork and was about to become untimely eloquent--Rivers smiled--watching the Squire and his wife, as Penhallow said: "Pardon me, Grey, but I cannot have my best mutton neglected."
"Oh, yes--yes--but a word--a word. Elect Fremont--and we secede. Elect Buchanan--and the Union is safe. There, sir, you have it in a nutshell."
"Ah, my dear Grey," said Penhallow, "this is rather of the nature of a threat--never a very digestible thing--for me, at least--and I am not very convincible. We will discuss it over our wine or a cigar." He turned to his wife, "Any news of Leila, Ann?"
"Yes, I had a letter to-day," she returned, somewhat relieved. "She seems to be better satisfied."
Grey accepted the interrupting hint and fell to critical talk of the Squire's horses. After the wine Penhallow carried off his guest to the library, and avoiding politics with difficulty was unutterably bored by the little gentleman's reminiscent nothings about himself, his crops, tobacco, wines, his habits of life, what agreed with him and what did not. At last, with some final whisky, Mr. Grey went to bed.
Ann, who was waiting anxiously, eager to get through with the talk she dreaded, went at once into the library. Penhallow rising threw his cigar into the fire. She laughed, but not in her usual merry way, and cried, "Do smoke, James, I shall not mind it; I am forever disciplined to any fate. There is a spittoon in the hall--a spittoon!"
The Squire laughed joyously, and kissed her. "I can wait for my pipe; we can't have any lapse in domestic discipline." Then he added, "I hear that my good Josiah has gone away--I may as well say, run away."
"Yes--he has gone, James." She hesitated greatly troubled.
"And you helped him--a runaway slave--you--" He smiled. It had for him an oddly humorous aspect.
"I did--I did--" and the little lady began to sob like a child. "It was--was wrong--" There was nothing comic in it for Ann Penhallow.
"You angel of goodness," he cried, as he caught her in his arms and held the weeping face against his shoulder, "my brave little lady!"
"I ought not to have done it--but I did--I did--oh, James! To think that my cousin should have brought this trouble on us--But I did--oh, James!"
"Listen, my dear. If I had been here, I should have done it. See what you have saved me. Now sit down and let us have it all out, my dear, all of it."
"And you really mean that?" she wailed piteously. "You won't think I did wrong--you won't think I have made trouble for you--" "You have not," he replied, "you have helped me. But, dear, do sit down and just merely, as in these many years, trust my love. Now quiet yourself and let us talk it over calmly."
"Yes--yes." She wiped her eyes. "Do smoke, James--I like it."
"Oh, you dear liar," he said. "And so it was Grey?"
She looked up. "Yes, George Grey; but, James, he did not know how much we liked Josiah nor how good he had been to me, and how he got hurt when he stopped Leila's pony. He was sorry--but it was too late--oh, James! --you will not--oh, you will not--" "Will not what, dear?" Penhallow was disgusted. A guest entertained in his own house to become a detective of an escaped slave in Westways, at his very gate! "My charity, Ann, hardly covers this kind of sin against the decencies of life. But I wish to hear all of it. Now, who betrayed the man--who told Grey?"
"I am sorry to say that it was Peter Lamb who first mentioned Josiah to George Grey as a runaway. When he spoke of his lost fingers, George was led to suspect who Josiah really was. Then he saw him, and as soon as he was sure, he wrote to a Mr. Woodburn, who was Josiah's old owner."
"I suppose he recognized Josiah readily?"
"Yes, he had been a servant of George's friend, Mr. Woodburn, and George says he was a man indulgently treated and much trusted."
"I infer from what I learned to-day that George told you all this and had already seen Swallow, so that the trap was set and Mr. Woodburn was to arrive. Did George imagine you would warn my poor barber--" "But I--I didn't--I mean--I let John hear about it--and he told Josiah."
He listened. Here was another Mrs. Ann. There was in Ann at times a bewildering childlike simplicity with remarkable intelligence--a combination to be found in some of the nobler types of womanhood. He made no remark upon her way of betraying the trust implied in George Grey's commonplace confession.
"So, then, my dear, John went and gave the man a warning?"
"Yes, I would have gone, but it was at night and I thought it better to let John see him. How he did it I did not want to know--I preferred to know nothing about it."
This last sentence so appealed to Penhallow's not very ready sense of humour that he felt it needful to control his mirth as he saw her watching earnestness. "Grey, I presume, called on that rascal Swallow, Mr. Woodburn is sent for, and meanwhile Josiah is told and wisely runs away. He will never be caught. Anything else, my dear?"
"Yes, I said to George that we would buy Josiah's freedom--what amuses you, James?" He was smiling.
"Oh, the idea of buying a man's power to go and come, when he has been his own master for years. You were right, but it seems that you failed--or, so I infer."
"Yes. He said Mr. Woodburn was still angry and always had considered Josiah wickedly ungrateful." Penhallow looked at his wife. Her sense of the comedies of life was sometimes beyond his comprehension, but now--now was she not a little bit, half consciously, of the defrauded master's opinion?
"And so, when that failed, you went to bank and drew out the poor fellow's savings?" He meant to hear the whole story. There was worse yet, and he was sure she would speak of it. But now she was her courageous self and desired to confess her share in the matter. "Of course, he had to have money, Ann."
She wanted to get through with this, the most unpleasant part of the matter. "I want to tell you," she said. "I drew out his money with a cheque John made out and Josiah signed. John took him his two hundred dollars, as he knew where Josiah would hide--I--I did not want to know."
Her large part in this perilous business began to trouble the Squire. His face had long been to her an open book, and she saw in his silence the man's annoyance. She added instantly, "I could not let John draw it--and Josiah would not--he was too scared. He had to have his money. Was I wrong--was I foolish, James?"
"No--you were right. The cheque was in John's handwriting. You were the person to draw it. I would have drawn the money for him. He had a man's right to his honest savings. It will end here--so you may be quite at ease." Of this he was not altogether certain. He understood now why she had not given him of her own money, but Ann was clearly too agitated to make it well or wise to question her methods further. "Go to bed, dear, and sleep the sleep of the just--you did the right thing." He kissed her. "Good-night."
"One moment more, James. You know, of course--you know that all my life I have believed with my brothers that slavery was wise and right. I had to believe that--to think so might exact from me and others what I never could have anticipated. I came face to face with a test of my creed, and I failed. I am glad I failed."
"My dear Ann," he said, "I am supposed to be a Christian man--I go to church, I have a creed of conduct. To-day I lost my temper and told a man I would thrash him if he dared to say a word more."
"It was at the bank, James?"
"Yes. That fellow Swallow spoke of your having drawn Josiah's money. He was insolent. You need have no anxiety about it--it is all over. I only mention it because I want you to feel that our creeds of conduct in life are not always our masters, and sometimes ought not to be. Let that comfort you a little. You know that to have been a silent looker-on at the return to slavery of a man to whom we owed so much was impossible. My wonder is that for a moment you could have hesitated. It makes me comprehend more charitably the attitude of the owners of men. Now, dear, we won't talk any more. Good-night--again--good-night."
He lighted a cigar and sat long in thought. He had meant not to speak to her of Swallow, but it had been, as he saw, of service. Then he wondered how long Mr. George Grey would remain and if he would not think it necessary to speak of Josiah. As concerned John, he would be in no hurry to talk to him of the barber; and how the lad had grown in mind and body! --a wonderful change and satisfactory.
When after breakfast Mr. Grey showed no desire to mention Josiah and prudently avoided talk about politics, Penhallow was greatly relieved. That his host did not open the question of Mr. Grey's conduct in the matter of the runaway was as satisfactory to the Maryland gentleman, whose sense of duty had created for him a situation which was increasingly disagreeable. He warmly welcomed Penhallow's invitation to look at some newly purchased horses, and expressed the most cordial approval of whatever he saw, somewhat to the amusement of Penhallow.
Penhallow left him when, declining to ride to the mills, Mr. Grey retired to the library and read the _Tribune_, with internal comment on its editorial columns. He laid the paper aside. Mr. Woodburn would probably have arrived in the afternoon, and would have arranged with Swallow for a consultation in which Mr. Grey would be expected to take part. It was plain that he really must talk to the Captain. He rose and went slowly down the avenue. A half-hour in Westways singularly relieved him. Swallow was not at home, and Josiah, the cause of Mr. Grey's perplexities, had certainly fled, nor did he learn that Mr. Woodburn had already arrived.
He was now shamefully eager to escape that interview with the captain, and relieved to find that there was no need to wait for the friend he had brought to Westways on a vain errand. Returning to Grey Pine, he explained to his cousin that letters from home made it necessary for him to leave on the mid-afternoon train. Never did Ann Penhallow more gratefully practise the virtue that speeds the parting guest. He was sorry to miss the captain and would have the pleasure of sending him a barrel of the best Maryland whisky; "and would you, my dear cousin, say, in your delightful way, to the good rector how much I enjoyed his conversation?"
Ann saw that the lunch was of the best and that the wagon was ready in more than ample season. As he left, she expressed all the regret she ought to have felt, and as the carriage disappeared at a turn of the avenue she sank down in a chair. Then she rang a bell. "Take away that thing," she said,--"that spittoon."
"If James Penhallow were here," she murmured, "I should ask him to say--damn! I wonder now if that man Woodburn will come, and if there will be a difficulty with James on my account." She sat long in thought, waiting to greet her husband, while Mr. Grey was left impatient at the station owing to the too hospitable desire of Ann to speed the parting guest.
When about dusk the Squire rode along the road through Westways, he came on the rector and dismounted, leaving his horse to be led home by Pole's boy. "Glad to see you, Mark. How goes it; and how did you like Mr. Grey?"
"To tell you the truth, Squire, I did not like him. I was forced into a talk about politics. We differed, as you may suppose. He was not quite pleasant. He seemed to have been so mixed up with this sad business about Josiah that I kept away at last, so that I might keep my temper. Billy drove him to the station after lunch."
"Indeed!" said Penhallow, pleased that Grey had gone. It was news to him and not unwelcome. Ann would no doubt explain. "What put Grey on the track of Josiah as a runaway? Was it a mere accidental encounter?" He desired to get some confirmatory information.
"No--I suspect not." Then he related what Josiah had told him of Peter's threats. "I may do that reprobate injustice, but--However, that is all I now know or feel justified in suspecting."
"Well, come up and dine to-day; we can talk it out after dinner."
"With pleasure," said Rivers.
Penhallow moodily walking up the street, his head bent in thought, was made aware that he was almost in collision with Swallow and a large man with a look of good-humoured amusement and the wide-open eyes and uplift of brow expressive of pleasure and surprise.
"By George, Woodburn!" said the Squire. "I heard some one of your name was here, but did not connect the name with you. I last heard of you as in a wild mix-up with the Sioux, and I wished I was with you." As Penhallow spoke the two men shook hands, Swallow meanwhile standing apart not over-pleased as through the narrowed lids of near-sight he saw that the two men must have known one another well and even intimately, for Woodburn replied, "Thought you knew I'd left the army, Jim. The last five years I've been running my wife's plantation in Maryland."
The Squire's pleasure at his encounter with an old West Point comrade for a moment caused him to forget that this was the master who had been set on Josiah's track by Grey. It was but for a moment. Then he drew up his soldierly figure and said coldly, "I am sorry that you are here on what cannot be a very agreeable errand."
"Oh!" said Woodburn cheerfully, "I came to get my old servant, Caesar. It seems to have been a fool's errand. He has slipped away. I suppose that Grey as usual talked too freely. But how the deuce does it concern you? I see that it does."
Penhallow laughed. "He was my barber."
"And mine," said Woodburn. "If you have missed him, Jim, for a few days, I have missed him for three years and more." Then both men laughed heartily at their inequality of loss.
"I cannot understand why this fellow ran away. He was a man I trusted and indulged to such an extent that my wife says I spoiled him. She says he owned me quite as much as I owned him--a darned ungrateful cuss! I came here pretty cross when I got George's letter, and now I hear of an amount of hostile feeling which rather surprised me."
"That you are surprised, Will, surprises me," said Penhallow. "The Fugitive-Slave Act will always meet with opposition at the North. It seems made to create irritation even among people who really are not actively hostile to slavery. If it became necessary to enforce it, I believe that I would obey it, because it is the law--but it is making endless trouble. May I ask what you propose to do about this present case?"
"Do--oh, nothing! I am advised to employ detectives and hunt the man down. I will not; I shall go home. It is not Mr. Swallow's advice."
"No, it is not," said the lawyer, who stood aside waiting a chance to speak. "Some one warned the man, and it is pretty generally suspected how he came to be told."
Penhallow turned to Woodburn, "Has Mr. Swallow ventured to connect me or any of my family with this matter?"
"No," said Woodburn, which was true. Swallow meant to keep in reserve Mrs. Penhallow's share in the escape until he learned how far an angry slave-owner was disposed to go. Woodburn had, however, let him understand that he was not of a mind to go further, and had paid in good-humour a bill he thought excessive. Grey had made it all seem easy, and then as Swallow now learned had gone away. He had also written to his own overseer, and thus among their neighbours a strong feeling prevailed that this was a case for prompt and easy action. The action had been prompt and had failed. Woodburn was going home to add more bitterness to the Southern sense of Northern injustice.
When Woodburn, much to Penhallow's relief, had said he was done with the case, the Squire returned, "Then, as you are through with Mr. Swallow, come home and dine with me. Where are you staying?"
"At Mr. Swallow's, but I leave by the night train."
"So soon! But come and dine. I will send for your bag and see that you get to your train."
The prospect of Swallow and his feeble, overdressed wife, and his comrade's urgency, decided Woodburn. He said, "Yes, if Mr. Swallow will excuse me."
Swallow said, "Oh, of course!" relieved to be rid of a dissatisfied client, and the two ex-soldiers went away together chatting of West Point life.
Half-way up the avenue Penhallow said, "Before we go in, a word or two--" "What is it, Jim?"
"That fellow said nothing of Mrs. Penhallow, you are sure?"
"Yes," returned Woodburn, "not a word. I knew that you lived here, but neither of you nor of Mrs. Penhallow did he say a word in connection with this business. I meant to look you up this afternoon. Why do you speak of your wife?"
"Because--well--I could not let you join us without an honest word concerning what I was sure you would have heard from Swallow. Now if you had taken what I presume was his advice--to punish the people concerned in warning Josiah, you--indeed I--might hesitate--" "What do you mean, Jim?" said his companion much amazed.
"I mean this: After our loose-tongued friend Grey told my wife that Josiah was in danger, she sent him word of the risk he ran, and then drew out of our bank for him his savings and enabled him to get away. Now don't say a word until I have done. Listen! This man turned up here over three years ago and was soon employed about my stables. He broke his leg in stopping a runaway and saved my wife's young niece, our adopted child, Leila Grey. There was some other kind and efficient service. That's all. Now, can you dine with me?"
"With all my heart, Jim. Damn Grey! Did he talk much?"
"Did he? No, he gabbled. But are you satisfied?"
"Yes, Jim. I am sorry I drove off your barber--and I shall hold my tongue when I get home--as far as I can."
"Then come. I have some of my father's Madeira, if Grey has left any. I shall say a word to Mrs. Penhallow. By George! I am glad to have you."
Penhallow showed Woodburn to a room, and feeling relieved and even elated, found his wife, who had tired of waiting and had gone to get ready to dine. He told her in a few words enough to set her at ease with the new guest. Then Mark Rivers came in and John Penhallow, who having heard about the stranger's errand was puzzled when he became aware of the cordial relations of his uncle and Mr. Woodburn.
The dinner was pleasant and unembarrassed. The lad whom events had singularly matured listened to gay memories of West Point and to talk of cadets whose names were to live in history or who had been distinguished in our unrighteous war with Mexico. When now and then the talk became quite calmly political, Ann listened to the good-natured debate and was longing to speak her mind. She was, however, wisely silent, and reflected half amused that she had lost the right to express herself on the question which was making politics ill-tempered but was now being discussed at her table with such well-bred courtesy. John soon ceased to follow the wandering talk, and feeling what for him had the charm of romance in the flight of Josiah sat thinking over the scene of the warning at night, the scared fugitive in the cabin, and the lonely voyage down through the darkness of the rapids of the river. Where would the man go? Would they ever see him again? They were to meet in far-away days and in hours far more perilous. Then he was caught once more by gay stories of adventures on the plains and memories of Indian battles, until the wine had been drunk and the Squire took his friend to the library for an hour.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
11
|
None
|
Penhallow himself drove his guest to meet the night express to the East, and well pleased with his day returned to find his wife talking with Rivers and John. He sat down with them at the fire in the hall, saying, "I wanted to keep Woodburn longer, but he was wise not to stay. What are you two talking over--you were laughing?"
"I," said Rivers, "was hearing how that very courteous gentleman chanced to dine with these mortal enemies who stole his property. I kept quiet, Mrs. Penhallow said nothing, John ate his dinner, and no one quarrelled. I longed for Mr. Grey--" "For shame," said Mrs. Ann. "Tell him why we were laughing--it was at nothing particular."
"It was about poor old Mrs. Burton."
"What about her? If you can make that widow interesting in any way, I shall be grateful."
"It was about her dead husband--" "Am I to hear it or not?" said Penhallow. "What is it?"
"Why, what she said was that she was more than ever confirmed in her belief in special Providences, because Malcolm was so fond of tomatoes, and this year of his death not one of their tomatoes ripened."
The Squire's range of enjoyment of the comic had limitations, but this story was immensely enjoyed and to his taste. He laughed in his hearty way. "Did she tell you that, Mark, or has it improved in your hands?"
"No--no, I got it from Grace, and he had it from the widow. I do not think it seemed the least bit funny to Grace."
"But after all," said Mrs. Ann, "is it so very comic?"
"Oh, now," said Penhallow, "we are in for a discussion on special Providences. I can't stand it to-night; I want something more definite. My manager says sometimes, 'I want to close out this-here business.' Now I want to close out this abominable business about my poor Josiah. You and your aunt, John, have been, as you may know, breaking the law of your country--" Rivers, surprised and still partially ignorant, looked from one to another.
"Oh, James!" remonstrated his wife, not overpleased.
"Wait a little, my dear Ann. Now, John, I want to hear precisely how you gave Josiah a warning and--well--all the rest. You ought to know that my little lady did as usual the right thing. The risks and whatever there might have been of danger were ours by right--a debt paid to a poor runaway who had made us his friends. Now, John!"
Rivers watched his pupil with the utmost interest. John stood up a little excited by this unexpected need to confess. He leaned against the side of the mantel and said, "Well, you see, Uncle Jim, I got in at the back--" "I don't see at all. I want to be made to see--I want the whole story."
John had in mind that he had done a rather fine thing and ought to relate it as lightly as he had heard Woodburn tell of furious battles with Apaches. But, as his uncle wanted the whole story, he must have some good reason, and the young fellow was honestly delighted. Standing by the fire, watched by three people who loved him, and above all by the Captain, his ideal of what he felt he himself could never be, John Penhallow told of his entrance to Josiah's room and of his thought of the cabin as a hiding-place. When he hesitated, Penhallow said, "Oh, don't leave out, John Penhallow, I want all the details. I have my reasons, John."
Flushed and handsome, with his strong young face above the figure which was to have his uncle's athletic build, he related his story to the close. As he told of the parting with the frightened fugitive and the hunted man's last blessing, he was affected as he had not been at the time. "That's all, Uncle Jim. It was too bad--and he will never come back."
"He could," said Rivers.
"Yes--but he will not. I know the man," said Penhallow. "He has the courage of the minute, but the timidity of the slave. We shall see him no more, I fear."
The little group around the fire fell to silence, and John sat down. He wanted a word of approval, and got it. "I want you to know, John," said Penhallow, "that I think you behaved with courage and discretion. It was not an errand for a boy, but no man could have done better, and your aunt had no one else. I am glad she had not."
Then John Penhallow felt that he was shaky and that his eyes were uncomfortably filling. With a boy's dislike of showing emotion, he mastered his feelings and said, "Thank you, Uncle Jim."
"That is all," said the Squire, who too saw and comprehended what he saw, "go to bed, you breaker of the law--" "And I," said Ann, "a wicked partner. Come, John."
They left the master of the house with the rector. Rivers looked at the clock, "I think I must go. I do not stand late hours. If I let the day capture the night, the day after is apt to find me dull."
"Well, stand it this once, Mark. I hate councils of war or peace without the pipe, and now, imagine it, my dear wife wanted me to smoke, and that was all along of that terrible spittoon and the long-expected cousin of whom I have heard from time to time. _Les absens n'out pas toujours tort_. Now smoke and don't watch the clock. I said this abominable business was to be closed out--" "And is it not?" asked Rivers.
"No. I do not talk about Peter Lamb to my wife, because she thinks my helping him so often has done the man more harm than good. It was not Grey alone who was responsible. He told Mrs. Penhallow that Peter had sent him to Josiah's shop. He told Grey too that Josiah must be a runaway slave and that any one would know him by his having lost two fingers. That at once set Grey on this mischievous track."
"I am only too sure that you are right," returned Rivers. "Peter tried a very futile blackmailing trick on Josiah. He wanted to get whisky, and told the poor negro that he must get it for him or he would let his master know where he was. Of course, the scamp knew what we all knew and no more, but it alarmed Josiah, who came to me at once. He was like a scared child. I told him to go home and that Peter had lied. He went away looking as if the old savagery in his blood might become practically active."
"I don't wonder," said Penhallow. "Did it end there?"
"No, I saw Peter next day, and he of course lied to me very cleverly, said it was only a joke on Josiah, and so on. I think, sir, and you will I hope excuse me--I do think that the man were better let alone. Every time you help him, he gets worse. When he was arrested and suspected of burning Robert's hayrick, you pleaded with the old farmer and got the man off. He boasted of it the next time he got drunk."
"I know--I know." The Squire had paid Robert's loss, and aware of his own folly was of no mind to confess to any one. "I have no wish or will to help him. I mean now to drop him altogether, and I must tell him so. But what a pity it is! He is intelligent, and was a good carpenter until he began to drink. I must talk to him."
"You will only make him more revengeful. He has what he calls 'got even' with Josiah, and he is capable of doing it with you or me. Let him alone."
"Not I," said the Squire; "if only for his mother's sake, I must see what I can do."
"Useless--quite useless," said Rivers. "You may think that strange advice for a clergyman, but I do sometimes despair of others and occasionally of Mark Rivers. Goodnight."
During these days the fugitive floated down the swift little river at night, and at dawn hid his frail boat and himself in the forests of a thinly settled land. He was brave enough, but his ignorance of geography added to his persistent terror. On the third day the broader waters brought him to farms and houses. Then he left his boat and struck out across the country until he came to a railway. In the station he made out that it led to Philadelphia. Knowing that he would be safe there, he bought a ticket and arrived in the city the next day--a free man with money, intelligence, and an honest liking for steady work.
The Squire had the good habit of second thought. His wife knew it well and had often found it valuable and to be trusted. At present he was thoroughly disgusted with the consequences of what he knew to be in some degree the result of his own feeling that he was bound to care for the man whose tie to him was one few men would have considered as in any serious degree obligatory. The night brought good counsel, and he made up his mind next morning simply to let the foster-brother alone. Fate decreed otherwise. In the morning he was asked by his wife to go with her to the village; she wanted some advice. He did not ask what, but said, "Of course. I am to try the barber's assistant I have brought from the mills to shave me, and what is more important--Westways. I have put him in our poor old Josiah's shop."
They went together to Pole's, and returning she stopped before the barn-like building where Grace gathered on Sundays a scant audience to hear the sermons which Rivers had told him had too much heart and too little head.
"What is it?" asked Penhallow.
"I have heard, James, that their chapel (she never called it church) is leaking--the roof, I mean. Could not you pay for a new roof?"
"Of course, my dear--of course. It can't cost much. I will see Grace about it."
"Thank you, James." On no account would she now have done this herself. She was out of touch for the time with the whole business of politics, and to have indulged her usual gentle desire to help others would have implied obligation on the part of the Baptist to accept her wish that he should vote and use his influence for Buchanan. Now the thing would be done without her aid. In time her desire to see the Democrats win in the interest of her dear South would revive, but at present what with Grey and the threat of the practical application of the Fugitive-Slave Act and her husband's disgust, she was disposed to let politics alone.
Presently, as they walked on, Peter Lamb stopped them. "I'd like to speak to you for a moment, Mr. Penhallow." Mrs. Penhallow walked on.
"What is it?" said the Squire.
"I'm all right now--I'll never drink again. I want some work--and mother's sick."
"We will see to her, but you get no more work from me."
"Why, what's the matter, sir?"
"Matter! You might ask Josiah if he were here. You know well enough what you did--and now I am done with you."
"So help me God, I never--" "Oh! get out of my way. You are a miserable, lying, ungrateful man, and I have done with you."
He walked away conscious of having again lost his temper, which was rare. The red-faced man he left stood still, his lips parted, the large yellow teeth showing. "It's that damned parson," he said.
Penhallow rejoined his wife. "What did he want?" she asked.
"Oh, work," he said. "I told him he could get no more from me."
"Well, James," she said, "that is the first sensible thing you have ever done about that man. You have thoroughly spoiled him, and now it is very likely too late to discipline him."
"Yes--perhaps--you may be right." He knew her to be right, but he did not like her agreement with his decision to be connected with even her mild statement that it had been better if long before he had been more reasonably severe and treated Lamb as others would have treated him. In the minor affairs of life Ann Penhallow used the quick perception of a woman, and now and then brought the Squire's kindly excesses to the bar of common sense. Sometimes the sentence was never announced, but now and then annoyed at his over-indulgent charity she allowed her impatience the privilege of speech, and then, as on this occasion, was sorry to have spoken.
Dismissing his slight vexation, Penhallow said presently, "He told me his mother was sick."
"She was not yesterday. I took her our monthly allowance and some towels I wanted hemmed and marked. He lied to you, James. Did you believe him even for a moment?"
"But she might be sick, Ann. I meant you to stop and ask."
"I will, of course." This time she held her tongue, and left him at Grace's door.
The perfect sweetness of her husband's generous temperament was sometimes trying to Ann in its results, but now it had helped her out of an awkward position, and with pride and affection she watched his soldierly figure for a moment and then went on her way.
Intent with gladness on fulfilling his wife's errand, he went up the steps of the small two-storey house of the Baptist preacher. He had difficulty in making any one hear where there was no one to hear. If at Westways the use of the rare bells or more common knockers brought no one to the door, you were free to walk in and cry, "Where are you, Amanda Jane, and shall I come right up?" Penhallow had never set foot in the house, but had no hesitation in entering the front room close to the narrow hall which was known as the front entry. The details of men's surroundings did not usually interest Penhallow, but in the mills or the far past days of military service nothing escaped him that could be of use in the work of the hour. The stout little Baptist preacher, with his constant every-day jollity and violent sermons, of which he had heard from Rivers, in no way interested Penhallow. When he once said to Ann, "The man is unneat and common," she replied, "No, he is homely, but neither vulgar nor common. I hate his emotional performances, but the man is good, James." "Then I do wish, Ann, he would button his waistcoat and pull up his socks."
Now he looked about him with some unusual attention. There was no carpet. A set of oddly coloured chairs and settees which would have pleased Ann, a square mahogany table set on elephantine legs, completed the furnishings of a whitewashed room, where the flies, driven indoors by cool weather, buzzed on window glasses dull with dust. The back room had only a writing-table, a small case of theological books, and two or three much used volumes of American history. Penhallow looked around him with unusually awakened pity. The gathered dust, the battered chairs, the spider-webs in the darker corners, would have variously annoyed and disgusted Ann Penhallow. A well-worn Bible lay on the table, with a ragged volume of "Hiawatha" and "Bunyan's Holy War." There were no other books. This form of poverty piteously appealed to him.
"By George!" he exclaimed, "that is sad. The man is book-poor. Ann must have that library. I will ask him to use mine." As he stood still in thought, he heard steps, and turned to meet Dr. McGregor.
"Come to see Grace, sir?" said the doctor.
"Yes, I came about a little business, but there seems to be no one in."
"Grace is in bed and pretty sick too."
"What is the matter?"
"Oh, had a baptism in the river--stood too long in the water and got chilled. It has happened before. Come up and see him--he'll like it."
The Squire hesitated and then followed the doctor. "Who cares for him?" he asked as they moved up the stairs.
"Oh, his son. Rather a dull lad, but not a bad fellow. He has no servant--cooks for himself. Ever try it, Squire?"
"I--often. But what a life!"
The stout little clergyman lay on a carved four-post bedstead of old mahogany, which seemed to hint of better days. The ragged patch-work quilt over him told too of busy woman-hands long dead. The windows were closed, the air was sick (as McGregor said later), and there was the indescribable composite odour which only the sick chamber of poverty knows. The boy, glad to escape, went out as they entered.
Grace sat up. "Now," he said cheerfully, "this is real good of you to come and see me! Take a seat, sir."
The chairs were what the doctor once described as non-sitable, and wabbled as they sat down.
"You are better, I see, Grace," said the doctor. "I fetched up the Squire for a consultation."
"Yes, I'm near about right." He had none of the common feeling of the poor that he must excuse his surroundings to these richer visitors, nor any least embarrassment. "It's good to see some one, Mr. Penhallow."
"I come on a pleasant errand," said Penhallow. "We will talk it over and then leave you to the doctor. Mrs. Penhallow wants me to roof your church. I came to say to you that I shall do it with pleasure. You will lose the use of it for one Sunday at least."
"Thank you, Squire," said Grace simply. "That's real good medicine."
"I will see to it at once."
The doctor opened a window, and Penhallow drew a grateful breath of fresh air.
"Don't go, sir," said Grace. The Squire sat down again while McGregor went through his examination of the sick man. Then he too rose to leave.
"Must you go?" said Grace. "It is such a pleasure to see some one from the outside." The doctor smiled and lingered.
"I suppose, Squire, you'll get Joe Boynton, the carpenter, to put on the roof? He's one of my flock."
"Yes," said Penhallow, "but he will want to put his old workman, Peter Lamb, on the job, and I have no desire to help that man any further. He gives his mother nothing, and every cent he makes goes for drink."
McGregor nodded approval, but wondered why at last the Squire's unfailing good-nature had struck for higher wages of virtue in the man he had ruined by kindness.
"I try to keep work in Westways," said Penhallow. "Joe Shall roof the chapel, and like as not Peter will be too drunk to help. I can't quite make it a condition with Joe that he shall not employ Peter, but I should like to." McGregor's face grew smiling at Penhallow's conclusion when he added, "I hope he may get work elsewhere." Then the Squire went downstairs with the doctor, exchanging brevities of talk.
"Are you aware, Penhallow, that this wicked business about Josiah has beaten Buchanan in Westways? Come to apply the Fugitive-Slave Act and people won't stand it. As long as it was just a matter of newspaper discussion Westways didn't feel it, but when it drove away our barber, Westways's conscience woke up to feel how wicked it was."
The Squire had had an illustration nearer home and kept thinking of it as he murmured monosyllabic contributions while the doctor went on--"My own belief is that if the November election were delayed six months, Fremont would carry Pennsylvania."
Penhallow recovered fuller consciousness and returned, "I distrust Fremont. I knew him in the West. But he represents, or rather he stands for, a party, and it is mine."
"I am glad to know that," said McGregor. "I am really glad. It is a relief to be sure about a man like you, Penhallow. I suppose you know that you are loved in the county as no one else is."
"Nonsense," exclaimed the Squire, laughing, but not ill-pleased.
"No, I am serious; but it leads up to this: Am I free to say you will vote the Republican ticket?"
"Yes--yes--you may say so."
"It will be of use, but couldn't I persuade you to speak at the meeting next week at the mills?"
"No, McGregor. That is not in my line." He had other reasons for refusal. "Let us drop politics. What is that boy of yours going to do?"
"Study medicine," he says. "He has brains enough, and Mr. Rivers tells me he is studious. Our two lads fell out, it seems, and my boy got the worst of it. What I don't like is that he has not made up with John."
"No, that is bad; but boys get over their quarrels in time. However, I must go. If I can be of any use to Tom, you know that I am at your service."
"When were you not at everybody's service?" said the doctor, and they went out through the hall.
"Good-bye," said Penhallow, but the doctor stopped him.
"Penhallow, may I take the liberty to bother you with a bit of unasked advice?"
"A liberty, nonsense! What is it?"
"Well, then--let that drunken brute Peter alone. You said that you would not let the carpenter use him, but why not? Then you hoped he would get work. Let him alone."
"McGregor, I have a great charity for a drunkard's son--and the rest you know."
"Yes, too well."
"I try to put myself in his place--with his inheritance--" "You can't. Nothing is more kind than that in some cases, and nothing more foolish in others or in this--" "Perhaps. I will think it over, Doctor. Good-bye."
Meanwhile Grace lay in bed thoughtfully considering the situation. While her husband seemed practically inactive in politics, Mrs. Penhallow had been busy, and she had clearly hinted that the roofing of the chapel might depend on how Grace used his large influence in the electoral contest, but had said nothing very definite. He was well aware, however, that in his need for help he had bowed a little in the House of Rimmon. Then he had talked with Rivers and straightened up, and now did the Squire's offer imply any pledge on his own part? While he tried to solve this problem, Penhallow reappeared.
"I forgot something, Grace," he said. "Mrs. Penhallow will send Mrs. Lamb here for a few days, and some--oh, some little luxuries--ice and fresh milk."
The Baptist did not like it. Was this to keep him in the way he had resolved not to go. "Thank you and her," he returned, and then added abruptly, "How are you meaning to vote, Squire?"
"Oh, for Fremont," replied Penhallow, rather puzzled.
"Well, that will be good news in Westways." It was to him, too, and he felt himself free. "Isn't Mrs. Penhallow rather on the other side?"
He had no least idea that the question might be regarded as impertinent. Penhallow said coldly, "My wife and I are rather averse to talking politics. I came back to say that I want you to feel free to make use of my library--just as Rivers does."
"Now that will be good. I am book-starved except for Rivers's help. Thank you." He put out a fat hand and said, "God has been good to me this day; may He be as kind to you and yours."
The Squire went his way wondering what the deuce the man had to do with Ann Penhallow's politics.
Mrs. Lamb took charge of Grace, and Mrs. Penhallow saw that he was well supplied and gave no further thought to the incorrigible and changeful political views of Westways.
The excitement over the flight of Josiah lessened, and Westways settled down to the ordinary dull routine of a little community dependent on small farmers and the mill-men who boarded at the old tavern or with some of the townspeople.
* * * * * The forests were rapidly changing colour except where pine and spruce stood darkly green amid the growing magnificence of maple and oak. It was the intermediate season in which were neither winter nor summer sports, and John Penhallow enjoying the pageant of autumn rode daily or took long walks, exploring the woods, missing Leila and giving free wing to a mind which felt the yearning, never to be satisfied, to translate into human speech its bird-song of enjoyment of nature.
On an afternoon in mid-October he saw Mr. Rivers, to his surprise, far away on the bank of the river. Well aware that the clergyman was rarely given to any form of exercise on foot, John was a little surprised when he came upon the tall, stooping, pallid man with what Ann Penhallow called the "eloquent" eyes. He was lying on the bank lazily throwing stones into the river. As John broke through the alders and red willows above him, he turned at the sound and cried, as John jumped down the bank, "Glad to see you, John! I have been trying to settle a question no one can settle to the satisfaction of others or even himself. You might give me your opinion as to who wrote the Epistle to the Hebrews. Origen gave it up, and Philo had a theory about Apollos, and there is Tertullian, that's all any fellow knows; and so now I await your opinion. What nobody knows about, anybody's opinion is good about."
John laughed as he said, "I don't think I'll try."
"Did you ever read Hebrews, John? The epistle I mean."
"No."
"Then don't or not yet. The Bible books ought to be read at different ages of a man's life. I could arrange them. Your aunt reads to you or with you, I believe?"
"Yes--Acts just now, sir. She makes it so clear and interesting that it seems as if all might have happened now to some missionaries somewhere."
"That is an art. Some of the Bible stories require such help to make them seem real to modern folk. How does, or how did, Leila take Mrs. Ann's teachings?"
"Oh, Leila," he replied, as he began to pitch pebbles in the little river, "Leila--wriggled. You know, she really can't keep quiet, Mr. Rivers."
"Yes, I know well enough. But did what interested you interest Leila?"
"No--no, indeed, sir. It troubled Aunt Ann because she could not make her see things. Usually at night before bedtime we read some of the Gospels, and then once a week Acts. Every now and then Leila would sit still and ask such queer questions--about people."
"What kind of questions, John?" He was interested and curious.
"Oh, about Peter's mother and--I forget--oh, yes, once--I remember that because aunt did not like it and I really couldn't see why."
"Well, what was it?"
"She wanted to know if Christ's brothers ever were married and if they had children."
"Did she, indeed! Well--well!"
"Aunt Ann asked her why she wanted to know that, and Leila said it was because she was thinking how Christ must have loved them, and maybe that was why He was so fond of little children. Now, I couldn't have thought that."
"Nor I," said Rivers. "She will care more for people--oh, many people--and by and by for things, events and the large aspects of life, but she is as yet undeveloped."
John was clear that he did not want her to like many people, but he was inclined to keep this to himself and merely said, "I don't quite understand."
"No, perhaps I _was_ a little vague. Leila is at the puzzling age. You will find her much altered in a year."
"I won't like that."
"Well, perhaps not. But you too have changed a good deal since you came. You were a queer young prig."
"I was--I was indeed."
Then they were silent a while. John thought of his mother who had left him to the care of tutors and schools while she led a wandering, unhappy, invalid life. He remembered the Alps and the _spas_ and her fretful care of his very good health, and then the delight of being free and surrounded with all a boy desires, and at last Leila and the wonderful hair on the snow-drift.
"Look at the leaves, John," said Rivers. "What fleets of red and gold!"
"I wonder," said John, "how far they will drift, and if any of them will ever float to the sea. It is a long way."
"Yes," returned Rivers, "and so we too are drifting."
"Oh, no, sir," said John, with the confidence of youth, "we are not drifting, we are sailing--not just like the leaves anywhere the waves take them."
"More or less," added Rivers moodily, "more or less."
He looked at the boy as he spoke, conscious of a nature unlike his own. Then he laughed outright. "You may be sure we are a good deal hustled by circumstances--like the leaves."
"I should prefer to hustle circumstances," replied John gaily, and again the rector studied the young face and wondered what life had in store for this resolute nature.
"Come, let us go. I have walked too far for me, I am overtired, John."
What it felt to be overtired, John hardly knew. He said, "I know a short cut, cater-cornered across the new clearing."
As they walked homeward, Rivers said, "What do you want to do, John? You are more than fit for the university--you should be thinking about it."
"I do not know."
"Would you like to be a clergyman?"
"No," said John decisively.
"Or a lawyer, or a doctor like Tom McGregor?"
"I do not know--I have not thought about it much, but I might like to go to West Point."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, but I am not sure."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
12
|
None
|
When John was eager to hear what Leila wrote, his aunt laughed and said, "As you know, there is always a word of remembrance for you, but her letters would hardly interest you. They are about the girls and the teachers and new gowns. Write to her--I will enclose it, but you need expect no answer."
That Leila should have acquired interest in gowns seemed to him unlike that fearless playmate. He learned that the rules of the school forbade the writing of letters except to parents and near relatives. He was now to write to Leila the first letter he had written since his laborious epistles to his mother when at school. His compositions seemed to Rivers childlike long after he showed notable competence in speech.
"DEAR LEILA: It is very hard that you cannot write to me. We are all well here except Lucy, who is lame. It isn't very much.
"Of course you have heard about our good old Josiah. Isn't that slave law wicked? Westways is angry and all turned round for Fremont. Mr. Grace has been ill, and Uncle Jim is putting a roof on his chapel. Josiah left me his traps when he ran away. He meant to make you a muskrat skin bag. I found four in his traps, and I have caught four more, and when Mrs. Lamb makes a bag of them, I am to have for it a silver clasp which belonged to Great-grandmother Penhallow. No girl will have one like that. It was on account of Josiah the town will not vote for Buchanan.
"I wish I had asked you for a lock of your hair. I remember how it looked on the snow when Billy upset us." -- He had found his letter-writing hard work, and let it alone for a time. Before he finished it, he had more serious news to add.
The autumnal sunset of the year, the red and gold of maple, oak and sassafras, was new to the boy who had spent so many years in Europe, and more wonderful was it when in this late October on the uplands there fell softly upon the glowing colours of the woods a light covering of early snow. Once seen it is a spectacle never to be forgotten, and he had the gift of being charmed by the scenic ingenuities of nature.
The scripture reading was over and he was thinking late in the evening of what he had seen, when his aunt said, "Goodnight, John--bed-time," and went up the stairway. John lay quiet, with closed eyes, seeing the sunlit snow lightly dusted on the red and yellows of the forest.
About eleven his uncle came from the library. "What, you scamp! --up so late! I meant to mail this letter to-day; run down and mail it. It ought to go when Billy takes the letters to Westways Crossing early to-morrow. I will wait up for you. Now use those long legs and hurry."
John took his cap and set off, liking the run over the snow, which was light and no longer falling. He raced down the avenue and climbed the gate, thinking of Leila. He dropped the letter into the post-office box, and decided to return by a short way through the Penhallow woods which faced the town. He moved eastward, climbed the fence, and stood still. He was some two hundred yards from the parsonage. His attention was arrested by a dull glow behind the house. He ran towards it as it flared upward a broad rush of flame, brilliantly lighting the expanse of snow and sending long prancing shafts of shadow through the woods as it struck on the tall spruces. Shouting, "Fire! Fire!" John came nearer.
The large store of dry pine and birch for winter-use piled in a shed against the back of Rivers's house was burning fiercely, with that look of ungoverned fury which gives such an expression of merciless, personal rage to a great fire. The terror of it at first possessed the lad, who was shouting himself hoarse. The flame was already running up and over the outer planking and curling down upon the thin snow of the shingled roof as he ran around the small garden and saw the front door open and Rivers come out. The rector said, "It is gone, John; I will go for your uncle. Run over to the Wayne and call up the men. Tell them to get out my books and what they can, but to run no risks. Quick, now! Wake up the town."
There was little need, for some one at the inn had heard John's cries. In a few minutes the village was awake and out of doors before Penhallow arriving took charge and scattered men through the easily lighted pines, in some dread of a forest fire. The snow on the floor of pine-needles and on the laden trees was, however, as he soon saw, an insurance against the peril from far-scattered sparks, and happily there was no wind. Little of what was of any value was saved, and in the absence of water there was nothing to do but to watch the fire complete its destructive work.
"There is nothing more we can do, Rivers," said Penhallow. "John was the first to see it. We will talk about it to-morrow--not now--not here."
The three Grey Pine people stood apart while books and clothes and little else were carried across the road and stored in the village houses. At last the flames rose high in the air and for a few minutes as the roof fell in, the beauty of the illumination was what impressed John and Rivers. The Squire now and then gave quick orders or stood still in thought. At last he said to the rector, "I want you to go to Grey Pine, call up Mrs. Penhallow and tell her, and then go to bed. You will like to stay here with me, John?"
"Yes, sir." The Squire walked away as Rivers left them.
"Fine sight, ain't it, Mr. John," said Billy, the one person who enjoyed the fire.
"Yes," said John, absently intent on the red-lighted snow spaces and the gigantic shadows of the thinly timbered verge of the forest as they were and were not. Then there was a moment of alarm. An old birch, loosely clad with dry, ragged bark stood near to the house. A flake of falling fire fell on it. Instantly the whole trunk-cover blazed up with a roar like that of a great beast in pain. It was sudden and for the instant terrible, but the snow-laden leaves still left on it failed to take fire, and what in summer would have been a calamity was at an end.
"Gosh!" exclaimed Billy, "didn't he howl?" John made no reply.
"Couldn't wake Peter. I was out first." He had liked the fun of banging at the doors. "Old Woman Lamb said she couldn't wake him."
"Drunk, I suppose," said John absently, stamping out a spark among the pine-needles at his feet, now freed from snow by the heat.
The night passed, and when the dawning came, the Squire leaving some orders went homeward with John, saying only, "Go to bed at once, we will talk about it later. I don't like it, John. You saw it first--where did it begin?"
"Outside, sir, in the wood-shed."
"Indeed! There has been some foul play. Who could it have been?" He said no more.
It was far into the morning when John awaking found that he had been allowed to make up for the lost sleep of the past night. His aunt smiling greeted him with a kiss, concerning which there is something to be said in regard to what commentary the assistant features make upon the kiss. "I would not have you called earlier," she said; "but now, here is your breakfast, you have earned it." She sat down and watched the disappearance of a meal which would have filled his mother with anxiety. Ann was really enjoying the young fellow's wholesome appetite and contrasting it with the apprehensive care concerning food he had shown when long before he had seemed to her husband and herself a human problem hard to solve. James Penhallow had been wise, and Leila a rough and efficient schoolmistress. "Do not hurry, John; have another cup?"
"Yes, please."
"Have you written that letter? I mean to be naughty enough to enclose it to Leila. I told you so."
"Yes, but it is not quite done, and now I must tell her about the fire. I wrote her that Josiah had gone away."
"The less of it the better. I mean about--well, about your warning him--and the rest--your share and mine."
"Of course not, Aunt Ann. I would not talk about myself. I mean, I could not write about it."
"You would talk of it if she were here--you would, I am sure."
"Yes, that's different--I suppose, I would," he returned. She was struck with this as being like what James Penhallow would have said and have, or not have, done.
"If you have finished, John, I think your uncle wants you."
"Why didn't you tell me, aunt?" he said, as he got up in haste.
"Oh, boys must be fed," she cried. She too rose from her seat, and went around the table and kissed him again, saying, "You are more and more like my captain, John."
Being a woman, as John was well aware, not given to express approval of what were merely acts of duty, he was surprised at what was, for her, excess of praise; nor was she as much given to kissing, as are many women. The lad felt, therefore, that what she thus said and did was unusual, and was what his Uncle Jim called one of Ann's rarely conferred brevets of affection.
"Yes," she repeated, "you are like him."
"What! I like Uncle Jim! I wish I were."
"Now go," she said, giving him a gentle push. She was shyly aware of a lapse into unhabitual emotion and of some closer approach to the maternal relation fostered by his growing resemblance to James Penhallow.
"So," laughed his uncle as John entered the library, "you have burned down the school and are on a holiday--you and Rivers."
John grinned. "Yes, sir."
"Sit down. We are discussing that fire. You were the first to see it, John. It was about eleven--" "Yes, uncle, it struck as I left the hall."
"No one else was in sight, and in fact, Rivers, no one in Westways is out of bed at ten. Both you and John are sure the fire began outside where the wood was piled under a shed."
"Yes," said Rivers. "It was a well dried winter supply, birch and pine. The shed, as you know, was alongside of the kitchen door. I went over the house as usual about nine, after old Susan, the maid, had gone home. I covered the kitchen fire with ashes--a thing she is apt to neglect. I went to bed at ten and wakened to hear the glass crack and to smell smoke. The kitchen lay under my bedroom. I fear it was a deliberate act of wickedness."
"That is certain," said Penhallow, "but who could have wanted to do it. You and I, Rivers, know every one in Westways. Can you think of any one with malice enough to make him want to bum a house and risk the possibility of murder?"
Rivers turned his lean pale face toward the Squire, unwilling to speak out what was in the minds of both men. John listened, looking from one serious face to the other.
"It seems to me quite incredible," said Penhallow, and then Rivers knew surely that the older man had a pretty definite belief in regard to the person who had been concerned. He knew too why the Squire was unwilling to accuse him, and waited to hear what next Penhallow would say.
"It makes one feel uncomfortable," said Penhallow, and turning to John, "Who was first there after you came?"
"Billy, sir, I think, even before the men from the Wayne, but I am not sure. I told him to pound on the doors and wake up the town."
"Did he say anything?"
"Oh, just his usual silliness."
"Was Peter Lamb at the fire?"
"I think not. His mother opened a window and said that she could not waken Peter. It was Billy told me that. I told Billy, I supposed Peter was drunk. But he wasn't yesterday afternoon--I saw him."
"Oh, there was time enough for that," remarked Rivers.
Then the two men smoked and were silent, until at last the Squire said, "Of course, you must stay here, Rivers, and you know how glad we shall be--oh, don't protest. It is the only pleasant thing which comes out of this abominable matter. Ann will like it."
"Thank you," returned Rivers, "I too like it."
John went away to look at the ruin left by the fire, and the Squire said to his friend, "As I am absent in the mornings at the mills, you may keep school here, Rivers," and it was so settled.
Before going out Penhallow went to his wife's little room on the farther side of the hall. He had no desire to hide his conclusions from her. She saw how grave he looked. "What is it, James?" she asked, looking up from her desk.
"I am as sure as a man can be that Peter Lamb set fire to the parsonage. He has always been revengeful and he owed our friend, the Rector, a grudge. I have no direct evidence of his guilt, and what am I to do? You know why I have always stood by him. I suppose that I was wrong."
She knew only too well, but now his evident trouble troubled her and she loved him too well to accept the temptation to use the exasperating phrase, "I always told you so." "You can do nothing, James, without more certainty. You will not question his mother?"
"No, I can't do that, Ann; and yet I cannot quite let this go by and simply sit still."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I do not know," and with this he left her and rode to the mills. In the afternoon he called at Mrs. Lamb's and asked where he could find Peter.
She was evidently uneasy, as she said, "You gave him work on the new roof of the Baptist chapel with Boynton; he might be there."
He made no comment, and went on his way until reaching the chapel he called Peter down from the roof and said, "Come with me, I want to talk to you."
Peter was now sober and was sharply on guard. "Come away from the town," added the Squire. He crossed the street, entered his own woods and walked through them until he came in sight of the smoking relics of the parsonage, where at a distance some few persons were idly discussing what was also on Penhallow's mind. Here he turned on his foster-brother, and said, "You set that house on fire. I could get out of your mother enough to make it right to arrest you, but I will not bring her into the matter. Others suspect you. Now, what have you to say?"
"Say! I didn't do it--that's all. I was in bed."
"Why did you not get up and help?"
"Wasn't any of my business," he replied sulkily. "Everybody in this town's against me, and now when I've given up drinking, to say I set a house afire--" "Well!" said Penhallow, "this is my last word, you may go. I shall not have you arrested, but I cannot answer for what others may do."
Peter walked away. He had been for several days enough under the influence of whisky to intensify what were for him normal or at least habitually indulged characteristics. For them he was only in part responsible. His mother had spoiled him. He had been as a child the playmate of his breast-brother until time and change had left him only in such a relation to Penhallow as would have meant little or nothing to most men. As a result, out of the Squire's long and indulgent care of a lad who grew up a very competent carpenter, and gradually more and more an idle drunkard, Peter had come to overestimate the power of his claim on Penhallow. What share in his evil qualities his father's drunkenness had, is in no man's power to say. His desire to revenge the slightest ill-treatment or the abuse his evil ways earned had the impelling force of a brute instinct. What he called "getting even" kept him in difficulties, and when he made things unpleasant or worse for the offenders, his constant state of induced indifference to consequences left him careless and satisfied. When there was not enough whisky to be had, his wild acts of revengeful malice were succeeded by such childlike terror as Penhallow's words produced. 'The preacher would have him arrested; the Squire would not interfere. Some day he would get even with him too!' There was now, however, no recourse but flight. He hastened home and finding his mother absent searched roughly until by accident as he let fall her Bible, a bank note dropped out. There were others, some sixty dollars or more, her meagre savings. He took it all without the least indecision. At dark after her return he ate the supper she provided. When she had gone to bed, he packed some clothes in a canvas bag and went quietly out upon the highway. Opposite to the smoking ruin of the rectory he halted. He muttered, "I've got even with him anyhow!"
As he murmured his satisfaction, a man left on guard crossed the road. "Halloa! Where are you bound, Peter?"
"Goin' after a job. Bad fire, wasn't it--hard on the preacher!"
"Hard. He's well lodged at the Squire's, and I do hear it was insured. Nobody's much the worse, and it will make a fine bit of work for some of us. Who done it, I wonder?"
"How should I know! Good-night."
When out of sight, he turned and said, "I ain't got even yet. Them rich people's hard to beat. Damn the Squire! I'll get even with him some day." He was bitterly disappointed. "Gosh! I ran that nigger out, and now I'm a runaway too. It's queer."
At Westways Crossing he waited until an empty freight train was switched off to let the night express go by. Then he stowed himself away in an open box-car and had a comfortable sense of relief as it rolled eastward. He felt sure that the Squire's last words meant that he might be arrested and that immediate flight was his only chance of escape.
He thus passes, like Josiah, for some years out of my story. He had money, was when sober a clever carpenter, and felt, therefore, no fear of his future. He had the shrewd conviction that the Squire at least would not be displeased to get rid of him, and would not be very eager to have him pursued.
James Penhallow was disagreeably aware that it was his duty to bring about the punishment of his drunken foster-brother, but he did not like it. When the next morning he was about to mount his horse, he saw Mrs. Lamb, now an aged woman, coming slowly up the avenue. As she came to the steps of the porch, Penhallow went to meet her, giving the help of his hand.
"Good-morning, Ellen," he said, "what brings you here over the snow this frosty day? Do you want to see Mrs. Penhallow?"
For a moment she was too breathless to answer. The withered leanness of the weary old face moved in an effort to speak, but was defeated by emotion. She gasped, "Let me set down."
He led her into the hall and gave her a chair. Then he called his wife from her library-room. Ann at once knew that something more than the effect of exertion was to be read in the moving face. The dull grey eyes of age stared at James Penhallow and then at her, and again at him, as in the vigour of perfect health they looked down at his old nurse and with kindly patience waited. "Don't hurry, Ellen," said Mrs. Ann. "You are out of breath."
She seemed to Ann like some dumb animal that had no language but a look to tell the story of despair or pain. At last she found her voice and gasped out, "I came to tell you he has run away. He went last night. I'd like to be able to say, James Penhallow, that I don't know why he went away--" "We will not talk of it, Ellen," said the Squire, with some sense of relief at the loss of need to do what he had felt to be a duty. "Come near to the fire," he added.
"No, I want to go home. I had to tell you. I just want to be alone. I'd have given it to him if he had asked me. I don't mind his taking the money, but he took it out of my Bible. I kept it there. It was like stealing from the Lord. It'll bring him bad luck. Mostly it was in the Gospels--just a bank-note here and there--sixty-one dollars and seventy-three cents it was." She seemed to be talking to herself rather than to the man and woman at her side. She went on--sometimes a babble they could not comprehend, as in pity and wonder they stood over her. Then again her voice rose, "He took it from the book of God. Oh, my son, my son! I must go."
She rose feebly tottering, and added, "It will follow him like a curse out of the Bible. He took it out of the Bible. I must go."
"No," said Penhallow, "wait and I will send you home."
She sat down again. "Thank you." Then with renewed strength, she said, "You won't have them go after him?"
"No, I will not."
He went away to order the carriage, and returning said, "You know, Ellen, that you will always be taken care of."
"Yes, I know, sir--I know. But he took it out of my Bible--out of the book of God." She was presently helped into the wagon and sent away murmuring incoherently.
"And so, James," said Ann, "she knew too much about the fire. What a tragedy!"
"Yes, she knew. I am glad that he has gone. If he had faced it out and stayed, I must have done something. I suppose it is better for her on the whole. When he was drunk, he was brutal; when he was sober, he kept her worried. I am glad he has gone."
"But," said Ann, "he was her son--" "Yes, more's the pity."
In a day or two it was known that Peter had disappeared. The town knew very well why and discussed it at evening, when as usual the men gathered for a talk. Pole expressed the general opinion when he said, "It's hard on the old woman, but I guess it's a riddance of bad rubbish." Then they fell to talking politics, the roofing of the chapel and the price of wheat and so Westways settled down again to its every-day quiet round of duties.
The excitement of the fire and Lamb's flight had been unfavourable to literary composition, but now John returned to his letter. He continued: "The reticule will have to be finished in town. Uncle will take it after the election or send it to you. If you remember your Latin, you will know that reticule comes from _reticulus,_ a net. But this isn't really a net.
"We have had a big excitement. Some one set fire to the parsonage and it burnt down." [He did not tell her who set it on fire, although he knew very well that it was Peter Lamb.] "Lamb has run away, and I think we are well rid of him.
"I do miss you very much. Mr. Rivers says you will be a fashionable young lady when you come back and will never snowball any more. I don't believe it.
"Yours truly, "JOHN PENHALLOW."
Mrs. Penhallow enclosed the letter in one of her own, and no answer came until she gave him a note at the end of October. Leila wrote: "DEAR JOHN: It is against the rules to write to any one but parents, and I am breaking the rules when I enclose this to you. I do not think I ought to do it, and I will not again.
"You would not know me in my long skirts, and I wear my hair in two plaits. The girls are all from the South and are very angry when they talk about the North. I cannot answer them and am sorry I do not know more about politics, but I do know that Uncle Jim would not agree with them.
"I go on Saturdays and over Sundays to my cousins in Baltimore. They say that the South will secede if Fremont should be elected. I just hold my tongue and listen.
"Yours sincerely, "LEILA GREY.
"P.S. I shall be very proud of the bag. I hope you are studying hard."
"Indeed!" muttered John. "Thanks, Miss Grey." There was no more of it.
John Penhallow had come by degrees to value the rare privilege of a walk with the too easily wearied clergyman, who had avenues of ready intellectual approach which invited the adventurous mind of the lad and were not in the mental topography of James Penhallow. The cool, hazy days of late October had come with their splendour of colour-contrasts such as only the artist nature could make acceptable, and this year the autumn was unusually brilliant.
"Do you enjoy it?" asked Rivers.
"Oh, yes, sir. I suppose every one does."
"In a measure, as some people do the great music, and as the poets usually do not. People presume that the ear for rhythm is the same as that for music. They are things apart. A few poets have had both."
"That seems strange," said John. "I have neither," and he was lost in thought until Rivers, as usual easily tired, said, "Let us sit down. How hazy the air is, John! It tenderly flatters these wild colour-contrasts. It is like a November day of the Indian summer."
"Why do they call it Indian summer?" asked John.
"I do not know. I tried in vain to run it down in the dictionaries. In Canada it is known as 'L'été de St. Martin.'"
"It seems," said John, "as if the decay of the year had ceased, in pity. It is so beautiful and so new to me. I feel sometimes when I am alone in these woods as if something was going to happen. Did you ever feel that, sir?"
Rivers was silent for a moment. The lad's power to state things in speech and his incapacity to put his thoughts in writing had often puzzled the tutor. "Why don't you put such reflections into verse, John? It's good practice in English."
"I can't--I've tried."
"Try again."
"No," said John decidedly. "Do look at those maples, Mr. Rivers--and the oaks--and the variety of colour in the sassafras. Did you ever notice how its leaves differ in shape?"
"I never did, but nothing is exactly the same as anything else. We talked of that once."
"Then since the world began there never was another me or Leila?"
"Never. There is only one of anything."
John was silent--in thought of his unresemblance to any other John. "But I am like Uncle Jim! Aunt says so."
"Yes, outwardly you are; but you have what he has not--imagination. It is both friend and foe as may be. It may not be a good gift for a soldier--at least one form of it. It may be the parent of fear--of indecisions."
"But, Mr. Rivers, may it not work also for good and suggest possibilities--let you into seeing what other men may do?"
The reflection seemed to Rivers not like the thought of so young a man. He returned, "But I said it might be a friend and have practical uses in life. I have not found it that myself. But some men have morbid imagination. Let us walk." They went on again through the quiet splendour of the woodlands.
"Uncle Jim is going away after the election."
"Yes."
"He will see Leila. Don't you miss her?"
"Yes, but not as you do. However, she will grow up and go by you and be a woman while you are more slowly maturing. That is their way. And then she will marry."
"Good gracious! Leila marry!"
"Yes--it is a way they have. Let us go home."
John was disinclined to talk. Marry--yes--when I am older, I shall ask her until she does!
November came in churlish humour and raged in storms of wind and rain, until before their time to let fall their leaves the woods were stripped of their gay colours. On the fourth day of November the Squire voted the Fremont electoral ticket, and understood that with the exception of Swallow and Pole, Westways had followed the master of Grey Pine. The other candidates did not trouble them. The sad case of Josiah and the threat to capture their barber had lost Buchanan the twenty-seven votes of the little town. Mr. Boynton, the carpenter, fastening the last shingles on the chapel roof remarked to a workman that it was an awful pity Josiah couldn't know about it and that the new barber wasn't up to shaving a real stiff beard.
The Squire wrote to his wife from Philadelphia on the ninth: "DEAR ANN: We never talk politics because you were born a Democrat and consider Andrew Jackson a political saint. I begin to wish he might be reincarnated in the body of Buchanan. He will need backbone, I fear. He has carried our State by only three thousand majority in a vote of 433,000. I am told that the excitement here was so great that the peacemaking effect of a day of cold drizzle alone prevented riot and bloodshed. Mr. Buchanan said in October, 'We shall hear no more of "Bleeding Kansas."' Well, I hope so. Here we are at one. I should feel more regret at the defeat of my party if I had more belief in Fremont, but your man is, I am sure, elected, and we must hope for the best and try to think that hope reasonable.
"I have been fortunate in my contracts for rails with the two railroads. I shall finish this letter in Baltimore. -- "Baltimore. --I saw Leila, who has quite the air of a young lady and is well, handsome and reasonably contented. Dined with your brother Henry; and really, Ann, the cold-blooded way the men talked of secession was a little beyond endurance. I spoke my mind at last, and was heard with courteous disapproval. My friend, Lt.-Colonel Robert Lee of the Army, was the only man who was silent about our troubles. Two men earnestly advocated the re-opening of the slave-trade, and if as they say slavery is a blessing, the slave-trade is morally justified and logically desirable. I do want you to feel, my dear Ann, how extreme are the views of these pleasant gentlemen.
"The Madeira was good, and despite the half-hidden bitterness of opinion, I enjoyed my visit. Let John read this letter if you like to do so.
"Yours always and in all ways, "JAMES PENHALLOW."
She did not like, but John heard all about this visit when the Squire came home.
The winter of 1856-7 went by without other incident at Westways, with Mrs. Ann's usual bountiful Christmas gifts to the children at the mills and Westways. Mr. Buchanan was inaugurated in March. The captain smiled grimly as he read in the same paper the message of the Governor of South Carolina recommending the re-opening of the trade in slaves, and the new President's hopes "that the long agitation over slavery is approaching its end." Nor did Penhallow fancy the Cabinet appointments, but he said nothing more of his opinions to Ann Penhallow.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
13
|
None
|
In the early days of May the Squire began to rebuild the parsonage, and near by it a large room for Sunday school and town-meetings. Ann desired to add a library-room for the town and would have set about this at once had not her husband resolutely set himself against any addition to the work with which she filled her usefully busy life. She yielded with reluctance, and the library plan was set aside to the regret of Rivers, who living in a spiritual atmosphere was slow to perceive what with the anxiety of a great love James Penhallow saw so clearly--the failure of Ann Penhallow's health.
When at last Penhallow sat down with McGregor in his office, the doctor knew at once that something serious was troubling his friend.
"Well, Penhallow," he said, "what can I do for you?"
"I want you to see my wife. She sleeps badly, tires easily, and worst of all is unwilling to consult you."
"Yes, that's serious. Of course, she does the work of two people, but has it ever occurred to you, Penhallow, that in the isolated life you lead she may be at times bored and want or need society, change?"
"My dear Doctor, if I propose to her to ask our friends from the cities to visit us, she says that entertaining women would only add to her burdens. How could she amuse them?" The Squire had the helplessness of a strong man who has to deal with the case of a woman who, when a doctor is thought to be necessary, feels that she has a right to an opinion as to whether or not it is worth while. She did not believe it to be necessary and felt that there was something unpleasant in this medical intrusion upon a life which had been one of unbroken health. To her husband's annoyance she begged him to wait, and on one pretext or another put off the consultation--it would do in a week, or 'she was better.' Her postponement and lack of decision added to the Squire's distress, but it was mid-June before she finally yielded and without a word to Penhallow wrote to ask McGregor to call.
In a week Leila would be at Grey Pine. The glad prospect of a summer's leisure filled John with happy anticipations. He had his boat put in order, looked after Lucy's condition, and had in mind a dozen plans for distant long-desired rides into the mountains, rides which now his uncle had promised to take with them. He soon learned that the medical providence which so often interferes with our plans in life had to be considered.
Mrs. Penhallow to John's surprise had of late gone to bed long before her accustomed hour, and one evening in this June of 1857 Penhallow seeing her go upstairs at nine o'clock called John into the library.
"Mr. Rivers," he said, "has gone to see some one in Westways, and I have a chance to talk to you. Sit down."
John obeyed, missing half consciously the ever-ready smile of the Squire.
"I am troubled about your aunt. Dr. McGregor assures me that she has no distinct ailment, but is simply so tired that she is sure to become ill if she stays at home. No one can make her lessen her work if she stays here. You are young, but you must have been aware of what she does for this town and at the mills--oh, for every one who is in need or in trouble. There is the every-day routine of the house, the sick in the village, the sewing class, the Sunday afternoon reading in the small hospital at our mills, letters--no end of them. How she has stood it so long, I cannot see."
"But she seems to like it, sir," said John. He couldn't understand that what was so plainly enjoyed could be hurtful.
"Yes, she likes it, but--well, she has a heavenly soul in an earthly body, and now at last the body is in revolt against overuse, or that at least is the way McGregor puts it. I ought to have stopped it long ago." John was faintly amused at the idea of any one controlling Ann Penhallow where her despotic beliefs concerning duties were concerned.
The Squire was silent for a little while, and then said, "It has got to stop, John. I have talked to McGregor and to her. Leila is to meet us in Philadelphia. I shall take them to Cape May and leave them there for at least the two months of summer. You may know what that means for me and for her, and, I suppose, for you."
"Could I not go there for a while?"
"I think not. I really have not the courage to be left alone, John. I think of asking you to spend a part of the day at the mills this summer. You will have to learn the business, for as you know your own property, your aunt's and mine are largely invested in our works. I thought too of an engineering school for you in the fall, and then of the School of Mines in Paris. It is a long look ahead, but it would fit you to relieve me of my work. Think it over, my son. How does it look to you, or have you thought of what you mean or want to do? Don't answer me now--think it over. And now I have some letters to write. Good-night."
John went upstairs to bed with much to think about, and above all else of the disappointing summer before him and the wish he had long cherished, but which his uncle's last words had made it necessary for him to reconsider.
Ann Penhallow had made a characteristic fight against the combined forces of the doctor and her husband. She had declared she would give up this and that, if only she could be left at home. She showed to the doctor an irritability quite new to his experience of her and which he accepted as added evidence of need of change. Her bodily condition and her want of common sense in a matter so clear to him troubled the Squire and drove him to his usual resort when worried--long rides or hard tramps with his gun. After luncheon and a decisive talk with Mrs. Ann, she had pleaded that he ought to remain with them at the shore. She was sure he needed it and it would set her mind at ease. He told her what she knew well enough, how impossible it would be for him to leave the mills and be absent long. She who rarely manufactured difficulties now began to ask how this was to be done and that, until Rivers said at last, "I can promise to read at the hospital until I go away for my August holiday."
"You would not know the kind of things to read."
"No one could do it as well as you," said Rivers, "but I can try."
"Everything will be cared for, Ann," said Penhallow, "only don't worry."
"I never worry," she returned, rising. "You men think everything will run along easily without a woman's attention."
"Oh, but Ann, my dear Ann!" exclaimed Penhallow, not knowing what more to say, annoyed at the discussion and at her display of unnecessary temper and the entire loss of her usual common sense.
She said, with a laugh in which there was no mirth, "I presume one of you will, of course, run my sewing-class?"
"Ann--Ann!" said the Squire.
Rivers understood her now in the comprehending sympathy of his own too frequent moods of melancholy. "Ah!" he murmured, "if I could but teach her how to knit the ravelled sleeve of care."
"I presume," she added, "that I am to accept it as settled," and so went out.
"Come, John," said Penhallow an hour later, "call the dogs--I must have a good hard tramp, and a talk with you!"
John kept pace with, the rapid stride of the Squire, taking note of the reddening buds of the maples, for this year in the hills the spring came late.
"You must have seen your aunt's condition," said Penhallow. "I have seen it coming on ever since that miserable affair of Josiah. It troubled her greatly."
John had the puzzled feeling of the inexperienced young in regard to the matter of illness and its influential effect on temper, and was well pleased to converse on anything else, when his uncle asked, "Have you thought over what I said to you about your future?"
"Well?"
"I should like to go to West Point, Uncle Jim."
To his surprise Penhallow returned, pausing as he spoke, "I had thought of that, but as I did not know you had ever considered it, I did not mention it. It would in some ways please me. As a life-long career it would not. We are in no danger of war, and an idle existence at army-posts is not a very desirable thing for an able man."
"I had the idea, uncle, that I would not remain in the service."
"But you would have to serve two years after you were graduated--and still that was what I did, oh! and longer--much longer. As an education in discipline and much else, it is good--very good. But tell me are you really in earnest about it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, it is better than college. I will think about it. If you go to the Point, it should be this coming fall. I wonder what Ann will say."
Then John knew that the Squire favoured what had been for a long time on his own mind. What had made him eager to go into the army was in part that tendency towards adventure which had been a family trait and his admiration for the soldier-uncle; nor did the mere student life and the quiet years of managing the iron-mills as yet appeal to him as desirable.
"I wish, Uncle Jim, that you could settle the matter."
This was so like his own dislike of unsettled affairs that the Squire laughed in his hearty way. "So far as I am concerned, you may regard it as decided; but securing a nomination to the Point is quite another matter. It may be difficult. I will see about it. Now we will let it drop. That dog is pointing. Ah! the rascal. It is a hare."
They saw no more birds, nor did the Squire expect to find anything in the woods except the peace of mind to be secured by violent exercise. He went on talking about the horses and the mills.
When near to the house, Penhallow said, "Your aunt is to go away to-morrow. Every day here seems to add to her difficulty in leaving home. I shall say nothing to her of West Point until it is settled one way or another. I shall, of course, go to the Cape for a day, unless your aunt's brother Charles will take my place when he brings Leila to Philadelphia to meet us. I may be gone a week, and you and Rivers are to keep bachelor's hall and watch the work on the parsonage. I shall ask Leila to write to you and to me about your aunt. Did I say that we go by the 9:30 A.M. express?"
"No, sir."
"Well, we do."
James Penhallow was pleased and amazed when he discovered that Mrs. Ann was quietly submissive to the arrangements made for her comfort on the journey. She appeared to have abruptly regained her good temper and, Penhallow thought, was unnaturally and excessively grateful for every small service. Being unused to the ways of sick women, he wondered as the train ran down the descent from the Allegheny Mountains how long a time was required to know any human being entirely. He had been introduced within two weeks to two Ann Penhallows besides the Ann he had lived with these many years. He concluded, as others have done, that people are hard to understand, and thus thinking he ran over in mind the group they left on the platform at Westways Crossing.
There was Billy--apparently a simple character, abruptly capable of doing unexpected things; useful to-day, useless tomorrow. He called up to mind the very competent doctor; John, and his friend--the moody clergyman--beloved of all men. The doctor had said of him, "a man living in the monastery of himself--in our world, but not of it."
"What amuses you, James?" asked his wife.
This good sign of return to her normal curiosity was familiarly pleasant. "I was recalling, Ann, what McGregor said of Rivers after that horrid time of sickness at Westways. You may remember it."
"No, I do not."
"No! He said that Rivers was a round-shouldered angel."
"That does not seem to me amusing, James."
"Round-shouldered he is, Ann, and for the rest you at least ought to recognize your heavenly fellow-citizens when you meet them."
"Is that your poetry or your folly, James Penhallow?"
"Mine, my dear? No language is expansive enough for McGregor when he talks about you."
"Nonsense, James. He knows how to please somebody. We were discussing Mark Rivers."
"Were we? Then here is a nice little dose from the doctor for you. Last Christmas, after you had personally sat up with old Mrs. Lamb when she was so ill, and until I made a row about it--" "Yes--yes--I know." Her curiosity got the better of her dislike of being praised for what to her was a simple duty, and she added, "Well, what did he say?"
"Oh, that you and Rivers were like angels gone astray in the strange country called earth; and then that imp of a boy, John, who says queer things, said that it was like a bit of verse Rivers had read to him. He knew it too. I liked it and got him to write it out. I have it in my pocket-book. Like to see it?"
"No," she returned--and then--"yes," as she reflected that it must have originally applied to another than herself.
He was in the habit of storing in his pocket-book slips from the papers--news, receipts for stable-medicine, and rarely verse. Now and then he emptied them into the waste basket. He brought it out of his pocket-book and she read it: As when two angel citizens of Heaven Swift winged on errands of the Master's love Meet in some earthly guise.
"Is that all of it?"
"No, John could not remember the rest, and I did not ask Mark."
"I should suppose not. Thank you for believing it had any application to me. And, James, I have been a very cross angel of late."
"Oh, my dear Ann, Dr. McGregor said--" "Never mind Dr. McGregor, James. Go and smoke your cigar. I am tired and I must not talk any more--talking on a train always tires me."
Two days after the departure of his aunt and uncle, John persuaded Rivers to walk with him on the holiday morning of Saturday. The clergyman caring little for the spring charm of the maiden summer, but much for John Penhallow's youth of promise, wandered on slowly through the woods, with head bent forward, stumbling now and then, lost to a world where his companion was joyfully conscious of the prettiness of new-born and translucent foliage.
Always pleased to sit down, Rivers dropped his thin length of body upon the brown pine-needles near the cabin and settling his back against a fallen tree-trunk made himself comfortable. As usual, when at rest, he began to talk.
"John," he said, "you and Tom McGregor had a quarrel long ago--and a fight."
"Yes, sir," returned John wondering.
"I saw it--I did not interfere at once--I was wrong."
This greatly amused John. "You stopped it just in time for me--I was about done for."
"Yes, but now, John, I have talked to Tom, and--I am afraid you have never made it up."
"No, he was insolent to Leila and rude. But we had a talk about it--oh, a good while ago--before she went away."
"Oh, had you! Well, what then?"
"Oh, he told me you had talked to him and he had seen Leila and told her he was sorry. She never said a word to me. I told him that he ought to have apologized to me--too."
Rivers was amused. "Apologies are not much in fashion among Westways boys. What did he say?"
"Oh, just that he didn't see that at all--and then he said that he was going away this fall to study medicine, and some day when he was a doctor he would have a chance to get even with me, and wouldn't he dose me well. Then we both laughed, and--I shook hands with him. That's all, sir."
"Well, I am pleased. He is by no means a bad fellow, and as you know he is clever--and can beat you in mathematics."
"Yes, but I licked him well, and he knows it."
"For shame, John. I wish my Baptist friend's boy would do better--he is dull."
"But I like him," said John. "He is so plucky."
"There is another matter I want to talk about. I had a long conversation about you with your uncle the night before he left. I heard with regret that you want to go into the army."
"May I ask why?" said John, as he lay on the ground lazily fingering the pine-needles.
"Is it because the hideous business called war attracts you?"
"No, but I like what I hear of the Point from Uncle Jim. I prefer it to any college life. Besides this, I do not expect to spend my life in the service, and after all it is simply a first rate training for anything I may want to do later--care of the mills, I mean. Uncle Jim is pleased, and as for war, Mr. Rivers, if that is what you dislike, what chance of war is there?"
"You have very likely forgotten my talk with Mr. George Grey. The North and the South will never put an end to their differences without bloodshed."
It seemed a strange opinion to John. He had thought so when he heard their talk, but now the clergyman's earnestness and some better understanding of the half-century's bitter feeling made him thoughtful. Rising to his feet, he said, "Uncle Jim does not agree with you, and Aunt Ann and her brother, Henry Grey, think that Mr. Buchanan will bring all our troubles to an end. Of course, sir, I don't know, but"--and his voice rose--"if there ever should be such a war, I am on Uncle Jim's side, and being out of West Point would not keep me out of the fight."
Rivers shook his head. "It will come, John. Few men think as I do, and your uncle considers me, I suspect, to be governed by my unhappy way of seeing the dark side of things. He says that I am a bewildered pessimist about politics. A pessimist I may be, but it is the habitually hopeful meliorist who is just now perplexed past power to think straight."
John's interest was caught for the moment by the word, "meliorist." "What is a meliorist, sir?" he asked. "Oh, a wild insanity of hopefulness. You all have it. I dislike to talk about the sad future, and I wonder men at the North are so blind."
He fell again to mere musings, a self-absorbed man, while John, attracted by a squirrel's gambols and used to the rector's long silences, wandered near by among the pines, with a vagabond mind on this or that, and watching the alert little acrobat of the forest. As he moved about, he recalled his first walks to the cabin with Leila and the wild thing he had said one day--and her reply. One ages fast, at seventeen, and now he wondered if he had been quite wise, and with the wisdom and authority of a year and a half of mental growth punished his foolish boy-past with severity of reproach. He had failed for a time to hear, or at least to hear with attention, the low-voiced soliloquies in which Mr. Rivers sometimes indulged. McGregor, an observant man, said that Rivers's mind jumped from thought to thought, and that his talk had at times no connective tissue and was hard to follow.
Now he spoke louder. "No one, John, no one sees that every new compromise compromises principles and honour. Have you read any of the speeches of a man named Lincoln in Illinois? He got a considerable vote in that nominating convention."
"No, sir."
"Then read it--read him. A prophet of disaster! He says, 'A house divided against itself cannot stand. This government cannot endure permanently half slave, half free.' The man did not know that he was ignorantly quoting George Washington's opinion. It is so, and so it will be. I would let them go their way in peace, for the sin of man-owning is ours--was ours--and we are to suffer for it soon or late--a nation's debts have to be paid, and some are paid in blood."
The young fellow listened but had no comment ready, and indeed knew too little of the terrible questions for which time alone would have an answer to feel the full force of these awful texts. He did say, "I will read Mr. Lincoln's speeches. Uncle talks to me about Kansas and slavery and compromises, but it is sometimes too much for me."
"Yes, he will not talk of these things to your aunt, and is not willing to talk to me. He thinks both of us are extremists. No, I won't walk any further. Let us go home."
The natural light-mindedness of a healthy lad easily disposes of the problems which disturb the older mind. John forgot it all for a time in the pleasant interest of a letter from Leila, received a day before his uncle's return.
"CAPE MAY, June 21st.
"MY DEAR JOHN: Here at last I am free to write to you when I please, and I have some rather strange news; but first of Aunt Ann. She is very well pleased and is already much better. Uncle Jim left us to-day, and I am to have Lucy here and one of the grooms. If only I could have you to ride with me on this splendid beach and see the great blue waves roll up like a vast army charging with white plumes and then rolling back in defeat." -- John paused. This was not like Leila. He felt in a vague way that she must be changing, and remembered the rector's predictions. Then he read on-- "Now for my adventure: Aunt Ann wanted some hair-wash, and I went to the barber's shop in the town to buy it. There was no one in but a black boy, because it was the bathing-time. He, I mean the boy, said he would call Mr. Johnson. In a moment there came out of a back room who do you think but our Josiah! He just stood still a moment--and then said, 'Good God! Miss Leila! Come into the back room--you did give me a turn.' I thought he seemed to be alarmed. Well, I went with him, and he asked me at once who was with me. I said, Aunt Ann, and that she was not well. Then I got out of him that he had wandered a while, and at last chosen this as a safe place. No one had told me fully about Cousin George Grey and why Josiah was scared and ran away, but now I got it all out of him--and how you warned him--and I do think it was splendid of a boy like you. He was dreadfully afraid of being taken back to be a slave. It seems he saved his money, and after working here bought out the shop when his master fell ill. I did not like it, but to quiet him I really had to say that I would not tell Aunt Ann, or he would have to run away again. I am sure aunt would not do anything to trouble him, but it was quite impossible to make him believe me, and he got me at last to promise him. I suppose there is really no harm in it, but I never did keep anything from Aunt Ann. I got the hair-wash and went away with his secret. Now, isn't that a story!
"I forgot one thing. As the Southern gentlemen come to be shaved and ask where he was born, they hear--think of it--that 'Mr. Johnson' was born in Connecticut! His grandfather had been a slave. I shall see him again.
"This is the longest letter I ever wrote, and you are to feel duly complimented, Mr. Penhallow.
"Good-bye. Love from Aunt Ann.
"Yours truly, "LEILA GREY.
"P.S. I am sure that I may trust you not to speak of Josiah."
Mr. John Penhallow, as they said at Westways, "going on seventeen," gathered much of interest in reading and re-reading this letter from Miss Grey. To own a secret with Leila was pleasant. To hear of Josiah as "Mr. Johnson" amused him. That he was prosperous he liked, and that he was fearful with or without reason seemed strange. It was and had been hard for the young freeman to realize the ever-present state of mind of a man in terror of arrest without any crime on his conscience. There was perhaps a slight hint of doubt in Leila's request that he would be careful not to mention what she had said of Josiah, "as if I am really a boy and Leila older than I," murmured John. He knew, as he once more read her words, that he ought to tell his uncle, who could best decide what to do about Josiah and his terror of being reclaimed by his old owner.
During the early hours of a summer night Mark Rivers sat on the porch in a rocking-chair, which he declared gave him all the exercise he required. It was the only rocking-chair at Grey Pine, and nothing so disturbed the Squire as Mark Rivers rocking on that unpleasant piece of furniture and smoking as if it were a locomotive. It was an indulgence of Ann Penhallow, who knew that there had been a half-dozen rockers in the burned rectory.
John sat on the steps and listened to the shrill katydids or watched the devious lanterns of the fireflies. A bat darted over the head of Rivers, who ducked as it went by, watching its uncertain flight.
"I am terribly afraid of bats," said the rector. "Are you?"
"I--no. They're harmless."
"Yes, I know that, but I am without reason afraid of them. I think of the demons as being like monstrous bats. But that is a silly use of imagination."
"Uncle Jim doesn't like them, and you once told me that he had very little imagination."
"Yes. One can't explain these dislikes. Your uncle reasons well and has a clear logical mind, but he has neither creative nor receptive imagination."
"Receptive?" asked John.
"Yes, that is why he has none of your aunt's joy in poetry. When I read to her Wordsworth's 'Brougham Castle,' he said that he had never heard more silly nonsense."
"I remember it was that wonderful verse about the 'longing of the shield.'"
"Yes--I forgot you were there. Verse like that is a good test of a person's capacity to feel poetry--that kind, I mean."
"I hear Uncle Jim's horse."
"Yes. I can't see, John, why a man should want to have a horse sent to meet him instead of a comfortable wagon,"--and for emphasis, as usual with Rivers, the rocking-chair was swinging to the limits of its arc of safe motion.
The Squire dismounted and came up the steps with "Good-evening, Rivers,"--and to John, "I have good news for you--but order my supper at once, then we will talk." He was in his boyish mood of gaiety. "How far have you travelled on that rocker, Rivers?"
"Now, Squire--now, really--" It was a favourite subject of chaff.
"Why not have rocking-chairs in church, Mark? Think what a patient congregation you would have! Come, John, I am hungry." He fled laughing.
While the Squire ate in silence, John waited until his uncle said, "Come into the library." Here he filled his pipe and took the match John offered. "There are many curious varieties of man, John. There is the man who prefers a rocking-chair to the saddle. It's queer--very queer; and he is as much afraid of a horse as I am--of--I don't know what."
The Squire's memory failed to answer the call. "What are you grinning at, you young scamp?"
"Oh, Mr. Rivers did say, Uncle Jim, something about bats."
"Yes, that's it--bats--and I do suppose every one has his especial fear. Ah! quite inexplicable nonsense! --fears like mine about bats, or your aunt's about dogs, but also fears that make a man afraid that he will not face a danger that is a duty. When we had smallpox at the mills, soon after Rivers came here, he went to the mill-town and lived there a month, and nursed the sick and buried the dead. At last he took the disease lightly, but it left a mark or two on his forehead. That I call--well, heroic. Confound that rocking-chair! How it squeaks!"
John was too intently listening to hear anything but the speaker who declared heroic the long lean man with the pale face and the eyes like search-lights. John waited; he wanted to hear something more.
"Did many die, uncle?"
"Oh, yes. The men had fought McGregor about vaccination. Many died. There was blindness too. Supplies failed--no one would come in from the farms."
John waited with the fear of defect in his ideal man. Then he ventured, "And Aunt Ann, was she here?"
"No, I sent her away when I went to Milltown."
"Oh! you were there too, sir?"
"Yes, damn it!" He rarely swore at all. "Where did you suppose I would be? But I lived in terror for a month--oh, in deadly fear!"
"Thank you, sir."
"Thank me, what for? Some forms of sudden danger make me gay, with all my faculties at their best, but not that. I had to nurse Rivers; that was the worst of it. You see, my son, I was a coward."
"I should like to be your kind of a coward, Uncle Jim."
"Well, it was awful. Let us talk of something else. I left your aunt better, went to Washington, saw our Congressman, got your nomination to West Point and a letter from Leila. Your aunt must be fast mending, for she was making a long list of furniture for the new parsonage, and 'would I see Ellen Lamb and'--eleven other things, the Lord knows what else, and 'when could she return?' McGregor said in September, and I so wrote to her; she will hate it. And she dislikes your going to West Point. I had to tell her, of course."
"I have had a letter from Leila, uncle. Did she write you anything about Josiah?"
"About Josiah! No. What was that?"
"She said I was not to tell, but I think you ought to know--" "Of course, I should know. Go on. Let me see the letter."
"It is upstairs, sir, but this is what she wrote," and he went on to tell the story.
The Squire laughed. "I must let Mr. Johnson know, as Leila did not know, that it was Ann who really sent you to warn him. Poor fellow! I can understand his alarm, and how can I reassure him? George Grey is going to Cape May, or so says your aunt, and I am sure if Josiah knows that he is recognized, he will drop everything and run. I would run, John, and quickly too. Grey will be sure to write to Woodburn again."
"What then, sir?"
"Oh, he told your Aunt Ann and me that he would not go any further unless he chanced to know certainly where Josiah was. If he did, it would be his duty, as he said, to reclaim him. It is not a pleasant business, and I ought to warn Josiah, which you may not know is against the law. However, I will think it over. Ann did not say when Grey was coming, and he is just as apt not to go as to go. Confound him and all their ways."
John had nothing to say. The matter was in older and wiser hands than his. His uncle rose, "I must go to bed, but I have a word to say now about your examinations for admission. I must talk to Rivers. Good-night!"
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
14
|
None
|
On Saturday the Squire asked John to ride with him. As they mounted, Billy came with the mail. Penhallow glanced at the letters and put them in his pocket.
As the horses walked away, John said, "I was in Westways yesterday, uncle, to get my hair cut. I heard that Pole has had chicken-pox, uncle."
"Funny that, for a butcher!" said the Squire. They chatted of the small village news. "They have quit discussing politics, Uncle Jim."
"Yes, every four years we settle down to the enjoyment of the belief that now everything will go right, or if we are of those who lost the fight, then there is the comfort of thinking things could not be worse, and that the other fellows are responsible."
"Uncle Jim, at Westways people talked about the election as if it were a horse-race, and didn't interest anybody when it was over."
"Yes, yes; but there are for the average American many things to think about, and he doesn't bother himself about who is to be President or why, until, as McGregor says, events come along and kick him and say, 'Get up and think, or do something.'"
"When I talked to Mr. Rivers lately, he seemed very blue about the country. He seems to believe that everything is going wrong."
"Oh, Rivers!" exclaimed Penhallow, "what a great, noble soul! But, John, a half hour of talk with him about our national affairs leaves me tangled in a net of despair, and I hate it. You have a letter, I see."
"Yes, it is from Leila, sir."
"Let's hear it," said Penhallow.
John was inclined, he could hardly have told why, to consider this letter when alone, but now there was nothing possible except to do as he was bid.
"Read it. I want to hear it, John."
As they walked their horses along the road, John read: "DEAR JOHN": I did not expect to write to you again until you wrote to me, but I have been perplexed to know what was best to do. I wanted--oh, so much--to consult Uncle Jim, or some older person than you, and so I ask you to send this to Uncle Jim if he is absent, or let him see it if he is at home. He is moving about and we do not know how to address him." -- "That's a big preface--go on."
"I did not see Josiah again until yesterday morning. Aunt Ann has been insisting that my hair needs singeing at the ends to make it grow. [It is too long now for comfort.]" -- "That's in brackets, Uncle Jim--the hair, I mean."
"Yes--what next?"
"Well, John, when Aunt Ann keeps on and on in her gently obstinate, I mean resolute, way, it is best to give up and make believe a little that you agree with her. My hair was to be singed--I gave up." -- "Oh, Leila!" exclaimed Penhallow, rocking in the saddle with laughter, while John looked up smiling. "Go on."
"So aunt's new maid got her orders, and while aunt was asleep in her room the maid brought up Josiah. It was as good as a play. He was very civil and quiet. You know how he loved to talk. He singed my hair, and it was horrid--like the smell of singeing a plucked chicken. After that he sent the maid to his shop for some hair-wash. As soon as she was gone, he said, 'I'm done for, Miss Leila. I met Mr. George Grey on the beach this morning. He knew me and I knew him. He said, "What! you here, you rascally runaway horse-thief!" I said, "I wasn't a thief or a rascal." Then he said something I didn't hear, for I just left him and--I can't stay here--he'll do something, and I can't run no risks--oh, Lord!'" -- "I thought," said the Squire, "we were done with that tiresome fool, George Grey. Whether he will write again to Woodburn about Josiah or not, no one can say. Woodburn did tell me that if at any time he could easily get hold of his slave, he would feel it to be a duty to make use of the Fugitive-Slave Law. I do not think he will be very eager, but after all it is uncertain, and if I were Josiah, I would run away."
As he talked, the horses walked on through the forest wood-roads. For a moment he said nothing, and then, "It is hard to put yourself in another man's place; that means to be for the time of decision that man with his inheritances, all his memories, all his hopes and all his fears."
This was felt by the lad to be somehow unlike his uncle, who added, "I heard Mark Rivers say that about Peter, but it applies here. I would run. But go on with your letter. What else does Leila say?"
John read on: "Josiah was so scared that I could not even get him to listen to me. He gathered up his barber things in haste, and kept on saying over and over, 'I have got to go, missy.' Now he has gone and his shop is shut up. I was so sorry for him, I must have cried, for aunt's maid asked me what was the matter. This is all. It is late. I shall mail this to-morrow. Aunt Ann has been expecting Mr. George Grey, my far-away cousin. I wish he was further away! " -- "Good gracious! Leila. Well, John, any more?"
"Yes, sir."
"He came in this morning, I mean Mr. Grey, and began to talk and was so pleased to see his dear cousin. Aunt Ann went on knitting and saying something pleasant now and then. At last he asked if she knew that runaway horse-thief we called Josiah was the barber here. He said that he must really write to that rascal's owner, and went over and over the same thing. Aunt Ann looked at me when he mentioned the barber. Then she sat up and said, 'If you have done talking, I desire to say a word.' Of course, he was at her service. You know, John, how he talks. Aunt Ann said, 'You made quite enough trouble, George, about this man at Westways. I told you then that he had done us a service I could never forget. I won't have him disturbed here. Mr. Woodburn behaved with discretion and courtesy. If you make any more trouble, I shall never forgive you. I won't have it, George Grey.' I never saw any one so embarrassed, John. He put his hat on the floor and picked it up, and then he sat down in his chair and, I call it, wilted. He said that he had not quite made up his mind. At this Aunt Ann stood up, letting her knitting drop, and said, 'Then you had better; you've got no mind.' After this he got up and said that she had insulted him. Aunt Ann was red and angry. She said, 'Tell James Penhallow that, Mr. Grey.' After this he went away, and Aunt Ann said to me, 'Tell Josiah if you can find him that he need not be afraid; the man will not write to Mr. Woodburn.' After that I told her all about Mr. Johnson and got a good scolding for not having told her before, and that Josiah had gone away scared. She was tired and angry and sent me away. That is all. Let Uncle Jim get this letter.
"Yours truly, "LEILA.
"P.S. Oh, I forgot. Josiah gave me a letter for Uncle Jim. I enclose it. I did not give it to Aunt Ann; perhaps I ought to have done so. But it would have been useless because it is sealed, and you know the rule at Grey Pine."
"Poor Josiah!" said Penhallow, "I wonder where he has gone."
"He may say in his letter," said John.
"Read it to me, my son. I forgot my glasses."
"It is addressed to Captain Penhallow."
"Yes, I was always that to Josiah--always."
John opened the letter, which was carefully sealed with a large red wafer.
"It is well written, uncle."
"Yes--yes. Rivers taught him--and he speaks nearly as good English as George Grey."
John looked up from the letter. "Oh, that is funny! It begins, 'Respectable Sir.'"
"My dear John, that isn't funny at all--it's old-fashioned. I have seen a letter from the great Dr. Rush in which the mother of Washington is mentioned as 'that respectable lady.' But now, sir, you will be good enough to let me hear that letter without your valuable comments."
The tone was impatient. John said, "Excuse me, uncle, but I couldn't help it."
"Oh, read it."
"I am driven away again. I write this to thank you for all you done for me at Westways. Mr. Grey he met me here on the beach and I'm afraid--I don't take no chances. I saved money here. I can get on anywhere. It's awful to have to ran away, and that drunkard Peter Lamb all the while safe with his mother. I can't get him out of my mind. I'm a Christian man--and I tried to forgive him. I can't do it. If I am quiet and let alone, I forget. I've got to get up and go and hide, and I curse him that done it. Please, sir, not tell Mr. Rivers what I say. I seen Miss Leila. I always said Miss Leila would be a beauty. There ain't no young lady here can hold a candle to her. I want to say I did have hope to see Mr. John.
"God bless you, Captain.
"Your obedient servant, "JOSIAH."
The Squire halted in the open pine forest on a wood-road behind the cabin. He threw one leg over the pommel and sat still with the ease of a horseman in any of the postures the saddle affords. "Read me both of those letters again, and slowly."
This time John made no remarks. When he came to the end of Josiah's letter, he looked towards the silent figure seated sideways. The Squire made no comment, but searched his pockets for the flint and steel he always carried. Lighting his pipe he slid to the ground.
"Take the rein, John," he said, "or the mare will follow me."
Penhallow was deep in the story these letters told, and he thought best when walking. John sat in his saddle watching the tall soldierly figure move up the road and back again to the cabin his ancestors had held through one long night of fear. John caught sight of the face as Penhallow came and then turned away on his slow walk, smoking furiously. He sat still, having learned to be respectful of the long silences to which at times Penhallow was given. Now and then with a word he quieted the uneasy mare--a favourite taught to follow the master. At last Penhallow struck his pipe on a stone to empty it, and by habit carefully set a foot on the live coal. Then he came to the off side of his mare and took the rein. Facing John, he set an elbow on the horse's back and a hand on his own cheek. This was no unusual attitude. He did not mount, but stood still. The ruddy good-humoured face, clean-shaven and large of feature, had lost its look of constant good-humour. In fact, the feature language expressed the minute's mood in a way which any one less familiar with the man than John might have read with ease. Then he said, in an absent way, "Are we men of the North all cowards like Josiah? They think so--they do really think so. It is helping to make trouble." Then he lifted himself lightly into the saddle, with swift change of mood and an odd laugh of comment on his conclusion, as he broke into a gallop. "Let us get into the sun."
John followed him as they rode swiftly over a cross-road and out on to the highway. Again the horses were walking, and Penhallow said, "I suppose you may not have understood me. I was suddenly angry. It is a relief sometimes to let off steam. Well, I fancy time will answer me--or that is what I try not to believe--but it may--it may. Let us talk of something else. I must find out from Rivers just how well you are prepared for the Point. Then I mean to give you every night an hour or so of what he cannot teach. You ride well, you know French and German, you box--it may be of service, keep it up once a week at least. I envy you the young disciplined life--the simpleness of it--the want of responsibilities."
"Thank you, sir," returned John, "I hope to like it and to do you credit, uncle."
"You will, I am sure. Let us go to the mills."
John hesitated before he asked, "Could not I have, sir, a few days with Aunt Ann at the Cape?"
"No, I shall want you here."
John was silent and disappointed. The Squire saw it. "It can't be helped--I do not feel able to be alone. Leila will be away a year more and you will be gone for several years. For your sake and mine I want you this summer. Take care! You lost a stirrup when Dixy shied. Oh! here are the mills. Good morning, McGregor. All well?"
"Yes, sir. Tom has gone to the city. He is to be in the office of a friend of mine this summer. I shall be alone."
"John goes to West Point this September, Doctor."
"Indeed! You too will be alone. Next it will be Leila. How the young birds are leaving the nests! Even that slow lad of Grace's is going. He is to learn farming with old Roberts. He has a broad back and the advantage of not being a thinking-machine."
"He may have made the best choice, McGregor."
"No, sir," said the Doctor, "my son has the best of it."
John laughed. "I don't think I should like either farm or medicine."
"No," returned the Doctor, with his queer way of stating things, "there must be some one to feed the people; Tom is to be trained to cure, and you to kill."
"I don't want to kill anybody," said John, laughing.
"But that is the business you are going to learn, young man." John was silent. The idea of killing anybody!
"Heard from Mrs. Penhallow lately?" asked the doctor.
"No, but from Leila to-day; and, you will be surprised, from Josiah too."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Give him the two letters, John. Let me have them to-morrow, Doctor. Good-bye," and they rode on to the mills.
"It is a pity, John, Josiah gave no address," said Penhallow,--"a childlike man, intelligent, and with some underlying temper of the old African barbarian." The summer days ran on with plenty of work for John and without incidents of moment, until the rector went away as was his habit the first of August, more moody than usual. If the rectory were finished, he would go there in September, and Mrs. Ann had written to him about the needed furniture.
On August 20th that lady wrote from Cape May that she must go home, and Leila that her aunt was well but homesick. The Squire, who missed her greatly, unreluctantly yielded, and on August 25th she was met at the station by Penhallow and John. To the surprise of both, she had brought Leila, as her school was not to begin until September 10th.
"My dear James," cried Mrs. Ann, "it is worth while to have been away to learn how good it is to get home again. I thought I would surprise you with Leila." As the Squire kissed her, Leila and the maid came from the car to the platform loaded with bundles.
John stood still. Nature had been busy with her artist-work. A year had gone by--the year of maturing growth of mind and body for a girl nearing sixteen. Unprepared for her change, John felt at once that this was a woman, who quickly smiling gave him a cordial greeting and her hand. "Why, John Penhallow," she said, "what a big boy you are grown!" It was as if an older person had spoken to a younger. A head taller than the little Mrs. Ann, she was in the bloom of maiden loveliness, rosy, joyous, a certain new stateliness in her movements. The gift of grace had been added by the fairy godmother nature.
John said, with gravity, "You are most welcome home, Leila," and then quickly aware of some coldness in his words, "Oh, I am so very glad to see you!" She had gone by him in the swift changes of life. Without so putting it distinctly into the words of a mental soliloquy, John was conscious that here was another Leila.
"Come, in with you," said the happy master of Grey Pine.
"How well you look, Ann, and how young! The cart will bring your bundles."
John Penhallow on an August afternoon was of Billy's opinion that Leila had "rowed a lot" as she came out upon the porch and gaily laughing cried, "At last,--Aunt Ann has done with me."
They were both suffering from one of those dislocations of relation which even in adult life are felt when friends long apart come together again. The feeling of loss, as far as John was concerned, grew less as Leila with return of childlike joy roamed with him over the house and through the stables, and next day through Westways, with a pleasant word for every one and on busying errands for her aunt. He was himself occupied with study; but now the Squire had said it would be wise to drop his work.
With something of timidity he said to Leila, "I am free for this afternoon; come and see again our old playgrounds. It will be a long while before we can take another walk."
"Certainly, John. And isn't it a nice, good-natured day? The summer is over. Sometimes I wish we had no divisions of months, and the life of the year was one quiet flow of days--oh, with no names to remind you."
"But think, Leila, of losing all the poetry of the months. Why not have no day or night? Oh, come along. What do you want with a sunshade and a veil--we will be mostly in the woods."
"My complexion, Mr. Penhallow," cried Miss Grey gaily.
He watched her young figure as she went upstairs--the mass of darkened gold hair coiled in the classic fashion of the day on the back of her head. She looked around from the stair. "I shall be ready in a minute, John. It rained yesterday--will it be wet in the woods?"
"No," cried John, "and what does it matter?" He had a dull feeling of resentment, of loss, of consciousness of new barriers and of distance from the old comrade.
Their way led across the garden, which was showing signs of feeling the chilly nights of the close of summer in this upland, where the seasons sometimes change abruptly.
"The garden has missed Aunt Ann," said Leila. "Uncle Jim looks at it from the porch, says 'How pretty!' and expects to see roses on his table every day. I do believe he considers a garden as merely a kind of flower-farm."
"Aunt Ann's garden interests her the way Westways does. There are sick flowers and weeds like human weeds, and bugs and diseases that need a flower-doctor, and flowers that are morbid or ill-humoured. That is not my wisdom, Leila, it is Mr. Rivers's."
"No, John, it isn't at all like you."
"Aunt Ann didn't like it, and yet I think he meant it to be a compliment, for he really considers Aunt Ann a model of what a woman ought to be."
"I know that pretty well," said Leila. "When I used to lose my temper over that horrid algebra, I was told to consider how Aunt Ann kept her temper no matter what happened, as if that had anything to do with algebra and equations. If he had seen her when she talked to George Grey about Josiah, he would have known Aunt Ann better. I was proud of her."
"Aunt Ann angry!" said John. "I should have liked to have seen that. Poor Josiah!"
They talked of the unlucky runaway, and were presently among the familiar pine and spruce, far beyond the garden bounds. "Do put up that veil," said John, "and you have not the least excuse for your parasol."
"Oh, if you like, John. Tell me about West Point. It was such a surprise."
"I will when I am there, if I am able to pass the examinations."
"You will--you will. Uncle Jim told me you would pass easily."
"Indeed! He never told me that. I have my doubts."
"And I have none," she returned, smiling. "Mr. Rivers dislikes it. He wrote to me about it just before he left. Do you know, he did really think that you ought to be a clergyman. He said you were so serious-minded for--for a boy."
John laughed, "nice clergyman I'd have made." Did Leila too consider him a boy? "Oh! here we are at the old cabin. I never forget the first day we came here--and the graves. The older I grow, Leila, the more clearly I can see the fight and the rifle-flashes, and the rescue--and the night--I can feel their terror."
"Oh, we were mere children, John; and I do suppose that it is a pretty well decorated tradition." He looked at her with surprise, as she added, "I used to believe it all, now it seems strange to me, John--like a dream of childhood. I think you really are a good deal of a boy yet."
"No, I am not a boy. I sometimes fancy I never was a boy--I came here a child." And then, "I think you like to tease me, Leila," and this was true, although she was not pleased to be told so. "You think, Leila, that it teases me to be called a boy by your ladyship. I think it is because you remember what a boy once said to you here--right here."
"What do you mean?" She knew very well what he meant, but quickly repenting of her feminine fib, said, "Oh, I do know, but I wanted to forget--I wanted to pretend to forget, because you know what friends we have been, and it was really so foolish."
He had been lying at her feet; now he rose slowly. "You are not like my Leila to-day."
"Oh, John!"
"No--and it is hard, because I am going away--and--it will not be pleasant to think how you are changed."
"I wish you wouldn't say such things to me, John."
"I had to--because--I love you. If I was a boy when I was, as you say, silly, I was in earnest. It was nonsense to ask you, to say you would marry me some day. It wasn't so very long ago after all; but I agree with you, it _was_ foolish. Now I mean to make no such proposal."
"Please, John." She looked up at him as he stood over her so grave, so earnest--and so like Uncle Jim. For the time she got the fleeting impression of this being a man.
He hardly heard her appeal. "I want to say now that I love you." For a moment the 'boy's will, the wind's will,' blew a gale. "I love you and I always shall. Some day I shall ask you that foolish question again, and again."
She too was after all very young and had been playing a bit at being a woman. Now his expression of passion embarrassed her--because she had no answer ready; nor was it all entirely disagreeable.
He stood still a moment, and added, "That is all--I ask nothing now."
Then she stood up, having to say something and unwilling to hurt him--wanting not to say too much or too little, and ending by a childlike reply. "Oh, John, I do wish you would never say such things to me. I am too young to listen to such nonsense."
"And I am young too," he laughed. "Well--well--let us go home and confess like children."
"Now I know you are a fool, John Penhallow, and very disagreeable."
"When we were ever so young, Leila, and we quarrelled, we used to agree not to speak to one another for a day. Are you cross enough for that now?"
"No, I am not; but I want to feel sure that you will not say such things to me again."
"I make no promise, Leila; I should break it. If I gave you a boy's love, forget it, laugh at it; but if I give you a man's love, take care."
This odd drama--girl and woman, boy and maturing man--held the stage; now one, now the other.
"Take care, indeed!" she said, repeating his words and turning on him with sudden ungraciousness, "I think we have had enough of this nonsense."
She was in fact the more disturbed of the two, and knowing it let anger loose to chase away she knew not what, which was troubling her with emotion she could neither entirely control nor explain later as the result of what seemed to her mere foolishness. If he was himself disturbed by his storm of primitive passion, he did not show it as she did.
"Yes," he said in reply, "we have had for the present enough of this--enough talk, I mean--" "We!" she exclaimed.
"Leila! do you want me to apologize?"
"No."
"Then--let us get those roses for Aunt Ann--what are left of them."
She was glad to escape further discussion--not sure of her capacity to keep in order this cousin who was now so young and now so alarmingly old. His abrupt use of self-control she recognised--liked and then disliked, for a little wrath in his reply would have made her feel more at ease. With well-reassumed good-humour, she said, "Now you are my nice old playmate, but never, never bother me that way again."
"Yes, ma'am," said John, laughing. "I can hear Aunt Ann say, 'Run, dears, and get me flowers--and--there will be cakes for you.'"
"No, bread and apple-butter, John." They went along merry, making believe to be at ease.
"The robins are gone," said Leila. "I haven't seen one today; and the warblers are getting uneasy and will be gone soon. I haven't seen a squirrel lately. Josiah used to say that meant an early winter."
"Oh, but the asters! What colour! And the golden-rod! Look at it close, Leila. Each little flower is a star of gold."
"How pretty!" She bent down over the flowers to pay the homage of honest pleasure. "How you always see, John, so easily, the pretty little wild beauties of the woods; I never could." She was "making up" as children say.
"Oh, you were the schoolmaster once," he laughed. "Come, we have enough; now for the garden."
They passed through the paling fence and along the disordered beds, where a night of too early frost had touched with chill fingers of disaster the latest buds. Leila moved about looking at the garden, fingering a bud here and there with gentle epitaphs of "late," "too late," or gathering the more matronly roses which had bloomed in time. John watched her bend over them, and then where there were none but frost-wilted buds stand still and fondle with tender touch the withered maidens of the garden.
He came to her side, "Well, Leila, I'll swap thoughts with you."
She looked up, "Your's first then."
"I was thinking it must be hard to die before you came to be a rose--like some other more human things."
"Is that a charade, John? You will be writing poems about the lament of the belated virgin roses that had not gathered more timely sunshine and were alas! too late."
He looked at her with a smile of pleased surprise. "Thanks, cousin; it is you who should be the laureate of the garden. Shelley would envy you."
"Indeed! I am flattered, sir, but I have not read any of Shelley as yet. You have, I suppose? He is supposed to be very wicked. Get me some more golden-rod, John." He went back to the edge of the wood and came again laden, rejoining her at the porch.
For two days her aunt kept her busy. Early in the week she went away to be met in Philadelphia by her Uncle Charles, and to be returned to her Maryland school.
A day or two later John too left to undergo the dreaded examination at West Point. The two older people were left alone at Grey Pine with the rector, who had returned from his annual holiday later than usual. Always depressed at these seasons, he was now indisposed for the society of even the two people who were his most valued friends. He dined with them the day John went away and took up the many duties of his clerical life, until as was his custom, a week later he came in smiling for the Saturday dinner, saying, "Well, here comes the old house-dog for his bone."
They made him welcome as gaily. "Has the town wickedness accumulated in your absence, Mark?" said Penhallow.
"Mine has," said Ann Penhallow, "but I never confess except to myself."
"Ann Penhallow might be a severe confessor," said Rivers as they sat down. "How you must miss John and Leila. I shall most sadly."
"Oh, for my part," said Ann, "I have made up my mind not to lament the inevitable, but my husband is like a lost dog and--oh! --heart-hungry for Leila, and worried about that boy's examination--his passing."
"Have I said a word?" said the Squire indignantly. "Pass! Of course, he will pass."
"No one doubts that, James; but you are afraid he will not be near the top."
"You are a witch, Ann. How did you know that?"
"How?" and she laughed. "How long have we been married!"
"Nonsense, Ann! What has that got to do with the matter?"
"Well," said Rivers, a little amused, "we shall know in a day or two. He will pass high."
"Of course," said Penhallow.
Then the talk drifted away to the mills, the village and the farm work. When after dinner Rivers declined to smoke with the Squire, Ann walked with the clergyman down the avenue and said presently, "Dine with us on Monday, Mark, and as often as possible. My husband is really worrying about John."
"And you, dear lady?"
"I--oh, of course, I miss them greatly; but Leila needs the contact with the social life she now has in the weekly holiday at Baltimore; and as for John, did it never occur to you that he ought to be among men of his age--and social position--and women too, who will not, I fancy, count for much in the 'West Point education.'
"Yes--yes, what you say is true of course, but ah! I dread for him the temptations of another life than this."
"Would you keep him here longer, if you could?" she asked.
"No. What would life be worth or how could character be developed without temptation? That is one of my puzzles about the world to come, a world where there would be no 'yes and no' would hardly be worth while."
"And quite beyond me," cried Ann, laughing. "We have done our best for them. Let us pray that they will not forget. I have no fear for Leila. I do not know about John. I must go home. Come often. Good-night. I suppose the sermon takes you away so early."
"Yes--more or less, and I am poor company just now. Good-night."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
15
|
None
|
When at breakfast on a Monday morning Penhallow said, "That mail is late again," his wife knew that he was still eager for news from John.
"The mail is always late on Monday morning, James. If you are in haste to get to the mills, I will send it after you."
"No, it is unimportant, Ann. Another cup, please. Ah! there it is now." He went out on to the porch. "You are late, Billy."
"I ain't late--it was Mrs. Crocker--she kept me."
Penhallow selected two letters postmarked West Point, and opening one as he went in to the breakfast-room, said, "My dear, it is rather satisfactory--quite as much as could be expected."
"Well, James! What is rather satisfactory? You are really exasperating at times."
"Am I? Well, John has passed in the first half dozen--he does not yet know just where--" "And are you not entirely contented? You ought to be. What is the other letter?"
He opened it. "It is only a line from the old drawing-master to say that John did well and would have been second or third, they said, except for not being higher in mathematics." As he spoke he rose and put both letters in his pocket. "Now I must go."
"But let me see them, James."
"Oh, John's is only a half dozen lines, and I must go at once--I have an appointment at the mills--I want to look over the letters again, and shall write to him from the office." Ann was slightly annoyed, but said no more until on the porch before he mounted she took a mild revenge. "I know where you are going."
"Well, and where, please?" He fell into her trap.
"First, you will stop at the rectory and read those letters to Mark Rivers; then the belated mail will excuse a pause at the post-office to scold Mrs. Crocker. Tell Pole as you go by that last mutton was atrociously tough. Of course, you won't mention John."
"Well, are you done?" he said, as he mounted Dixy. "I can wait, Ann, until you read the letters."
"Thanks, I am in no hurry." He turned in the saddle and gave her the letters. She put aside her brief feeling of annoyance and stood beside him as she read them. "Thank you, James. What an uneasy old uncle you are. Now go. Oh, be off with you--and don't forget Dr. McGregor." As he rode away, she called after him, "James--James--I forgot something."
He turned, checking Dixy. "Oh, I forgot to say that you must not forget the office clerks, because you know they are all so fond of John."
"What a wretch you are, Ann Penhallow! Go in and repent."
"I don't," and laughing, joyously, she stood and looked after the tall figure as he rode away happy and gaily singing, as he was apt to do if pleased, the first army carol the satisfaction of the moment suggested: Come out to the stable As soon as you 're able, And see that the horses That they get some corn. For if you don't do it, The colonel will know it, And then you will rue it As sure as you're born.
"Ah!" said his wife, "how he goes back--always goes back--to the wild army life when something pleases him. Thank God that can never come again." She recalled her first year of married life, the dull garrison routine, the weeks of her husband's absences, and when the troop came back and there were empty saddles and weeping women.
At dinner the Squire must needs drink the young cadet's health and express to Rivers his regret that there was not a West Point for Leila. Mrs. Ann was of opinion that she had had too much of it already. Rivers agreed with his hostess, and in one of his darkest days won the privilege of long silences by questioning the Squire in regard to the studies and life at West Point, while Mrs. Ann more socially observant than her husband saw how moody was Rivers and with what effort he manufactured an appearance of interest in the captain's enthusiasm concerning educative methods at the great army school. She was relieved when he carried off Rivers to the library.
"It is chilly, Mark; would you like a fire?" he asked.
"Yes, I am never too warm."
The Squire set the logs ablaze. "No pipe, Mark?"
"Not yet." He stretched out his lean length before the ruddy birch blaze and was silent. The Squire watched him and made no attempt to disturb the deep reverie in which the young clergyman remained. At last the great grey eyes turned from the fire, and Rivers sat up in his chair, as he said, "You must have seen how inconsiderately I have allowed my depression to dismiss the courtesies of life. I owe you and my dear Mrs. Penhallow both an apology and an explanation." -- "But really, Mark--" "Oh, let me go on. I have long wanted to talk myself out, and as often my courage has failed. I have had a most unhappy life, Penhallow. All the pleasant things in it--the past few years--have been given me here. I married young--" "One moment, Mark. Before you came to us the Bishop wrote me in confidence of your life. Not even Mrs. Penhallow has seen that letter."
"Then you knew--but not all. Now I have had a sad relief. He told you of--well, of my life, of my mother's hopeless insanity--and the rest."
"Yes--yes--all, I believe--all."
"Not quite all. I have spent a part at least of every August with her; now at last she is dead. But my family story has left with me the fear of dying like my brothers or of becoming as she became. When I came to you I was a lonely soul, sick in mind and weak in body. I am better--far better--and now with some renewal of hope and courage I shall face my world again. You have had--you will have charity for my days of melancholy. I never believed that a priest should marry--and yet I did. I suffered, and never again can I dream of love. I am doubly armed by memory and by the horror of continuing a race doomed to disaster. There you have it all to my relief. There is some mysterious consolation in unloading one's mind. How good you have been to me! and I have been so useless--so little of what I might have been."
Penhallow rose, set a hand on Rivers's shoulder, seeing the sweat on his forehead and the appeal of the sad eyes turned up to meet his gaze. "What," he said, "would our children have been without you? God knows I have been a better man for your company, and the mills--the village--how can you fail to see what you have done--" "No--no--I am a failure. It may be that the moods of self-reproach are morbid. That too torments me. Even to-day I was thinking of how Christ would have dealt with that miserable man, Peter Lamb, and how uncharitable I was, how crude, how void of sympathy--" "You--you--" said Penhallow, as he moved away. "My own regret is that I did not turn him over to the law. Well, points of view do differ curiously. We will let him drop. He will come to grief some day. And now take my thanks and my dear Ann's for what you have told me. Let us drop that too. Take a pipe."
"No, I must go. I am the easier in my mind, but I am tired and not at all in the pipe mood." He went out through the hall, and with a hasty "good-night" to his hostess and "pleasant dreams--or none," went slowly down the avenue.
The woman he left, with her knitting needles at rest a moment, was considering the man and his moods with such intuitive sympathy and comprehension as belongs to the sex which is physiologically the more subject to abrupt changes in the climate of the mind. As her husband entered, she began anew the small steadying industry for which man has no substitute.
"Upon my word, James, when you desire to exchange confidences, you must get further away from me."
"You don't mean me to believe you overheard our talk in the library, with the door closed and the curtain across it." Her acuteness of hearing often puzzled him, and he had always to ask for proof.
She nodded gay assurance, and said again, ceasing to knit, "I overheard too much--oh, not all--bits--enough to trouble me. I moved away so as not to hear. All I care to know is how to be of real service to a friend to whom we owe so much."
"I want you--in fact, Mark wants you--to hear in full what you know in part."
"Well, James, I have very little curiosity about the details of the misfortunes of my friends unless to know is to obtain means of helpfulness."
"You won't get any here, I fear, but as he has been often strange and depressed and, as he says, unresponsive to your kindness, he does want you now to see what cause there was."
"Very well, if he wants it. I see you have a letter."
"Yes, I kept it. It was marked strictly confidential--I hate that--" She smiled as he added, "It seems to imply the possibility of indiscretion on my part."
"Oh, James! Oh, you dear man!" and she laughed outright, liking to tease where she deeply loved, knowing him through and through, as he never could know her. Then she saw that he was not in the mood for jesting with an edge to it; nor was she. "At all events, you did not let me see that letter--now I am to see it."
"Yes, you are to see it. You might at any time have seen it."
"Yes, read it to me."
"When our good Bishop sent Mark Rivers here to us, he wrote me this letter--" "Well, go on."
"MY DEAR SIR: I send you the one of my young clergy with whom I am the most reluctant to part. You will soon learn why, and learning will be thankful. But to make clear to you why I urge him--in fact, order him to go--requires a word of explanation. He is now only twenty-six years of age but looks older. He married young and not wisely a woman who lived a childlike dissatisfied life, and died after two years. One of his brothers died an epileptic; the other, a promising lawyer, became insane and killed himself. This so affected their widowed mother that she fell into a speechless melancholy and has ever since been in the care of nurses in a farmer's family--a hopeless case. I became of late alarmed at his increasing depression and evident failure in bodily strength. He was advised to take a small country parish, and so I send him to you and my friend, Mrs. Penhallow, sure that he will give as much as he gets. I need not say more. He is well worth saving--one of God's best--with too exacting a conscience--learned, eloquent and earnest, and to end, a gentleman."
"There is a lot more about Indian missions, which I think are hopeless, but I sent him a cheque, of course."
"I supposed, James, that his depression was owing to his want of vigorous health. Now I see, but how very sorrowful it is! What else is there? I did not mean to listen, but something was said about his mother."
"Yes. He has spent with her a large part of every August--he called it his holiday. My God, Ann! Poor fellow! This August she died. It must be a relief."
"Perhaps."
"Oh, surely. This is all, Ann."
"I wish you had been less discreet long ago, James. I think that the Bishop knowing how sensitive, how very reticent Mark is, meant only that he should not learn what was confided to you."
"I never thought of that, Ann. You may be right."
She made no further comment, except to say, "But to know clears the air and leaves me free to talk to him at need." Penhallow felt that where he himself might be a useless confessor, his wife was surely to be trusted.
"If, Ann, the man could only be got on to the back of a horse--" She won the desirable relief of laughter, and the eyes that were full of the tears of pity for this disastrous life overflowed of a sudden with mirth at the Squire's one remedy for the troubles of this earthly existence.
"Oh, I am in earnest," he said. "Now I must write to John."
When after a week or more she did talk to Mark Rivers, he was the better for it and felt free to speak to her as a younger man may to an older woman and can rarely do to the closest of male friends, for, after all, most friendships have their personal limitations and the man who has not both men and women friends may at some time miss what the double intimacies alone can give.
* * * * * The uneasy sense of something lost was more felt than mentioned that fall at Grey Pine, where quick feet on the stair and the sound of young laughter were no longer heard. Rivers saw too how distinctly the village folk missed these gay young people. Mrs. Crocker, of the shop where everything was to be bought, bewailed herself to Rivers, who was the receiver of all manner of woes. "Mrs. Penhallow is getting to be so particular no one knows where to find her. You would never think it, sir, but she says my tea is not fit to drink, and she is going to get her sugar from Philadelphia. It's awful! She says it isn't as sweet as it used to be--as if sugar wasn't always the same--" "Which it isn't," laughed Rivers.
"And my tea! --Then here comes in the Squire to get a dog-collar, and roars to my poor deaf Job, 'that last tea was the best we have ever had. Send five pounds to Dr. McGregor from me--charge it to me--and a pound to Mrs. Lamb.' It wasn't but ten minutes later. Do set down, Mr. Rivers." He accepted the chair she dusted with her apron and quietly enjoyed the little drama. The facts were plain, the small influential motives as clear.
Secure of her hearer, Mrs. Crocker went on: "I was saying it wasn't ten minutes later that same morning Mrs. Penhallow came down on me about the sugar and the tea--worst she ever had. She--oh, Lord! --She wouldn't listen, and declared that she would return the tea and get sugar from town."
"Pretty bad that," said Rivers, sympathetic. "Did she send back the tea?"
"No, sir. In came Pole grinning that very evening. He said she had made an awful row about the last leg of mutton he sent. Pole said she was that bad--She didn't show no temper, but she kept on a sort of quiet mad about the mutton."
"Well, what did Pole do?"
"You'd never guess. It was one of the Squire's own sheep. Pole he just sent her the other leg of the same sheep!"
Again the rector laughed. "Well, and what did Mrs. Penhallow do?"
"She told him that was all right. Pole he guessed I'd better send her a pound of the same tea."
"Did you?"
"I did--ain't heard yet. Now what would you advise? Never saw her this way before."
"Well," said Rivers, "tell her how the town misses Leila and John."
"They do. I do wonder if it's just missing those children upsets her so."
Whether his advice were taken or not, Rivers did not learn directly, but Mrs. Crocker said things were better when next they met, and the clergyman asked no questions.
Penhallow had his own distracting troubles. The financial condition which became serious in the spring and summer of 1857 was beginning to cause him alarm, and soon after the new year came in he felt obliged to talk over his affairs and to advise his wife to loan the mill company money not elsewhere to be had except at ruinous interest. She wished simply to give him the sum needed, but he said no, and made clear to her why he required help. She was pleased to be consulted, and showing, as usual, notable comprehension of the business situation, at once did as he desired.
Rivers not aware of what was so completely occupying Penhallow's mind, wondered later why he would not discuss the decision of the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case and did not share his own indignation. "But," he urged, "it declares the Missouri Compromise not warranted by the Constitution!"
"I can't talk about it, Mark," said Penhallow, "I am too worried by my own affairs."
Then Rivers asked no further questions; he hoped he would read the masterly dissenting opinion of Justices McLean and Curtis. Penhallow returned impatiently that he had no time, and that the slavery question were better left to the decision of "Chief Justice Time."
It was unlike the Squire, and Rivers perplexed and more or less ignorant concerning his friend's affairs left him, in wonder that what was so angrily disturbing the Northern States should quite fail to interest Penhallow.
Meanwhile there were pleasant letters from Leila. She thought it hard to be denied correspondence with John, and wrote of the satisfaction felt by her Uncle Henry and his friends in regard to the Dred Scott decision. She had been wise enough to take her Uncle Charles's advice and to hold her Republican tongue, as he with a minority in Baltimore was wisely doing.
The money crisis came with full force while the affairs of Kansas were troubling both North and South. In August there was widespread ruin. Banks failed, money was held hard, contracts were broken and to avoid a worse calamity the Penhallow mills discharged half of the men. Meanwhile under Governor Walker's just and firm rule, for a brief season 'Bleeding Kansas' was no longer heard of. To add to the confusion of parties, Douglas broke with the Administration and damaged the powerful Democratic machine when he came out with changed opinions and dauntless courage against the new Lecompton constitution.
In June Leila's school life came to a close, and to the delight of her relations she came home. When that afternoon Rivers came into the hall, a tall young woman rose of a sudden and swept him a curtsey, saying, "I am Leila Grey, sir. Please to be glad to see me."
"Good gracious, Leila! You are a woman!"
"And what else should I be?"
"Alas! what? My little friend and scholar--oh! the evil magic of time."
"Oh! Friend--friend!" she exclaimed, "then, now, and always." She gave him both hands.
"Yes, always," he said quickly. "And this," he said to himself, "is the child who used to give me the morning kiss. It is very wonderful!"
"I really think, Aunt Ann, that Mr. Rivers just for a moment did not know me."
"Indeed! That must have amused him."
"Oh, here is James." There was laughter at dinner and a little gay venture into the politics of Leila's school, which appeared to have been disagreeable to Miss Grey.
Rivers watched the animated face as she gave her account of how the school took a vote in the garden and were all Democrats. The Squire a little puzzled by his wife's evident disinclination to interfere with the dinner-table politics got a faint suspicion that here had come into Grey Pine a new and positive influence. He was more surprised that Mrs. Ann asked, "What did you say, Leila?"
"I? Now, Aunt Ann, what would you have done or said?"
"Oh, voted with the Democrats, of course."
"Oh, Mrs. Penhallow!" cried the Rector.
The Squire much amused asked, "Well, Leila, did you run away?"
"I--Oh, Uncle Jim! I said I was a democrat--I voted the Democratic ticket."
"Did you?" exclaimed Rivers.
"So James Penhallow and my brother Charles have lost a Republican vote," laughed Ann.
"But, Aunt Ann, I added that I was a Douglas Democrat."
The Squire exploded into peals of laughter. Ann said, "For shame!"
"They decided to lynch me, but no one of them could catch me before Miss Mayo appeared on the playground and we all became demure as pussy cats. She was cross."
"She was quite right," said her aunt. "I do not see why girls should be discussing politics."
Rivers became silently regardant, and Penhallow frowning sat still. The anticipated bolt had fallen--it fell in vain. Leila did not accept the decree, but defended herself gaily. "Aunt Ann," she said, "Douglas is right, or at least half right. And do tell me how old must a girl be before she has a right to think?"
"Think! Oh, if you like, think. But, my dear Leila, your uncle, Mr. Rivers and I, although we think and hold very diverse opinions, feel that on such matters discussion only leaves a sting, and so we tacitly leave it out of our talk. There, my dear, you have my opinion."
There was a moment of silence. Leila looked up. "Oh, my dear Aunt Ann, if you were on the side of old Nick, Mr. Rivers wouldn't care a penny less for you, and I never could see why to differ in talk about politics is going to hurt past anything love could accept. Aunt Helen and Uncle Charles both talk politics and they do love one another, although Aunt Helen is tremendously Democratic."
"My dear Leila!"
"Oh, Aunt Ann! I will not say a word more if you want me to hold my tongue."
"Wouldn't the other way be more wholesome on the whole?" said Rivers.
"I have long thought so," said the Squire. "There are ways and ways--" "Perhaps," said Ann. "Shall you ride with your uncle tomorrow, Leila?"
"Oh, shall I! I long for it--I dream about it. May I ride Dixy, Uncle Jim?"
"Yes, if you have a riding-habit you can wear. We will see to that. You have grown a good bit, but I fancy we can manage."
"And how is Pole, aunt; and the doctor and Crocker and his fat wife--oh, and everybody?"
"Oh, much, as usual. We had a skirmish about mutton, but the last Pole sent is good--in fact, excellent. He needs watching."
Then the talk fell on the lessened work at the mills, and there being now four players the Squire had his whist again, and later carried Rivers away to smoke in the library, leaving Ann and Leila.
As the library door closed, Leila dropped on a cushion at her aunt's feet, and with her head in Ann's lap expressed her contentment by a few moments of silence. Then sitting up, she said, "I am so happy I should like to purr. I was naughty at dinner, but it was just because I wanted to make Uncle Jim laugh. He looks--Don't you think he looks worried, aunt? Is it the mills and--the men out of work? Dear Aunt Ann, how can one keep on not talking about politics and things that are next to one's religion--and concerning our country--my country?"
Ann made no direct reply, but went back to what was nearer than any creed of politics. "Yes, dear. When one big thing worries James, then everything worries him. The state of the money market makes all business difficult, and he feels uncomfortable because the mill company is in want of work, and because their debts are overdue and not likely to be paid in full or at all."
"I wish I could do something to help Uncle Jim."
"You can ride with him and I cannot. You can talk to him without limitations; I cannot. He is reasonable about this grave question of slavery. He does not think it right; I do--oh, good for master and best for the black. When, soon after our marriage, we spoke of it, he was positive and told me to read what Washington had said about slavery. We were both young and said angry things which left a pang of remembrance. After that we were careful. But now this terrible question comes up in the village and in every paper. It will get worse, and I see no end to it."
Leila was silent, remembering too her aunt's share in Josiah's escape. The advice implied in her aunt's frank talk she saw was to be accepted. "I will remember, Aunt Ann." At least she was free to talk to her uncle.
"Has any one heard of Josiah?" asked Leila.
"No, I was sorry for him. He had so many good traits. I think he would have been more happy if he had remained with his master."
Leila had her doubts, but was self-advised to say no more than, "I often think of him. Now I shall go to bed."
"Yes, you must be tired."
"I am never tired, but to be free to sit up late or go to bed and read what I want to--and to ride! Good-night. I can write to John--now there's another bit of freedom. Oh, dear, how delightful it all is!" She went upstairs thinking how hard it would be to keep off of the forbidden ground, and after all was her aunt entirely wise? Well, there was Uncle Jim and John.
While this talk went on the rector alone with his host said, "You are evidently to have a fresh and very positive factor in your household life--" "Hush," said the Squire. "Talk low--Ann Penhallow has incredible hearing."
"True--quite true--I forgot. How amazingly the child has changed. She will be a useful ferment, I fancy. How strange it is always--this abrupt leap of the girl into the heritage of womanhood. The boy matures slowly, by imperceptible gradations. Now Leila seems to me years older than John, and the change is really somewhat startling; but then I have seen very little of young women. There is the girl, the maid, the woman."
"Oh, but there is boy, lad, and man."
"Not comparable, Squire; continuously growing in one case, and in the other developmental surprises and, ever after, fall and rise of energy. The general trouble about understanding women is that men judge them by some one well-known woman. I heard a famous doctor say that no man need pretend to understand women unless he had been familiar with sick women."
The Squire recalling the case of Ann Penhallow was silent. The clergyman thinking too of his own bitter experience lapsed into contemplative cleaning of a much valued meerschaum pipe. The Squire not given to morbid or other psychological studies made brief reply. "I hope that Leila will remain half boy."
"Too late, Squire--too late. You've got a woman on your hands. There will be two heads to Grey Pine."
"And may I ask where do I come in?" He was at times almost dull-witted, and yet in danger swift to think and quick to act.
Rivers filling the well-cleaned pipe looked up. There was something of unwonted gaiety in the moving face-lines which frame the eyes and give to them the appearance of change of expression. "My dear friend, you were as dough that is kneaded in the hands of Leila, the girl; you will be no less so now in the hands of this splendid young woman."
"Oh, now--by George! Rivers, you must think me--" "Think you! Oh, like other men. And as concerns Mrs. Ann, there will sometimes be a firm alliance with Leila before which you will wilt--or--no, I will not venture further."
"You had better not, or you may fail like other prophets."
"No, I was thinking as you spoke of the fact that Leila has seen a good deal of a very interesting society in Baltimore, and has had the chance, and I am sure the desire, to hear more of the wild Southern party-talk than most girls have."
"Yes, she has been in both camps."
"And always was and is, I fancy, eagerly curious in the best sense. More than my dear Mrs. Ann, she has wide intellectual sympathies--and appetites."
"That's a very fine phrase, Mark."
"Isn't it, Squire? I was also comparing in my mind John's want of association with men of his own social accident of position. He lived here with some rough country lads and with you and me. He has had no such chance as Leila's."
"Oh, the Point will mature him. Then two years on the Plains--and after that the mills."
"Perhaps--two years! But, Penhallow, who can dare to predict what God has in store for us. Two years!"
"Yes--too true--who can! Just now we are financially diseased, and men are thinking more of the bread and butter and debts of to-morrow than of Mr. Buchanan in the toils of his Southern Cabinet."
"That's so. Good-night."
Leila took upstairs with her John's last letter to her aunt, and sitting down read it eagerly: "WEST POINT.
"MY DEAR AUNT: The life here, as I wrote you, is something almost monastic in its systematic regularity, and its despotic claims on one's time. It leaves small leisure for letters except on Sundays; and if a fellow means to be well placed, even then he is wise to do some work. The outside world seems far away, and we read and can read few papers.
"I am of Uncle Jim's politics, but although there are many pretty sensitive cadets from the South, some of them my friends, there is so pleasant a camaraderie among us that there are few quarrels, and certainly none of the bitterness of the two sections.
"I think I may have told you that we have no furlough until we have been here two years, but I hope some time for a visit from Uncle Jim and you, or at least from him and Leila. How she would enjoy it! The wonderful beauty of the great river in the embrace of these wooded mountains, the charm of the heroic lives it has nourished and the romance of its early history are delightful--" "Enjoy it," murmured Leila, "oh, would I not indeed!" Then she read on: "Tell Leila to write me all about the horses and the town, and if Josiah has been heard of. Tom McGregor writes me that after he is graduated next year, he means to try for a place in the army and get a year or two of army life before he settles down to help his father. So it takes only two years to learn how to keep people alive and four to learn how to kill them."
"I wonder who John means to kill." She sat in thought a while, and rising to undress said, "He must be greatly changed, my dear boy, Jack. Jack!"
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
16
|
None
|
The widespread disapproval at the North of the Dred Scott Decision was somewhat less manifest in the middle months of the year because of the general financial distress, which diverted attention from what was so agreeable to the slave States, where in fact the stringency in the money market had been felt but little.
At Grey Pine, as elsewhere in Pennsylvania, the evil influence of the depression in trade was felt as never before. More men were discharged, and Penhallow and his wife practised economy which to him was difficult and distasteful. To limit expenditure on herself was of little moment to Ann Penhallow, but to have to limit her ability to give where more and more were needing help was to her at least a hard trial. With the spring of 1858, business had begun to revive, while more bitterness arose when in the senatorial contest Stephen Douglas encountered the soil-born vigorous intellect of the little known lawyer Lincoln. The debate put fresh life into the increasing power of the Republican party in the West.
"Listen to this," said Rivers to the Squire in July of 1858. "Here is a new choice. Long ago I got touch of this man, when he said, 'A house divided against itself cannot stand.'" He went on to read aloud parts of the famous speech.
Leila sitting with them on the porch looked round to hear her uncle's comment. He said, "It is too radical, Rivers. It leaves no chance for compromise--it is a declaration of war."
"It is God's truth," said Rivers.
"The Democrats will rejoice," said Penhallow. "The Administration will be as I am against Douglas and against this man's views."
"I wish he were even more of an abolitionist, Squire. The right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, ought to apply to all men, black and white."
"Yes, but are there to be further applications. Shall your free black vote? Does he say that?"
"No, but I do."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the Squire. "I move we adjourn. Here comes Ann."
Keen to have the last word, Rivers urged, "He is not against some fugitive-slave law--not for abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia--or the slave trade between the States."
"But," said Leila, "I read it all last night in my room. He said it was the right and duty of Congress to prohibit slavery in all the territories."
"The right," said Penhallow, "Miss Politician?"
"And the duty," returned Rivers. They rose as Ann came up the steps.
Billy was carrying the baskets she had emptied in the village, and as usual with Ann when there had been much to do, she came home, Rivers said, refreshed by the exercise of her gentle despotisms as a man may be by use of competent muscles. "You are all struck dumb," she cried. "I smell the sulphur of bad politics."
"I'm for Buch and Breck," said Billy. "Misses she give me a dollar to vote for Buchanan, I know--" Leila delightedly encouraged him. "Did you?"
"No, it was for poll-tax. Take in those baskets at once," said Ann.
"Yes, ma'am. Bought a fishing-pole."
The confusion of mind which had made this practical use of Ann's mild political contribution was new to the Squire, and deliciously funny to Leila. Penhallow laughed outright. Rivers was silent watching Mrs. Ann.
To his surprise, she said, "You are bad--all of you. If the women could vote we would cease to have trouble. It may please you all to know that since that idiot Pole has mortgaged his farm to Swallow and bought out the butcher at the mills, he has repented of his Democratic wickedness and says, 'After all the Squire was right.'"
"And where, my dear, did you get all this gossip?" asked Penhallow.
"It is complicated; ask Pole."
"I could guess," laughed Leila.
"And I," cried the Squire.
"You will all suffer," cried Ann, "and don't complain, James Penhallow, if tough beef is the final result of political complications." Whereupon she gathered her skirts and fled laughing.
"Pole will pay dearly," said the Squire, who was secretly securing meat for the discharged mill-hands and understood what had influenced Pole.
Grey Pine and Westways during the summer and fall of 1858 felt, like many in the Northern States, the need to live with economy. Want of employment added to the unrest, and the idle men found time to discuss the angry politics which rang through the debates in the Senate. The changed tariff on iron, to which Pennsylvania was always selfishly sensitive, affected the voting, and Penhallow was pleased when the Administration suffered disaster in the October elections. All parties--Republican, American and Douglas Democrats--united to cast discredit on the President's policy, but Penhallow knew that the change of duties on iron had little to do with the far-spread ruin of trade and manufactures the result of long credits and the careless finance of an over-prosperous people. The electoral results were looked upon as a Republican victory. He so explained it on a November afternoon, as he rode through the still forest with Leila Grey, when the faint haze and warmer days told of that mysterious arrest of decay we call the Indian summer.
As they rode, the long lapses into silence told of the pleasant relations of two people entirely at ease with one another. Now it was a question asked--and now quick discussion. She had slowly won with maidenhood what few children have, more or less of the varied forms of imagination, which once had rather amused or puzzled her in John Penhallow. Her uncle, who thought slowly unless in danger, rode on with his mind upon a small order for rails and was far from feeling the mystery of the autumn days. The girl beside him was reading into the slow rocking to and fro of the falling leaves some reluctance to become forever a part of the decaying mould.
"Please, Uncle Jim, don't trot. Let them walk. It is so full of tender deaths."
"What do you mean, Leila? --as if death were ever beautiful or tender. You and your aunt bother me with your absurd manufacture of some relation to nature--" "Oh, Uncle Jim! Once I saw you pat a big pine and say 'how are you, old fellow?' I told John it was nonsense, but he said it was fine."
"Oh, but that was a tree."
Leila laughed. "Of that there can be no doubt."
"Well, and what of it? It was half fun. You and John and your aunt sit up and explode into enthusiasm over verse, when it could all be said far better in simple prose."
"I should like to put that to the test some night."
"Not I, Miss Grey. I have no poetry in me. I am cold prose through and through."
"You--you!" she cried. "Some people like poetry--some people are poetry."
"What--what?"
"Wasn't your hero Cromwell just magnificent, stately blank verse?"
"What confounded nonsense!" She glanced at the manly figure with the cavalry seat, erect, handsome, to her heroic--an ideal gentleman in all his ways. "Stuff and nonsense!" he added.
"Well, Uncle Jim--to talk prose--the elections please you?"
"Yes. The North is stiffening up. It is as well. Did you see what Seward said, 'An irrepressible conflict,' and that man Lincoln, 'The house divided against itself cannot stand'? Now I should like to think them both wrong."
"And do you not?" she asked.
"No. Some devilish fate seems to be at the helm, as Rivers says. We avoid one rock to fall into wild breakers of exasperation; with fugitive-slave cases on one side, and on the other importations of slaves. Where will it end?"
"But what would you do, uncle?"
"Oh, amend the Fugitive-Slave Law. Try the cases by jury. Let slavery alone to cure itself, as it would in time. It would if we let it alone."
"And Kansas?" asked Leila.
"Oh, Douglas is right, but his view of the matter will never satisfy the South nor the extreme men at the North. My dear Leila, the days are dark and will be darker, and worst of all they really think we are afraid." His face grew stern. "I hate to talk about it. Have you heard from John lately?"
"Yes, only last week."
"And you write to him, of course?"
"Yes, I answer his letters. Aunt Ann writes every Sunday. Are things better at the mills?"
"Rather. Now for a gallop--it puts me always in a more hopeful humour. Don't let your aunt overwork you, Leila; she will."
"She can't, Uncle Jim." It was true. Leila gently rebelled against incessant good works--sewing-classes for the village girls, Sunday school, and the endless errands which left no time for books. Her occasional walks with Marks Rivers enabled her to form some clear idea of the difference of opinion which so sharply divided parties north of Maryland. His own belief was that slavery was a sinful thing with which there should be no truce and no patient waiting upon the influence of time. He combated the Squire's equally simple creed--the unbroken union of the States. She fought the rector hard, to his delight. Far more pleasant on three afternoons in the week were the lessons in Italian with her aunt, and Rivers's brilliant commentary on Dante. The months ran on into and through the winter, with an economical Christmas to Ann's regret.
* * * * * As a rule the political contests of our country go on without deeply affecting the peace of families. In the cotton States opinion was or had to appear to be at one. In the North the bitterness and unreason of limited groups of anti-slavery people excited the anger of men who saw in their ways and speeches continual sources of irritation, which made all compromise difficult. The strife of parties where now men were earnest as they never were before since revolutionary days was felt most seriously in the border States.
"James," said Ann after breakfast, when Leila had gone to dress for a ride, "I think I ought to tell you that I have had this morning letters from both my brothers. I wrote, you know, asking them to bring the girls to us. Leila is too much alone. They both decline. Charles has come out for the Republicans, and now--it is too dreadful--they do not speak. Charles tells me there is a strong minority with him and that the State is not all for the South. I cannot believe it."
"Indeed!" He was not altogether displeased. "I am sorry for you, Ann, as their sister."
"And as a man, you are not! Where will it all end? There is neither charity nor reason at the North. I am disturbed for our country."
"You ask where it will all end. Where will it end? God alone knows. Let us at least wait quietly the course of events we cannot control. I at least try to be reasonable." He left her standing in tears, for which he had no comfort in thought or word. Over all the land, North and South, there were such differences of opinion between wife and husband, brothers, friends and kinsmen. As he stood at the door about to ride to the mills he looked back and heard her delayed comment.
"One moment, James--" "Oh, what is the matter?" cried Leila at the foot of the stairs. To see Ann Penhallow in tears was strange indeed.
Her uncle standing with his hand on his wife's shoulder had just spoken. Turning to Leila, he said: "Your aunt and I have had some unpleasant news from your uncles in Baltimore--a political quarrel."
"I knew it in the spring, Uncle Jim."
The girl's thoughtful reticence surprised him. Neither to him nor to Ann had she said a word of this family feud.
"Thank you, Leila," murmured her aunt. The Squire wondered why, as her aunt added, "I am greatly troubled. We have always been a most united family; but, dear, this--this has brought home to me, as nothing else has, the breaking up of the ties which bound the South and North together. It is only the sign of worse things to come."
"But, Ann," said Penhallow, "I must say"--A sharp grip on his arm by Leila's hand stopped him. He checked himself in time--"it is all very sad, but neither you nor I can help it."
"That is too true, James. I should not have said what I did. I want to see one of the men at the mills. His children are ill, his wife is in great distress."
"I will drive you myself this morning. I will send Dixy away and order the gig."
"Thank you; I shall like that, James."
Meanwhile Leila rode away, having in a moment of tactful interference made her influence felt. She was well aware of it and smiled as she walked her horse down the avenue, murmuring, "I suppose I shall catch it from Uncle Jim." And then, "No, he will be glad I pinched him, but he did look cross for a moment." No word of the family dissension reached John in their ever cheerful letters.
On a wild windy afternoon in February, the snow falling heavily, Leila on her way to the village rang at the Rector's door. Getting no answer, she went in and passing through the front room knocked at the library door.
"Come in." Rivers was at his table in a room littered with books and newspapers. The gentle smile of his usual greeting was missing. She saw at once that he was in one of his moods of melancholy--rare of late. Her eyes quick to see when she was interested noted that where he sat there was neither book nor paper in front of him. He rose as she entered, tall, stooping, lean, and so thin-featured that his large eyes were the more notable.
"Aunt Ann has a cold, and Joe Grace was at the house to say that his father is ill, and aunt wishes you to go with me and see what is wanted. He has no way to send for the doctor; and so you see, as he is in bed, you must go with me."
"Oh, I saw him this morning. It is of no moment. I did what was needed."
"But I have to see Mrs. Lamb too. Come for the walk. It is blowing a gale and the snow is splendid--do come."
Of late he had rarely walked with her. He hesitated.
"Do come."
"If I die of cold, Leila."
"Die! You do not take exercise enough to keep your blood in motion. Come, please!"
He said no more except "Wait a moment," and returned fitly clad. A fury of charging battalions of snow met them in the avenue. She faced it gallantly, joyous and rosy. He bent to avoid the sting of the driven snow, shivering, and more at ease when in the town the houses broke the force of the gale.
"You won't need to go to Grace's," he urged.
"I am under orders. Don't you know Aunt Ann?"
Presently plunging through the snow-drifts they came into the dreary disordered back room which had so troubled Penhallow. It was cold with that indoor cold which is so unpleasant. Joe Grace came in--a big strapping young fellow. "I came from the farm and found father in bed and no wood in the stack. Some one has just fetched a load." He began to make a fire.
"Go up to your father," said Rivers. "Make a fire in his room. You ought to have come sooner. Oh, that poor helpless Baptist saint--there isn't much wrong, but the man is half frozen--and it is so needless."
"Come," said Leila. "Does he require anything?"
"No, I saw to that." As he spoke, he piled log on log and warmed his long thin hands. "Wait a little, Leila." She sat down, while the loose casements rattled.
"Leila," he said, "there is no chance to talk to you at Grey Pine. I am troubled about these, my friends. What I now have of health and mental wholesomeness in my life, I owe to them. I came hither a broken, hopeless man. Now they are in trouble." She looked up at him in some surprise at his confession. "I want to help them. Your uncle told me of your aunt's new distress and the cause. Then I made him talk business, and asked him to let me lend him thirty thousand dollars. He said no, but I did see how it pleased him. He said that it would be lost. At all events his refusal was decisive."
"But," said Leila, increasingly surprised, "that was noble of you."
"Nonsense, my dear Leila; I have more than I need--enough to help others--and would still have enough."
She had a feeling of astonishment at the idea of his being so well-off, and now from his words some explanation of the mysterious aid which had so helped at the mills and so puzzled Mrs. Ann. Why had he talked to her? He himself could not have told why. As he stood at the fire he went on talking, while she made her quick mental comments.
"You call it noble. It is a rather strange thing; but to go to a friend in financial despair with a cheque-book is a test of friendship before which many friendships fail. Before my uncle left me rich beyond my needs, I had an unpleasant experience on a small scale, but it was a useful example in the conduct of life." He paused for a moment, and then said, "I shall try the Squire again."
"I think you will fail--I know Uncle Jim. But what you tell me--is it very bad? I mean, is he--are the mills--likely to fail?"
"That depends as I see it on the summer nominations and the fall elections, and their result no one can predict. The future looks to me full of peril."
"But why?" she asked, and had some surprise when he said, "I have lived in the South. I taught school in Macon. I know the South, its increasing belief in the despotic power of cotton and tobacco, its splendid courage, and the sense of mastery given by the ownership of man. Why do I talk my despair out to a young life like yours? I suppose confession to be a relief--the tears of the soul. I suppose it is easier to talk to a woman." "Then why not to Aunt Ann?" thought Leila, as he went on to say, "I have often asked myself why confession is such a relief." He smiled as he added, "I wonder if St. Francis ever confessed to Monica." Then he was silent, turning round before the fire, unwilling to leave it.
Leila had been but recently introduced to the knowledge of St. Francis, and was struck with the oddity of representing Monica; and the tall, gaunt figure with the sad eyes, as the joyful St. Francis.
"Now, I must go home," he said.
"Indeed, no! You are to go with me to the post-office and then to see Mrs. Lamb."
He had some pleasant sense of liking to be ordered about by this young woman. As they faced the snow, he asked, "How tall are you, Leila?"
"Five feet ten inches and--to be accurate--a quarter. Why do you ask?"
"Idle curiosity."
"Curiosity is never idle, Mr. Rivers. It is industrious. I proved that in a composition I wrote at school. It did bother Miss Mayo."
"I should think it might," said Rivers. "Any letters, Mrs. Crocker?"
"No, sir; none for Squire's folk. Two newspapers. Awful cold, Miss Leila. Molasses so hard to-day, had to be chopped--" "Oh, now, Mrs. Crocker!"
The fat post-mistress was still handling the pile of finger-soiled letters. "Oh, there's one for Mrs. Lamb."
"We are going there. I'll take it."
"Thanks, miss. She's right constant in coming for letters, but the letters they don't come, and now here's one at last." Leila tucked it into her belt. "I tell you, Miss Leila, a post-office is a place to make you laugh one day and cry the next. When you see a girl from the country come here twice a week for maybe two months and then go away trying that hard to make believe it wasn't of any account. There ought to be some one to write 'em letters--just to say, 'Don't cry, he'll come.' It might be a queer letter."
Rivers wondered at the very abrupt and very American introduction of unexpected sentiment and humour.
"Let me know and I'll write them, Mrs. Crocker," cried Leila. She had the very youthful reflection that it was odd for such a fat woman to be sentimental.
"I should like to open all the letters for a week, Mrs. Crocker," said Rivers.
"Wouldn't Uncle Sam make a row?"
"He would, indeed!"
"Idle curiosity," laughed Leila, as they went out into the storm.
He made no reply and reflected on this young woman's developmental change and the gaiety which he so lacked.
Leila, wondering what Peter wrote to the lonely old widow, went to look for her in the kitchen, while Rivers sat down in the neatly kept front room. He waited long. At last Leila came out alone, and as they walked away she said, "The letter was from Peter."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, I got it all out of her."
"Got what?"
"She gets three dollars a week from Aunt Ann and all her vegetables from Aunt Ann, and she is all the time complaining to Uncle Jim. Then, of course, Uncle Jim gives her more money--and Peter gets it--" "Where is he?"
"Oh, in Philadelphia, and here and there."
"You should tell the Squire."
"No, I think not."
"Perhaps--yes--perhaps you are right." And facing the wild norther she left him at his door and went homewards with a new burden of thought on her mind.
The winter broke up and late in May Penhallow left home on business. He wrote from Philadelphia: "My dear Ann: Trade is dead, money still locked up, and the railways hesitating to give orders for much-needed rails. I have one small order, which will keep us going, but will hardly pay.
"I never talk of the political disorder, but now you will feel as I do a certain dismay at the action of the Vicksburg Convention in the interest of the slave States. Not all were represented--Tennessee and Florida voted against the resolution that all State and Federal laws prohibiting the African slave trade ought to be repealed. South Carolina to my surprise divided its vote; there were forty for, nineteen against this resolution. It seems made to exasperate the North and build up the Republican party. I who am simply for the Union most deeply regret this action.
"I want Leila to meet me here to-day week. We will take the steamer and go to West Point, let her see the place, and bring John home for his month of furlough.
"I have talked here to the Mayor and other moderate Union men, and find them more hopeful than I of a peaceful ending.
"Yours always, "JAMES PENHALLOW."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
17
|
None
|
When Leila sat upon the upper deck of the great Hudson River steamer, she was in a condition of excitement natural to an imaginative nature unused to travel. Her mind was like a fresh canvas ready for the hand of the artist. She was wondering at times what John Penhallow would look like after over two years of absence and hardly heard the murmur of talk around her, and was as unconscious of the interested glances of the young men attracted by the tall figure standing in the bow as the great river opened before her.
"That," said her uncle, "is Weehawken. There--just there--Hamilton was killed by Burr, and near by Hamilton's son four years before was killed in a duel--a political quarrel." She knew the sad story well, and with the gift of visualization saw the scene and the red pistol-flashes which meant the death of a statesman of genius.
"And there are the palisades, Leila." The young summer was clothing the banks with leafage not yet dark green, and translucent in the morning sun. No railroads marred the loveliness of the lawns on the East bank, and the grey architecture of the palisades rose in solemn grandeur to westward.
"It is full of history, Leila. There is Tarrytown, where André was taken." She listened in silence. The day ran on--the palisades fell away. "Dobbs's Ferry, my dear;" and pointing across the river, "on that hill André died."
Presently the mountains rose before them, and in the afternoon they drew up at the old wharf. "We stay at Cozzen's Hotel, Leila. I will send on the baggage and we will walk up to the Point."
She hardly heard him. A tall young man in white pantaloons and blue jacket stood on the pier. "Good gracious, Uncle Jim, it is John!" A strange sense of disappointed remembrance possessed her. The boy playmate of her youth was gone. He gave both hands of welcome, as he said, "By George, Leila, I am glad to see you."
"You may thank uncle for our visit. Aunt Ann was not very willing to part with me."
He was about to make the obvious reply of the man, but refrained. They talked lightly of the place, of her journey, and at last he said very quietly, even coldly, as if it were merely a natural history observation, "You are amazingly grown, Cousin Leila. It is as well for cadets and officers that your stay is to be brief."
"John, I have been in Baltimore. You will have to put it stronger than that--I am used to it."
"I will see if I can improve on it, Leila."
Now this was not at all the way she meant to meet him, nor these the words they meant to use--or rather, she--for John Penhallow had given it no thought, except to be glad as a child promised a gift and then embarrassed into a word of simple descriptive admiration. When John Penhallow said, with a curious gravity and a little of his old formal manner, "I will reflect on it," she knew with the quick perception of her sex that here was a new masculine study for the great naturalist woman. The boy--the lad--she knew were no more.
"Who is that with Uncle James?" she asked.
"The Commandant."
"My niece, Miss Grey. Colonel Beauregard, my dear. Let us walk up to the Point." The Commandant, who made good his name, took possession of the delighted young woman and carried her away to his home with Penhallow, leaving the cadet to return to his routine of duty. As they parted, he said, "I am set free to-morrow, Leila, at five, and excused from the afternoon parade. If you and Uncle Jim will walk up to Port Putnam, I will join you."
"I will tell Uncle Jim. You will be at the hop of course? I have been thinking of nothing else for a week."
"I may be late."
"Oh, why?"
"We are in the midst of our examinations. Even to get time for a walk with you and uncle was hard. I wrote Uncle Jim not to come now. He must have missed it."
"And so I am to suffer."
"I doubt the anguish," he returned, laughing, as he touched his cap, and left her to brief consideration of the cadet cousin.
"Uncle Jim might have been just like that--looked like that. They are very unlike too. I used to be able to tell just what Jack would do when we were children--don't think I can now. How tall he is and how handsome. The uniform is becoming. I wonder if I too am so greatly changed."
It is well here to betray the secrets of the novelists' confessional. Leila Grey had seen in the South much of an interesting society where love affairs were brief, lightly taken, easily ended, or hardly more than the mid-air flirtations of butterflies. No such perilous approaches to the most intimate relations of men and women were for this young woman, on whom the love and tactful friendship of the married life of Grey Pine had left a lasting impression. One must have known her well to become aware of the sense of duty to her ideals which lay behind her alert appearance of joyous gaiety and capacity to see the mirthful aspects of life. Once long ago the lad's moment of passionate longing had but lightly stirred the dreamless sleep of unawakened power to love. Even the memory of John's boy-folly had faded with time. Her relation to him had been little more than warm friendship. Even that tie--and she was abruptly aware of it--had become less close. She was directly conscious of the fact and wondered if this grave young man felt as she did. She lay awake that night and wondered too if his ideals of heroism and ambition were still actively present, and where too was his imagination--ever on the wing and far beyond her mental flight? She also had changed. Did he know it or care? Then she dismissed him and fell asleep.
As John Penhallow near to noon came out a little weary and anxious from the examination ordeal, he chanced on his uncle and Leila waiting with the officer of the day, who said to him, "After dinner you are free for the rest of the afternoon. Mr. Penhallow has asked me to relieve you."
As he bade them good-morning, his uncle said, "How goes the examination?"
"Don't ask me yet, sir; but I cannot go home until the end of next week. Then I shall know the result."
"But what examination remains?" persisted the Squire.
"Don't ask him, Uncle Jim."
"Well--all right."
"Thank you, Leila. I am worn out. I am glad of a let-up. I dream equations and pontoon bridges--and I must do some work after dinner. Then I will find you and Uncle Jim on Fort Putnam, at five."
"I want to talk with Beauregard," said Penhallow, "about the South. Leila can find her way."
"I can," she said. "I want to sketch the river, and that will give me time."
"Oh, there goes the dinner call. Come in at a quarter to one with Uncle Jim. I have leave to admit you. There will be something to interest you."
"And what, John--men eating?"
"No. One of my best friends, Gresham from South Carolina, has been ordered home by his father."
"And why?" asked Penhallow.
"Oh, merely because his people are very bitter, and, as he tells me, they write about secession as if it were merely needed to say to the North 'We mean to cut loose'--and go; it is just to be as simple as 'Good-bye, children.' I think I wrote you, uncle, that we do not talk politics here, but this quiet assumption of being able to do with us what they please is not the ordinary tone of the Southern cadets. Now and then there is a row--" Leila listened with interest and some presently gratified desire to hear her cousin declare his own political creed. She spoke, as they stood beside the staff from which the flag was streaming in the north wind, "Would it not be better, John, as Mr. Rivers desires, to let the Southern States go in peace?" As she spoke, she was aware of something more than being merely anxious that he should make the one gallant answer to the words that challenged opinion. The Squire caught on to some comprehension of the earnestness with which she put the question.
To his uncle's surprise, the cadet said, "Ah, my dear Leila, that is really asking me on which side I should be if we come to an open rupture."
"I did not mean quite that, John, and I spoke rather lightly; but you do not answer."
He somewhat resented this inquisition, but as he saw his uncle turn, apparently expectant, he said quietly and speaking with the low voice which may be so surpassingly expressive, "I hardly see, Leila, why you put such a question to me here under the flag. If there is to be war--secession, I shall stand by the flag, my country, and an unbroken union." The young face flushed a little, the mouth, which was of singular beauty, closed with a grip on the strong jaw. Then, to Leila's surprise, the Captain and John suddenly uncovered as music rang out from the quarters of the band.
"Why do you do that, Uncle Jim?"
"Don't you hear, Leila? It is the 'Star Spangled Banner'--we all uncover." Here and there on the parade ground, far and near, officers, cadets and soldiers, stood still an instant bareheaded.
"Oh," murmured Leila. "How wonderful! How beautiful!" Surprised at the effect of this ceremonial usage upon herself, she stood a moment with that sense of constriction in the throat which is so common a signal of emotion. The music ceased, and as they moved on Penhallow asked, "What about Gresham, your friend?"
"Oh, you know, uncle, when a cadet resigns for any cause which involves no dishonour, we have a little ceremony. I want you to see it. No college has that kind of thing. Don't be late. I will join you in time."
The captain and Leila attracted much attention from the cadets at dinner in the Mess Hall. "Now, dear, look!" said Penhallow. At the end of the long table a cadet rose--the captain of the corps in charge of the battalion. There was absolute silence. The young officer spoke: "You all know that to our regret one of us leaves to-day. Mr. Gresham, you have the privilege of calling the battalion to attention."
A slightly built young fellow in citizen's dress rose at his side. For a moment he could not fully command his voice; then his tones rang clear: "Most unwillingly I take my farewell. I am given the privilege of those who depart with honour. Battalion! Attention! God bless you! Good-bye!"
The class filed out, and lifting the departing man on their shoulders bore him down to the old south dock and bade him farewell.
Penhallow looked after them. "There goes the first, Leila. There will be more--many more--to follow, unless things greatly change--and they will not. I hoped to take John home with us, but he will come in a week. I must leave to-morrow morning. John is in the dumps just now, but Beauregard has only pleasant things to say of him. I wish he were as agreeable about the polities of his own State."
"Are they so bad?"
"Don't ask me, Leila."
The capital of available energy in the young may be so exhausted by mental labour, when accompanied by anxiety, that the whole body for a time feels the effect. Muscular action becomes overconscious, and intense use of the mind seems to rob the motor centres of easy capacity to use the muscles. John Penhallow walked slowly up the rough road to where the ruined bastions of Port Putnam rose high above the Hudson. He was aware of being tired as he had not been for years. The hot close air and the long hours of concentration of mind left him discouraged as well as exhausted. He was still in the toils of the might-have-been, of that wasting process--an examination, and turning over in his mind logistics, logarithms, trajectories, equations, and a mob of disconnected questions. "Oh, by George!" he exclaimed, "what's the worth while of it?" All the pleasantly estimated assets of life and love and friendship became unavailable securities in the presence of a mood of depression which came of breathing air which had lost its vitalizing ozone. And now at a turn in the road nature fed her child with a freshening change of horizon.
Looking up he saw a hawk in circling flight set against the blue sky. He never saw this without thinking of Josiah, and then of prisoned things like a young hawk he had seen sitting dejected in a cage in the barracks. Did he have dreams of airy freedom? It had affected him as an image of caged energy--of useless power. With contrasted remembrance he went back to the guarded procession of boys from the lyceum in France, the flower-stalls, and the bird-market, the larks singing merrily in their small wicker cages. Yes, he had them--the two lines he wanted--a poet's condensed statement of the thought he could not fully phrase: Ah! the lark! He hath the heaven which he sings,-- But my poor hawk hath only wings.
The success of the capture of this final perfection of statement of his own thought refreshed him in a way which is one of the mysteries of that wild charlatan imagination, who now and then administers tonics to the weary which are of inexplicable value. John Penhallow felt the sudden uplift and quickened his pace until he paused within the bastion lines of the fort. Before him, with her back to him, sat Leila. Her hat lay beside her finished sketch. She was thinking that John Penhallow, the boy friend, was to-day in its accepted sense but an acquaintance, of whom she desired, without knowing why, to know more. That he had changed was obvious. In fact, he had only developed on the lines of his inherited character, while in the revolutionary alterations of perfected womanhood she had undergone a far more radical transformation.
The young woman, whom now he watched unseen, rose and stood on the crumbling wall. A roughly caressing northwest wind blew back her skirts. She threw out her wide-sleeved arms in exultant pleasure at the magnificence of the vast river, with its forest boundaries, and the rock-ribbed heights of Crow's Nest. As she stood looking "taller than human," she reminded him of the figure of victory he had seen as a boy on the stairway of the Louvre. He stood still--again refreshed. The figure he then saw lived with him through life, strangely recurrent in moments of peril, on the march, or in the loneliness of his tent.
"Good evening," he said as he came near. She sat down on the low wall and he at her feet. "Ah, it is good to get you alone for a quiet talk, Leila."
She was aware of a wild desire to lay a hand among the curls his cadet-cropped hair still left over his forehead. "Do you really like the life here, John?"
"Oh, yes. It is so definite--its duties are so plain--nothing is left to choice. Like it? Yes, I like it."
"But, isn't it very limited?"
"All good education must be--it is only a preparation; but one's imagination is free--as to a man's future, and as to ambitions. There one can use one's wings."
She continued her investigation. "Then you have ambitions. Yes, you must have," she cried with animation. "Oh, I want you to have them--ideals too of life. We used to discuss them."
He looked up. "You think I have changed. You want to know how. It is all vague--very vague. Yet, I could put my creed of what conduct is desirable in life in a phrase--in a text."
"Do, John." She leaned over in her interest.
"Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's and to God the things which are God's." The seriousness of the upturned face for a moment kept her silently reflective.
"Caesar! What of Caesar, John?"
"My country, of course; that is simple. The rest, Leila, covers all--almost all of life and needs no comment. But how serious we are. Tell me all about home and the village and the horses and Uncle Jim. He has some grey hairs."
"He may well have grey hairs, John. The times are bad. He is worried. Imagine Uncle Jim economical!"
"Incredible."
"Yes. He told me that his talk with Colonel Beauregard had made him despair of a peaceful ending, and usually he is hopeful."
"Well, don't make me talk politics. We rarely do. Isn't this outlook beautiful? People rarely come here and it often gives me a chance to be alone and to think."
"And what do you think about, John?" She was again curious.
"Oh, many things, big and little. Uncle Jim, Aunt Ann, Mr. Rivers, Dixy--hornets, muskrats," he laughed. She noted the omission of Leila Grey.
"And what else?"
"Oh, the tragedy of Arnold,--the pathos of Washington's despair,--his words, 'Who is there now I can trust?'"
"It came home to me, John, this morning when Colonel Beauregard showed us the portraits of the major-generals of the Revolution. I saw a vacant place and a tablet like the rest, but with 'Major General--Born 1740' and no name! I asked what it meant. The Colonel said only, 'Arnold.' That is too pitiful--and his wife--I read somewhere that she was young, beautiful, and innocent of his horrible treason."
"Yes, what crime could be worse than his, and, too, such a gallant soldier. Let us walk around the fort. Oh, by the way, I found here last week two Continental buttons, Third Pennsylvania Infantry. Like to have them, Leila? I thought you might."
"Would I like?" She took them eagerly. "They ought to be gilded and used as sleeve-links." But where she kept them John Penhallow never knew. They did not make the sleeve-links for which she agreed they were so suitable.
"Isn't there a walk down through the woods?" asked Leila.
"Yes, this way." Leaving the road they followed a rough trail through the woods to a more open space half-way down the hill. Here he paused. "This is our last chance to talk until I am at Grey Pine."
"That will be very soon, John." She sat down amid numberless violets, adding, "There will be the hop to-night, as you call it."
"Yes, the hop. I forgot. You will give me the first dance?"
To her surprise he asked no others. "Cadets have to learn to dance, but Baltimore may have left you critical."
Still on her investigation track, she returned, "Oh, Baltimore! It seems odd to me that I should have seen so much of the world of men and women and you who are older so little in this military monastery."
He laughed outright. "We have the officers' families, and if we are allowed to visit, the Kembles and Gouverneurs and Pauldings across the river--no better social life anywhere. And as for young women--sisters, cousins--_embarras de choix_, Miss Grey. They come in flocks like the blackbirds. I assure you that this branch of natural history is pretty well illustrated at the Point. We are apt to be rather over-supplied in June."
"Indeed! --all sorts, I suppose."
"Yes, a variety, and just now three charming young women from the South."
"Rather a strong adjective--charming. I might hesitate to apply it to a whole flock. I think men are more apt to use it than women."
"I stand by my adjective. Take care of your laurels, Miss Grey. I am lucky enough to have two dances with Miss Ramsay. Her brother is a cadet."
"Introduce him to me. What myriads of violets!"
"Do you remember how, when we were small, we used to fight violets?"
"How long ago it seems, John. It must have been the first June after you appeared in that amazing cap and--the cane I have it yet. Let's fight violets. It may have a charm to make me look young again--I feel so old sometimes."
Intent on her game, she was already gathering the flowers in her lap, while the young man a little puzzled and a little amused watched the face which she described for his benefit as needing to look young. She ran on gaily, "You will pick five and I will pick five. I never heard of any other children fighting violets. It is a neglected branch of education. I got it from the Westways children. Now, fair play, John Penhallow." He was carelessly taking his five violets, while Leila was testing hers, choosing them with care. The charm she sought was working--they were children again.
"That's not fair, Leila."
"Why not?"
"You are testing yours. It is a mean advantage. I would scorn to do such a thing. It is just like a woman--the way you do about dress. All women ought to dress alike--then the competition would be fair."
Leila looked up from her lap full of violets. "I should like to see _your_ Miss Ramsay in one of my gowns." " _My_ Miss Ramsay! No such luck."
"You're a goose, Jack."
"You're a silly, Leila."
"Oh, now, we are children, John. This is the magic of the June violets."
"And you are just fourteen, Leila. The wrinkles of age are gone--they used to be dimples."
"Nonsense! Let's play."
They hooked together the bent stems of the flowers. Then there was a quick jerk, and one violet was decapitated. "One for you, Leila;--and another."
"You are not paying any attention to the game. Please to keep young a little while." He was watching the sunlight as it fell upon her neck when it bent over the flowers.
"And how am I to keep young, Miss Grey?"
"Oh, any woman can answer that--ask Miss Ramsay."
"I will. There! you have won, Leila, three to two. There used always to be a forfeit. What must I pay?"
"Now, John, what terrible task shall I put upon you? I have it. You shall ask me to give you the third dance."
"That is Miss Ramsay's. I am sorry."
"Oh, one girl is as good as another."
"Perhaps--for women." He did not ask of her any other dances. "But really, Leila, the better bred of these Southern girls we see here are most pleasant acquaintances, more socially easy of acquaintance than Northern girls. As they are butterflies of the hour--their frank ways are valuable in what you call our monastery."
"Yes, I know them well. There may be time here for some brief flirtations. I used to see them in Maryland, and once when Aunt Margaret took me on visits to some old Virginia homes. These pleasant girls take to it with no more conscience than birds in the spring. I used to see it in Maryland."
"Oh, yes," he said, "but it means very little;--quite harmless--mere practice, like our fencing bouts."
"Did you ever kiss a woman, John--just for practice?" "Why did I say that!" thought Leila. "Come, sir, confess!"
"Yes," he said, not liking it and far from any conception of the little mob of motives which betrayed to her a state of mind he had not the daring to guess. "Did I? That requires courage. Have I--ever kissed a woman? Yes, often--" "Oh, I did not ask who."
"Aunt Ann--and a girl once--" "Indeed!"
"Yes--Leila Grey, aged fifteen--and got my ears boxed. This confession being at an end, I want absolution." The air was cleared.
"How about the first polka as absolution?" said Leila.
"It is unusual, but as penance it may answer."
"The penance may be mine. I shall know better after the first round, Mr. Penhallow."
"You are complimentary, Miss Grey," he added, with the whimsical display of mirth which was more than a smile and not a laugh, and was singularly attractive.
In place of keeping up the gay game of trifles as shuttle-cocks, Leila stood still upon the edge of the wood, "I don't think you liked what I asked."
"What, about kissing? I did not, but upon my honour I answered you truly." He was grave as he replied.
"You did not think it impertinent, Jack?"
"I don't know what I thought it." And then, as if to avoid need to defend or explain contradictory statements, he said, "Put yourself in my place. Suppose I had dared to ask you if ever a man had kissed you--" "Oh, that's the difference between kissing and being kissed."
"Then put it my way."
"John Penhallow, I should dearly like to box your ears. Once a man did kiss me. He was tall, handsome, and had the formal courtly manners you have at times. He was General Winfield Scott. He kissed my hand."
"You minx!" cried John, "you are no better than you used to be. There goes the bugle!" And laughing as he deserted her, he ran down the hill and across the parade ground.
"He is not really handsome," said the young woman, "but no man ought to have so beautiful a mouth--I could have made him do it in a minute. Why did I not? What's the matter? I merely couldn't. He hasn't the remotest idea that if he were to kiss me--I--" She reddened at the thought and went with quick steps of "virgin liberty" to take tea with the Commandant.
In New York, on his way home, Penhallow received a telegram, "I am third. John Penhallow." Then the Squire presented Leila with a bracelet, to the belated indignation of Aunt Ann, who was practising the most disagreeable economy. Her husband wrote her that the best policy for a man financially in peril was to be extravagant enough to discredit belief in his need to lessen expenditure. He was, moreover, pleasantly aware that the improving conditions of trade this summer of 1859 had enabled him to collect some large outstanding debts. He encouraged Leila to remember their old village friends, but when he proposed a set of furs for Ann Penhallow's winter wear Leila became ingeniously impossible about choice, and the Squire's too lavish generosity somehow failed to materialize; but why or how was not clear to him because of their being feminine diplomatic ways--which attain results and leave with the male a mildly felt resentment without apparent cause of defeat.
As Cadet No. 3 of his class in this year's studies made the railway journey of a warm June day, he recalled with wondering amusement his first lonely railway travel. "I was a perfect little snob." The formal, too old-mannered politeness of his childhood had left, if the child is father of the man, an inheritance of pleasant courtesy which was unusual and had varied values in the intercourse of life. Rivers said of him later that the manner of John Penhallow's manners had the mystery of charm. Even when younger, at Grey Pine, he liked to talk to people, with curiosity about their lives and their work. Now, as the train moved on, he fell into chat with the country folk who got on the train for short travel. Soon or late they all talked politics, but 'generally guessed things would be settled somehow'--which is the easily reached conclusion of the American. When the old conductor, with the confidence John's manner invited, asked what uniform he wore, John said, laughing, "Do you not remember the boy with a cane who got out at Westways Crossing?"
"You ain't him--?? not really? Why it's years ago! You are quite a bit changed."
"For the better, I hope."
"Well, here's your station, and Miss Grey waiting."
"Oh, John, glad to see you! I told aunt no one must go for you but me. Get in. And Billy, look out how you drive."
Billy, bewildered by the tall figure in cadet jacket and grey pantaloons, needed the warning.
Then there was the avenue, the big grey pine, home, and Aunt Ann's kiss of welcome. The old familiar life was again his. He rode with the Squire or Leila, swam, and talked to Rivers whenever he could induce the too easily tired man to walk with him. He was best pleased to do so when Leila was of the party. Then at least the talk was free and wandered from poetry and village news to discussion of the last addition to the causes of quarrel between the North and South. When tempted to speak at length, Rivers sat down.
"How can a man venture to speak, John, like Mr. Jefferson Davis? Have you read his speech?"
"No, sir."
"Well, he says the importation of Africans ought to be left to the States--and the President. He thinks that as Cuba is the only spot in the civilized world where the African slave-trade is permitted, its cession to us would put an end to that blot on civilization. An end to it, indeed! Think of it!" His voice rose as he spoke. "End slavery and you end that accursed trade. And to think that a woman like Ann Penhallow should think it right!" Neither John nor Leila were willing to discuss their aunt's definitely held views.
"I think," said Leila, who had listened silently, "Aunt Ann has lost or put aside her interest in politics."
"I wish I could," said John. "But what do you mean, Leila? She has never said so."
"It's just this. Aunt Ann told me two weeks ago that Uncle Henry Grey was talked of as a delegate to the Democratic Convention to meet next year. Now her newspapers remain unopened. They are feeding these dissensions North and South. No wonder she is tired of it all. I am with Uncle Jim, but I hate to wrangle over politics like Senator Davis and this new man Lincoln--oh, and the rest. No good comes of it. I can't see it as you do, Mr. Rivers."
"And yet, I am right," said Rivers gravely. "God knows. It is in His hands."
"What Aunt Ann thinks right," said Leila, "can't be so unpardonably wicked." She spoke softly. "Oh, John, look at that squirrel. She is carrying a young one on her back--how pretty! She has to do it. What a lovely instinct. It must be heavy."
"I suppose," said Rivers, "we all have loads we must carry, are born to carry--" "Like the South, sir," said John. "We can help neither the squirrel nor the South. You think we can throw stones at the chipmunk and make her drop it--and--" "Bad logic, John," returned Rivers. "But soon there will be stones thrown."
"And who will cast the first stone?" rejoined Leila, rising.
"It is an ancient crime," said Rivers. "It was once ours, and it will be ours to end it. Now I leave you to finish your walk; I am tired." As they moved away, he looked after them. "Beauty, intelligence, perfect health--oh, my God!"
In August with ever resisted temptation John Penhallow went back to West Point to take up his work again.
The autumn came, and in October, at night, the Squire read with dismay and anger of the tragic attempt of John Brown at Harper's Ferry. "My poor Ann," he exclaimed. He went at once from his library back to the hall, where Leila was reading aloud. "Ann," he said, "have you seen the papers to-day?"
"I have read no paper for a month, James. They only fill me with grief and the sense of how helpless I am--even--even--with those I love. What is it now, James?"
"An insane murderer named John Brown has made an attack on Harper's Perry with a dozen or so of infatuated followers." He went on to tell briefly the miserable story of a madman's folly.
"The whole North is mad," said Ann, not looking up, but knitting faster as she spoke, "mad--the abolitionists of Boston are behind it." It was too miserably true. "Thank you, James, for wanting to make me see in this only insanity."
The Squire stood still, watched by the pitiful gaze of Leila. "I want you, Ann--I wanted you to see, dear, to feel how every thoughtful man in the North condemns the wickedness of this, and of any, attempt to cause insurrection among the slaves."
"Yes--yes, of course--no doubt--but it is the natural result of Northern sentiment."
"Oh, Aunt Ann!"
"Keep quiet, child!"
"You should not have talked politics to me, James."
"But, my God, Ann, this is not politics!" He looked down at her flushed face and with the fatal newspaper in his hand stood still a moment, and then went back to his library. There he stayed before the fire, distressed beyond measure. "Just so," he said, "the South will take it--just so."
Ann Penhallow said, "Where did you leave off, Leila? Go on, my dear, with the book."
"I can't. You were cruel to Uncle Jim--and he was so dear and sweet."
"If you can't read, you had better go to bed." Leila broke into tears and stumbled up the stairs with half-blinded eyes.
Ann sat long, hearing Penhallow's steps as he walked to and fro. Then she let fall her knitting, rose, and went into the library.
"James, forgive me. I was unjust to say such things--I was--" "Please don't," he cried, and took her in his arms. "Oh, my love," he said, "we have darker days than this before us. If only there was between North and South love like ours--there is not. We at least shall love on to the end--no matter what happens."
The tearful face looked up, "And you do forgive me?" "Forgive! There is no need for any such word in the dictionary of love." Between half-hysterical laughter and ready tears, she gasped, "Where did you get that prettiness?"
"Read it in a book, you goosey. Go to bed."
"No, not yet. This crime or craze will make mischief?"
"Yes, Ann, out of all proportion to the thing. The South will be in a frenzy, and the North filled with regret and horror. Now go to bed--we have behaved like naughty children."
"Oh, James, must I be put in a corner?"
"Yes--of my heart. Now, good night."
November passed. The man who had sinned was fairly tried, and on December 2nd went to a well-deserved death. Penhallow refused to talk of him to Rivers, who praised the courage of his last hours.
"Mark," he said, "have been twice or thrice sure I was to die--and I have seen two murderers hanged, and I do assure you that neither they nor I were visibly disturbed. The fact is, when a fellow is sure to be put to death, he is either dramatic--as this madman was--or quietly undemonstrative. Martyr! Nonsense! It was simply stupid. I don't want to talk about it. Those mischief-makers in Congress will howl over it." They did, and secession was ever in the air.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
18
|
None
|
The figure of Lincoln had been set on the by-ways of State politics by his debate with Douglas. His address in New York in February of 1860 set him on the highways of the nation's life. Meanwhile there were no talks about politics at Grey Pine. The Christmas Season had again gone by with unwonted economies.
While Douglas defined his opinions in the Senate and Jefferson Davis made plain that the Union would be dissolved if a radical Republican were elected, it became clear that the Democratic party which in April was to nominate candidates would be other than of one mind. Penhallow in Washington heard Seward in the Senate. Of this memorable occasion he wrote with such enthusiasm to Leila as he rarely showed: "I may not write to your aunt, and I am moved to write to you by the effect Mr. Seward's speech had on me. He is not much of a man in his make-up. His voice is husky and his gestures are awkward and have no relation to what he says. It seemed a dried-up sort of talk, but he held the Senate and galleries to fascinated attention for two hours, and was so appealing, so moderate. The questions at issue were handled with what Rivers calls and never uses--the eloquence of moderation. I suppose he will be the nominee of the Republican party. It won't please the abolitionists at all. I wish you could have heard it.
"I came here to see two Southern Senators who have been counsel for us in regard to debts owing the mills by Southern railways. I gathered easily that my well-known Republican views made collection difficult. I was about to say something angry--it would have done no good, and I am opposed to useless anger. It is all pretty bad, because the South has hardly felt the panic, or its continued effect on our trade.
"I am wrong to trouble you with my troubles. We shall pull through.
"Yours, "JAMES PENHALLOW."
"P.S. I should have been prepared for my failure to get fair treatment. I had learned in New York that lists of abolition houses have been published in the South, and Southern buyers warned not to place orders with them. I wonder if I am thus listed. Our agent in Savannah writes that it is quite useless to solicit orders on account of the prevalent sentiment, and he is leaving the town."
Penhallow went home disappointed and discouraged, and called a private meeting of his Pittsburgh partners. He set before them the state of their affairs. There would be no debts collectible in the South. He smiled as he added that he had collected certain vague promises, which could hardly be used to pay notes. These could and would be met, they said, but finally agreed with him that unless they had other orders, it might be necessary to further reduce their small force. His partners were richer than he, but indisposed to take risks until the fall conventions were over. It was so agreed. As they were leaving, Penhallow said, "But there will be our workmen--what will become of them?" They were sure times would get better, and did not feel his nearness of responsibility for workmen he knew so long and so well.
He rode home at a walk. The situation of his firm was like that of many others, and now this April of 1860 business doubts, sectional feeling and love of country seemed to intensify the interest with which all classes looked forward to the Charleston Democratic Convention.
The Convention met on April 23rd. It was grave and able. There were daily prayers in the churches of Charleston for the success of Southern principles. Henry Grey, a delegate, wrote to his sister: "The Douglas platform was adopted and at once the delegations of six cotton States withdrew. We who cannot accept Douglas meet in Richmond. It means secession unless the Republicans are reasonable when they nominate in Chicago. Mr. Alexander Stephens predicts a civil war, which most men I meet here consider very unlikely."
Ann handed this letter to her husband, saying, "This will interest you."
He read it twice, and then said, "There is at least one man in the South who believes the North will fight--Stephens."
"But will it, James?" A predictive spectre of fear rose before her.
Slowly folding the letter he said, "Yes, the South does not know us." She walked away.
On May 16th the Republicans met in Chicago. The news of the nomination of Lincoln came to the Squire as riding from the mills he met Dr. McGregor afoot.
"What, walking!" he said. "I never before saw you afoot--away from that saint of a mare."
"Yes, my old mare got bit by something yesterday and kicked the gig to smithereens, and lamed her off hind-leg."
"I will lend you a horse and a gig," said Penhallow.
"Thanks," said McGregor simply. "I am sweating through my coat."
"But don't leave my horse half a day tied to a post--any animal with horse-sense would kick."
"As if I ever did--but when the ladies keep me waiting. Heard the good news? No--We have nominated Lincoln--and Hamlin."
"I preferred Seward. You surprise me. What of the platform?"
"Oh, good! The Union, tariff, free soil. You will like it. The October elections in Pennsylvania will tell us who will win--later you will have to take an active part."
"No. Come up to-morrow and get that horse--No, I'll send it."
The Squire met Rivers on the avenue. As he walked beside the horse, he said, "I am going to dine with you."
"That is always good, but be on your guard about politics at Grey Pine. Lincoln is nominated."
"Thank God! What do you think of it, Squire?"
"I think with you. This is definite--no more wabbling. But rest assured, it means, if he is elected, secession, and in the end war. We will try to avert it. We will invent compromises, at which the South will laugh; at last, we will fight, Mark. But we are a quiet commercial people and will not fight if we can avoid it. They believe nothing will make us fight. The average, every-day Northerner thinks the threat of secession is mere bluff."
"Do you recall, Squire, what Thucydides said of the Greeks at the time of the Peloponnesian War?"
"I--how the deuce should I? --what did he say?"
"He said the Greeks did not understand each other any longer, although they spoke the same language. The same words in Boston and in Charleston have different meanings."
"But," said Penhallow, "we never did understand one another."
"No, never. War--even war--is better than to keep up a partnership in slavery--a sleeping partnership. Oh, I would let them go--or accept the gage of battle."
"Pretty well that, for a clergyman, Mark. As for me, having seen war, I want never to see it again. This may please you." As he spoke, he extracted a slip of paper from his pocket-book, where to Leila's amusement queer bits of all kinds of matters were collected. Now it was verse. "Read that. You might have written it. I kept it for you. There is Ann on the porch. Don't read it now."
Late that evening Rivers sat down to think over the sermon of the next Sunday. The Squire had once said to him, "War brings out all that is best and all that is worst in a nation." He read the verses, and then read them aloud.
"They say that war is hell, the great accursed, The sin impossible to be forgiven; Yet I can look beyond it at its worst And still find blue in Heaven.
"And as I note how nobly natures form Under the war's red reign, I deem it true That He who made the earthquake and the storm Perchance makes battles too.
"The life He loves is not the life of span Abbreviated by each passing breath; It is the true humanity of man Victorious over death."
"No great thing in the way of poetry--but--a thought--a thought. Oh, I should like to preach of men's duty to their country just now. I envy Grace his freedom. If I preached as he does, people would say it was none of a preacher's business to apply Christ's creed of conduct to a question like slavery. Mrs. Penhallow would walk out of the church. But before long men will blame the preacher who does not say, 'Thou shalt love thy country as thyself'--ah, and better, yes, and preach it too."
During the early summer of 1860, James Penhallow guarded an awkward silence about politics. Leila found that her uncle would not talk of what the closing months of Buchanan's administration might contribute to insure peaceful settlement. John Penhallow was as averse to answering her eager questions. Their silence on matters which concerned a nation's possible dismemberment and her aunt's too evident distress weighed heavily upon Leila. The newspapers bewildered her. The _Tribune_ was for peaceful separation, and then later was against it. Uncle Jim had said he was too worried about the mills to talk politics, "Don't ask me, Leila." At last, an errand to Dr. McGregor's gave her the chance she desired.
"Yes," said the doctor, "I'll come to-day. One of the maids? Well, what else, Leila?" seeing that she still lingered.
"I want to know something about all this tangle of politics. There's Breckinridge, Douglas, Bell and Lincoln--four candidates. Uncle Jim gets almost cross when I ask him what they all stand for. Mr. Rivers told me to be thankful I have no vote. If there is to be war, have I no interest? There is Uncle Jim--and--and John."
The doctor said, "Sit down, Leila. Your uncle could answer you. He won't talk. I don't believe John Penhallow owns any politics except a soldier's blind creed of devotion to the Flag."
"Oh, the Flag, Doctor! But it is a symbol--it is history. I won't write to a man any more who has no certain opinions. He never answers."
"Well, my dear, see how hard it is to know what to think! One State after another is seceding. The old juggle of compromises goes on in that circus we call Congress. The audience is grimly silent. Crittenden's compromise has failed. The President is at last against secession--and makes no vigorous effort to reinforce Fort Sumter. The Cabinet was distinctly with the South--the new men came in too late. You--a girl--may well call it a tangle. It is a diabolical cat's-cradle. My only hope, my dear, is in a new and practically untried man--Abraham Lincoln. The South is one in opinion--we are perplexed by the fears of commerce and are split. There you have all my wisdom. Read the news, but not the weathercock essays called editorials. Oh! I forgot to tell the Squire that Tom, my young doctor, has passed the Army Board and is awaiting orders in Washington. By-bye!"
"Tom as a doctor--and in uniform," Leila murmured, as her horse walked away. "How these boys go on and on, and we women just wait and wait while men dispose of our fates."
In February the Confederacy of the South was organising, and in March of 1861 Mr. Lincoln was President. Penhallow groaned over Cameron as Secretary of War, smiled approval of the Cabinet with Seward and Chase and anxiously waited to see what Lincoln would do.
Events followed fast in those eventful days. On the thirteenth of April Ann Penhallow sat in the spring sunshine on the porch, while Leila read aloud to her with entranced attention "The Marble Faun." The advent of an early spring in the uplands was to be seen in the ruddy colour of the maples. Bees were busy among the young flowers. There was noiseless peace in the moveless infant foliage.
"How still it is!" said Leila looking up from the book. They were far from the madding crowd. "What is it, Billy?"
He was red, breathless, excited, and suddenly broke out in his thin boy-like voice, "Hurrah! They've fired on the flag."
"Who--what flag?"
"Don't know." He had no least idea of what his words meant. "Don't know," and crying "Hurrah! They've fired on the flag," fled away.
Ann said, "Go to the village and find out what that idiot meant."
In a half hour Leila came back. "Well, what is it?"
"The Charleston troops have fired on Fort Sumter--My God! Aunt Ann--on the flag--our flag!"
Ann rose, gathered up her work, hesitated a moment, and saying, "That is bad news, indeed," went into the house.
Leila sat down on the step of the porch and broke into a passion of tears, as James Penhallow coming through the woods dismounted at her side. "What is the matter, my dear child?"
"They have fired on the flag at Sumter--it is an insult!"
"Yes, my child, that--and much more. A blunder too! Mr. Lincoln should thank God to-day. He will have with him now the North as one man. Colonel Anderson must surrender; he will be helpless. Alas for his wife, a Georgia woman! --and my Ann, my dear Ann."
There are few alive to-day who recall the effect caused in the States of the North by what thousands of men and women, rich and poor, felt to be an insult, and for the hour, far more to them than the material consequences which were to follow.
When Rivers saw the working people of the little town passionately enraged, the women in tears, he read in this outbreak of a class not given to sentimental emotion what was felt when the fatal news came home to lonely farms or great cities over all the North and West.
Memorable events followed in bewildering succession during the early spring and summer of 1861. John wrote that Beauregard and all but a score of Southern cadets had left the Point. Robert Lee's decision to resign from the army was to the Squire far more sorrowfully important.
When Lincoln's call to arms was followed in July by the defeat of Bull Run, James Penhallow wrote to his nephew: "My Dear John: Your aunt is beyond measure disturbed. I have been more at ease now that this terrible decision as to whether we are to be one or God knows how many is to be settled by the ordeal of battle. I am amazed that no one has dwelt upon what would have followed accepted secession. We should have had a long frontier of custom houses, endless rows over escaping slaves, and the outlet of the Mississippi in the possession of a foreign country. Within ten years war would have followed; better let it come now.
"I am offered a regiment by Governor Curtin. To accept would be fatal to our interests in the mills. It may become an imperative duty to accept; but this war will last long, or I much underestimate the difficulties of overcoming a gallant people waging a defensive war in a country where every road and creek is familiar.
"Yours, in haste, "JAMES PENHALLOW."
John wrote later: "MY DEAR UNCLE: Here is news for you! All of my class are ordered to Washington. I shall be in the engineer corps. I see General McClellan is put in command of the army. I will write again from Washington."
Ann Penhallow heard the letter, and saying merely, "It had to come!" made the bitter forecast that it would be James Penhallow's turn next.
John wrote again as he had promised, but now to Leila: "At last we are in this crowded city. We get our uniforms in a day or two. I am a lieutenant of engineers. We are now in tents. On arrival we were marched to General Scott's headquarters, and while drawn up in line Mr. Lincoln came out. He said a few words to us. His appearance was strange to me. A tall stooping figure, in what our village calls 'store clothes,' but very neat; the face big, homely, with a look of sadness in the eyes. He shook hands with each of us in turn, saying a word of encouragement. Why he spoke specially to me, I do not know. He asked my name. I said 'Penhallow.' 'Oh,' he said, 'a Cornish name--the great iron-works. Do you know the Cornish rhyme? It rings right true.' I said, 'No, sir.' 'Well, it is good. Do your duty. There is a whole creed in the word--man needs no other. God bless you, boys.' It was great, Leila. What is the Cornish rhyme? Ask Uncle Jim. Write me care of the Engineer Camp.
"I put this on a separate slip for you. In Baltimore we were delayed and I had an hour's leave. I called on your uncle, Charles Grey. He is Union through and through. His brother Henry has gone South. While I was walking with Mr. Charles Grey, a lady went by us, drawing away her skirts with quite unmistakable contempt and staring at your uncle in a way which was so singular that I asked what it all meant. He replied, 'It is your United States cadet uniform--and the lady is Mrs. Henry Grey. I am not of their acquaintance.' This, Leila, was my first taste of the bitterness of feeling here. It is the worse for the uprising of union feeling all over Maryland.
"My class-mates are rather jolly about their commissions and the prospect of active war. I have myself a certain sense of being a mere cipher, a dread too of failure. I can say so to you and to no one else. I am going where death is in the air--and there are things which make me eager to live--and--to be able to live to feel that I have done my duty. Thinking of how intensely you feel and how you grieve over being unable to do more than pray, I mean to pet a little the idea that I am your substitute."
At this point she sat a while with the letter on her lap. Then she read on: "I hoped for a brief furlough, but got none, and so I shall apply to memory and imagination for frequent leave of absence,--from duty.
"Yours, "JOHN PENHALLOW."
"To pet a little the idea! That is so like John. Well, yes--I don't mind being petted as a substitute and at a distance. It's rather confusing."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
19
|
None
|
It was late in October and ten at night, when Leila with her uncle was endeavouring to discover on one of the large maps, then so much in demand, the situation of the many small conflicts which local feeling brought about.
"It all wants a head--one head, Leila. Now it is here, there and everywhere, useless gain or loss--and no large scheme. John left Washington two weeks ago. You saw his letter?"
"No."
"Then I may have told you--I am sure I did. Damn it, Leila! I am so bothered. I did tell Ann, I suppose."
"Why, of course, Uncle Jim. I wish I could help you. Is it the mills?"
"Yes. Your little property, part of John's--your aunt's--are all in the family business. Ann says, 'What's the difference? Nothing matters now.' It isn't like her."
"I'm sure I don't care, Uncle Jim."
"Don't talk nonsense. In a month we shall know if we are bankrupt. I did not mean to trouble you. I did mean to tell you that to my relief John is out of Washington and ordered to report to General Grant at Cairo. See, dear, there is a pin marking it on the map."
"Do you know this General?"
"Yes. He took no special rank at the Point, but--who can tell! Generals are born, not made. I saw a beautiful water-colour by him at the Point. That's all I know of him. Now, go to bed--and don't take with you my worries and fight battles in your dreams."
There was in fact no one on whom he could willingly unload all of his burdens. The need to relieve the hands out of work--two-thirds of his force--was growing less of late, as men drifted off into the State force which the able Governor Curtin was sending to McClellan. Penhallow's friends in Pittsburgh had been able to secure a mortgage on Grey Pine, and thus aided by his partners he won a little relief, while Rivers watched him with increasing anxiety.
On the 17th of January, 1862, he walked into McGregor's office and said to his stout friend, "McGregor, I am in the utmost distress about my wife. Inside my home and at the mills I am beset with enough difficulties to drive a man wild. We have a meeting in half an hour to decide what we shall do. I used to talk to Ann of my affairs. No one has or had a clearer head. Now, I can't."
"Why not, my friend?"
"She will not talk. Henry Grey is in the Confederate service; Charles is out and out for the Union; we have no later news of John. We miserably sit and eat and manufacture feeble talk at table. It is pitiful. Her duties she does, as you may know, but comes home worn out and goes to bed at nine. Even the village people see it and ask me about her. If it were not for Leila, I should have no one to talk to."
A boy came in. "You are wanted, sir, at the mill office."
"Say I will come at once. I'll see you after the meeting, McGregor."
"One moment, Squire. Here's a bit of good news for you. Cameron has resigned, and Edwin Stanton is Secretary of War."
"Stanton! Indeed! Thank Heaven for that. Now things will move, I am sure."
The Squire found in his office Sibley, one of his partners, a heavy old man, who carried the indifferent manners of a farmer's son into a middle age of successful business. He sat with his chair tilted back, a huge Cabana cigar hanging unlighted from the corner of his mouth. He made no movement towards rising, but gave his hand as he sat, and said: "There, Penhallow, just read that!"
As the Squire took the telegram, Sibley scratched a match on the back of his pantaloons and waiting for the sulphur to burn out lit his cigar. Ever after the smell of sulphur brought to the Squire of Grey Pine the sense of some pleasant association and then a less agreeable remembrance.
"Read it--read it out loud, Penhallow! It was a near thing. Wardlow couldn't meet us--be here at noon. Read it--I've read it about ten times--want to hear it again. I've been as near broke as you--but that's an old story. When you're at your last dollar, buy a fast pair of trotters--one thousand-dollar pair--and drive them. Up goes your credit! Told you that once."
Penhallow looked up from the telegram. "Is this certain?"
"Yes, it has been repeated--you can rely on it."
"WASHINGTON, Willard's Hotel.
"Mr. Stanton has given contract for field artillery to the Penhallow Mills.
"RICHARD AINSELEY."
Penhallow had read it aloud as he stood. Then he sat down.
"Don't speak to me for a moment, Sibley. Thank God!" he murmured, while the care-wrinkled face of the veteran speculator looked at him with a faint smile of affectionate regard.
"Well," said Penhallow, "is this all?"
"No. While Cameron was in office the contract was drawn in favour of the Lancaster Works. We have been urging our own claims, and their Washington agent, your very particular friend, Mr. Swallow, would have had the job in a week more. When Stanton saw our bid and that it was really a more advantageous offer, he sent first for Swallow and then for Ainseley and settled it at once. I believe your name and well-known character did the business. Do you know--do you realize what it means to us?"
"Hardly. I had no hope while Cameron was in office. I left it to you and Ainseley."
"Well, you will see the contract to-morrow." He wriggled on to one leg of the frail office chair and came down with a crash. He gathered up his two hundred pounds and laughing said, as he looked at the wreck, "That's what we would have been tomorrow but for that bit of yellow paper. In six months you will be a rich man, my friend. Cannon--shells--the whole outfit. We must get to work at once. An ordnance officer will be here to-morrow with specifications, and your own knowledge will be invaluable. I'd like to see Swallow again. He was so darned sure!"
Wardlow turned up by the noon train, and they worked until dusk, when his partners left him to secure hands in Pittsburgh, while the good news spread among the men still at work. Penhallow rode home through the woods humming his old army songs--a relieved and happy man.
The Doctor waited a half-hour in vain, and after his noonday dinner was about to go out when Mrs. Penhallow was driven to his door. Somewhat surprised, he went back with her.
"Sit down," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Oh, for me nothing! I want to talk about my husband. He is ill, I am sure--he is ill. He eats little, he sleeps badly, he has lost--oh, altogether lost--his natural gaiety. He hardly speaks at all."
The Doctor was silent.
"Well," she said.
"Can you bear a little frank talk?" he asked.
"Yes--why not?"
"Do you know that he is on the verge of complete financial ruin?"
"What does that matter? I can--I can bear anything--give up anything--" "You have the woman's--the good woman's--indifference about money. Do you talk to him about it?"
"No. We get on at once to the causes of trouble--this unrighteous war--that I can't stand."
"Ah, Mrs. Penhallow, there must be in the North and South many families divided in opinion; what do you suppose they do? This absolute silence is fatal. You two are drifting apart--" "Oh, not that! Surely not that!"
"Yes! The man is worried past endurance. If he really were to fall ill--a serious typhoid, for instance, the South and your brother and John, everything would be forgotten--there would be only James Penhallow. It would be better to talk of the war--to quarrel over it--to make him talk business--oh, anything rather than to live as you are living. He is not ill. Go home and comfort him. He needs it. He has become a lonely man, and it is your fault. He was here to-day in the utmost distress about you--" "About me?"
"Yes."
"There is nothing the matter with me!"
"Yes, there is--oh, with both of you. This war will last for years--and so will you. All I have to say is that my friend, James Penhallow, is worth all the South, and that soon or late he will stand it no longer and will go where he ought to be--into the army."
"You are talking nonsense--he will never leave the mills." He had called up her constant fear.
"It is not nonsense. When he is a broken man and you and he are become irritable over a war you did not make and cannot end, he will choose absence and imperative duty as his only relief."
As she stood up, red and angry, she said, "You have only hurt and not helped me." She said no other word as he went with her to the wagon. He looked after her a moment.
"Well, well! There are many kinds of fools--an intelligent fool is the worst. I didn't help her any, and by George! I am sorry."
When at twilight the doctor came home from distant visits to farms, he met Leila near to his door. "I want to see you a minute," she said, as she slipped out of her saddle.
"A woman's minute or a man's minute?"
"A man's."
She secured her mare as he said, "Well, come in. It's rather amusing, Leila. Sit down. I've had James Penhallow here to say his wife's breaking down. I've had Mrs. Penhallow here to say James Penhallow is ill. Except the maids and the cats and you, all Grey Pine is diagnosing one another. And now, you come! Don't tell me you're ill--I won't have it."
"Please don't joke, Doctor. I am troubled about these dear people. I talked to Mr. Rivers about it, and he is troubled and says it is the mills and money. I know that, but at the bottom of it all is the war. Now Aunt Ann is reading the papers again--I think it is very strange; it's confusing, Doctor."
"Here," reflected the doctor, "is at least one person with some sense."
She went on, speaking slowly, "Uncle Jim comes home tired. Aunt Ann eats her dinner and reads, and is in bed by nine. The house is as melancholy as--I feel as if I were in a mousetrap--" "Why mouse-trap, my dear?"
"It sounds all right. The mouse is waiting for something awful to happen--and so am I. Uncle Jim talked of asking people to stay with us. It's just to please Aunt Ann. She said, 'No, James, I don't want any one.' He wished to please her. She really thinks of nothing but the war and Uncle Jim, and when Uncle Jim is away she will spend an hour alone over his maps. She has--what do you call it--?"
"Is obsession the word you want?"
"Yes--that's it."
"Now, Leila, neither you nor I nor Mark Rivers can help those two people we love. Don't cry, Leila; or cry if it will help you. When you marry, be sure to ask, 'what are your politics, Jeremiah?'" His diversion answered his purpose.
"I never would marry a man named Jeremiah."
"I recommend a well-trained widower."
"I prefer to attend to my husband's education myself. I should like a man who is single-minded when I marry him."
"Well, for perversion of English you are quite unequalled. Go and flirt a bit for relief of mind with Mark Rivers."
"I would as soon flirt with an undertaker. Why not with Dr. McGregor?"
"It would be comparable, Leila, to a flirtation between a June rose and a frost-bitten cabbage. Now, go away. These people's fates are on the lap of the gods."
"Of the god of war, I fear," said Leila.
"Yes, more or less." He sent her away mysteriously relieved, she knew not why. "A little humour," he reflected, "is as the Indians say, _big medicine_."
Whether the good doctor's advisory prescription would have served as useful a purpose in the case of Ann Penhallow, he doubted. That heart-sick little lady was driven swiftly homeward, the sleigh-runners creaking on the frozen snow: "Walk the horses," she said to Billy, as they entered the long avenue, "and quit talking."
While with the doctor and when angrily leaving him, she was the easy victim of a storm of emotions. As she felt the healthy sting of the dry cold, she began the process of re-adjustment we are wise to practise after a time of passion when by degrees facts and motives begin to reassume more just proportions. He had said, the war would last long. That she had not believed. Could she and James live for years afraid to speak of what was going on? The fact that her much-loved Maryland did not rise as one man and join the Confederacy had disturbed her with her first doubt as to the final result of the great conflict. She thought it over with lessening anger at the terrible thing McGregor had said, "You two are drifting apart." This sentence kept saying itself over and over.
"Stop, Billy." She was back again in the world of everyday. "Get in, Mr. Rivers. We are both late for our Dante." As she spoke, an oppressed pine below which he stood under a big umbrella was of a mind to bear its load no longer and let fall a bushel or so of snow on the clergyman's cover. His look of bewilderment and his upward glance as if for some human explanation routed from Ann's mind everything except amusement over this calamity.
"You must not mind if I laugh." She took for granted the leave to laugh, as he said, "I don't see where the fun comes in. It is most disagreeable." The eloquent eyes expressed calamity. It was really felt as if it had been a personal attack.
"It was a punishment for your utterly abominable politics." For the first time for months she was her unfettered self. His mind was still on his calamity. "I really staggered under it."
"Shake it off and get in to the sleigh. My husband ought to have all the big pines cut down." Rivers's mind had many levels. Sometimes they were on spiritual heights, or as now--almost childlike.
"To stay indoors would be on the whole more reasonable," he said, "or to have these trees along the avenue shaken."
"I'd like the job," ventured Billy.
"Keep quiet," said Mrs. Ann.
"It is most uncomfortable as it melts," said Rivers.
Ann thought of John Penhallow's early adventure in the snow, and seeing how strangely real was Mark Rivers's discomfort, remarked to herself that he was like a cat for dislike of being wet, and was thankful for her privilege of laughing inwardly.
Billy, who was, as Leila said, an unexpectable person, contributed to Ann Penhallow's sense of there being still some available fun in a world where men were feebly imitating the vast slaughters of nature. He considered the crushed umbrella, the felt hat awry, and the disconsolate figure. "Parson do look crosser than a wet hen."
Then too Rivers's laugh set free her mirth, and Ann Penhallow laughed as she had not done for many a day. "That is about my condition," said Rivers. "I shall go home and get into dry clothes. Billy, you're a poet."
"Don't like nobody to call me names," grunted Billy.
"I wish James had heard that," cried Ann, while Rivers gathered up the remains of his umbrella.
As Billy drove away, Mrs. Penhallow called back, "You will come to dinner to-day?"
"Thank you, but not to-day."
As Ann came down the stairs to the hall, Penhallow was in the man's attitude, with his back to the fire. Leila with a hand on the mantel and a foot on the fender was talking to her uncle, an open letter in her hand. Ann heard him say, "That was in October"--and then--"Why this must be a month old!"
"It must have been delayed. He wrote a note after the fight at Belmont, and that was in October. He did write once since then, but it was hardly worth sending. As a letter writer, John is rather a failure, but this is longer." She laughed gaily as she spread open the letter.
"He has got a new hero, uncle--General Grant. John is strong on heroes--he began with you."
"Stuff and nonsense," said the Squire. "Read it."
Leila hesitated.
"Oh, let's hear it," cried her aunt.
"Go on, dear," said the Squire.
Leila still hesitated. Usually Ann Penhallow carried away John's rare letters to be read when alone. Now she said, with unnatural deliberation. "Read it; one may as well hear his news; we can't always just ignore what goes on."
Leila a little puzzled glanced at her aunt. The Squire pleased and astonished said, "Go on, my dear."
Turning to the candles on the hall table, Leila read the letter:--"Why how long it has been! It is dated November 20th."
"DEAR LEILA: We have been moving from place to place, and although I know or guess why, it is best left out of letters. At Belmont General Grant had a narrow escape from capture. He was the last man on board the boat. He is a slightly built, grave, tired-looking man, middle-aged, carelessly dressed and eternally smoking. I was in the thick of the row--a sort of aide, as there was no engineer work. He was as cool as a cucumber--" "Why are cucumbers cool?" asked Leila, looking up. "Oh, bother! Go on!" said Penhallow.
"We shall move soon. Good-bye.
"JOHN PENHALLOW."
Ann made no comment. The Squire said, "It might have been longer. Come, there's dinner, and I am hungry."
Ann looked at him. He was gay, and laughed at her account of Rivers's disaster.
"I have some good news for you, Ann. I shall keep it until after dinner. Then we can talk it over at leisure. It concerns all of us, even John."
"I don't see how I am to wait," said Leila.
"You will have to."
Ann made an effort to meet the tone of gaiety in her husband's talk, and when the wine was set before him, he said, "Now, Ann, a glass--and Leila, 'To our good news and good luck--and to John.'"
They followed him into the library, and being in sacrificial mood, Ann filled a pipe, lighted a match, and said, "I want you to smoke, James."
"Not yet, dear. Sit down."
"No, I want to stand." She stood beside the fire, a little lady, with an arm around the waist of her niece. The Squire seated was enjoying the suspense of his eager audience.
"You know, dear Ann, that for two years or more the mills have been without large orders. We have been in the most embarrassing situation. Our debts"--he was about to say, 'in the South'--"unpaid. I had to ask you to help us."
This was news to Leila. "Why mention that, James?" said her aunt.
"Well, we long ago lessened our force. To shut down entirely was ruin, but when we met to-day we were to decide whether it was honest to borrow more money and stagger on, or as I thought, honourable to close the mills and realize for our creditors all we could."
Ann sat down with some feeling of remorse. Why had she not known all this? Was it her fault? He had borne it for the most part without her knowledge--alone. "My God! It is true," she reflected, "we have drifted apart." He had hopefully waited, not wanting to trouble a woman already so obviously sorrow-laden. He seemed to echo her thought.
"You see, dear," and the strong face grew tender, "I did not mean to disturb you until it became inevitable. I am glad I waited."
Ann, about to speak, was checked by his lifted hand. "Now, dear, all my troubles are over. Mr. Stanton, the new Secretary of War, has signed a contract with our firm for field artillery. It is a fortune. Our bid was low. A year's work--shot, shell--and so on. Congratulate me, Ann."
"My God!" he cried, "what is the matter?"
Ann Penhallow turned quickly, a hand on the table staying herself. "And you--you are to make cannon--you--and I--and with my money!" she laughed hysterical laughter--"to kill my people the North has robbed and driven into war and insulted for years--I--I--" her voice broke--she stood speechless, pale and more pale.
Penhallow was appalled. He ran to catch her as she swayed.
"Don't touch me," she cried. "I feared for--you--the army--but never this--this!" Despite her resistance, he laid her on the lounge.
"Leila," she said, "I want to go upstairs to bed." The face became white; she had fainted.
"Is she dead?" he said hoarsely, looking down at her pale face.
"No--no. Carry her upstairs, uncle." He picked up the slight form and presently laid her on her bed. "Leave her to me, Uncle Jim. I have seen girls in hysterics. Send up a maid--the doctor! No, I will come down when she is undressed. See, her colour is better."
He went downstairs, reluctant to leave her. In the library he sat down and waited. An hour passed by, and at last Leila reappeared. She kissed him with more than her usual tenderness, saying, "She is quiet now. I will lie down on her lounge to-night. Don't worry, Uncle Jim."
This advice so often given was felt by him to be out of his power to follow. He knew very well that this he would have now to consider was not only a mere business affair. It ceased to be that when he heard with the shock of bewilderment his wife's outburst of angry protest. He loved her as few men love after many years of married life, and his affection was still singularly young. His desire to content her had made him unwisely avoid talk about differences of opinion. In fact his normal attitude was dictated by such gentle solicitude as is not uncommon in very virile men, who have long memory for the careless or casual sharp word. To the end of his days he never suspected that to have been less the lover and more the clear-sighted outspoken friend would have been better for her and for him. He sat into the night smoking pipe after pipe, grappling with a situation which would have presented no difficulties to a coarser nature. At last he went upstairs, listened a moment at Ann's chamber door, and having smoked too much spent a thought-tormented night, out of which he won one conclusion--the need to discuss his trouble with some friend. At six he rose and dressed, asked the astonished cook for an egg and coffee, went to the stables, and ordered a groom to saddle horses and follow him.
A wild gallop over perilously slippery roads brought him to McGregor's door, a quarter of a mile from the mills. The doctor was at breakfast, and rose up astonished. "What's wrong now, Penhallow?" he said.
"Oh, everything--everything."
"Then sit down and let us talk. What is it?"
The Squire took himself in hand and quietly related his story of the contract and his wife's reception of what had been to him so agreeable until she had spoken.
"Can you bear--I said it yesterday to Mrs. Penhallow--a frank opinion?"
"Yes, from you--anything."
"Have no alarm about her health, my friend. It is only the hysteria of a woman a little spoiled by too tender indulgence."
The Squire did not like it, but said, "Oh, perhaps! But now--the rest--the rest--what am I to do?" The doctor sat still a while in perplexed thought. "Take your time," said Penhallow. "I have sent the horses to the stable at the mills, where my partners are to meet me early to-day."
The doctor said, "Mrs. Penhallow will be more or less herself to-day. I will see her early. There are several ways of dealing with this matter. You can take out of the business her share of the stock."
"That would be simple. My partners would take it now and gladly."
"What else you do depends on her condition of mind and the extent to which you are willing to give way before the persistency of a woman who feels and does not or can not reason."
"Then I am not now to do anything but tell her that I will take her stock out of the business."
"That may relieve her. So far I can go with you. But, my dear Penhallow, she may be utterly unreasonable about your manufacture of cannon, and what then you may do I cannot say. How long will it be before you begin to turn out cannon?"
"Oh, two months or more. Many changes will be needed, but we have meanwhile an order for rails from the Baltimore and Ohio."
"Then we can wait. Now I am off for Grey Pine. See me about noon. Don't go back home now. That's all."
While the Squire walked away to the mills, McGregor was uneasily moving his ponderous bulk to and fro in the room.
"It's his damn tender, soft-hearted ways that will win in the end. My old Indian guide used to say, 'Much stick, good squaw.' Ann Penhallow has never in her whole life had any stick. Damn these sugar plum husbands! I'd like to know what Miss Leila Grey thinks of this performance. Now, there's a woman!"
When after a night of deep sleep Ann woke to find Leila standing by her bed, she rose on an elbow saying, "What time is it? Why are you here?"
"It is eight, aunt. You were ill last night; I stayed on your lounge."
Now her aunt sat up. "I was ill, you say--something happened." The thing pieced itself together--ragged bits of memories storm-scattered by emotion were reassembled, vague at first, then quickly more clear. She broke into unnaturally rapid speech, reddening darkly, with ominous dilatation of the pupils of her large blue eyes. "And so James Penhallow is to be made rich by making cannon to kill my people--oh, I remember!" It seemed absurdly childlike to Leila, who heard her with amazement. "And with my money--it is easy to stay at home and murder--and be paid for it. Let him go and--fight. That's bad enough--I--" "God of Heaven, Aunt Ann!" the girl broke in, "don't dare to say that to Uncle Jim. Are you crazy--to say such things."
"I don't know what I am. Oh, those cannon! I hear them. He shall not do it--do you hear me? Now send me up a cup of tea--and don't come in again. I want James--tell him--tell him."
"He went away to the mills at six o'clock."
"I know. He is afraid to talk to me--I want to see him--send for him at once. I said at once--do you hear! Now go."
As Leila turned to leave, she heard a knock at the door, said "Come in," and to her relief saw enter large and smiling the trusted doctor. As he neared the bed, Ann fell back speechless and rigid.
"Ah, Leila! That makes it all plain. There is no danger. Close the blinds; I want the room darkened. So! Come into the back room--leave the door ajar." He selected a trustworthy chair and sat down with deliberate care. "Now listen to me, my dear. This is pure hysteria. It may last for days or weeks--it will get well. It is the natural result of birth, education, worry, etc.--and a lot of darned et ceteras. When you let loose a mob of emotions, you get into trouble--they smash things, and this is what has become of one of God's sweetest, purest souls."
"It is most dreadful, Doctor; but what shall we do with Uncle Jim. If she has a mere cold in the head, he is troubled."
"Yes--yes." The doctor took counsel with himself. "I will send up old Mrs. Lamb to help you--she is wise in the ways of sick women. Take your rides--and don't fret over this suicide of reason." He was pleased with his phrase. "Let her see Penhallow if she asks for him, but not if you can help it. It is all as plain as day. She has been living of late a life of unwholesome suppression. She has been alarmed by Penhallow's looks, hurt by her brothers' quarrels, and heart-sick about the war and John. Then your uncle springs on her this contract business and there is an explosion."
After giving careful orders, he went away. To Penhallow he said, "When you are at home keep out of her room. If you have to see her, tell her nothing has been done or will be for months. The time will come when you will have to discuss matters."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
20
|
None
|
Leila Grey never forgot the month which followed. Penhallow was mercifully spared the sight of the drama of hysteria, and when not at the mills went about the house and farm like a lost dog; or, if Leila was busy, took refuge with Rivers. Even the war maps claimed no present interest until a letter came from John after the capture of Port Donaldson. At evening they found the place on the map.
"Well, now let's hear it. Ann is better, McGregor says," He was as readily elated as depressed. "Does she ask for me?"
"No," said Leila, "at first she did, but not now."
"Read the letter, my dear."
"DEAR LEILA: I wrote to Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim a fortnight ago--" "Never came," said Penhallow.
"I am called an engineer, but there is no engineering required, so I am any General's nigger. I have been frozen and thawed over and over. No camp fires allowed, and our frozen 15,000 besieged 21,000 men. General S.T. Smith picked me up as an aide, and on the 15th personally led a charge on the Rebel lines, walking quietly in front of our men to keep them from firing. It did not prevent the Rebs from abusing our neutrality. It was not very agreeable, but we stormed their lines and I got off with a bit out of my left shoulder--nothing of moment. Now we have them. If this war goes on, Grant will be the man who will end it. I am too cold to write more. Love to all.
"General Smith desires to be remembered to Uncle Jim, and told me he was more than satisfied with "Yours, "JOHN PENHALLOW."
"Isn't that delightful, Uncle Jim? But every night I think of it--this facing of death. I see battles and storming parties. Don't you see things before you fall asleep? I can see whatever I want to see--or don't want to."
"Never saw anything of the kind--I just go to sleep."
"I thought everybody could see things as I do."
"See John too, Leila? Wish I could."
"Yes," she said, "sometimes." In fact, she could see at will the man who was so near and so dear and a friend to-day--and in that very lonely time when the house was still and the mind going off guard, the something indefinitely more.
The Squire, who had been studying the map, was now standing before the fire looking up where hung over the mantel his sword and the heavy army pistols. He turned away as he said, "Life is pretty hard, Leila. I ought to be here--here making guns. I want to be where my class-mates are in the field. I can't see my way, Leila. When I see a duty clearly, I can do it. Now here I have to decide what is my duty. There is no devil like indecision. What would you do?"
"It is a question as to what you will do, not I--and--oh, dear Uncle Jim, it is, you know, what we call in that horrid algebra the X of the equation."
"I must see your Aunt Ann. Is she"--and he hesitated--"is she herself?" --he would not say, quite, sane.
"She is not at all times."
"How far must I consider her, or be guided by the effect my decision will have on her? There are my partners to consider. The money does not influence me--it is Ann--Ann." Then she knew that he would make any sacrifice necessary to set Ann Penhallow at ease. "I think," she said as she rose, "that we had better go to bed."
"I suppose so," he said. "Wait a moment. Your aunt told me that I had better go where there was war--she could not have guessed that I have lived for months with that temptation. I shall end by accepting a command. Now since her reproach I shall feel that war offers the bribe of ease and relief from care."
"I know, the call of duty--you will have to go. But, oh, my God! it is very terrible."
"The fact is, this sudden good fortune for a time so set me at ease that I lost sight of my honest craving for action. Now I ought to thank Ann for making me see what I ought to do--must do. But how--how? It will clear up somehow. Goodnight."
It was the end of March before McGregor told Penhallow that Mrs. Penhallow insisted on seeing him. "Now, Squire," he said, "you will be shocked at her appearance, but she is really well in body, and this thing has got to be set at rest. She talks of it incessantly."
Penhallow entered the dimly lighted room and passed his old nurse, Mrs. Lamb, as she whispered, "Don't stay long, sir." He was shocked as he won clearer vision in the dim light.
"Oh, James!" she said, "they wouldn't let me see you. Open the shutters." He obeyed, and kneeling kissed the wasted face he loved so well. The commonplaces of life came to his aid as he kissed her again, and she said, "Dear me, James, you haven't shaved to-day."
"No, I am going to stop at the barber's--but I miss Josiah."
She smiled. "Yes, poor Josiah."
Then he took courage, fearfully timid as men are when they confront the illness of women. "I want to say to you, Ann, that having your power of attorney I have withdrawn your fifty thousand dollars you had lent to the mills. My partners were glad to take it." He said nothing of their surprise at the offer.
"Thank you," she returned feebly. "And you are going on with the business?" her voice rising as she spoke.
"We will talk of that later, Ann. I was told not to let you talk long. I shall endeavour to invest your money so as to give you a reasonable return--it will take time."
He did not succeed in diverting her attention. She put out a thin hand and caught his sleeve. "Do you think me unreasonable, James?"
"Yes," he said, and it needed courage.
"I was sure you would say so." The great blue eyes, larger for the wasted setting of nature's wonderful jewels, looked up at him in dumb appeal. "Won't you think a little of how I feel--and--and shall feel?"
"Think a little--a little?" he returned; "I have done nothing else but think."
"You don't answer me, James." There was the old quiet, persistent way he had known in many happy days, reinforced by hysteric incapacity to comprehend the maze of difficulties in which he was caught.
"It is a pity I did not die," she said, "that would have saved you all this trouble."
He felt the cruelty of her words as he broke away and left the room. McGregor had waited, and hearing his story said, "It will pass. You must not mind it--she is hardly sane."
James Penhallow mounted and rode to the village, was duly shaved, and went on to the post-office. Mrs. Crocker rotund and rosy came out and handed him as he sat in the saddle a sheaf of letters. "Yes, Mrs. Penhallow is better, thank you." As he rode away the reins on Dixy's neck, he read his letters and stuffed them in his pocket until he came to one, over which he lingered long. It ran thus: "MY DEAR SIR: Will you not reconsider the offer of the colonelcy of a regiment? It will not require your presence until July. There is no need to reply at once. There is no one else so entirely fit for such a charge, and the Attorney-General, your friend Meredith, unites with me in my appeal to you. The State and the country need you.
"Yours truly, "ANDREW CURTIN."
He reached but one conclusion as he turned the tempting offer over in his mind, and acting on it wrote the Governor from his office that his wife was at present too ill for him to consider the offer of a command.
As day by day he sat with Ann, to his relief she ceased to dwell on the matter which had so disturbed her, and rapidly regaining health, flesh and strength, began to ask about the house and the village people. It was a happy day when in May he carried her down to a hammock on the porch. A week later she spoke again, "What conclusion have you reached?" she said.
"About the mills?"
"Yes."
"Ask me in a week, Ann. Do you want to read John's letters? There are several--one about a battle at Pittsburgh Landing in Tennessee."
"I want to hear nothing of the war. Is he well?"
"Yes, thank God." The news of McClellan's army was anything but satisfactory, and more and more the soldier longed to be in the field.
Early in June, Penhallow on his way to meet his partners paused at McGregor's house to ask his opinion of his wife. "How do I find her? Better every day--more herself. But what of you?"
"Of me? I can stand it no longer, Doctor. I cannot see this war in Virginia go on to the end without taking part in it. I must--do anything--anything--make any sacrifice."
"But your wife--the mills--" "I have but one answer--my country! I told you I had refused Governor Curtin's offer--what to do about our contract I do not yet know. They are reorganizing the artillery service."
"And you would like that best?"
"Yes. What amuses you?"
The doctor smiled often, but as Mrs. Crocker said, when he did laugh it was as good as a Fourth of July celebration and the house shook. As the Squire watched him, the smile broadened out in circles from the mouth like the ripples cast by a stone on still water; then the eyes grew merrily busy and the big frame shook with laughter.
"Well, now, Squire! To give up making guns and go in for using them--well--well!"
"Don't chaff me, McGregor; I mean to be in it, cost what it may. I am to meet my partners--good-bye."
The doctor wondered what Ann Penhallow would do or say. It was past guessing but he saw clearly that Penhallow was glad of any excuse to get into the field.
"Glad to see you, Ainseley," said Penhallow. "Good morning, Sibley. You will find things moving. Many casting moulds will be ready by this day week."
"Last night," said Sibley, the richer member of the firm, "I had a telegram from Austin, the iron-man. He asks what we would take to transfer our contract. I replied that we did not deal that way with Government contracts. To-day I got this other--read it."
"On what terms will you take me in? My ore, as you know, is not hematite and is better than yours."
Penhallow sat still reading the telegram again and again. Here was an unlooked-for way out of his troubles. At last he looked up, and to their surprise said, "My capital in the business is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and you--the firm--pay me a rental of ten thousand."
"Not last year," said Ainseley; "we could not, as you know."
"Yes. Our partnership ends this July 1st. Wire Austin that I will sell him my share and go out. You may ask him what bonus you please--I mean, I will sell to you at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars--the rental will go on, of course."
"My heavens!" cried Sibley, "what do you mean? It is throwing away a fortune, man--a fortune."
Penhallow laughed. "And yet I mean to do it. The work is ready to go on. You will have ordnance officers here--you won't miss me."
They argued with him in vain. Waldron not altogether dissatisfied sat still, wondering how much bonus Austin would stand, while Ainseley and Sibley troubled for their friend and not well pleased, fought his decision. "Are you fully resolved on this, Penhallow?" said Sibley.
"I am. I cannot take out the small amount of money John Penhallow owns. It must remain, at least for a time, and will be a convenience to you. My wife's money is already out. It was only a loan."
"But why should not you sell out to Austin," said Sibley, "if you mean to leave us, and get out of him a profit--and why after all this act of supreme folly? Pardon me, it is that--really that" Penhallow smiled. "I go out of this business because I simply cannot stay out of the army. I could not be a soldier and accept continuous profits from a Government contract. Imagine what would be said! For the same reason I cannot sell to Austin at an advance. That is clear--is it not?"
"Yes," said Ainseley, "and I am sorry. Think it over."
"I have done my thinking. It will take the lawyers and you at least two months to settle it and make out the papers. After July 1st I shall not come to the mills. I mean to leave no occasion for unpleasant comment when I re-enter the service. Of course, you will advertise your new partnership and make plain my position. I am sorry to leave you, but most glad to leave you prosperous. I will put it all on paper, with a condition that at the close of the war--I give it three years--I shall be free to replace Austin--that is, if the Rebs don't kill me."
As he mounted at evening to ride home, he was aware of Leila. "Halloa, Uncle Jim! As Mr. Rivers was reading Dante to Aunt Ann, I begged off, and so here I am--thought I would catch you. I haven't been on a horse for a week. The mare knows it and enjoyed the holiday. She kicked Pole's bull terrier into the middle of next week."
"A notable feat. I wish some one would kick me into the middle of August."
"What's wrong, Uncle Jim? Aunt Ann is every day better; John is well; you don't look unhappy. Oh, I know when anything really is the matter."
"No, I am happier than I have been for many a day. You know what Rivers says, 'In the Inn of Decision there is rest,'--some oriental nonsense. Well, I am a guest in the Inn of Decision, but I've got to pay the bill."
"Please not to talk riddles, uncle. I have gone through so much this spring--what with aunt and this terrible war--and where John is we don't know. I heard from Aunt Margaret. She says that we escape the endless reminders of war--the extras called at night, heard in church, great battle on the Potomac, lists of killed and wounded. It must be awful. You buy a paper--and find there was no battle."
"Yes, we escape that at least. I have made arrangements to close my partnership on July 1st."
"Oh, Uncle Jim!"
"The President, I hear, will call for three hundred thousand men--I can stand it no longer--I am eating my heart out. I refused a regiment some time ago; now I shall ask for one. I wrote at once to the Governor."
She leaned over, laid a hand on his arm and said, "Is not one dear life enough?"
"My child, John had to go. I could, of course, find some excuse for not going. I set myself free to-day. But now I am to settle with Ann. Except for that I would be supremely contented. You would not keep me here if you had the power, nor would you bring home John if you could, dear."
"No," she said faintly. Some quickly dismissed suspicion rose to consciousness as he stole a glance at her face. "I understand," she added, "it is a question of honour--you must go."
"It is a question of duty, dear; but what Ann will say I do not know--but I shall go."
She turned. "Uncle Jim, if you did not go and the war went on to--God alone knows what end--she would be sick with shame. I know. You see I am a woman and I know. She will suffer, but she will not break down again and she will not try to hold you back. But this house without you and John will be rather lonely. How did you get out of the mills, uncle?"
He answered her at length as they rode homeward with more to think of than was pleasant. At the avenue gate she said earnestly, "Don't wait too long before telling Aunt Ann."
"Upon my word, I am sorry," returned the Squire, "for the unfortunate man who may become your husband. If you undertake to offer advice at your tender years, what will you do when you are older?"
"My husband-that-is-to-be sends you his compliments," laughed Leila, "and says--I don't know what he says, but it is exactly the right thing, Captain Penhallow. But really, don't wait, uncle."
"You are quite right, my dear." Nevertheless he waited. Decisiveness in affairs and in moments of peril he had, but where Ann was concerned he became easily unsure, and as McGregor said, "wabbled awful." This was to Leila. "What gets the matter with men? The finer they are, the braver--the more can a woman bother their judgment. He wires for a regimental command--gets it; and, by George, throws away a fortune to get the privilege of firing a cannon at Mrs. Ann's beloved Rebels. He mustn't make guns it seems--he tries not to believe her hysterics at all affected by his tossing away this big contract."
"Now, Doctor, you are in one of your cynical moods. I hate you to talk this way about the finest gentleman I ever knew, or ever shall know. You delight to tease me."
"Yes--you are so real. No one could get hysterics out of you. Now why do you suppose James Penhallow wants to plunge into this chaotic war?"
"Or your son, Tom? Why do you get up of a winter night to ride miles to see some poor woman who will never pay you a penny?"
"Pure habit."
"Nonsense. You go--and Uncle Jim goes--because to go is duty."
"Then I think duty is a woman--that accounts for it, Leila. I retire beaten."
"You are very bad to-day--but make Uncle Jim talk it all out to Aunt Ann."
"He will, and soon. He has been routed by a dozen excuses. I told him at last that the mill business has leaked out and the village is saying things. I told him it must not come to her except through him, and that he could not now use her health as an excuse for delay. It is strange a man should be so timid."
And still Penhallow lingered, finding more or less of reason in the delays created by the lawyers. Meanwhile he had accepted the command of the 129th Pennsylvania infantry which was being drilled at Harrisburg, so that he was told there was no occasion for haste in assuming charge. But at last he felt that he must no longer delay.
The sun was setting on an afternoon in July when Penhallow, seeing as she sat on the porch how the roses of the spring of health were blooming on his wife's cheeks, said, "I want to talk to you alone, Ann. Can you walk to the river?"
"Yes, I was there yesterday."
The cat-birds, most delightful of the love-poets of summer, were singing in the hedges, and as they walked through the garden Penhallow said, "The rose crop is promising, Ann."
"Yes." She was silent until they sat on the bank above the little river. Then she said, "You are keeping something from me, James. No news can trouble me as much as--as to be sure that I am kept in the dark about your affairs."
"I meant to be frank, Ann, but I have felt so alarmed about your health--" "You need not be--I can bear anything but not to know--" "That is why I brought you here, my dear. You are aware that I took out of the business the money you loaned to us."
"Yes--yes--I know."
"I have given up my partnership and withdrawn my capital. The business will go on without me."
"Was this because--I? --but no matter. Go on, please."
He was incapable of concealing the truth from her, however much he might have disguised it from others. "You had your share in causing me to give up, but for a year since this war has gone on from one disaster to another, I have known that as a soldier I must be in it."
She was perfectly calm. "I have long known it would come, James. To have you and John and my brother Henry--all in it, is a hard fate."
"My dear, Charles writes me that Henry has left the army and gone to Europe on business for the Confederates."
"Indeed." Some feeling of annoyance troubled her. "Then he at least is in no danger."
"None, my dear."
"When do you go?"
"I am to command the 129th Infantry, and I shall leave about August 1st."
"So soon!" She sat still, thinking over what Grey Pine would be without him. He explained as she sat that all details of his affairs would be put for her clearly on paper. He ended by saying, "Ask me any questions you want answered."
"Then, James, there will be no income from the mills--from--from that contract?"
"None, except my rental. With that you may do as you please. There will be also, of course, at your disposal the income from my re-invested capital."
"Thank you, James." She was by far the less moved of the two.
"Have I greatly troubled you?" he asked. He was distressed for her.
"No, James. I knew it would come." As the shadows darkened on the forest floor and gathered overhead, she rose to her feet. "Whatever happens, James--whoever wins--I am the loser. I want you to be sorry for me."
"And, my dear Ann, whichever way this contest ends, I too lose."
She returned with tender sadness, "Yes, I did not think of that. Give me your arm, James--I am--tired."
He wondered that she had said nothing of the immense sacrifice few men would have made; nor did she seem to have realized what urgency of added motives she had contributed to bring about his decision.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
21
|
None
|
Through the great heat of July, 1862, the war went on its inconclusive way. In Westways, as elsewhere, the call of the people's President for three hundred thousand men was felt the more thoughtfully because now it was, of course, known that Penhallow was Colonel of the 129th Infantry; that he had made a great sacrifice of money was also known, but not understood, and Ann Penhallow's half-forgotten politics were again discussed when the village evening parliament met in front of the post-office.
Mrs. Crocker, off duty, stood framed in the door, cooling her round face with a palmetto fan and listening with interest to the talk or taking part in the discussion in so positive a way as was felt to be indiscreetly feminine, but respected on account of her official representation of a husband too deaf to fulfil his duties.
The Doctor got out of his gig. "Any letters from my boy?"
"Yes, two. Wanted to send them by Billy, but he's war-wild and wouldn't go." The Doctor looked over his letters.
"All right, I hope," said Mrs. Crocker.
Pole in his shirt sleeves listening said, "Of course, he is all right--doctors don't fight none."
"Send your son, Pole, before you talk nonsense," said McGregor. "My boy got a ball in his leg at Malvern Hill."
"My son's going along with the Squire," returned Pole, "leaves me short of help, and my wife's about crazy over it."
"What about Mrs. Penhallow?" said Mrs. Crocker. "I guess she's the kind that don't show what she feels."
"Oh, money's a great comforter," returned the butcher. "What I'm to do, I don't know."
"Well, I'm going too," said Joe Grace, "and father says I'm right."
"Oh, here's the parson," said Pole, as Rivers approached. "He's like the rest of them--all for war."
"Well, Pole," said Rivers, "how are you and Mrs. Crocker? I think you are getting thin this hot weather."
"Am I? No such good luck. We are talking war, Mr. Rivers. I do hear that what with the mill-boys and country fellows there's some thirty going into the Colonel's regiment."
"So I hear. On Sunday I mean to talk to them after service. You might say so."
"I will. If I had a boy, he should go," said Mrs. Crocker.
"It's easy talking when you haven't none," said Pole. "We are gettin' licked, and some day Lee will be over the border. It's just useless to spend money and cripple men."
There was a moment of silence, when Mrs. Crocker spoke. "Pole, you aren't ever sure of your legs. You were all for Buchanan, and then all for Lincoln. Now you're uneasy on the top rail of the fence and the rail ain't round." The parliament broke into laughter, and with more talk dissolved after some critical wisdom about the war.
* * * * * It was July 30th, after ten at night, the day before the final Sunday of the month. The Colonel of the 129th stood with Leila before a big war map. "This fight at Malvern Hill"--he put a pin on the place--"was a mistake on the part of Lee, and yet he is a master of the game. He was terribly beaten--an aggressive general would have attacked at once."
"Would he have won, uncle?"
"I think so--but after a defeat these armies are as dangerous as a cornered cat."
"But, dear Uncle Jim, what is the matter with us? --We have men, money and courage."
"Well, this is how I see it. Neither side has a broad-minded General in command of the whole field of war. Every day sees bits of fights, skirmishes, useless loss of life. There is on neither side any connected scheme of war. God knows how it will end. I do not yet see the man. If Robert Lee were in absolute command of all the effective force of the South, we would have trouble."
"But if he is so good a soldier, why did he make what you call a frontal attack on entrenched troops at Malvern?"
"My dear, when two men spar and neither can quite end the fight, one gets angry or over-confident and loses his head, then he does something wild--and pays for it."
"I see. You leave on Monday?"
"Yes--early."
"Mr. Rivers means to talk after service to the men who are enlisting."
"So he told me. I begged him to be moderate."
"He asked me for a text, uncle."
"Well!"
"I gave him the one about Caesar and God."
"What put that into your head--it does not seem suitable?"
"Oh, do you think so? Some one once mentioned it to me. I could preach on it myself, but texts grow wonderfully in his hands. They glow--oh, they get halos about them. He ought to be in a great city."
"Oh, my dear, Mark Rivers has his limitations like all of us. He would die. Even here he has to be watched. McGregor told him last year that he was suffering from the contagion of other people's wickedness with occasional acute fits of over-conscientiousness. Rivers said it was incomprehensible nonsense; he was almost angry."
"And yet it is true, Uncle Jim."
"I'm glad I haven't the disease. I told McGregor as much. By George! he said my variety of the disorder was about other folk's stupidity. Then, when I said that I didn't understand him, he laughed. He makes me furious when he only laughs and won't answer--and won't explain."
"Why, uncle! I love to see him laugh. He laughs all over--he shakes. I told him it was a mirthquake. That set him off again. Was Tom McGregor badly hurt?"
"No, not badly."
"Will aunt go to church to-morrow?"
"No."
"I thought she would not. I should love to see you in uniform."
"Not here, my dear, but I will send you a daguerreotype."
* * * * * When on this Sunday long remembered in Westways, the tall figure of Mark Rivers rose to open the service, he saw the little church crowded, the aisles filled, and in the front pews Penhallow, his niece, and behind them the young men who were to join his regiment. Grace had asked his own people to be present, and here and there were the mothers and sisters of the recruits, and a few men on crutches or wasted by the fevers of the Virginia marshes. Mark Rivers read the morning service as few men know how to read it. He rarely needed the prayer-book--he knew it all. He gave to it the freshness of a new message of love and helpfulness. More than ever on this Sunday Leila felt a sense of spiritual soaring, of personally sharing the praises of the angel choir when, looking upwards, he said: "Therefore with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven we laud and magnify Thy glorious name." She recalled that John had said, "When Mark Rivers says 'angels and archangels' it is like the clash of silver cymbals."
He gave out at the close his favourite hymn, "Lead, Kindly Light." It was well and sweetly sung by the girl-choir. As the music closed he rose--a figure of command, his spare frame looking larger for his robes. For a silent moment his eloquent eyes wandered over the crowd, gathering the attentive gaze of young and old, then he said: "I want to talk on this unusual occasion for a little while, to you who are answering the call of a man who is like a father calling his sons to a task of danger. My text is: 'Render, therefore, unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's and unto God the things that are God's.' The wonder of the great texts is that they have many applications as time runs on. You know the familiar story. Payment of the tax meant obedience to the Government, to law, to order. I would that I had the power to make you see with me the scene. It is to me so very distinct. The Pharisees desire to tempt him, a Jew, into a statement treasonable to the Roman rule they had accepted. Was it right for the Jew to pay the tax which sustained this Government? He had, as you may remember, already paid it for Peter and himself. He asks for the penny bearing Caesar's head and answers them in the words of the text, 'Render unto Caesar, therefore, the things which are Caesar's.' He returns the penny. I wonder where that little coin is to-day? It has gone, but the lesson it read remains forever; nor even today is the Pharisee gone with his invidious temptations. _You_ are to-day obeying a greater than Caesar. _You_ are meeting the material obligations of a day of discouragement--and for some a day of doubt.
"The nobler applications which lie within the meaning of the latter part of the text He answers more fully than was asked: 'Render unto God the things which are God's.' What are these things which are at need to be rendered to Him? What larger tax? Ease--comfort--home--the strong bodies which make work safe and pleasant. He asks of you the exercise of unusual qualities--the courage which looks death in the face and will not take the bribe of safety, of life, at the cost of dishonour. Ah! not in battle is my fear for you. In the long idleness of camps will come your hours of temptation. Think then of those at home who believe in you. It is a great thing to have an outside conscience--wife, mother, sister. Those are hours when it is hard to render unto God what he gave.
"We are now, as I said, at a time of discouragement. There are cowards who would yield--who would compromise--men who want peace at any cost. You answer them nobly. Here, in this sacred cause, if He asks it, we render life or the easy competencies of youth in its day of vigour."
The man paused. The strange power of the eyes spoke to them in this moment of silence. "Oh! I said the cause was sacred--an unbroken land. _He_ gave you that, just for wide-world uses. Keep it! Guard it! --with all that Union of the States meant and still means to-day. _You_ are not to blame for this necessity--war. The man who bends unpaid over the master's cotton-field is the innocent cause of all this bloodshed. If there were no slavery, there would have been no war. But let there be no hatred in the brave hearts you carry. God did not slay Saul, the earnest--I might say--the honest persecutor. He made him blind for a time. The awful charity of God is nowhere else so wonderful. These gallant people you are going to meet will some day see that God was opening their eyes to better days and nobler ways. They too are honest in the belief that God is on their side. Therefore, let there be no bitterness.
"Some of you are what we call religious. Do not be ashamed of it. The hardest fighters the world has known were men who went to battle with arms invisible to man. A word more and I have done. I have the hope--indeed the certainty--that I shall be sent to the field on errands of mercy and helpfulness. We may meet again. And now, take with you the earnest will to render unto God what things He gave for His highest uses. Now let us offer the prayer for the volunteers our great Bishop desires the Church to use. Let us pray."
In unusual silence the congregation moved away, a silence shared by Leila and her uncle. At last she said, "Uncle Jim, I wish Aunt Ann could have heard that sermon--it could not have hurt her."
"Perhaps not."
"I wonder why she has so great a respect for him, so real a friendship. He thinks slavery the sin of sins. He has very little charity about it--oh, none--and Aunt Ann is as sure it is a divinely appointed relation."
"They fought it out, my dear, in his early days at Westways, and when they both found that they were clad in the armour of changeless beliefs no arguments could penetrate, they gave up and took of two fine natures what was left for life's uses and became friends. At least, that is how McGregor put it. He sometimes states things well."
"I see," said Leila thoughtfully, and set herself to thinking whether if she had radical differences of opinion with some one, she could settle into a condition of armed neutrality. Then she wondered if war made changes in the character of a man.
Presently she asked, "Why, Uncle Jim, are you suddenly in such haste to go?"
"There is need of haste. I could not tell Ann; I can tell you. We were never worse off since the war began. The Governor asks me to meet him in Harrisburg. What he fears is that in September Lee will cross the Potomac, with the hope of Maryland rising. Our Governor will call out fifty thousand militia. He wants me to take a command; I shall take it, but Lee's veterans would brush our militia away like summer flies. If he finds the Army of the Potomac before him, there may be a different story. I hope, please God, to be with it. There you have all I know, but it is for you alone. My regiment will go to the front before the end of the month."
"You will write to me, uncle."
"Yes, when I can. Your aunt asks me to write often, but not to write about the war, as if--well, no matter. But I can write to you. Good night--and be brave, dear--and Ann! You will watch over her?"
"Yes, surely."
* * * * * Ann Penhallow having sorrowfully made up her mind that her husband's honour required his return to the army saw to it with her usual efficiency that everything he might need was carefully provided. At bed-time of that Sunday she said quietly, "Good night and good-bye, James. I do not want to be called to-morrow to say good-bye. You will be off by six. Leila will give you your breakfast. Write often." She was to appearance cheerful and even gay, as she paused on the stairs laughing. "These men," she cried, "I wonder how they do without women orderlies. At the last moment I found you had left your razors--good-night!"
The Colonel's eyes followed her slight form a little puzzled and not entirely pleased at this easy dismissal of sentiment, when he knew what he himself would have done if she had flown the least signal of distress. He turned to Leila. "I am very much relieved, my dear, to see that your aunt is taking my departure quietly. I was afraid of another breakdown, and I could not have stayed a day longer."
Leila who had watched this parting with some anxiety said, "I was a little uneasy myself, but really Aunt Ann was great." She could have made the well-loved Colonel miserable by translating for him into the tongue of man the language of the actress on the stairs. "I wonder," she reflected, "if all men are that blind, or only the heroic or unimaginative."
* * * * * Colonel Penhallow was detained by consultations with the Governor and by regimental work until near the close of August, when his command was hurried forward to join McClellan's army. He followed it a day later. He wrote long notes to his wife almost daily and then in September after the battle of Antietam more freely to Leila:-- "DEAR LEILA: You will be surprised to hear from me as at Washington on this September 19th. I overtook my command at noon, in Philadelphia, where the regiment was being well fed in the big building known as the Cooper Shop. I was pleased with the look of the men, who have been long drilled in camp. After the meal I went outside and mounted Dixy, who was as rebellious as if he knew he was on the side to which his name did not belong. A soldier was vainly trying to mount my mare. He lost his temper and struck her. I saw a black man interfering, and rode forward seeing there was some trouble. By George! it was Josiah. I shook hands with him and said, 'Where did you come from? He said, 'Saw your name, sir, in the paper and just quit my work. I'm goin' along with you--I'm your servant. I've been thinkin' this long while I'd go back to Westways, but I've been doin' well here, and I just kep' a puttin' it off. I'm goin' with you.' I said, 'All right, get on that horse.' He patted the uneasy mare and in a moment was in the saddle and I a well pleased man. Tell your aunt I am well cared for.
"We were hurried forward, and I had the pleasure of seeing my men behave well when we stormed South Mountain--a very gallant affair. Joe Grace was hurt, but not badly, and was left behind. As to the killed, none are from Westways. At Antietam we were with the reserve, which I thought should have been used and was not. It was an attack on an interior line as seems always to be our luck. McClellan will follow Lee, of course. My regiment is to be with the Sixth Corps, but I was ordered by the Secretary of War to report to him in Washington. It is disgusting! But orders are orders. The Lieutenant-Colonel will have my place, and I hope to get back soon. Josiah was caught in the thick of the fight at Fox Gap. He was scared a sort of green. He will get over it--I know the signs. It was pure nervousness. His explanation was very perfect, 'I just laid down flat because I was afraid of gittin' this servant of yours killed.' We grinned mutual approval of the excuse.
"Yours ever, "JAMES PENHALLOW."
"P.S. You will have found this letter very unsatisfactory, but the fact is that only people of ample leisure make good correspondents. But now to sum up: Yesterday I saw Stanton, had a glimpse of Swallow, saw Mr. Lincoln, and had an adventure so out of the common that it was like one of the stories of adventure in which Jack used to delight. Now I cannot--should not tell it--but some day--yes. Send this P.S., bit of good news, on its way. Read it first."
"Well, that is exasperating? Surely men are most unsatisfactory letter writers. No woman with an interesting subject could be so uninteresting. John is as bad or worse."
She found enclosed a postscript slip for Mr. Grace.
"DEAR SIR: That boy of yours is not badly hurt. He behaved with intelligent courage when for a moment a part of our charging line hesitated. I was proud of him; I have made him a Corporal.
"Yours truly, "JAMES PENHALLOW."
The order to report to the former counsel of his firm, Secretary Stanton, brought an unhappy Colonel to the War Department. He sent in his card, and was asked to follow an orderly. As he was about to enter the private office of the War Minister, to his amazement Swallow came out. With a curt good morning, Penhallow went by him. The great Secretary rose to greet him, saying, "You are very welcome, Penhallow--never more welcome."
"You look worn out, Stanton," said the Colonel.
"No, not yet; but, my God! Penhallow, my life is one to kill the toughest. What with army mishaps, inefficiency, contractors backed by Congressmen--all the scum that war brings to the top. Do you know why I sent for you?"
"No. It was an order--I ask no questions. I am at your service."
"You were disappointed, of course."
"Yes, I was."
"Well, there were two reasons. One is frankly this. Your firm has a contract for field artillery--and now you are in the service."
"I see! It is not now my firm. I gave up my partnership."
"So I saw, but who of these hungry contractors will believe that you gave up--a fortune--to enter the army! The facts are either not well known or have been misstated."
"Very likely. I gave up what you speak of as a fortune as you gave up a great income at the bar, and for the same reason I withdrew all my capital. Even the rental of my mills will go to the Sanitary Commission. I could not leave a doubt or the least cause for suspicion."
"I was sure of you, but this has been a well-nursed scandal, due to an influential lot of disappointed contractors who would have controlled the giving of that contract had I not come into office. I shall kill it dead. Trust that to me."
"Thank you, Stanton, I could have stood it."
"Yes, but you do not know, my dear Penhallow, what Washington is at present. Well, let it go. It is now my business. Do you know this Mr. Swallow?"
"Know him? Yes--a usurious scamp of a lawyer, who to our relief has left Westways. Do not trust him. I presume that I owe this talk about me to him."
"Well, yes, to him and his associates."
"What does he want now?"
"What he will not get. Let him go. I said I had two reasons for ordering you here. One I have stated. I want some one I can entirely trust, not merely for honesty and loyalty, but also because of business competence. All manner of work for the Government is going on here and elsewhere. I want some one to report on it from time to time. It will keep you here this winter. You do not like it?"
"No, but it was an order."
"Yes, I am sorry to take you for a time out of active service, but trust me this war will last long. This winter I want you for a variety of inspection work here or elsewhere. It will be mere business, dull, unexciting, with unending watchfulness, and advisory technical help and advice. I want not only personal character--I can get that, but not easily the combination of technical training and business capacity." He unrolled a bundle of papers. "There for example, Colonel, are plans for a new form of ambulance and pontoon wagons ready for approval. I want a report on both." He went on to speak of the ambulances with amazing knowledge of the details of their build. Penhallow watched this earnest, overtasked man, and began to comprehend the vastness of his daily toil, the weight of his mighty load of care. As he talked, cards were brought in, messages sent or received, telegrams--the talk was dropped--resumed--and the Colonel simply listened. At last the Secretary said, "That will do for to-day. You have room No. 27, and such clerks and orderlies as you may need. You will find on your table these specifications--and more--others. And now, how is your beautiful Grey Pine and its mistress and Leila? You will assure them of my undiminished affection. And John--where is he?"
"With General Grant, but where just now I cannot say."
As he spoke, the door opened and an officer announced--"The President." The ungainly length of Lincoln appeared. A quiet smile lingered on the large-featured face, with some humorous appreciation of the War Secretary's evident annoyance at this abrupt visit. Mr. Stanton's greeting as he rose was as the Colonel thought coldly civil.
"My friend, Colonel Penhallow, sir."
"Glad to see you," said Lincoln, and then with a certain simplicity explained, "You see, Colonel, sometimes I run away out of the back of the White House--just to get free of the guards. Don't look so bothered, Stanton. I'm too fine a failure for any one to want to kill me. Any news?"
"None," said the secretary, as he stood not too well pleased; "Colonel Penhallow is to be in my office on inspection duty."
"Indeed! Glad to see you." The huge hand closed on Penhallow's with innocent use of its power. "Name sounds familiar. Yes--there was a cadet of your name last year. Your son, I suppose?"
"No, my nephew--in the engineers with General Grant."
"Tell him I asked for him--handsome fellow. Anything I can do for him?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Don't let Stanton kill you. He ought to have a brevet, Stanton. He is the only man in Washington don't want anything." Even the weary face of the Secretary smiled under his heavy beard. "Just stepped in to divide growls with you. Come with me, Colonel, or Stanton will have a brigade of officers to escort me. Wait for me at the outer door--I'll join you."
Penhallow pleased and amused, went out taking with him the sense of puzzle felt by so many over this unusual personage. At the main entrance the Colonel came on Swallow.
"A word with you," he said very quietly. "You have been lying about me to the Secretary and elsewhere. Be careful. I am sometimes short of temper. You have hurt yourself, not me, and you will get no contracts here."
"Well, we will see about that," said Swallow, and was about to say more when the President appeared.
"Come, Colonel," he said. Swallow fell back and Penhallow walked away as men touched their hats. For a block or more Lincoln did not speak, and respecting his silence the soldier was as silent. Then, with his amazing frankness, Lincoln spoke.
"Does the Emancipation Proclamation please you?"
"As a war measure, yes."
"And not otherwise?"
"It is none of my business to criticize my Commander-in-Chief."
"Well, I won't make it an order, but I wish McClellan was of your way of thinking." Again there was silence. Penhallow was astonished at this outspoken statement, being aware as few men were of the fact that the General in question had been disinclined to announce the emancipation message to the army until he found that his corps commanders were not cordially with him in opinion.
As they stopped at the gate of the railing around the White House, Lincoln said, "When you don't want anything, come and see me--or if you do." Then, becoming grave, he asked, "What effect will my proclamation of emancipation have in the South? It takes effect in January, you know." It was like Lincoln. He asked this question of all manner of people. "I want to know," he added, as Penhallow hesitated.
"I am not in a position, sir, to have any opinion about how the Rebels will be affected by it."
"Oh, Confederates! Colonel--not Rebels. Calling names only hurts, and don't ever help. Better to be amiable about labels."
"It was a slip of the tongue, Mr. President. I usually say Confederates."
"Quite right--tongue very slippery organ. Reckon my small truant holiday's over. Everybody generally is letting me know what effect that emancipation-thunder will have." A strangely tender smile grew upon the large features. "You see, Colonel, you and I are the only ignorant people in Washington. Good-bye."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
22
|
None
|
Saluting the Commander-in-Chief, Penhallow turned away in absent mood thinking of the burdened man who had passed from sight into the White House. As he crossed Lafayette Square, he suddenly remembered that the President's request for his company had caused him to forget to look over the papers in his office of which the Secretary had spoken. It was desirable to revisit the War Department. As he walked around the statue of Andrew Jackson, he came suddenly face to face with his wife's brother, Henry Grey. For a moment he was in doubt. The man was in United States uniform, with an army cloak over his shoulders--but it was Grey. Something like consternation possessed the Federal officer. The Confederate faced him smiling, as Penhallow said, "My God! Grey, you here! a spy in our uniform! Many people know you--detection and arrest would mean--" "Don't talk so loud, James. You are excited, and there is really no reason."
Penhallow said quietly, "I have good reason to be excited. You will walk on in front of me to Willard's Hotel. I will go with you to my rooms, where we can talk freely. Now, sir."
Grey stood still. "And suppose I decline to obey my rather positive brother-in-law."
"You are not a fool. If you were to try to escape me, and you are thinking of it, I would set on you at once any half dozen of the soldiers within call."
"In that case my revolver would settle my earthly accounts--and pleasantly relieve you."
"Don't talk. Go on ahead of me." He would not walk beside him.
"As you please." No more words passed. They moved up Pennsylvania Avenue, now at mid-day crowded with officers, soldiers, and clerks going to lunch. Grey was courteously saluting the officers he passed. This particularly enraged the man who was following him and was hopelessly trying to see how with regard to his own honour he could save this easy-going and well-loved brother of Ann Penhallow. If the Confederate had made his escape, he would have been relieved, but he gave him no least chance, nor was Grey at all meaning to take any risks. He knew or believed that his captor could not give him up to justice. He had never much liked the steady, self-controlled business man, the master of Grey Pine. Himself a light-hearted, thoughtless character, he quite failed to comprehend the agony of indecision which was harassing the federal officer. In fact, then and later in their talk, he found something amusing in the personal embarrassment Penhallow's recognition had brought upon him.
As they approached the hotel, the Confederate had become certain that he was in no kind of danger. The trapper less at ease than the trapped was after his habit becoming cool, competent and intensely watchful. The one man was more and more his careless, rather egotistic self; the other was of a sudden the rare self of an hour of peril--in a word, dangerous. As they reached the second floor, Penhallow said, "This way." Josiah in the dimly lighted corridor was putting the last shine on a pair of riding-boots. As he rose, his master said, "Stay here--I am not at home--to anybody--to any one."
He led the way into his sitting-room; Grey following said, "Excuse me," as he locked the door.
"You are quite safe," remarked his host, rather annoyed.
"Oh, that I take for granted."
James Penhallow said, "Sit down. There are cigars."
"A match please. Cigars are rare luxuries with us."
As the Confederate waited for the sulphur of the match to pass away, Penhallow took note of the slight, delicate figure, the blue eyes like Ann's, the well-bred face. Filling his own pipe he sat down with his back to the window, facing his brother-in-law.
"You are very comfortable here, James. How is my sister, and your beauty, Leila?"
"Well--very well. But let us talk a little. You are a spy in our uniform."
"That is obvious enough. I am one of many in your Departments and outside of them. What do you propose? I am sorry we met."
"My duty is to turn you over to the Provost-marshal."
"Of course, but alas! my dear James, there is my sister--you won't do it--no one would under the circumstances. What the deuce made you speak to me? You put us both in an awkward position. You became responsible for a duty you can't fulfil. I am really most sorry for you. It was a bit of bad luck."
Penhallow rose to get a match and moved about the room uneasily as Henry Grey went on talking lightly of the situation which involved for him possibilities of death as a spy, and for Penhallow a dilemma in which Grey saw his own safety.
"Rather disagreeable all round, James. But I trust you won't let it worry you. I always think a man must be worried when he lets his pipe go out. There is no need to worry, and after all"--he added smiling--"you created a situation which might have been avoided. No one would have known--in a day or two we would have been talking to General Lee. An excellent cigar, James."
While his brother-in-law chatted lightly, apparently unconcerned, the Union officer was considering this way or that out of the toils woven of duty, affection and honour; but as he kept on seeking a mode of escape, he was also hearing and watching the man before him with attention which missed no word. He was barely conscious that the younger man appeared enough at ease to dare to use language which the Federal officer felt to be meant to annoy. A single word used by Grey stopped the Colonel's mental mechanism as if a forceful brake had been applied. The man before him had said carelessly, "_We_--_we_ would have been talking to General Lee." The word "we" repeated itself in his mind like an echo. He too lightly despised Grey's capacity as a spy, but he had said "we." There were, it seemed, others; how many? --what had they done? This terribly simplified the game. To arrest Grey would or might be useless. Who were his companions and where were they? Once missing this confident Confederate they might escape. To question Grey would be in vain. To give him any hint that he had been imprudent would be to lose an advantage. He was so intent on the question of how to carry out a decisive purpose that he missed for the moment Grey's easy-minded talk, and then was suddenly aware that Grey was really amusing himself with a cat-and-mouse game. But now he too was at ease and became quietly civil as he filled another pipe, and with an air of despair which altogether deceived Grey said, "I see that I can do nothing, Henry. There is no reason to protract an unpleasant matter."
"I supposed you would reach this very obvious conclusion." Then unable to resist a chance to annoy a man who had given him a needless half hour not free from unpleasant possibilities, Grey rose and remarked, smiling, "I hope when we occupy this town to meet you under more agreeable circumstances."
"Sir," said Penhallow, "the painful situation in which I am placed does not give you the freedom to insult me."
The Confederate was quite unaware that the Colonel was becoming more and more a man to fear, "I beg pardon, James," he said, "I was only anticipating history." As he spoke, he stood securing a neglected button of his neat uniform. This act strangely exasperated the Colonel. "I will see you out," he said. "The buttons of the Massachusetts Third might attract attention."
"Oh, my cloak covers it," and he threw it carelessly over his shoulders.
Penhallow said, "I have confessed defeat--you may thank Ann Penhallow."
"Yes--an unfortunate situation, James. May I have another cigar? Thanks."
"Sorry I have no whisky, Grey."
"And I--How it pours! What a downfall!"
The Colonel was becoming more and more outwardly polite.
"Good-bye, Henry." " _Au revoir_," said the younger man.
Penhallow went with his brother-in-law down the long corridor, neither man speaking again. As they passed Josiah, Penhallow said, "I shall want my horse at five, and shall want you with me." At the head of the stairs he dismissed his visitor without a further word. Then he turned back quickly to Josiah and said in a low voice, "Follow that man--don't lose him. Take your time. It is important--a matter of life and death to me--to know where he lives. Quick now--I trust you."
"Yes, sir." He was gone.
Grey feeling entirely safe walked away in the heavy rain with a mind at ease and a little sorry as a soldier for the hapless situation with which Penhallow had had to struggle. When we have known men only in the every-day business of life or in ordinary social relations, we may quite fail to credit them with qualities which are never called into activity except by unusual circumstances. Grey, an able engineer, regarded Penhallow as a rather slow thinker, a good man of business, and now as a commonplace, well-mannered officer. He smiled as he thought how his sister had made her husband in this present predicament what algebraists call a "negligible quantity." He would have been less easy had he known that the man he left felt keenly a sense of imperilled honour and of insult which his relation to Grey forbade him to avenge. He had become a man alert, observant, and quick to see his way and to act.
Josiah, with all his hunting instincts aroused, loitered idly after Grey in the rain, one of the scores of lazy, unnoticeable negroes. He was gone all the afternoon, and at eight o'clock found Penhallow in his room. "Did you find where he lives?" asked the Colonel.
"That man, he lives at 229 Sixteenth Street. Two more live there. They was in and out all day--and he went to shops and carried things away--" "What kind of shops?"
"Where they sell paper and pens--and 'pothecaries."
"Sit down--you look tired." It was plain that they were soon about to move and were buying what was needed in the South--quinine, of course. But what had been their errand? He said, "Get some supper and come back soon."
Then he sat down to think. An engineer of competence lately back from Europe! His errand--their errand--must be of moment. He took a small revolver out of a drawer, put in shells, placed it in his breast pocket, and secured a box of matches. About nine, in a summer thunder-shower of wind and rain, he followed Josiah and walked to No. 229 Sixteenth Street. As he stood he asked, "How did those men get in, Josiah?"
"All had keys. Want to get in, Colonel?"
"Yes, I want to get in. Are there any others in the house--servants--any one?"
"No, sir," Josiah said. "I went round to an alley at the back of the house. There are lights on the second storey. You can get in easy at the back, sir."
Seeing a policeman on the opposite pavement, Penhallow at once changed his plan of entrance, and crossing the street said to the policeman, "Is this your beat?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good! You see I am in uniform. Here is my card. I am on duty at the War Department. Here is my general pass from the Provost-marshal General. Come to the gas lamp and read it. Here are ten dollars. I have to get into No. 229 on Government business. If I do not come out in thirty minutes, give the alarm, call others and go in. Who lives there?"
"It is a gambling house--or was--not now."
"Very good. This is my servant, Josiah. If I get out safely, come to Willard's to-morrow at nine--use my card--ask for me--and you will not be sorry to have helped me."
"You want to get in!"
"Yes."
"No use to ring, sir," said Josiah. "There ain't any servants and the gentlemen, they ate outside. Lord, how it rains!"
The policeman hesitated. Another ten dollar note changed owners. "Well, it isn't police duty--and you're not a burglar--" The Colonel laughed. "If I were, I'd have been in that house without your aid."
"Well, yes, sir. Burglars don't usually take the police into their confidence. There are no lights except in the second storey. If your man's not afraid and it's an honest Government job, let him go through that side alley, get over the fence--I'll help him--and either through a window or by the cellar he can get in and open the front door for you."
Josiah laughed low laughter as he crossed the street with the officer and was lost to view. The Colonel waited at the door. In a few minutes the man returning said, "Want me with you? He got in easily."
"No, but take the time when I enter and keep near." They waited.
"Nine-thirty now, sir."
"Give me the full time."
Penhallow went up the steps and knocked at the door. It was opened and he went in. "Shut the door quietly, Josiah--open if the policeman knocks. Now, be quiet, and if you hear a shot, or a big row call the police."
The house below-stairs was in darkness. He took off his shoes and went into a room on the first floor. Striking a match, he saw only ordinary furniture. The room back of it revealed to his failing match a roulette table. He went out into the hall and up the stairs with the utmost caution to avoid noise. On the second floor the door of the front room was ajar. They must be careless and confident, he reflected as he entered. A lighted candle on a pine table dimly illuminated a room in some confusion. On the floor were two small bags half full of clothes which he swiftly searched, without revealing anything of moment. A third, smaller bag lay open on the table. It contained a number of small rolls of very thin paper, and on the table there were spread out two others. As he looked, he knew they were admirably drawn sketches of the forts and the lines of connecting works which defended the city. Making sure no more papers were to be found, he thrust all of them within his waistcoat, buttoned it securely, felt for his revolver, and listened.
In the closed back room there was much mirth and the clink of glasses. He drew near the door and felt certain that Grey was relating with comic additions his interview of the morning. Without hesitation he threw open the door as three men sprang to their feet and Grey covered him with a revolver. He said quietly, "Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen. Put down that toy, Grey."
"No, by Heaven! --not till--" "My dear Grey, between me and that pistol stands a woman--as she stood for your safety this morning. Men who talk, don't shoot. You are all three in deadly peril--you had better hear me. I could have covered you all with my revolver. Put down that thing!"
"Put it down," said the older of the three. Grey laid the weapon on the table.
"This is not war," said Penhallow, "and you are three to one. Sit down." He set the example. "It is clear that you are all Confederate officers and spies. Let us talk a little. I came on Mr. Grey to-day by accident. It was my duty to have him arrested; but he is my wife's brother. If a pistol is heard or I am not out of this, safe, in a few minutes, the police now on guard will enter--and you are doomed men. I am presumably on Government business. Now, gentlemen, will you leave at once or in an hour or less?"
"I for one accept," said the man who had been silent.
"And I," said the elder of the party.
"On your honour?"
"Yes."
Grey laughed lightly, "Oh, of course. Our work is done. Speed the parting guest!"
"I wish," said the Colonel, rising, "to leave no misapprehension on your minds--or on that of Mr. Grey. Those admirable sketches left carelessly on the table are in my pocket. Were they not, you would all three be lost men. Did you think, Grey, that to save your life or my own I would permit you to escape with your work? Had I not these papers, your chance of death would not weigh with me a moment."
Grey started up. "Don't be foolish, Grey," said the older man. "We have played and lost. There has been much carelessness--and we have suffered for it. I accept defeat, Colonel."
Penhallow looked at the watch in his hand. "You have ten minutes grace--no, rather less. May I ask of you one thing? You are every hour in danger, but I too am aware that if this interview be talked about in Richmond or you are caught, my name may be so used as to make trouble for me, for how could I explain that to save my wife's brother I connived at the escape of Confederate officers acting as spies? I ask no pledge, gentlemen. I merely leave my honour as a soldier in your hands. Good-night, and don't delay."
Grey was silent. The older man said, "I permit myself to hope we may meet some time under more pleasant circumstances--for me, I mean,"--he added, laughing. "Good-night."
Penhallow withdrew quickly and found Josiah on guard. He said, "It is all right--but for sport it beats possum-hunting. Open the door." The rain was still falling in torrents. "All right," he said to the policeman, "come and see me to-morrow early."
"What was the matter, sir? I've got to make my report."
Then Penhallow saw the possibility of trouble and as quickly that to bribe further might only make mischief. "Do not come to the hotel, but at eleven sharp call on me at the War Department on Seventeenth Street. You have my card. By that time I shall have talked the matter over with the Secretary. I am not at liberty to talk of it now--and you had better not. It is a Government affair. You go off duty, when?"
"At six. You said eleven, sir?"
"Yes, good-night. Go home, Josiah."
The Colonel was so wet that the added contributions of water were of no moment. The soldier in uniform may not carry an umbrella--for reasons unknown to me.
Before breakfast next morning Josiah brought him a letter, left at the hotel too late in the night for delivery. He read it with some amusement and with an uncertain amount of satisfaction: "MY DEAR J: When by evil luck I encountered you, I was sure of three things. First, that I was safe; then, that we had secured what we wanted; and last, that our way home was assured. If in my satisfaction I played the bluff game rather lightly--well, in a way to annoy you--I beg now to apologize. That I should so stupidly have given away a game already won is sufficiently humiliating, and the dog on top may readily forgive. You spoilt a gallant venture, but, by Jove, you did it well! I can't imagine how you found me! Accept my congratulations.
"Yours sincerely, "G." "Confound him! What I suffered don't count. He's just the man he always was--brave, of course, quixotically chivalrous, a light weight. Ann used to say he was a grown-up boy and small for his age. Well, he has had his spanking. Confound him!" He went on thinking of this gay, clever, inconsiderate, not unlovable man. "If by mishap he were captured while trying to escape, what then? He would be fool enough to make the venture in our uniform. There would be swift justice; and only the final appeal to Caesar. He was with good reason ill at ease. I might indeed have to ask the President for something."
He reconsidered his own relation to the adventure as he sat at breakfast, and saw in it some remainder of danger. At ten o'clock he was with the Secretary.
"I want," he said, "to talk to you as my old friend. You are my official superior and may order me to the North Pole, but now may I re-assume the other position for a minute and make a confidential statement?"
"Certainly, Penhallow. I am always free to advise you."
"I want to say something and to be asked no questions. Am I clear?"
"Certainly."
"Thank you. I had an extraordinary adventure yesterday. I am not at liberty to do more than say that it put me in possession of these plans." He spread on the table well-drawn sketches of the forts around Washington.
Stanton's grim, bearded face grew stern. "You have my word, Penhallow. If I had not too easily given it we would have been placed in a disagreeable position. I am debarred from asking you how you came into possession of these papers. The spies who made them would have been in my power early this morning--and not even the President's weakness would have saved their necks."
Penhallow was silent, but was anxiously watching the angry Secretary, who swept the papers aside with an impatient gesture, feeling that he had been so dealt with as to be left without even the relief he too often found in outbursts of violent language. Penhallow's quiet attitude reminded him that he could not now take advantage of his official position to say what was on his mind.
"Colonel," he said, "I want a report on some better method of getting remounts for the cavalry."
"I will consider it, sir."
"What about that contract for ambulances?"
"I shall have my report ready to-morrow."
"That is all." It is to be feared that the next visitor suffered what Penhallow escaped.
With no other orders the Colonel left, rewarded the punctual policeman and went home to write to his wife, infinitely disgusted with the life before him and behind him, and desiring no more adventures.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
23
|
None
|
The winter of 1862-63 went by with Sherman's defeat at Vicksburg and Rosecrans's inconclusive battle of Stone River. The unpopular Conscription Act in February, 1863, and last of all the discreditable defeat of Hooker in May at Chancellorsville, disheartened the most hopeful.
Meanwhile, Penhallow wrote to his wife with no word of the war, and poured out his annoyance to Leila with less restraint.
"DEAR LEILA: I get brief notes from John, who is with the one General (Grant) who has any luck. The list of discredited commanders good and bad increases. I am weary beyond measure of the kind of life I lead. I learn to-day, May 18th, of the progress of the investment of Vicksburg, and of John as busy at last with his proper work of bridges, corduroy roads and the siege approaches.
"The drift homeward of our crippled men, you tell of, is indeed sad. I am glad that Grace's boy is well; and so Rivers has gone to the army again. Pole's lad, with the lost arm, must have some work at the mills. Say I ask it. Good-bye.
"Yours, JAMES PENHALLOW."
On the 16th of June the Secretary said to Penhallow, "You know that Lee has crossed the Potomac. General Hunt has asked to have you put in charge of the reserve artillery of the Potomac army. I shall relieve you here and give the order, but I want you for a week longer to clear up matters."
Penhallow worked hard up to the time set by Stanton, and meanwhile made his arrangements to leave for the field. "Now that you are going away," said Stanton, "I wish to express my warm thanks for admirable service. I may say to you that Hooker has been removed and Meade put in command."
"That is good news, indeed, sir. Now the Potomac army will be handled by a soldier."
The Secretary had risen to say his parting words, and Penhallow as he held his hand saw how reluctant he was to let him go. They had long been friends, and now the Colonel observing his worn face felt for him the utmost anxiety. A stern, grave man, passionately devoted to his country, he was the impatient slave of duty. Sometimes hasty, unjust, or even ungenerous, he was indifferent to the enemies he too needlessly created, and was hated by many and not loved even by those who respected his devotion and competence. He spared neither his subordinates nor, least of all, Edwin Stanton, and spendthrift of vital force and energy went his way, one of the great war ministers like Carnot and Pitt. Now, as they stood about to part, he showed feeling with which few would have given him credit, and for which Penhallow was unprepared.
"Well," he said, "you are going. I shall miss your help in a life sometimes lonely, and overcrowded with work. You have been far more useful here than you could have been in the field. Living and working as you have done, you have made enemies. The more enemies an honest gentleman collects the richer he is. You are glad to go--well, don't think this town a mere great gambling place. It is a focal point--all that is bad in war seems to be represented here--spies, cheating contractors, political generals, generals as meek as missionaries. You have seen the worst of it--the worst. But my dear Penhallow, there is one comfort, Richmond is just as foul with thieving contractors, extravagance, intrigue, and spies who report to us with almost the regularity of the post; and, as with us, there is also honour, honesty, religion, belief in their cause." The Secretary had spoken at unusual length and in an unusual mood. When once, before the war, he had spent a few happy days at Grey Pine, Mrs. Crocker characterized him as "a yes-and-no kind of man." Now as he walked with his friend to the door, he said, "Does Mrs. Penhallow know of your change of duty? I am aware of her feeling about this unhappy strife."
"No. There will be a battle--time enough--soon enough to write afterwards, if there should be any earthly afterwards."
"You are quite right," said the Secretary. "Good-bye. I envy you your active share in this game."
Penhallow, as for the last time he went down the outer steps, looked back at the old brick war-office on Seventeenth Street. He felt the satisfaction of disagreeable duty well done. Then he recalled with some sense of it as being rather ridiculous his adventure with Henry Grey. In a far distant day he would tell Ann. As he halted at the foot of the steps, he thought of his only interview with Lincoln. The tall figure with the sombre face left in his memory that haunting sense of the unusual of which others had spoken and which was apt to disappear upon more familiar acquaintance.
On the morning of June 28 in this year 1863, Leila riding from the mills paused a minute to take note of the hillside burial-ground, dotted here and there with pitiful little linen flags, sole memorials of son or father--the victims of war. "One never can get away from it," she murmured, and rode on into Westways. Sitting in the saddle she waited patiently at the door of the post-office. Mrs. Crocker was distributing letters and newspapers. An old Quaker farmer was reading aloud on the pavement the latest news.
"There ain't no list of killed and wounded," he said. Forgetful of the creed of his sect, his son was with the army. He read, "The Rebels have got York--that's sure--and Carlisle too. They are near Harrisburg."
"Oh, but we have burned the bridge over the Susquehanna," said some one.
Another and younger man with his arm in a sling asked, "Are they only cavalry?"
"No, General Ewell is in command. There are infantry."
"Where is Lee?"
"I don't make that out." They went away one by one, sharing the uneasiness felt in the great cities.
Leila called out, "Any letters, Mrs. Crocker? This is bad news."
"Here's one for you--it came in a letter to me. I was to give it to you alone."
Leila tore it open and read it. "Any bad news, Leila?"
"Yes, Uncle James is with the army. I should not have told you. General Meade is in command. Aunt Ann is not to know. There will be a battle--after that he will write--after it. Please not to mention where Uncle Jim is. When is your nephew to be buried--at the mills?"
"At eleven to-morrow."
"I shall be there. Aunt Ann will send flowers. Poor boy! he has lingered long."
"And he did so want to go back to the army. You see, he was that weak he cried. He was in the colour-guard and asked to have the flag hung on the wall. Any news of our John? I dreamed about him last night, only he had long curly locks--like he used to have."
"No, not a word."
"Has Mr. Rivers got back?"
"No, he is still with the army. You know, aunt sends him with money for the Sanitary."
"Yes, the Sanitary Commission--we all know."
Leila turned homeward seeing the curly locks. "Oh, to be a man now!" she murmured. She was bearing the woman's burden.
Mrs. Crocker called after her, "You forgot the papers."
"Burn them," said Leila. "I have heard enough--and more than enough, and Aunt Ann never reads them."
Penhallow had found time to visit his home twice in the winter, but found there little to please him. His wife was obviously feeling the varied strain of war, and Leila showed plainly that she too was suffering. He returned to his work unhappy, a discontented and resolutely dutiful man, hard driven by a relentless superior. Now, at last, the relief of action had come.
No one who has not lived through those years of war can imagine the variety of suffering which darkened countless homes throughout the land. At Grey Pine, Ann Penhallow living in a neighbourhood which was hostile to her own political creed was deeply distressed by the fact that on both sides were men dear to her. It must have been a too common addition to the misery of war and was not in some cases without passionate resentment. There were Northern men in the service of the Confederacy, and of the Southern graduates from West Point nearly fifty per cent, had remained loyal to the flag, as they elected to understand loyalty. The student of human motives may well be puzzled, for example, to explain why two of the most eminent soldiers of the war, both being men of the highest character and both Virginians should have decided to take different sides.
Some such reflection occupied Leila Grey's mind as she rode away. Many of the officers now in one of the two armies had dined or stayed a few pleasant days at Grey Pine. For one of them, Robert Lee, Penhallow had a warm regard. She remembered too General Scott, a Virginian, and her aunt's Southern friend Drayton, the man whom a poet has since described when with Farragut as "courtly, gallant and wise." "Ah, me!" she murmured, "duty must be at times a costly luxury. --A costly necessity," she concluded, was better--that left no privilege of choice. She smiled, dismissing the mental problem, and rode on full of anxiety for those she loved and her unfortunate country. Our most profound emotions are for the greater souls dumb and have no language if it be not that of prayer, or the tearful overflow which means so much and is so mysteriously helpful. She found both forms of expression when she knelt that night.
In the afternoon the refreshing upland coolness of evening followed on the humid heat of a hot June day. Towards sunset Ann Penhallow, to her niece's surprise, drew on her shawl and said she would like to walk down to the little river. Any proposal to break the routine of a life unwholesome in its monotony was agreeable to Leila. No talk of the war was possible. When Ann Penhallow now more and more rarely and with effort went on her too frequently needed errands of relief or consolation, the village people understood her silence about the war, and accepting her bounty somewhat resented an attitude of mind which forbade the pleasant old familiarity of approach.
The life was unhealthy for Leila, and McGregor watched its influence with affection and some professional apprehension. Glad of any change, Leila walked with her aunt through the garden among the roses in which now her aunt took no interest. They heard the catbirds carolling in the hedges, and Ann thought of the day a year ago when she listened to them with James Penhallow at her side. They reached in silence an open space above the broad quiet backwater. Beyond a low beach the river flowed by, wide and smooth, a swift stream. From the western side the sunset light fell in widening shafts of scarlet across the water.
"Let us sit here," said the elder woman. "I am too weak to walk further"--for her a strange confession. As they sat down on the mossy carpet, Leila caught the passive hand of her aunt.
"I suppose you still swim here, every morning, Leila? I used to like it--I have now no heart for anything."
Leila could only say, "Why not, aunt?"
"How can you ask me! I think--I dream of nothing but this unnatural war."
"Is that wise, aunt? or as Dr. McGregor would say, 'wholesome'?"
"It is not; but I cannot help it--it darkens my whole life. Billy was up at the house this morning talking in his wild way. I did not even try to understand, but"--and she hesitated--"I suppose I had better know."
This was strange to Leila, who too hesitated, and then concluding to be frank returned, "It might have been better, aunt, if you had known all along what was going on--" "What would have been the use?" said her aunt in a tone of languid indifference. "It can end in but one way."
A sensation of anger rose dominant in the mind of the girl. It was hard to bear. She broke out into words of passionate resentment--the first revolt. "You think only of your dear South--of your friends--your brother--" "Leila!"
She was past self-control or other control. "Well, then, be glad Lee is in Pennsylvania--General Ewell has taken York and Hagerstown--there will be a great battle. May God help the right--my country!"
"General Lee," cried Ann; "Lee in Pennsylvania! Then that will end the war. I am glad James is safe in Washington." Leila already self-reproachful, was silent.
To tell her he was with the army of the North would be cruel and was what James Penhallow had forbidden.
"He is in Washington?" asked Ann anxiously.
"When last I heard, he was in Washington, aunt, and as you know, John is before Vicksburg with General Grant."
"They will never take it--never."
"Perhaps not, Aunt Ann," said Leila, penitent. The younger woman was disinclined to talk and sat quiet, one of the millions who were wondering what the next few days would bring.
The light to westward was slowly fading as she remained with hands clasped about her knees and put aside the useless longing to know what none could know. Her anger was gone as she caught with a side glance the frail look of Ann Penhallow. She felt too the soothing benediction of the day's most sacred hour.
Of a sudden Ann Penhallow bounded to her feet. A thunderous roar broke on the evening stillness. The smooth backwater shivered and the cat-tails and reeds swayed, as the sound struck echoes from the hills and died away. Leila caught and stayed the swaying figure. "It is only the first of the great new siege guns they are trying on the lower meadows. Sit down, dear, for a moment. Do be careful--you are getting"--she hesitated--"hysterical. There will be another presently. Do sit down, dear aunt. Don't be nervous." She was alarmed by her aunt's silent statuesque position. She could have applied no wiser remedy than her warning advice. No woman likes to be told she is nervous or hysterical and now it acted with the certainty of a charm.
"I am not nervous--it was so sudden. I was startled." She turned away with a quick movement of annoyance, releasing herself from Leila's arm. "Let's go home. Oh, my God!" she cried, as once again the cannon-roar shook the leaves on the upward slope before them. "It is the voice of war. Can I never get away from it--never--never?"
"You will not be troubled again to-day," said the girl, "and the smaller guns on the further meadow we hardly notice at the house."
Ann's steps quickened. She had been scared at her own realization of her want of self-government and was once more in command of her emotions. "Do not talk to me, Leila. I was quite upset--I am all right now."
The great guns were sent away next day on their errands of destruction. Then the two lonely women waited as the whole country waited for news which whatever it might be would carry grief to countless homes.
On the second day of July, 1863, under a heavy cloud of dust which hung high in air over the approach of the Baltimore Pike to Gettysburg, the long column of the reserve artillery of the Potomac army rumbled along the road, and more and more clearly the weary men heard the sound of cannon. About ten in the morning the advance guard was checked and the line came to a halt. James Penhallow, who since dawn had been urging on his command, rode in haste along the side of the cumbered road to where a hurrying brigade of infantry crossing his way explained why his guns were thus brought to a standstill. He saw that he must wait for the foot soldiers to go by. The cannoneers dismounted from the horses or dropped off the caissons, and glad of a rest lit their pipes and lay down or wandered about in search of water.
The Colonel, pleased to be on time, was in gay good-humour as he talked to the men or listened to the musketry fire far to the left. He said to a group of men, "We are all as grey as the Rebs, boys, but it is good Pennsylvania dust." As he spoke a roar of laughter was heard from the neighbourhood of the village cemetery on his right. He rode near it and saw the men gathered before an old notice board. He read: "Any person found using fire arms in this vicinity will be prosecuted according to law." Penhallow shook with laughter. "Guess we'll have to be right careful, Colonel," said a sergeant.
"You will, indeed."
"It's an awful warning, boys," said a private. "Shouldn't wonder if Bob Lee set it up to scare us."
"I'd like to take it home." They chaffed the passing infantry, and were answered in kind. Penhallow impatient saw that the road would soon be clear. As he issued quick orders and men mounted in haste, a young aide rode up, saluted, and said, "I have orders, Colonel, from General Hunt to guide you to where he desires your guns to be parked."
"One moment," said Penhallow; "the road is a tangle of wagons:" and to a captain, "Ride on and side-track those wagons; be quick too." Then he said to the aide, "We have a few minutes--how are things going? I heard of General Reynold's death, and little more."
"Yes, we were outnumbered yesterday and--well licked. Why they did not rush us, the Lord knows!"
"Give me some idea of our position."
"Well, sir, here to our right is Cemetery Hill, strongly held; to your left the line turns east and then south in a loop to wooded hills--one Culp's, they call it. That is our right. There is a row on there as you can hear. Before us as we stand our position runs south along a low ridge and ends on two pretty high-wooded hills they call Round Tops. That's our left. From our front the ground slopes down some forty feet or so, and about a mile away the Rebs hold the town seminary and a long low rise facing us."
"Thank you, that seems pretty clear. There is firing over beyond the cemetery?"
"Yes, the skirmishers get cross now and then. The road seems clear, sir."
Orders rang out and the guns rattled up the pike like some monstrous articulated insect, all encumbering wagons being swept aside to make way for the privileged guns.
"You are to park here, sir, on the open between this and the Taneytown road. There is a brook--a creek."
"Thanks, that is clear."
The ground thus chosen lay some hundred yards behind the low crest held midway of our line by the Second Corps, whence the ground fell away in a gentle slope. The space back of our line was in what to a layman's eye would have seemed the wildest confusion of wagons, ambulances, ammunition mules, cattle, and wandering men. It was slowly assuming some order as the Provost Guard, dusty, despotic and cross, ranged the wagons, drove back stragglers, and left wide lanes for the artillery to move at need to the front.
The colonel spent some hours in getting his guns placed and in seeing that no least detail was lacking. With orders about instant readiness, with a word of praise here, of sharp criticism there, he turned away a well-contented man and walked up the slope in search of the headquarters. As he approached the front, he saw the bushy ridge in which, or back of which, the men lay at rest. Behind them were surgeons selecting partially protected places for immediate aid, stretcher-bearers, ambulances and all the mechanism of help for the wounded. Officers were making sure that men had at hand one hundred rounds of ammunition.
Some three hundred yards behind the mid-centre of the Second Corps, on the Taneytown road, Penhallow was directed to a small, rather shabby one-storey farm-house. "By George," he murmured, "here is one general who means to be near the front." He was met at the door by the tall handsome figure of General Hancock, a blue-eyed man with a slight moustache over a square expressively firm jaw.
"Glad to see you, Penhallow. Meade was anxious--I knew you would be on time. Come in."
Penhallow saw before him a mean little room, on one side a wide bed with a gaudy coverlet, on a pine table in the centre a bucket of water, a tin cup, and a candle-stick. Five rickety rush-covered chairs completed the furnishings.
Meade rose from study of the map an engineer officer was explaining. He was unknown to Penhallow, who observed him with interest--a tall spare man with grey-sprinkled dark hair a large Roman nose and spectacles over wide blue eyes; a gentleman of the best, modest, unassuming, and now carelessly clad.
"Colonel Penhallow," said Hancock.
"Glad to see you." He turned to receive with evident pleasure a report of the morning's fight on the right wing, glanced without obvious interest at the captured flag of the Stonewall Brigade, and greeted the colonel warmly. "I can only offer you water," he said. "Sit down. You may like to look over this map."
While the Commander wrote orders and despatched aide after aide, Penhallow bent over the map. "You see," said Hancock, "we have unusual luck for us in a short interior line. I judge from the moving guidons that Lee is extending his front--it may be six miles long."
"And ours?"
"Well, from wing to wing across the loop to right, not half of that."
"I see," said Penhallow, and accepting a drink of tepid water he went out to find and report to the chief of artillery, General Hunt.
He met him with General John Gibbon and two aides a few yards from the door, and making his brief report learned as he moved away that there was some trouble on the left wing. Meade coming out with Hancock, they mounted and rode away in haste, too late to correct General Sickles' unfortunate decision to improve General Meade's battle-line. It was not Penhallow's business, nor did he then fully understand that costly blunder. Returning to his guns, he sent, as Hunt had ordered, two of his reserve batteries up to the back of the line of the Second Corps, and finding General Gibbon temporarily in command walked with him to what is now called the "Crest" and stood among Cushing's guns. Alertly interested, Penhallow saw to the left, half hidden by bushes and a clump of trees, a long line of infantry lying at ease, their muskets in glittering stacks behind them. To the right the ground was more open. A broken stone fence lay in front of the Second Corps. It was patched with fence rails and added stone, and where the clump of trees projected in advance of the line made a right angle and extended thence in front of the batteries on the Crest about thirty yards. Then it met a like right angle of stone fencing and followed the line far to the right. Behind these rude walls lay the Pennsylvania and New York men, three small regiments. Further back on a little higher ground was the silent array of cannon, thus able at need to fire over the heads of the guarding infantry, now idly lying at rest in the baking heat of a July morning. The men about the cannon lounged at ease on the ground in the forty foot interspaces between the batteries, some eighteen pieces in all.
Suddenly an aide rode up, and saying, "See you again, Penhallow," Gibbon rode away in haste. Penhallow, who was carefully gathering in all that could then be seen from the locality, moved over to where a young battery captain was leaning against a cannon wheel wiping the sweat from his face or gazing over the vale below him, apparently lost in thought. "Captain Cushing, I believe," said the colonel. "I am Colonel Penhallow, in command of the reserve artillery."
"Indeed!" said the young officer. "These are some of your guns--" "Not mine--I was out of it long ago. They still carry the brand of my old iron-mills."
"We shall see, sir, that they do honour to your name."
"I am sure of that," returned the colonel, looking at the face of the officer, who as he spoke patted the gun beside him in an affectionate way.
"It seems very peaceful," he said.
"Yes, yes," returned Penhallow, "very."
They looked for a moment of silence down the vale before them, where a mile away the ground rose to a low ridge, beyond which in woody shelters lay the hostile lines.
"What road is that?" asked Penhallow. "It leaves our right and crosses to enter Lee's right."
"The Emmitsburg Pike, sir."
The Colonel's glass searched the space before him. "I see some fine farm-houses--deserted, of course, and wheat fields no man will reap this year." He spoke thoughtfully, and as Woodruff of the nearer battery joined them, the roar of cannon broke the stillness.
"Far on our left," said Woodruff. At the sound, the men sprang to their feet and took their stations. Smoke rose and clouded their view of the distant field where on our left a fury of battle raged, while the rattle of infantry volleys became continuous. No more words were spoken. Through the long afternoon the unseen fight went on in front of the Round Tops. As it came nearer and the grey lines were visible, the guns on the Crest opened a lively fire and kept up their destructive business until the approach of the enemy ceased to extend towards our centre and fell away in death or disorderly flight. About sunset this varied noise subsided and the remote sound of cheering was heard.
"We must have won," said General Webb, the brigade commander. "It was a flanking movement. How little any one man knows of a battle!"
"By George! I am glad of a let up," said the young Captain. "I am vilely dirty." He wiped the grime and sweat from his face and threw himself on the ground as Generals Hunt and Gibbon rode up.
"No great damage here, I see, Webb. They got awfully licked, but it was near to something else."
Questioned by Penhallow, they heard the news of our needless loss and final triumphant repulse of the enemy. Hunt said emphatic things about political generals and their ways. "He lost a leg," said Gibbon, "and I think to have lost his life would have been, fortunate. They are at it still on the right, but the Twelfth Corps has gone back to Culp's Hill and Ewell will get his share of pounding--if it be his corps."
"Then we may get some sleep," said Penhallow, as he moved away. "I have had very little for two nights."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
24
|
None
|
It was near to seven when he went down to his parked guns, seeing as he went that the ways were kept clear, and finding ready hot coffee and broiled chicken.
"Where did you get this, Josiah?" he asked.
"Kind of came in, sir--know'd he was wanted--laid two eggs." The colonel laughed and asked no further questions.
"Pull off my boots. Horses all right?"
"Yes, sir."
Without-undressing he fell on his camp-bed and, towards dusk thinking with grim humour of his wife and the Penhallow guns, fell asleep. About four in the morning the mad clamour of battle awakened him. He got up and went out of the tent. The night air was hot and oppressive. Far to our right there was the rattle of musketry and the occasional upward flare of cannon flashes against low-lying clouds. From the farthest side of the Taneytown road at the rear he heard the rattle of ambulances arriving from the field of fight to leave the wounded in tent hospitals. They came slowly, marked by their flickering lanterns, and were away again more swiftly. He gave some vague thought to the wounded and to the surgeons, for whom the night was as the day. At sunrise he went up past the already busy headquarters and came to the bush-hidden lines, where six thousand men of the Second Corps along a half mile of the irregular far-stretched Crest were up and busy. Fires were lighted, coffee boiled and biscuits munched. An air of confidence and gaiety among the men pleased him as he paused to give a sergeant a pipe light and divided his tobacco among a thankful group of ragged soldiers. All was quiet. An outpost skirmish on the right, as a man said, "was petering out." He paused here and there to talk to the men, and was interested to hear them discussing with intelligence the advantage of our short line. Now and then the guns far to left or right quarrelled, but at eleven in the morning this third of July all was quiet except the murmurous noise of thousands of men who talked or lay at rest in the bushes or contrived a refuge from the sun under shelter of a canvas hung on ramrods.
Generals Gibbon and Webb, coming near, promised him a late breakfast, and he went with them to the little peach orchard near the headquarters on the Taneytown road. They sat down on mess-chests or cracker-boxes, and to Penhallow's amusement Josiah appeared with John, the servant of Gibbon, for Josiah was, as he said, on easy terms with every black servant in the line. Presently Hancock rode up with Meade. Generals Newton and Pleasanton also appeared, and with their aides joined them. These men were officially Penhallow's superiors, and although Hancock and Gibbon were his friends, he made no effort to take part in the discussion in regard to what the passing day would bring. He had his own opinion, but no one asked for it and he smoked in an undisturbed private council of war.
At last, as he rose, Newton said, "You knew John Reynolds well, Penhallow. A moment before he fell, his aide had begged him to fall back to a less dangerous position."
"He was my friend--a soldier of the best."
"The Pennsylvanians are in force to-day--you and I and--" "Oh, colonels don't count," laughed Penhallow; "but there are Meade, Hancock, Gregg, Humphreys, Hays, Gibbon, Geary, Crawford--" Hancock said, "We Pennsylvanians hold the lowest and weakest point of our line--all Pennsylvanians on their own soil."
"Yes, but they will not attack here," said Newton.
"Oh, do you think so?" said Hancock. "Wait a little."
The headquarters' ambulance drove up with further supplies. The chickens were of mature age, but every one was hungry. Cigars and pipes were lighted, and Newton chaffed Gibbon as the arrogant young brigadier in command for the time of Hancock's Corps. The talk soon fell again upon the probabilities of the day. Penhallow listened. Meade grave and silent sat on a cracker-box and ate in an absent way, or scribbled orders, and at last directed that the picked body of men, the provost's guards, should join their regimental commands. About a quarter to noon the generals one by one rode away.
Having no especial duty, Penhallow walked to where on the Crest the eighteen guns were drawn up. The sky was clear as yet, a windless, hot day. Gibbon joined him.
"What next?" said Gibbon, as Penhallow clambered up and stood a tall figure on the limber of one of Cushing's guns, his field glass searching the valley and the enemy's position. "Isn't it like a big chess-board?"
"Yes--their skirmishers look like grey posts, and our own blue. They seem uneasy."
"Aren't they just like pawns in the game!" remarked Captain Haskell of the Staff.
Penhallow, intent, hardly heard them, but said presently, "There are guidons moving fast to their right."
"Oh, artillery taking position. We shall hear from them," returned Gibbon. "Hancock thinks that being beaten on both flanks, Lee will attack our centre, and this is the lowest point."
"Well," said Haskell, "it would be madness--can Lee remember Malvern Hill?"
"I wonder what Grant is doing?" remarked Gibbon. At that time, seated under an oak, watched at a distance by John Penhallow and a group of officers, he was dictating to unlucky Pemberton the terms of Vicksburg's surrender.
Penhallow got down from his perch and wandered among the other guns, talking to the men who were lying on the sod, or interested in the battery horses behind the shelter of trees quietly munching the thin grasses. He returned to Cushing's guns, and being in the mental attitude of intense attention to things he would not usually have noticed, he was struck with the young captain's manly build, and then with his delicacy of feature, something girl-like and gentle in his ways.
Penhallow remarked that the guns so hot already from the sun would be too easily overheated when they were put to use. "Ah," returned Cushing, "but will they be asked to talk today?" The innocent looking smile and the quick flash of wide-opened eyes told of his wish to send messages across the vale.
"Yes, I think so," said the colonel; "I think so,"--and again observant he saw the slight figure straighten and a quite other look of tender sadness come upon his face.
"How quiet they are--how very quiet!" Then he laughed merrily. "See that dog on the Emmitsburg road. He doesn't know which side he's on."
Penhallow looked at his watch. "It is one o'clock." Then his glass was up. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as he closed it, "now we shall catch it. I thought as much."
A mile away, far on Lee's right, on the low ridge in front of his position, a flash of light was seen. As the round ring of smoke shot out from the cannon, the colonel remembered the little Leila's delight when he blew smoke rings as they sat on the porch. Instantly a second gun spoke. The two shells flew over our line and lit far to the rear, while at once along Lee's position a hundred and fifty guns rang out and were instantly answered by our own artillery from Round Top to Cemetery Hill. General Hunt beside him replying to the quick questions he put, said, "We could not place over seventy-five guns--not room enough."
"Is that all? They are distributing their favours along our whole front."
At once a vast shroud of smoke rose and hid both lines, while out of it flew countless shell and roundshot. At first most of the Confederate missiles flew high and fell far behind our Crest. The two officers were coolly critical as they stood between the batteries.
"He must think our men are back of the guns like his own. The wall and bushes hide them."
"The fuses are too long," said Hunt quietly. "That's better and worse," he added, as a shell exploded near by and one of Woodruff's guns went out of action and the ground was strewn with the dead and wounded. "We shall want some of your guns."
Penhallow went in haste to the rear. What he saw was terrible. The iron hail of shells fell fast around him on the wide open space or even as far away as the hospital tents. On or near the Taneytown road terror-stricken wagon-drivers were flying, ammunition mules were torn to pieces or lying mangled; a shell exploded in a wagon,--driver, horses and a load of bread were gone. Horses lay about, dead or horribly torn; one horse hitched to a tree went on cropping grass. Penhallow missed nothing. He was in the mood peril always brought. Men said he was a slow, sure thinker, and missed seeing things which did not interest him. Now he was gay, tuned to the highest pitch of automatic watchfulness, as this far-sent storm of bursting shells went over and past the troops it was meant to destroy. Hurrying through it he saw the wide slope clear rapidly of what was left of active life. He laughed as a round shot knocked a knapsack off a man's back. The man unhurt did not stay to look for it. Once the colonel dropped as a shell lit near him. It did not explode. He ejaculated, "Pshaw," and went on. He came near the Taneytown road to find that his artillery had suffered. A score of harnessed horses lay dead or horribly mangled. His quick orders sent up to the front a dozen guns. Some were horsed, some were pulled with ropes by the cheering, eager cannoneers. Their way was up the deserted slope, "well cleared by the enemy," thought Penhallow with a smile. Once he looked back and saw the far flight of a shell end in or near an ambulance of the wounded beyond the Taneytown road.
During his absence gun after gun had been disabled and a caisson exploded; the gun crews lay dead or wounded. What more horribly disturbed Penhallow was the hideous screams of the battery horses. "Ah! the pity of it. They had no cause to die for--no duty--no choice." As he assisted in replacing the wreckage of the guns, he still heard the cries of the animals who so dumb in peace found in torture voices of anguish unheard before--unnatural, strange. The appalling tempest of shells screamed on and on, while the most of them fell beyond the Crest. Penhallow looked up to note their flight. They darted overhead shrill-voiced or hissing. There was a white puff of smoke, a red flash, and an explosion.
General Gibbon, coming back from the long line of his corps, said, "My men have suffered very little, but the headquarters behind them are in ruin. Meade has moved back." As he spoke the shells began to fall on the Crest.
"They seem to be more attentive to us," said the battery Captain Woodruff. "Thought we'd catch it!"
"Horrible! --Those horses, Gibbon," said Penhallow.
At last there seemed to be more concentrated firing on the Crest. Many shells fell near the imperfect wall-shelter of the crouching men, while others exploded among the lines to left or right in the bushes.
"They are doing better now, confound them!" said the young general coolly. "Our men at the wall seem disturbed.
"Come with me," he said to Penhallow and Haskell of the Staff, who had just joined them.
They went down in front of the guns to where behind the low wall lay the two thin lines of the Pennsylvania regiments. He spoke to the Colonel of the 71st, who with other officers was afoot encouraging the men.
"Keep cool, boys," said Gibbon.
The men laughed. "Oh, we're all right, General, but we ain't cool."
Gibbon laughed. "Let us go over the wall and try to see a little better," said Penhallow.
A hundred yards beyond the lines they sat down. The ceaseless rain of shot and shell from both sides went over them, the canopy of smoke being so high above that the interspace between the lines was now more or less visible. Far beyond them our skirmish outposts were still motionless on guard; and yet further farms and houses, some smoking in ruin, lay among the green fields along the Emmitsburg Pike.
"It is pretty safe here," said the Corps Commander, while far above them the shells sang their war notes.
Penhallow looked back. "They've got the range--there goes one of the guns--oh! and another."
"Let's go back," said Gibbon, rising, "we are too safe here."
They laughed at his reason and followed him, Haskell remarking on the lessening of the fire. As they moved about the forty-foot spaces between the disabled batteries, the last cannon-ball rolled by them and bounded down the slope harmless. At once there was movement,--quick orders, officers busy, as fresh cannon replaced the wrecked pieces. Many of the unhurt cannoneers lay down utterly exhausted. The dead were drawn aside, while the wounded crawled away or were cared for by the stretcher-bearers and surgeons. Meanwhile the dense, hot, smoke-pall rose slowly and drifted away. The field-glasses were at once in use.
"It is half-past two," said General Hunt; "what next? Oh! our skirmishers are falling back."
"They are going to attack," said Haskell, "and can they mean our whole line--or where?"
The cannoneers were called to their pieces, and silently expectant the little group waited on the fateful hour, while the orderly quiet of discipline was to be seen on the Crest. The field-glasses of the officers were searching with intense interest the more and more visible vale.
"Pretty plain now, Gibbon," said Hunt.
"Yes, we are in for it."
"They are forming," said Penhallow. A line appeared from the low swell of ground in front of Lee's position--then a second and a third. Muskets and bayonets flashed in the sun.
"Can you make out their flags?" asked Gibbon, "or their numbers?"
"Not the flags." He waited intent, watchful. No one spoke--minute after minute went by. At last Penhallow answered. "A long line--a good half mile--quite twelve thousand--oh, more--more. Now they are advancing _en échelon_."
To left, to right, along our lines was heard the thud, thud, of the ramrods, and percussion-cap boxes were slid around the waist to be handy. Penhallow and others drew their pistols. The cannon were now fully replaced, the regimental flags unrolled, and on the front line, long motionless, the trefoil guidons of the two divisions of the Second Corps fluttered feebly. The long row of skirmishers firing fell back more and more rapidly, and came at last into our lines.
Penhallow said, turning to Gibbon, "They have--I think--they have no supporting batteries--that is strange." Haskell and Gibbon had gone as he spoke and the low crest was free at this point of all but the artillery force. To left, the projecting clump of trees and the lines of the Second Corps--all he could see--were ominously quiet.
Gibbon came back to the crest. He said, "We may need backing if they concentrate on us; here our line is too thin." And still the orderly grey columns came on silently, without their usual charging-yell.
"Ah!" exclaimed Penhallow without lowering his glass, as he gazed to our left. The clamour of cannon broke out from little Round Top.
"Rifles!" exclaimed Gibbon. "Good!" Their left made no reply, but seemed to draw away from the fire.
"I can see no more," said the Colonel, "but they stopped at the Emmitsburg road."
The acrid odour of musketry drifted across the field as he turned to gaze at the left wing of the fast coming onset. Far to our right they came under the fire of Cemetery Hill and of an advanced Massachusetts regiment. He saw the blue flags of Virginia sway, fall, and rise no more, while scattered and broken the Confederates fled or fell under the fury of the death messages from above the long-buried dead of the village graves. "Now then, Cushing!" cried Hunt, and the guns on the Crest opened fire.
It was plain that the long Confederate lines, frayed on each flank, had crowded together making a vast wedge of attack. Then all along our miles of troops a crackle of musketry broke out, the big guns bellowing. The field was mostly lost to view in the dense smoke, under which the charging-force halted and steadily returned the fire.
"I can't see," cried Cushing near by.
"Quite three hundred yards or more," said the colonel, "and you are hurt, Cushing. Go to the rear." The blood was streaming down his leg.
"Not I--it is nothing. Hang those fellows!" A New York battery gallantly run in between disabled guns crowded Cushing's cannon. He cried, "Section one to the front, by hand!"
He was instantly obeyed. As he went with it to the front near to the wall, followed by Penhallow, he said, "It is my last canister, colonel. I can't see well."
Dimly seen figures in the dense smoke were visible here and there some two hundred yards away, with flutter of reeling battle-flags in the smoke, while more and more swiftly the wedge of men came on, losing terribly by the fire of the men at the wall along the lines.
Cushing stood with the lanyard of the percussion trigger in his hand. It seems inconceivable, but the two men smiled. Then he cried, "My God!" --his figure swayed, he held his left hand over a ghastly wound in his side, and as he reeled pulled the lanyard. He may have seen the red flash, and then with a bullet through the open mouth fell dead across the trail of his gun.
For a moment Penhallow was the only officer of rank near the silent battery. Where Cushing's two guns came too near the wall, the men moved away to the sides leaving an unguarded space. Checked everywhere to right and left, the assailants crowded on to the clump of trees and to where the Pennsylvania line held the stone wall. Ignorant of the ruin behind them, the grey mass came on with a rush through the smoke. The men in blue, losing terribly, fell back from a part of the wall in confusion--a mere mob--sweeping Webb, Penhallow and others with them, swearing and furious. Two or three hundred feet back they stopped, a confused mass. General Webb, Haskell and other officers rallied them. The red flags gathered thicker, where the small units of many commands stood fast under the shelter of a portion of the lost wall. Penhallow looked back and saw the Massachusetts flags--our centre alone had given way. The flanks of the broken regiments still held the wall and poured in a murderous fire where the splendid courage of the onset halted, unwilling to fly, unable to go on.
Webb, furious, rallied his men, while Penhallow, Haskell and Gibbon vainly urged an advance. A colour-sergeant ran forward and fell dead. A corporal caught up the flag and dropped. A Confederate general leaped over the deserted wall and laid a hand on Cushing's gun. He fell instantly at the side of the dead captain, as with a sudden roar of fury the broken Pennsylvanians rolled in a disordered mass of men and officers against the disorganized valour which held the wall.
The smoke held--still holds, the secret of how many met the Northern men at the wall; how long they fought among Cushing's guns, on and over the wall, no man who came out of it could tell. Penhallow emptied his revolver and seizing a musket fought the brute battle with the men who used fists, stones, gun-rammers--a howling mob of blue and grey. And so the swaying flags fell down under trampling men and the lost wall was won. The fight was over. Men fell in scores, asking quarter. The flanking fires had been merciless, and the slope was populous with dead and wounded men, while far away the smoke half hid the sullen retreat of the survivors. The prearranged mechanism of war became active. Thousands of prisoners were being ordered to the rear. Men stood still, gasping, breathless or dazed. As Penhallow stood breathing hard, from the right wing, among the long silent dead of Cemetery Hill, arose a wild hurrah. It gathered volume, rolled down the long line of corps after corps, and died away among the echoes of the Pennsylvania hills. He looked about him trying to recover interest. Some one said that Hancock and Gibbon were wounded. The rush of the _mêlée_ had carried him far down the track of the charge, and having no instant duty he sat down, his clothes in tatters. As he recovered strength, he was aware of General Meade on horseback with an aide. The general, white and grave, said to Haskell, "How has it gone here?"
An officer cried, "They are beaten," showing two flags he held.
Meade said sharply: "Damn the flags! Are the men gone?"
"Yes, sir, the attack is over."
He uncovered, said only, "Thank God!" gave some rapid orders and rode away beside the death-swath, careful, as Penhallow saw, to keep his horse off of the thirty scattered flags, many lying under or over the brave who had fought and lost in this memorable charge.
Penhallow could have known of the battle only what he had seen, but a few words from an officer told him that nowhere except at this part of the line of the Second Corps had the attack been at all fortunate.
On the wide field of attack our ambulance corps was rescuing the hundreds of wounded Confederates, many of them buried, helpless, beneath the bodies of the motionless dead. Two soldiers stood near him derisively flaunting flags.
"Quit that," cried the Colonel, "drop them!" The men obeyed.
"Death captured them--not we," said Penhallow, and saw that he was speaking to a boyish Confederate lieutenant, who had just dragged himself limping out of the ghastly heap of dead.
Touching his forehead in salute, he said, "Thank you, sir. Where shall I go?"
"Up there," replied the colonel. "You will be cared for."
The man limped away followed by Penhallow, who glanced at the torn Confederate banners lying blood-stained about the wall and beyond it. He read their labels--Manassas, Chancellorsville, Sharpsburg. One marked Fredericksburg lay gripped in the hand of a dead sergeant. He crossed the wall to look for the body of the captain of the battery; men were lifting it. "My God! --Poor boy!" murmured the colonel, as he looked on the white face of death. He asked who was the Rebel general who had fallen beside Cushing.
"General Armistead," said an officer--"mortally wounded, they say."
Penhallow turned and went down the slope again. Far away, widely scattered, he caught glimpses of this rash and gallant attack. He was aware of that strange complex odour which rises from a battlefield. It affected him as horrible and as unlike any other unpleasant smell. Feeling better, he busied himself directing those who were aiding the wounded. A general officer he did not know said to him, "Stop the firing from that regiment."
A number of still excited men of one of the flanking brigades on our right were firing uselessly at the dimly seen and remote mass of the enemy. Penhallow went quickly to the right, and as he drew near shouted, "Stop those men--quit firing!" He raised his hand to call attention to his order. The firing lessened, and seeing that he was understood he turned away. At the moment he was not fifty feet from the flanking line, and had moved far down the slope as one of the final shots rang out. He felt something like a blow on his right temple, and as he staggered was aware of the gush of blood down his face. "What fool did that?" he exclaimed as he reeled and fell. He rose, fell, rose again, and managed to tie a handkerchief around his head. He stumbled to the wall and lay down, his head aching. He could go no further. "Queer, that," he murmured; "they might have seen." He sat up; things around him were doubled to his view.
"Are you hit?" said Haskell, who was directing stretcher-bearers and sending prisoners to the rear.
"Not badly." He was giddy and in great pain. Then he was aware of the anxious face of Josiah.
"My God! you hurt, sir? Come to look for you--can you ride? I fetched Dixy--mare's killed."
"I am not badly hurt. Tighten this handkerchief and give me your arm--I can't ride," He arose, and amazed at his weakness, dragged himself down the slope, through the reforming lines, the thousands of prisoners, the reinforcing cannon and the wreckage of the hillside. He fell on his couch, and more at ease began to think, with some difficulty in controlling his thoughts. At last he said, "I shall be up to-morrow," and lay still, seeing, as the late afternoon went by, Grey Pine and Ann Penhallow. Then he was aware of Captain Haskell and a surgeon, who dressed his wound and said, "It was mere shock--there is no fracture. The ball cut the artery and tore the scalp. You'll be all right in a day or two."
Penhallow said, "Please to direct my servant to the Sanitary Commission. I think my friend, the Rev. Mark Rivers, is with them."
He slept none. It was early dawn when Rivers came in anxious and troubled. For the first time in years of acquaintance he found Penhallow depressed, and amazed because so small a wound made him weak and unable to think clearly or to give orders. "And it was some stupid boy from our line," he said.
His incapacity made Rivers uneasy, and although Penhallow broke out to his surprise in angry remonstrance, he convinced him at last that he must return to Grey Pine on sick leave. He asked no question about the army. Insisting that he was too well to give up his command, nevertheless he talked much of headache and lack of bodily power. He was, as Rivers saw, no longer the good-humoured, quiet gentleman, with no thought of self. In a week he was stronger, but as his watchful friend realized, there was something mysteriously wrong with his mental and moral mechanism.
On the day after the battle Penhallow asked to have his wife telegraphed that he was slightly wounded, and that she must not come to him. Rivers wrote also a brief and guarded letter to Leila of their early return to Grey Pine.
In a vain effort to interest the colonel, he told him of the surrender of Vicksburg. --He asked where it was and wasn't John there, but somewhat later became more clear-minded and eager to go home.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
25
|
None
|
Rivers gathered no comfort from a consultation of surgeons, who talked of the long-lasting effects of concussion of the brain. Made careful by the sad change he had observed in Ann Penhallow when last seen, he sent his telegram for Leila to the care of the post-mistress, and a day later a brief letter.
Understanding the mode of address, Mrs. Crocker walked at once to Grey Pine, and found Leila in the garden. "Where is your aunt?" she asked.
"Lying down in her room. I got your kind note about the fight last evening. Is it true? Is the news confirmed?"
"Yes. There was a terrible battle at Gettysburg. The Rebels were defeated by General Meade and are retreating."
"I did not tell Aunt Ann anything. I waited to hear, as I was sure I would from Uncle James. Is there evil news?"
"I don't know. Here is a telegram to my care for you from Mr. Rivers. It must have been delayed--and then came this letter to Mrs. Penhallow from him."
"Then--then--there is bad news," she cried as she tore open the telegram and stood still.
"What is it? --you know how we all love him."
"Uncle Jim is wounded--not seriously--and will be here shortly."
"Oh, but I am sorry--and glad."
"Yes--yes--I must tell aunt at once. She has not left her room for two days, and I forbade the maids to talk of the victory until it was sure--now she must know all. I must tell her at once."
"Why not get Dr. McGregor?"
"No--no," she returned with decision. "I shall know best how to tell--it wants a woman."
The ruddy, stout post-mistress looked at the tall young woman with sudden appreciation of her self-command and mental growth. "Maybe you're about right, but I thought--well, fact is, I've seen of late so many people just tear open a letter--and go all to pieces."
Leila smiled. "You don't know my aunt. Now I must go. Oh, this war--this war! To-morrow will scatter joy and grief over all the land."
"Yes, I've been near about mobbed to-day. Good-bye."
The messenger of evil news went straight from the garden path, where the roses were in unusual abundance. To her surprise she saw her aunt on the back porch. As Leila hesitated, she said, "I saw Mrs. Crocker from my window, Leila. She gave you something--a letter--or a telegram. What is it? I suppose after what I have heard of the Confederates at York and Carlisle, they may be in Harrisburg by this time and the railroad to the west cut off. It may be well to know." She spoke rapidly as she came down the steps to meet her niece. "It is as well James Penhallow is not in it."
The two women stood facing one another in one of those immeasurably brief silences which are to timeless thought as are ages. Her husband safe, General Lee victorious--some slight look of satisfaction could be seen in her face--a faint smile, too easily read--and then-- "Well, dear, your news?"
Anger, tenderness, love, pity--all dictated answers. "Aunt Ann, I have bad news."
"Of course, dear. It was to be expected. You won't believe me, but I am sorry for you and for James."
The face of the tall young woman flushed hot. She had meant to spare her--to be tender. She said, "General Lee is retreating after losing a great battle at Gettysburg."
Her aunt said quickly, "But James Penhallow--he is in Washington?"
"No, he was in the army--he is wounded--not seriously--and he is coming home."
"I might have known it." A great illumination came over her face not understood by Leila. She was strangely glad for him that he had been in the field and not in peaceful safety at Washington. With abrupt change of expression, she added, "Wounded? Not seriously. That isn't like him to come home for a slight wound. You or Mark Rivers are hiding something."
"Not I, aunt; but any wound that kept him off duty would be better cared for here. Lee's defeat leaves him free for a time--I mean at ease--" "Don't talk nonsense!" she cried. "What do I care for Lee--or Meade--or battles! James Penhallow is all the world to me. Victory!" --she flamed with mounting colour--"it is I am the victor! He comes back with honour--I have no duties--no country--I have only my love. Oh, my God! if he had died--if--if--I should have hated! --" She spoke with harsh vehemence, and of a sudden stopped, and breathing fast gasped in low-voiced broken tones, "Don't stare at me--I am not a fool--I am--I am--only the fool of a great love. You don't know what it means. My God! I have no child--James Penhallow is to me children, husband--all--everything." She stood still, wide-eyed, staring down the garden paths, a wonder of yearning tenderness in her face, with Rivers's letter in her hand.
"Read your letter, Aunt."
"Yes--yes--I forgot it." She read it, and said, "It only confirms the telegram."
The storm of passionate emotion was over. Leila amazed and fearful of results--twice seen before--watched her. "You have seen," she said in a low voice, "the soul of a great love laid bare. May you too some day, my child, love as I do! Have no fear for me--I see it in your looks. Come in--I have to see to things--I have to give some orders--there will be much to do." She was at once quiet, and composedly led the way into the house, the astonished girl following her.
In the hall Mrs. Penhallow said, "I fear, dear, I have left too much of the management of the house to you--of late, I mean. What with the farms and stables, I am not surprised that things have not been quite as James would desire. I am going to relieve you a little. I suppose the stables are all right."
"They are," returned Leila, feeling hurt. Her aunt had not been in the kitchen or given an order for nearly a month, and house, farm and stables, had been by degrees allowed to slip into Leila's well-trained and competent hands. Meanwhile Ann Penhallow had gradually failed in health and lost interest in duties which had been to her, as Rivers said, what social pleasures were to some women. She yielded by degrees and not without resistance to mere physical weakness, and under the emotional stress of war, and above all the absence of the man on whom she depended, had lapsed to McGregor's dismay into a state of mind and body for which he had no remedy.
Every physician of large experience must have seen cases of self-created, unresisted invalidism end with mysterious abruptness and the return of mental, moral and physical competence, under the influence of some call upon their sense of duty made by calamity, such as an acute illness in the household, financial ruin, or the death of a husband. The return of a wounded man and the need to care for him acted thus upon Ann Penhallow.
Leila looked on in surprise. Her aunt's astounding indifference to the results of defeat for her beloved South when she learned of her husband's injury left the younger woman utterly bewildered. Nothing in her own nature, as she thought it all over, enabled her to understand it, nor was her aunt's rapid gain in health and cheerfulness during the next few days more easy to explain. At first with effort, but very soon with increase of ability, she gradually became more and more her old self.
Ann Penhallow spent the remainder of the next day in one of those household inspections which let no failure in neatness or order escape attention. James Penhallow's library was to be cleaned and cared for in a way to distress any man-minded man, while Leila looked on. Had her aunt's recent look of ill-health represented nothing but the depressing influence of a year of anxiety? And, if so, why under the distress of a nearer and more material disaster should she grow so quickly active, and apparently strong in place of becoming more feeble. She followed her aunt about the house trying to be helpful, and a little amused at her return to some of the ways which at times annoyed Penhallow into positive revolt. As she thought of it, Ann was standing over a battered army-chest, open and half full of well-worn cavalry uniforms.
"Really, Leila," she said, "these old army clothes had better be disposed of--and that shabby smoking-jacket--I have not seen it for years. Why do men keep their useless, shabby clothes?"
"I think Uncle Jim wouldn't like those old army uniforms given away, aunt; and don't you remember how he looked like an old Van Dyke portrait in that lovely brown velvet jacket?"
Ann, standing with the much used garment in her hand, let it drop into the chest, saying, "I really cannot see the use of keeping things as men love to do--" "And women never!" cried Leila, closing the lid of the box, and remarking that he would like to find things as he left them; and had Aunt Ann noticed that there were moths about the bear skins. Now a moth has the power of singularly exciting some women--the diversion proved effectual.
And still as the week went by Ann seemed to be gaining in strength.
At lunch, a telegram from Charles Grey, Baltimore, said, "Penhallow here, doing well. Will return on the 14th, by afternoon train, with Rivers and servant."
"Read that, dear--I want you, Leila, to ride to the mills and tell Dr. McGregor that I will send the carriage for him in time for him to meet your uncle at the station. I had better not meet him--and there will be Mark Rivers and Josiah and--but you will see to all that."
"Certainly, aunt."
"It will be the day after to-morrow. Be sure that the doctor makes no mistake. There are two trains--he will be on the four o'clock express." This was in the manner of her Aunt Ann of former days. "Shall I write it down?"
Leila cried, "No," and fled, laughing.
The next day to Leila's surprise and pleasure her aunt came down to breakfast and quietly took her place as mistress of the tea-urn. The talent of common sense as applicable to the lesser social commerce of life was one of Leila's gifts, and she made no comment on her aunt's amazing resumption of her old habits. Ann herself felt some inclination to explain her rapid recovery of health, and said as she took the long-vacant seat at the breakfast table, "I think, Leila, the doctor's last tonic has been of use to me--I feel quite like myself." Having thus anticipated her too sharp-eyed niece's congratulations, Leila's expression of pleasure came in accordant place. Whereupon they both smiled across the table, having that delicate appreciation of the needs of the situation which is rarely at the service of the blundering mind of man.
The moment of gentle hypocrisy passed, the mistress of Grey Pine took up her memoranda for the day, and said with some attempt at being just her usual self, "I shall walk to Westways after breakfast--Pole needs to be talked to. The meats have been of his worst lately." Then with a glance at the paper, "Your uncle's books must be dusted; I quite forgot it; I will set Susan to work this morning."
"But," said Leila, "he does hate that, Aunt Ann. The last time she succeeded in setting together 'Don Juan' and 'St. Thomas à Kempis.'"
Ann laughed, and said with some of her old sense of humour, "It might do them both good--dust them yourself."
"I will," said Leila, liking the task.
"And when you ride this afternoon, see Mrs. Lamb. The cook tells me that she hears of that scamp, her son, as in the army--a nice kind of soldier." A half-dozen other errands were mentioned, and they parted, Ann adding, "There is no mail to-day."
They met again at lunch. "It is too bad, Leila, Billy was given the letters and forgot them and went a-fishing. There was a letter for you from Mark Rivers about your uncle. Does he think me a child? I read it."
"You read it, Aunt!" exclaimed Leila astonished at this infraction of their household law.
"Of course I read it. I knew it must be about James." Leila made no reply, but did not like it.
"Here it is, my dear. I fear James is in a more serious state than I was led to believe by their first letters. There is also a letter from John to you." She did not ask to see it, and Leila took both missives and presently went away to the stables. Even John, as was plain, was forgotten in her aunt's anxiety in regard to her husband.
Her many errands over, Leila riding slowly through the lonely wood-roads read the letters: "My Dear Leila," wrote Rivers, "you had better let your aunt know that the Colonel's wound must have so shocked the brain, though there is no fracture, as to have left him in a mental state which gives me the utmost anxiety. You will sadly realize my meaning when you see him. Be careful how you tell your aunt.
"Yours truly, "MARK RIVERS."
Here indeed was trouble. Leila's eyes filled and tears fell on the paper. She rode on deep in thought, and at last securing the message of calamity in her belt opened John's letter.
"I write you, dear Leila, from my tent near Vicksburg, this 5th of July. The prisoners from Pemberton's army are passing as I write. Our men are giving them bread and tobacco, and there is no least sign of enmity or triumph. I am pretty well worn out, as the few engineers have been worked hard and the constant nearness of death in the trenches within five to one hundred feet of the Rebel lines was a situation to make a man think--not of course while in immediate danger, but afterwards. I had some narrow escapes--we all had. But, dear Leila, it has been a splendid thing to see how this man Grant, with the expressionless face, struck swiftly one army after another and returned to secure his prey.
"I cannot even now get a leave of absence, and I am beyond words anxious to hear about dear Uncle Jim. Just a line from him makes me think he was to be with General Meade and in that great battle we won. A telegram to the Engineers' Camp, Vicksburg, will relieve me.
"It is unlikely, if we go South, that I shall see you for many a day. All leaves are, I find, denied. War--intense war like this--seems to me to change men in wonderful ways. It makes some men bad or reckless or drunkards or hard and cruel; it makes others thoughtful, dutiful and religious. This is more often the case among the men than you may think it would be. Certainly it does age a fellow fast. I seem to have passed many years since I sat with you at West Point and you made me feel how young I was and how little I had seen of life. It was true, but now I have seen life at its worst and its best. I have had too the education of battle, the lessons read by thousands of deaths and all the many temptations of camp life. I believe, and I can say it to you, I am the better for it all, and think less and less of the man who was fool enough to do what with more humility he will surely do once more, if it please God that he come out of this terrible war alive.
"When you see me again, you will at least respect my years, for one lives fast here, and the months seem years and the family Bible a vain record, as I remember that the statement of births comes after the Apocrypha which leaves room for doubt." -- Leila smiled. "How like him," she murmured.
"I said months. There are (there were once last week) minutes when one felt an insolent contempt of death, although the bullets were singing by like our brave hornets. Is that courage? I used as a boy to wonder how I would feel in danger. Don't tell, but on going under fire I shiver, and then am at once in quiet possession of all my capacities, whatever they be worth. A man drops by my side--and I am surprised; then another--and I am sure I won't be hit. But I _was_ three weeks ago in my leg! It made me furious, and I still limp a bit. It was only a nip--a spent bullet. I wanted to get at that anonymous rascal who did it.
"Do wire me, and write fully.
"Yours, JOHN.
"P.S. I wonder where Tom McGregor is, and Pole's boy and Joe Grace, and those Greys who went diverse ways. As you never talk of yourself when you write those brief letters on notepaper the size of a postage stamp, you might at least tell me all about these good people in Westways."
She telegraphed him, "Uncle Jim slightly wounded, is coming home. Will write. Leila Grey."
About four in the afternoon of this July 14th Ann Penhallow kissed her husband as he came up the porch steps. He was leaning heavily on Mark Rivers's arm. He said, "It is quite a long time, Ann. How long is it?" Then he shook off Rivers, saying, "I am quite well," and going by his wife went through the open door, moving like one dazed. He stood still a moment looking about him, turned back and speaking to his wife said, "I understand now. At first it seemed strange to me and as if I had never been here before. Ever feel that way, Ann?"
"Oh, often, James." No signal of her anguish showed on the gallantly carried face of the little woman.
"Quiet, isn't it? When was it I was hit? It was--wasn't it in May? Rivers says it was July--I do not like contradiction." His appreciation of time and recognition of locality were alike disordered, as Rivers had observed with distress and a too constant desire to set him right. With better appreciation of his condition, Ann accepted his statement.
"Yes--yes, of course, dear--it is just so."
"I knew you would understand me. I should like to go to bed--I want Josiah--no one else."
"Yes, dear," and this above all else made clear to the unhappy little lady how far was the sturdy soldier who had left her from the broken man in undress uniform who clung to the rail, as he went slowly up the stairway with his servant. In the hall he had seen Leila, but gave her no word, not even his habitual smile of recognition.
Ann stared after them a moment, motioned Rivers away with uplifted hand, and hastening into the library sat down and wept like a child. She had been unprepared for the change in his appearance and ways. More closely observant, Leila saw that the lines of decisiveness were gone, the humorous circles about the mouth and eyes, as it were, flattened out, and that the whole face, with the lips a little languidly parted, had become expressionless. It was many days before she could see the altered visage without emotion, or talk of him to her aunt with any of the amazing hopefulness with which the older woman dwelt on her husband's intervals of resemblance to his former self.
He would not ride or enter the stables, but his life was otherwise a childlike resumption of his ordinary habits, except that when annoyed by Ann's too obvious anxiety or excess of carefulness, he became irritable at times and even violent in language. He so plainly preferred Leila's company in his short walks as to make the wife jealous and vexed that she was not wanted during every minute of his altered life. He read no books as of old, but would have Leila read to him the war news until he fell asleep, when she quietly slipped away.
Mark Rivers resumed his duties for a time, unwilling to abandon these dear friends for whom McGregor, puzzled and perplexed, had no word of consolation, except the assurance that his condition did not grow worse.
At times Penhallow was dimly aware of his state; at others he resented any effort to control him and was so angry when the doctor proposed a consultation that the idea was too easily given up, for always in this as in everything his wife agreed with him and indulged him as women indulge a sick child. The village grieved for the Colonel who rode no more through Westways with a gay word of greeting for all he met. The iron-mills were busy. The great guns tested on the meadows now and then shook the panes in the western windows of Grey Pine. They no longer disturbed Ann Penhallow. The war went its thunderous way unheeded by her. Unendingly hopeful, the oppression of disaster seemed only to confirm and strengthen her finest qualities. Like the pine-tree winning vigour from its rock-clasped roots, she gathered such hardening strength of soul and body from his condition as the more happy years had never put at her command.
"No letters to-day, Miss Leila," said the post-mistress standing beside the younger woman's horse. "Just only them papers with their lists of killed and wounded."
"I must always be Leila, not Miss Leila," said the horsewoman.
"Well--well--I like that better. How's the Colonel?"
"Much the same--certainly no worse. It is wonderful how my aunt stands it."
"Don't you notice, Leila, how she has kind of softened? Me and Joe was talking of it yesterday. She always was good, but folks did use to say she was sort of hard and--positive. Now, she's kind of gentled--noticed that?"
"Yes, I have noticed it; but I must go. Give me the papers. You love a talk."
"There's no news of John?"
"None of late. He is with General Grant--but where we do not know."
"It's right pleasant to have Josiah back. Lord! but he's strong on war stories--ought to hear him. He was always good at stories."
"Yes, I suppose so. Good-bye."
James Penhallow sat on the back porch in the after luncheon hour to get with the freshness of October what sunshine the westerning sun was sifting through the red and gold of the maples beyond the garden walls. He was in the undress uniform of the artillery, and still wore the trefoil of the Second Corps. An effort by Ann to remove his soiled army garb and substitute his lay dress caused an outbreak of anger which left him speechless and feeble, and her in an agony of regretful penitence. Josiah, wiser than she, ventured to tell her what had happened once before when his badge of the glorious Second Corps had been missing. "After all, what does it matter?" she said to herself, and made no effort to repair the ragged bullet tear South Mountain left in his jacket, and in which he had at his worst times such childlike pride as in another and well-known general had once amused him.
He was just now in one of his best conditions and was clearly enjoying the pipe he used but rarely. Ann at his feet on the porch-step read aloud to him with indifference to all but the man she now and then looked up to with the loving tenderness his brief betterment fed with illusory hope.
"What's that, Ann?" he exclaimed; "Grant at Chattanooga! That's John's ideal General. Didn't he write about him at--where was it? Oh! Belmont."
"Yes, after Belmont, James."
"When does Mark Rivers go back?"
"To-morrow. He is always so out of spirits here that I am really relieved when he returns to the Sanitary Commission." He made no reply, and she continued her reading.
"Isn't that Leila with Rivers, Ann?"
"Yes. He likes to walk with her."
"So would any man." A faint smile--very rare of late--showed in her pleased upward look at the face--the changed face--she loved.
The pair of whom they spoke were lost to view in the forest.
"And you are glad to go?" said Leila to Rivers.
"Yes, I am. I can hardly say glad, but now that your uncle is, so to speak, lost to me and your aunt absorbed in her one task and the duties she has taken up again, our pleasant Dante lessons are set aside, and what is there left of the old intellectual life which is gone--gone?"
"But," said Leila gaily, "you have the church and my humble society. Why, you are really learning to walk, as you did not until of late."
Making no reply to her personal remark, he was silent for a moment, and then said with slow articulation and to her surprise, for he rarely spoke of himself, "Nine years ago I came here, a man broken in mind and body. This life and these dear friends have made me as strong as I can ever hope to be. But the rest--the rest. I know what power God has given me to bring souls to him. I can influence men--the lowly and--well, others, as few can. I cannot live in cities--I dare not risk the failure in health; and yet, I want--I want a larger field. I found it when your aunt's liberality sent me to the army. There in my poor way I can serve my country--and that is much to me." He was silent.
"But," she said, "is there not work enough here? and the war cannot last much longer. Don't think you must ever leave us."
"I shall--I must. There are limitations I cannot talk of even--above all to you. Your aunt knows this--and your uncle did--long ago."
"What limitations?" she asked rashly.
"You are the last person, Leila Grey, to whom I could speak of them. I have said too much, but"--and he paused--"I am tired--I will leave you to finish your walk." The great beautiful eyes turned on him for a moment. "Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, and reproaching his brief human weakness left her abruptly, walking slowly away through the drifting red and gold of leaves rocking in air as they sauntered to earth, and was at last lost to view in the woodland.
Leila stood still, puzzled and sorrowful, as she watched the tall stooping form. "How old he looks," she murmured. "What did he mean? I must ask Aunt Ann." But she never did, feeling that what he had said was something like a cautiously hinted confession. In the early morning he was gone again to the field of war.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
26
|
None
|
Through the winter of 1863-4 at Grey Pine things remained unaltered, and McGregor concluded that there was no hope for happier change. Rare letters came from John Penhallow to his aunt, who sent no replies, and to Leila, who wrote impersonal letters, as did John. Once he wrote that his uncle might like to know, that after that pontoon business in the night at Chattanooga and General Farrar Smith's brilliant action, he, John Penhallow, was to be addressed as _Captain_. As the war went on, he was across the Rapidan with Grant in May.
At Grey Pine after breakfast the windows and both doors of the hall were open to let the western breezes enter. They lingered in the garden to stir the mothers of unborn flowers and swept through the hall, bearing as they passed some gentle intimation of the ending of a cold spring.
The mail had been given to the colonel, as he insisted it should be. With some appearance of interest he said, "From Mark, for you, Ann."
"None for me, Uncle?" asked Leila, as she went around the table. "Let me help you. How many there are." She captured her own share, and for a moment stood curious as she sorted the mail. "Army trash, Uncle! What a lot of paper is needed to carry on war! Here is one--I have seen him before--he is marked 'Respectfully referred.'"
The colonel released a smile, which stirred Ann like a pleasant memory, and fed one of the little hopes she was ever on the watch to find. "What is your letter, Ann?" he asked.
Looking up she replied, "It is only to acknowledge receipt of my draft. He is in Washington. I gather that he does not mean to come back until the war is over." "Over!" she thought; "Lee is not Pemberton, as Grant will learn." It was of more moment to her that Penhallow was easier to interest, and ate as he used to do.
"Is your letter from John, Leila?" he said. "I don't like concealments."
"But, I didn't conceal anything!"
"Don't contradict me!"
"No, sir."
Ann's face grew watchful, fearing one of the outbreaks which left him weak and querulous.
"Well," said the colonel, "read us John's letter. There is as much fuss about it as if it were a love-letter."
There is no way as yet discovered to victoriously suppress a blush, but time--a little fraction of time--is helpful, and there are ways of hiding what cannot be conquered. The letter fell on the floor, and being recovered was opened and read with a certain something in the voice which caused Ann critically to use her eyes.
"DEAR LEILA: I am just now with the Second Corps, but where you will know in a week; now I must not say. --" "What's the date?" asked Penhallow.
"There is none."
"Look at the envelope."
"I tore it up, sir."
"Never throw away an envelope until you have read the letter." Ann looked pleased--that was James Penhallow, his old self. Leila read on.
"I am glad to be under canvas, and you know my faith in General Grant.
"Tell Aunt Ann I have had three servants in two weeks. These newly freed blacks are like mere children and quite useless, or else--well--one was brutal to my horse. I sometimes wish Josiah was twins and I had one of him. --" "What's that?" asked Penhallow. "Twins--I don't understand."
"He wishes he had a servant like Josiah, Uncle."
"Well, let him go to John," said the Colonel, with something of his old positive manner.
"But you would miss him, James."
"I will not," he returned, and then--"What else is there?"
"Oh--nothing--except that he will write again soon, and that he met Mr. Rivers in Washington. That is all--a very unsatisfactory letter."
For a day or two the colonel said no more of Josiah, and then asked if he had gone, and was so obviously annoyed that Ann gave way as usual and talked of her husband's wish to Josiah. The old life of Westways and Grey Pine was over, and Josiah was allowed by Ann to do so little for Penhallow that the black was not ill-pleased to leave home again for the army life and to be with the man whom as a lad he had trusted and who had helped him in a day of peril.
No one thought of any need for a pass. He was amply supplied with money and bade them good-bye. He put what he required in a knapsack, and leaving Westways for the second time and with a lighter heart, set off afoot to catch the train at Westways Crossing. The old slave was thus put upon a way which was to lead to renewed and unpleasant acquaintance with one of the minor characters of my story.
Tired of unaccustomed idleness Josiah grinned as he went across country thinking of the directions he had received from Leila of how he was to find John Penhallow.
"You know he is captain of engineers, Josiah. Now how are you going to find him? An army is as big as a great city, and in motion, too."
"Well, missy," said Josiah, "the way I'll find him is the way dog Caesar finds you in the woods." He would hear no more and left her.
Josiah knew many people in Washington, black and white, and after some disappointments went with a lot of remounts for cavalry to join the army in the Wilderness, where he served variously with the army teams. On an afternoon late in May, 1864, he strode on, passing by the long lines of marching men who filled the roadways on their way to the crossing of the North Anna River. He had been chaffed, misdirected, laughed at or civilly treated, as he questioned men about the engineers. He took it all with good-humour. About three, he came near to a house on the wayside, where a halt had been ordered to give the men a brief rest. The soldiers dust-grey and thirsty scattered over the clearing or lay in the shadow of the scrub oaks. Some thronged about a well or a wayside spring, or draining their canteens caught a brief joy from the lighted pipe so dear to the soldier. Josiah looked about him, and knew the log-cabins some distance away from the better house to have been the slave-quarters. Beyond them was a better built log-house. Apparently all were deserted--men, cattle and horses, were gone. He lay down a little way from the road and listened to the talk of the men seated in front of him. He heard a private say, "A halt is as bad as a march, the dust is a foot deep, and what between flies and mosquitoes, they're as bad as the Rebs."
"Ah!" said an old corporal, "just you wait a bit. These are only a skirmish line. July and Chickahominy mosquitoes will get you when your baccy's out."
"It's out now."
Josiah was eager to question some one and was aware of the value of tobacco as a social solvent. He said, "I've got some baccy, corporal."
The men in front of him turned. "For sale--how much?"
"No," said Josiah. "My pouch is full. Help yourselves."
This liberal contribution was warmly appreciated, and the private, who was the son of a New York banker, interested in the black man, asked, "What are you doing in this big circus?" It was the opening for which Josiah waited.
"Looking for an engineer-captain."
The corporal said, "Well, like enough he'll be at the bridge of the North Anna--but the engineers are here, there and anywhere. What is his name?"
"Thank you, sir. My master is Captain Penhallow."
"Well, good luck to you."
"Take another pipe load," returned Josiah, grateful for the unusual interest.
"Thank you," said the private, "with pleasure. Tobacco is as scarce as hen's teeth."
"That's so. Who's that officer on the big horse? He's a rider whoever he is."
"That's the ring-master of this show," laughed the private.
"Not General Grant!"
"Yes." Josiah considered him with interest.
There was of a sudden some disturbance about the larger of the more remote cabins; a soldier ran out followed by a screaming young woman. Her wild cries attracted attention to the man, who was at once caught and held while he vainly protested. The men about Josiah sat up or got on their feet. The young woman ran here and there among the groups of soldiers like one distracted. At last, near the larger house at the roadside she fell on her knees and rocked backwards and forwards sobbing. Josiah at a distance saw only that a soldier had been caught trying to escape notice as a young woman followed him out of the house. It was too well understood by the angry men who crowded around the captive.
The general said to his staff, "Wait here, gentlemen." He rode through the crowd of soldiers, saying, "Keep back, my men; keep away--all of you." Then he dismounted and walked to where the girl--she was hardly more--still knelt wailing and beating the air with uplifted hands. "Stand up, my good girl, and tell me what is wrong."
The voice was low and of a certain gentleness, rarely rising even in moments of peril. She stood up, "I can't--I can't--let me go--I want to die!"
The figure, still slight of build in those days, bent over her pitiful. "I am General Grant. Look up at me. There shall be justice done, but I must know."
She looked up a moment at the kind grave face, then with bent head and hands over her eyes she sobbed out what none but the general could hear. His voice grew even more distinctly soft as touching her shoulder he said, "Look at that man. Oh, bring him near--nearer. Now, be sure, is that the man? Look again! I must be certain."
With a quick motion she pushed his hand from her shoulder as she stood, and pointing to the brute held by two soldiers cried, "That's him--oh, my God! Take him away--kill him. Le' me go. Don't you keep me." She looked about like some hopelessly trapped, wild-eyed animal.
"You may go, of course," said the low-voiced man. "I will set a guard over your house."
"Don't want no Yankee guard--le' me go--I've got nothin' to guard--I want to die." She darted away and through the parting groups of men who were clear enough about what they knew had happened and what should be done.
The dark grey eyes of the General followed her flight for a pitying instant. Then he remounted, and said to the scared captive, "What have you got to say?"
"It's all a lie."
The general's face grew stern. He turned and asked for an officer of the Provost Guard. A captain rode up and saluted. "I have no time to lose in trying this scoundrel. We can't take along the only witness." He hesitated a moment. "Let your men tie him to a tree near the road. Let two of the guard watch him until the rear has gone by. Put a paper on his breast--make his crime clear, clear." He said a word or two more to the officer, and then "put on it, '_Left to the justice of General Lee_.'"
"Is that all, sir?" said the amazed officer.
"No--put below, '_U.S. Grant_.' The girl will tell her story. When the cavalry pass, leave him. Now, gentlemen, the men have had a rest, let us ride on."
Josiah a hundred feet away heard, "Fall in--fall in." The tired soldiers rose reluctant and the long line tramped away. Josiah interested sat still and saw them go by under the dust-laden air. The girl had gone past her home and into the woods. The guards curiously watched by the marching men passed near Josiah with their prisoner and busied themselves with looking among the hazel, scrub oak and sassafras for a large enough tree near to the road. As they went by, he saw the man.
"My God!" he exclaimed, "it's Peter Lamb." He moved away and lay down well hidden in the brush. It was a very simple mind which considered this meeting with the only being the black man hated. The unusual never appealed to him as it would have done to a more imaginative person. The coming thus on his enemy was only what he had angrily predicted when he had Peter in his power and had said to him that some day God would punish him. It had come true.
The men who had arrested Peter and were near enough to hear the brief sentence, understood it, and being eagerly questioned soon spread among the moving ranks the story of the crime and this unexampled punishment. It was plain to Josiah, but what was to follow he did not know, as he rose, lingered about, and following the Provost's party considered the wonderful fact of his fulfilled prediction. The coincidence of being himself present did not cause the surprise which what we call coincidences awaken in minds which crave explanations of the uncommon. It was just what was sure to happen somehow, some day, when God settled Josiah's personal account with a wicked man. He had, however, an urgent curiosity to see how it would end and a remainder of far-descended savagery in the wish to let his one enemy know that he was a witness of his punishment. Thinking thus, Josiah went through the wayside scrub to see how the guard would dispose of their prisoner.
The man who had sinned was presently tied to a tree facing the road. His hands were securely tied behind it, and his feet as rudely dealt with. He said no word as they pinned the label on his breast. Then the two guards sat down between Peter and the roadway. Men of the passing brigades asked them questions. They replied briefly and smoked with entire unconcern as to their prisoner, or speculated in regard to what the Rebs would say or do to him. The mosquitoes tormented him, and once he shuddered when one of the guards guessed that perhaps the girl would come back and see him tied up. The story of Grant's unusual punishment was told over and over to men as the regiments went by. Now and then soldiers left the ranks to read the sentence of what must mean death. Some as they read were as silent as the doomed wretch; others laughed or cursed him for dishonouring the army in which this one crime was almost unknown. A sergeant tore the corps mark from his coat, and still he said no word. The long-drawn array went on and on; the evening shadows lengthened; miles of wagon trains rumbled by; whips cracked over mules; the cavalry guard bringing up the rear was lost in the dust left by tramping thousands; the setting sun shone through it ruddy; and last came the squadron net of the Provost-marshal gathering in the stragglers. Tired men were helped by a grip on the stirrup leather. The lazy loiterers were urged forward with language unquotable, the mildest being "darned coffee-coolers." At last, all had gone.
Josiah rose from his hiding place and listened as the clank of steel and the sound of hurried horsemen died away. No other noises broke the twilight stillness. He walked back to the roadside, and stood before the pinioned and now lonely man. "You're caught at last, Peter Lamb."
"Oh, Lord!" cried the captive. "It's Josiah. For God's sake, let me loose."
"Reckon I won't," said Josiah.
"I'm in agony--my arms--I shall die--and I am innocent. I did not do anything. Won't you help me?"
"No--the Rebs will come and hang you."
The man's cunning awoke. He said the one thing, made the one plea which, as he spoke, troubled Josiah's decision. "Is the Squire alive?"
"Why shouldn't he be alive?" asked Josiah, surprised.
"Oh, I saw in a paper that he was wounded at Gettysburg. Now, Josiah, if he was here--if he was to know you left me to die."
Josiah was uncertain what he would have done. His simple-minded view of things was disturbed, and his tendency to be forgiving kindly assisted to give potency to the appeal. He said, "I won't set you free, but I'll do this much," and he tore the paper from Peter's breast, saying, "You'll get off with some lie when the Rebs come." Then he turned and walked away, tearing up the death warrant and hearing the wild pleas of the painfully bound man.
The night had come, but save for the faintly heard complaint of some far-distant dog, there was nothing to break the quiet of the deserted land which lay between the two armies. Having torn to pieces and carefully scattered the bits of paper, Josiah, who while doing one thing could not think of another, began to reflect on what he had done. He had been too long in servitude not to respect authority. If any one knew--but no one could know. He himself had said that what had come upon Lamb was a judgment--the act of one who had said, "I will repay." It troubled a mind whose machinery was of childlike incapacity to deal with problems involving the moral aspects of conduct. Perhaps this had been a chance to give Lamb an opportunity to repent by setting him free; but there had already been interference with the judgment of God. More personally material events relieved the black from responsibility. His quick ear caught the sound of troopers, the sharp notes of steel clinking; he had no mind to be picked up by the enemy's horse, and dismissing all other considerations he took to the woods and walked rapidly away. Late in the evening he crossed the North Anna with a train of wagons, as driver of an unruly mule team, one of which had rewarded his driver in kind for brutal use of the whip and perverted English. The man groaning in the wagon informed Josiah concerning mules and their ways. After a day or two he was pleased to get back on his legs, for when bullets were not flying the army life was full of interest. A man who could cook well, shave an officer or shoe a horse, never lacked the friends of an hour; and too, his unfailing good-humour was always helpful. An officer of the line would have been easy to find, but the engineers were continually in motion and hard to locate. He got no news of John Penhallow until the 29th of May, when he came on General Wilson's cavalry division left on the north side of the Pamunkey River to cover the crossing of the trains. These troopers were rather particular about straggling negroes, and Josiah sharply questioned told the simple truth as he moved toward the bridge, answering the questions of a young officer. A horse tied to a sapling at the roadside for reasons unknown kicked the passing cavalry man's horse. The officer moved on swearing a very original mixture of the over-ripe English of armies. Swearing was a highly cultivated accomplishment in the cavalry; no infantry profanity approached it in originality. The officer occupied with his uneasy horse dropped Josiah as he rode on. A small, dark-skinned negro, rather neatly dressed, spoke to Josiah in the dialect of the Southern slave, which I shall not try to put on paper. He spoke reflectively and as if from long consideration of the subject, entering at once into the intimacies of a relation with the man of his own colour.
"That horse is the meanest I ever saw--I know him."
"He's near thoroughbred," said Josiah, "and been badly handled, I reckon. It's no good cussin' horses or mules--a good horseman don't ever do it--horses know."
"Well, the officer that rides that horse now is about the only man can ride him. That horse pretty nearly killed one of my general's staff. He sold him mighty sudden."
"Who's your General?" queries Josiah.
"Why, General Grant--I'm his headquarter man--they call me Bill--everybody knows me."
He rose at once in Josiah's estimation. "Who owns that horse?" asked Josiah. "I'd like well to handle his beast."
"He's an engineer-officer, name of Penhallow. He's down yonder somewhere about that pontoon bridge. I'm left here to hunt up a headquarter wagon."
"Penhallow!" exclaimed Josiah, delighted. "Why, I'm down here to be his servant."
"Well, let's go to the bridge. You'll get a chance to cross after the wagons get over. I've just found mine." They moved to one side and sat down. "That's Wilson's cavalry on guard. Worst dust I ever saw. Infantry dust's bad, but cavalry dust don't ever settle. The Ninth Corps's gone over. There come the wagons." With cracking of whip and imprecations the wagons went over the swaying pontoons. Bill left him, and Josiah waited to cross behind the wagons.
On the bridge midway, a young officer in the dark dress and black-striped pantaloons of the engineers moved beside the teams anxiously observing some loosened flooring. A wagon wheel gave way, and the wagon lurching over struck the officer, who fell into the muddy water of the Pamunkey. Always amused at an officer's mishap, cavalry men and drivers laughed. The young man struck out for the farther shore, and came on to a shelving slope of slimy mud, and was vainly struggling to get a footing when an officer ran down the bank and gave him a needed hand. Thus aided, Penhallow gained firm ground. With a look of disgust at his condition, as he faced the laughing troopers he said, with his somewhat formal way, "To whom am I indebted?"
"Roland Blake is my name. Isn't it Captain Penhallow of the engineers?"
"Yes, well disguised with Rebel mud. What a mess! But, by George! not worse than you when I first saw you."
"Where was it?" asked Blake.
"I can give a good guess. You were quite as lovely as Mr. Penhallow." It was a third officer who spoke. "By the bye," he added, "as Blake doesn't present me, I am Philip Francis."
"I can't even offer to shake hands," returned Penhallow, laughing, as he scraped the flakes of mud from his face. "I saw you both at the Bloody Angle. I think I could describe you."
"Don't," said Francis.
"Some people are modest," said Blake. "I think you will soon dry to dust in this sun. I have offered myself that consolation before. It's the only certainty in this land of the unexpected."
"The wagons are over; here comes the guard," said Francis. "It's our beastly business now. Call up the men, Roland."
"Provost duty, I suppose," said Penhallow. "I prefer my mud."
"Yes," growled Francis, "human scavengers--army police. I'm out of it this week, thank Heaven."
The last wagon came creaking over the bridge, the long line of cavalry trotted after them, the Provost Guard mounted to fall in at the rear and gather in the stragglers.
"Sorry I can't give you a mount," said Blake, as he turned to recross the bridge.
"Thank you, I have a horse on the other side." As he spoke a breeze stirred the dead atmosphere and shook down from the trees their gathered load of dust.
Francis said, "It's half of Virginia!"
Blake murmured, "Dust to dust--a queer reminder."
"Oh, shut up!" cried Francis.
The young engineer laughed and said to himself, "If Aunt Ann could see me. It's like being tarred and feathered. See you soon again, I hope, Mr. Blake. I am deep in your debt." They passed out of sight. No one remained but the bridge-guard.
The engineer sat down and devoted his entire energies to the difficult task of pulling off boots full of mud and water. Meanwhile as the provost-officers rode back over the pontoons Francis said, "I remember that man, Penhallow, at the Bloody Angle. He was the only man I saw who wasn't fight-crazy, he insisted on my going to the rear. You know I was bleeding like a stuck pig. It was between the two attacks. I said, 'Oh, go to H---!' He said, 'There is no need to go far.' I am sure he did not remember me. A rather cool hand--West Point, of course."
"What struck me," said Blake, "was that he did not swear."
"Then," said Francis, "he is the only man in the army who would have failed to damn those grinning troopers."
"Except Grant," said Blake.
"So they say. --It's hard to believe, but I suppose the Staff knows. Wonder if Lee swears. Two army commanders who don't swear? It's incredible!"
As Penhallow, left alone, tugged at a reluctant boot, he heard, "Good Lord! Master John, that's my business."
He looked up to seize Josiah by the hand, exclaiming, "How did you get here? --I am glad to see you. Pull off this boot. How are they all?"
"The Colonel he sent me."
"Indeed! How is he? I've not heard for a month."
"He's bad, Master John, bad--kind of forgets things--and swears."
"That's strange for him."
"The doctors they can't seem to make it out. He hasn't put a leg over a horse, not since he was wounded." Evidently this was for Josiah the most serious evidence of change from former health.
"How is Aunt Ann?"
Tugging at the boots Josiah answered, "She's just a wonder--and Miss Leila, she's just as pretty as a pansy."
Penhallow smiled; it left a large choice to the imagination. "Pansy--pansy--why is she like a pansy, Josiah?"
"Well, Master John, it's because she's so many kinds of pretty. You see I used to raise pansies. That boot's a tough one."
"Have you any letters for me?"
"No, sir. They said I wasn't as sure as the army-post. Got a note from Dr. McGregor in my sack. Hadn't I better get your horse over the bridge--I liked his looks, and I asked a man named Bill who owned that horse. He said you did, and that's how I found you. He said that horse was a bad one. He said he was called 'Hoodoo.' That's unlucky!"
"Yes, he's mine, Josiah. You would like to change his name?"
"Yes, sir, I would. This boot's the worst!"
Penhallow laughed. "That horse, Josiah, has every virtue a horse ought to have and every vice he ought not to have. He'll be as good as Aunt Ann one day, and as mean and bad as Peter Lamb the next day. Halloa there, guard! let my man cross over."
Hoodoo came quietly, and as Penhallow walked his horse, Josiah related the village news, and then more and more plainly the captain gathered some clear idea of his uncle's condition and of the influence the younger woman was exerting on a household over which hung the feeling of inexorable doom. As he read McGregor's letter he knew too well that were he with them he could be of no practical use.
The next few days John Penhallow was kept busy, and on June 2nd having to report with some sketch-maps he found the headquarters at Bethesda Church. The pews had been taken out and set under trees. The staff was scattered about at ease. General Grant, to John's amusement, was petting a stray kitten with one hand and writing despatches with the other. At last he began to talk with members of the Christian Commission about their work. Among them John was aware of Mark Rivers. A few minutes later he had his chance and took the clergyman away to the tents of the engineers for a long and disheartening talk of home. They met no more for many days, and soon he was too busy to think of asking the leave of absence he so much desired.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
27
|
None
|
The effort to crush Lee's army by a frontal attack led to the disastrous defeat of Cold Harbor, and Grant who was never personally routed resolved to throw his army south of the James River. It involved a concealed night march, while his lines were in many places but thirty to one hundred feet from the watchful Confederates. The utmost secrecy was used in regard to the bold movement intended, but preparations for it demanded frequent reconnaissances and map-sketching on the part of the engineers. A night of map-making after a long day in the saddle left John Penhallow on June 6th a weary man lying on his camp-bed too tired to sleep. He heard Blake ask, "Are you at home, Penhallow?" Few men would have been as welcome as the serious-minded New England captain who had met Penhallow from time to time since the engineer's mud-bath in the Pamunkey River.
"Glad to get you by yourself," said Blake. "You look used up. Do keep quiet!"
"I will, but sit down and take a pipe. Coffee, Josiah!" he called out. "I am quite too popular by reason of Josiah's amazing ability to forage. If the Headquarters are within reach, he and Bill--that's the general's man--hunt together. The results are surprising! But I learned long ago from my uncle, Colonel Penhallow, that in the army it is well to ask no unnecessary questions. My man is very intelligent, and as I keep him in tobacco and greenbacks, I sometimes fancy that Headquarters does not always get the best out of the raids of these two contrabands."
"I have profited by it, Penhallow. I have personal memories of that young roast pig, I think your man called it a shoat. Your corps must have caught it hard these last days. I suppose we are in for something unusual. You are the only man I know who doesn't grumble. Francis says it's as natural to the beast called an army as barking is to a dog."
"Of course, the habit is stupid, Blake. I mean the constant growl about the unavoidable discomforts of war; but this last week has got me near the growling point. I have had two ague chills and quinine enough to ring chimes in my head. I haven't had a decent wash for a week, and really war is a disgustingly dirty business. You don't realize that in history, in fiction, or in pictures. It's filthy! Oh, you may laugh!"
"Who could help laughing?"
"I can to-day. To-morrow I shall grin at it all, but just now I am half dead. What with laying corduroys and bridging creeks, to be burnt up next day, and Chickahominy flies--oh, Lord! If there is nothing else on hand in the way of copies of maps, some general like Barnard has an insane curiosity to reconnoitre. Then the Rebs wake up--and amuse themselves."
Blake laughed. "You are getting pretty near to that growl."
"Am I? I have more than impossible demands to bother me. What with some despondent letters--I told you about my uncle's wound and the results, I should have a fierce attack of home-sickness if I had leisure to think at all."
Blake had found in Penhallow much that he liked and qualities which were responsive to his own high ideal of the man and the soldier. He looked him over as the young engineer lay on his camp-bed. "Get anything but home-sick, Penhallow! I get faint fits of it. The quinine of 'Get up, captain, and put out those pickets' dismisses it, or bullets. Lord, but we have had them in over-doses of late. Francis has been hit twice but not seriously. He says that Lee is an irregular practitioner. It is strange that some men are hit in every skirmish; it would bleed the courage out of me."
"Would it? I have had two flesh wounds. They made me furiously angry. You were speaking of Lee--my uncle greatly admired him. I should like to know more about him. I had a little chance when we were trying to arrange a truce to care for the wounded. You remember it failed, but I had a few minute's talk with a Rebel captain. He liked it when I told him how much we admired his general. That led him to talk, and among other things he told me that Lee had no sense of humour and I gathered was a man rather difficult of approach."
"He might apply to Grant for the rest of his qualities," said Blake. "He would get it; but what made you ask about sense of the humorous? I have too little, Francis too much."
"Oh," laughed Penhallow, "from saint to sinner it is a good medicine--even for home-sickness."
"And the desperate malady of love," returned Blake. "I shall not venture to diagnose your need. How is that?"
"I? --nonsense," laughed the engineer. "But seriously, Blake, about home-sickness; one of my best men has it badly--not the mild malady you and I may have."
"You are quite right. It accounts for some desertions--not to the enemy, of course. I talked lately of this condition to a Dr. McGregor--" "McGregor!" returned Penhallow, sitting up. "Where is he? I'd like to see him--an old comrade."
"He is with our brigade."
"Tell him to look me up. The engineers are easily found just now. He was an old schoolmate."
"I'll tell him. By the way, Penhallow, when asking for my mail to-day, I persuaded the post-master to give me your letters. Don't mind me--you will want to read them--quite a batch of them."
"Oh, they can wait. Don't go. Ah! here's Josiah with coffee."
"How it does set a fellow up, Penhallow. Another cup, please. I had to wait a long time for our letters and yours. Really that place was more tragic than a battlefield."
"Why so? I send Josiah for my mail."
"Oh, there were three cold-blooded men-machines returning letters. I watched them marking the letters--'not found'--'missing'--and so on."
"Killed, I suppose--or prisoners."
"Yes, awful, indeed--most sorrowful! Imagine it! Others were forwarding letters--heaps of them--from men who may be dead. You know how apt men are to write letters before a battle."
"I wait till it is over," said Penhallow.
"That post-office gave me a fit of craving for home and peace."
"Home-sickness! What, you, Blake!"
"Oh, that worst kind; home-sickness for a home when you have no home. I wonder if in that other world we shall be home-sick for this."
"That depends. Ah! here comes a reminder that we are in this world just now--and just as we have begun one of our real talks."
An orderly appeared with a note. Penhallow read it. He was on his feet at once. "Saddle Hoodoo, Josiah. I must go. Come soon again, Blake. We have had a good talk--or a bit of one."
At four in the morning of June 14th, when John Penhallow with a group of older engineers looked across the twenty-one hundred feet of the James River they were to bridge, he realized the courage and capacity of the soldier who had so completely deceived his wary antagonist. Before eleven that night a hundred pontoons stayed by barges bridged the wide stream from shore to shore. Already the Second Corps under Hancock had been hastily ferried over the river. The work on the bridge had been hard, and the young Captain had had neither food nor rest. Late at night, the work being over, he recrossed the bridge, and after a hasty meal lay down on the bluff above the James with others of his Corps and slept the uneasy sleep of an overtired man. At dawn he was awakened by the multiple noises of an army moving on the low-lying meadows below the bluff. Refreshed and free from any demand on his time, he breakfasted at ease, and lighting his pipe was at once deeply interested in what he saw. As he looked about him, he was aware of General Grant standing alone on the higher ground. He saw the general throw away his cigar and with hands clasped behind him remain watching in rapt silence the scene below him. "I wonder," thought Penhallow, "of what he is thinking." The face was grave, the man motionless. The engineer turned to look at the matchless spectacle below him. The sound of bands rose in gay music from the approaches to the river, where vast masses of infantry lay waiting their turn to cross. The guns of batteries gleamed in the sun, endless wagon-trains and ambulances moved or were at rest. Here and there the wind of morning fluttered the flags and guidons with flashes of colour. The hum of a great army, the multitudinous murmurs of men talking, the crack of whips, the sharp rattle of wagons and of moving artillery, made a strange orchestra. Over all rose the warning shrieks of the gun-boat signals. Far or near on the fertile meadows the ripened corn and grain showed in green squares between the masses of men and stirred in the morning breeze or lay trampled in ruin by the rude feet of war. It was an hour and a scene to excite the dullest mind, and Penhallow intensely interested sat fascinated by a spectacle at once splendid and fateful. The snake-like procession of infantry wagons and batteries moved across the bridge and was lost to view in the forest. Penhallow turned again to look at his general, who remained statuesque and motionless. Then, suddenly the master of this might of men and guns looked up, listened to Warren's artillery far beyond the river, and with the same expressionless face called for his horse and rode away followed by his staff.
The battle-summer of 1864 went on with the wearisome siege of Petersburg and the frequent efforts to cut the railways which enabled the Confederates to draw supplies from states which as yet had hardly felt the stress of war.
Late in the year the army became a city of huts, and there was the unexampled spectacle of this great host voting quietly in the election which gave to Lincoln another evidence of the trust reposed in him. The engineers had little to do in connection with the larger movements of the army, and save for the siege work were at times idle critics of their superiors. The closing month of 1864 brought weather which made the wooden huts, usually shared by two officers, more comfortable than tents. The construction of these long streets of sheltering quarters brought out much ingenuity, and Penhallow profited by Josiah's clever devices and watchful care. As the army was in winter-quarters, there was time enough for pleasant visiting, and for the engineers more than enough of danger in the trenches or when called on to accompany some general officer as an aide during Grant's obstinate efforts to cut the railways on which Lee relied. Francis, not gravely wounded, was at home repairing damages; but now, with snow on the ground and ease of intercourse, Blake was a frequent visitor in the engineer quarters. When Rivers also turned up, the two young men found the talk unrivalled, for never had the tall clergyman seemed more attractive or as happy.
Of an afternoon late in November Penhallow was toasting himself by the small fire-place and deep in thought. He had had a long day in the intrenchments and one moment of that feeling of imminent nearness to death which affects men in various ways. A shell neatly dropped in a trench within a few feet of where he stood, rolled over, spitting red flashes. The men cried, "Down, down, sir!" and fell flat. Something like the fascination a snake exercises held him motionless; he never was able to explain his folly. The fuse went out as he watched it--the shell was a dead thing and harmless. The men as they rose eyed him curiously.
"A near thing," he said, and with unusual care moved along a traverse, his duty over for the day. He took with him a feeling of mental confusion and of annoyed wonder.
He found Josiah picking a chicken as he sat whistling in front of the tent. "There's been a fight, sir, about three o'clock, on our left. Bill says we beat."
"Indeed!" It was too common news to interest him. He felt some singular completeness of exhaustion, and was troubled because of there being no explanation which satisfied him. Asking for whisky to Josiah's surprise, he took it and lay down, as the servant said, "There's letters, sir, on the table."
"Very well. Close the tent and say I'm not well; I won't see any one."
"Yes, sir. Nothing serious?"
"No." He fell asleep as if drugged.
Outside Josiah picked his lean chicken and whistled with such peculiar sweetness as is possible only to the black man. Everything interested him. Now and then he listened to the varied notes of the missiles far away and attracting little attention unless men were so near that the war-cries of shot and shell became of material moment. The day was cold, and an early November snow lay on the ground and covered the long rows of cabins. Far to the rear a band was practising. Josiah listened, and with a negative head-shake of disapproving criticism returned to the feather picking and sang as he picked: I wish I was in Dixie land, In Dixie land, in Dixie land.
He held up the plucked fowl and said, "Must have been on short rations."
The early evening was quiet. Now and then a cloaked horseman went by noiseless on the snow. Josiah looked up, laid down the chicken, and listened to the irregular tramp of a body of men. Then, as the head of a long column came near and passed before him between the rows of huts, he stood up to watch them. "Prisoners," he said. Many were battle-grimed and in tatters, without caps and ill-shod. Here and there among them a captured officer marched on looking straight ahead. The larger part were dejected and plodded on in silence, with heads down, while others stared about them curious and from the cabins near by a few officers came out and many soldiers gathered. As usual there were no comments, no sign of triumph and only the silence of respect.
Josiah asked a guard where they came from. "Oh, Hancock's fight at Hatcher's Run--got about nine hundred."
The crowd of observers increased in number as the end of the line drew near. Josiah lost interest and sat down. "Got to singe that chicken," he murmured, with the habit of open speech of the man who had lived long alone. Suddenly he let the bird drop and exclaimed under his breath, "Jehoshaphat!" --his only substitute for an oath--"it's him!" Among the last of the line of captured men he saw one with head bent down looking neither to the right nor the left--it was Peter Lamb! At this moment two soldiers ran forward and shouted out something to the officer bringing up the rear. He cried, "Halt! take out that man." There was a little confusion, and Peter was roughly haled out of the mass. The officer called a sergeant. "Guard this fellow well," and he bade the men who had detected Lamb go with the guard.
Soldiers crowded in on them. "What's the matter--who is he?" they asked.
"Back, there!" cried the Lieutenant.
"A deserter," said some one. "Damn him."
Lamb was silent while between the two guards he was taken to the rear. Josiah forgot his chicken and followed them at a distance. He saw Lamb handcuffed and vainly protesting as he was thrust into the prison-hut of the provostry.
Josiah asked one of the men who had brought about the arrest, "Who is that man?"
"Oh, he was a good while ago in my regiment--in our company too, the 71st Pennsylvania--a drunken beast--name of Stacy--Joe Stacy. We missed him when we were near the North Anna--at roll-call."
"What will they do with him?"
"Shoot him, I hope. His hands were powder blacked. He was caught on the skirmish line."
"Thank you." Josiah walked away deep in thought. He soon settled to the conclusion that the Rebs had found Peter and that perhaps he had had no choice of what he would do and had had to enlist. What explanatory lie Peter had told he could not guess.
Josiah went slowly back to the tent. His chicken was gone. He laid this loss on Peter, saying, "He always did bring me bad luck." Penhallow was still asleep. Ought he to tell him of Peter Lamb. He decided not to do so, or at least to wait. Inborn kindliness acted as it had done before, and conscious of his own helplessness, he was at a loss. Near to dusk he lighted a pipe and sat down outside of Penhallow's hut. Servants of engineer officers spoke as they passed, or chaffed him. His readiness for a verbal duel was wanting and he replied curtly. He was trying to make out to his own satisfaction whether he could or ought to do anything but hold his tongue and let this man die and so disappear. He knew that he himself could do nothing, nor did he believe anything could be done to help the man. He felt, however, that because he hated Peter, he was bound by his simply held creed to want to do something. He did not want to do anything, but then in confusing urgency there was the old mother, the colonel's indulgent care of this drunken animal, and at last some personal realization of the loneliness of this man so near to death. Then he remembered that Mark Rivers was within reach. To get this clergyman to see Peter would relieve him of the singular feeling of responsibility he could not altogether set aside. He was the only person who could identify Lamb. That, at least, he did not mean to do. He would find Mr. Rivers and leave to him to act as he thought best. He heard Penhallow calling, and went in to find him reading his letters. After providing for his wants, he set out to find the clergyman. His pass carried him where-ever he desired to go, and after ten at night he found Mark Rivers with the Christian Commission.
"What is it?" asked Rivers. "Is John ill?"
"No, sir," and he told in a few sentences the miserable story, to the clergyman's amazement.
"I will go with you," he said. "I must get leave to see him, but you had better not speak of Peter to any one."
Josiah was already somewhat indisposed to tell to others the story of the North Anna incident, and walked on in silence over the snow until at the provost-marshal's quarters Rivers dismissed him.
In a brief talk with the provost-marshal, Rivers learned that there had been a hastily summoned court-martial, and in the presence of very clear evidence a verdict approved by General Grant. The man would be shot at seven the next morning. "A hopeless case, Mr. Rivers," said the Provost, "any appeal for reprieve will be useless--utterly useless--there will be no time given for appeal to Mr. Lincoln. We have had too much of this lately."
Rivers said nothing of his acquaintance with the condemned man. He too had reached the conviction, now made more definite, that needless pain for the old mother could be avoided by letting Peter die with the name he had assumed.
It was after twelve at night when the provost's pass admitted him to a small wooden prison. One candle dimly lighted the hut, where a manacled man crouched by a failing fire. The soldier on guard passed out as the clergyman entered. When the door closed behind him, Rivers said, "Peter."
"My God! Mr. Rivers. They say I'll be shot. You won't let them shoot me--they can't do it--I don't want to die."
"I came here because Josiah recognized you and brought me."
"He must have told on me."
"Told what? He did not tell anything. Now listen to me. You are certain to be shot at seven to-morrow morning. I have asked for delay--none will be given. I come only to entreat you to make your peace with God--to tell you that you have but these few hours in which to repent. Let me pray with you--for you. There is nothing else I can do for you; I have tried and failed. Indeed I tried most earnestly."
"You can help if you will! You were always against me. You can telegraph Colonel Penhallow. He will answer--he won't let them shoot me."
Rivers who stood over the crouched figure laid a hand on his shoulder. "If he were here he could do nothing. And even if I did telegraph him, he is in no condition to answer. He was wounded at Gettysburg and his mind is clouded. It would only trouble him and your mother, and not help you. Your mother would hear, and you should at least have the manliness to accept in silence what you have earned."
"But it's my life--my life--I can't die." Rivers was silent. "You won't telegraph?"
"No. It is useless."
"But you might do something--you're cruel. I am innocent. God let me be born of a drunken father--I had to drink too--I had to. The Squire wouldn't give me work--no one helped me. I enlisted in a New York regiment. I got drunk and ran away and enlisted in the 71st Pennsylvania. I stole chickens, and near to the North Anna I was cruelly punished. Then the Rebs caught me. I had to enlist. Oh, Lord! I am unfortunate. If I only could have a little whisky."
Mark Rivers for a moment barren of answer was sure that as usual Peter was lying and without any of his old cunning.
"Peter, this story does not help you. You are about to die, and no one--can help you--I have tried in vain--nothing can save you. Why at a time so solemn as this do you lie to me? Why did you desert? and for stealing chickens? nonsense!"
"Well, then, it was about a woman. Josiah knows--he saw it all. I didn't desert--I was tied to a tree--he could clear me. They left me tied. I had to enlist; I had to!"
"A woman!" Rivers understood. "If he were to tell, it would only make your case worse. Oh, Peter, let me pray for you."
"Oh, pray if you want to. What's the good? If you won't telegraph the Squire, get me whisky; and if you won't do that, go away. Talk about God and praying when I'm to be murdered just because my father drank! I don't want any praying--I don't believe in it--you just go away and get me some whisky. The Squire might have saved me--I wanted to quit from drink and he just told me to get out--and I did. I hate him and--you."
Rivers stood up. "May God help and pity you," he said, and so left him.
He slept none, and rising early, prayed fervently for this wrecked soul. As he walked at six in the morning to the prison hut, he thought over the man who long ago had so defeated him. He had seemed to him more feeble in mind and less cunning in his statements than had been the case in former days. He concluded that he was in the state of a man used to drinking whisky and for a time deprived of it. When he met him moving under guard from the prison, he felt sure that his conclusion had been correct.
As Rivers came up, the officer in charge said, "If, sir, as a clergyman you desire to walk beside this man, there is no objection."
"Oh, let him come," said Peter, with a defiant air. Some one pitiful had indulged the fated man with the liquor he craved.
Rivers took his place beside Peter as the guards at his side fell back. Soldiers off duty, many blacks and other camp-followers, gathered in silence as the little procession moved over the snow, noiseless except for the tramp of many feet and the rumble of the cart in which was an empty coffin.
"Can I do anything for you?" said Rivers, turning toward the flushed face at his side.
"No--you can't." The man smelled horribly of whisky; the charitable aid must have been ample.
"Is there any message you want me to carry?"
"Message--who would I send messages to?" In fact, Rivers did not know. He was appalled at a man going half drunk to death. He moved on, for a little while at the end of his resources.
"Even yet," he whispered, "there is time to repent and ask God to pardon a wasted life." Peter made no reply and then they were in the open space on one side of a hollow square. On three sides the regiment stood intent as the group came near. "Even yet," murmured Rivers.
Of a sudden Peter's face became white. He said, "I want to tell you one thing--I want you to tell him. I shot the Squire at Gettysburg--I wish I had killed him--I thought I had. There! --I always did get even."
"Stand back, sir, please," said a captain. Rivers was dumb with the horror of it and stepped aside. The last words he would have said choked him in the attempt to speak.
Six soldiers took their places before the man who stood with his hands tied behind his back, his face white, the muscles twitching, while a bandage was tied over his eyes.
"He wants to speak to you, sir," said the captain.
Rivers stepped to his side. "I did not tell my name. Tell my mother I was shot--not how--not why."
Rivers fell back. The captain let fall a handkerchief. Six rifles rang out, and Peter Lamb had gone to his account.
The regiment marched away. The music of the band rang clear through the frosty air. The captain said, "Where is the surgeon?" Tom McGregor appeared, and as he had to certify to the death bent down over the quivering body.
"My God! Mr. Rivers," he said in a low voice, looking up, "it is Peter Lamb."
"Hush, Tom," whispered Rivers, "no one knows him except Josiah." They walked away together while Rivers told of Josiah's recognition of Lamb. "Keep silent about his name, Tom," and then went on to speak of the man's revengeful story about the Colonel, to Tom's horror. "I am sorry you told me," said the young surgeon.
"Yes, I was unwise--but--" "Oh, let us drop it, Mr. Rivers. How is John? I have been three times to see him and he twice to see me, but always he was at the front, and as for me we have six thousand beds and too few surgeons, so that I could not often get away. Does he know of this man's fate?"
"No--and he had better not."
"I agree with you. Let us bury his name with him. So he shot our dear Colonel--how strange, how horrible!"
"He believed that he did shoot him, and as the ball came from the lines of the 71st when the fight was practically at an end, it may be true. He certainly meant to kill him."
"What an entirely, hopelessly complete scoundrel!" said McGregor.
"Except," said Rivers, "that he did not want his mother to know how he died."
"Human wickedness is very incomplete," said the surgeon. "I wonder whether the devil is as perfectly wicked as we are taught to believe. You think this fellow, my dear old schoolmaster, was not utterly bad. Now about wanting his mother not to know--I for my part--" "Don't, Tom. Leave him this rag of charity to cover a multitude of sins. Now, I must leave you. See John soon--he is wasted by unending and dangerous work--with malaria too, and what not; see him soon. He is a splendid replica of the Colonel with a far better mind. I wish he were at home."
"And I that another fellow were at home. Good-bye."
McGregor called at John's tent, but learned that at six he had gone on duty to the trenches.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
28
|
None
|
Late on Christmas morning of this year 1864, Penhallow with no duty on his hands saw with satisfaction the peacemaking efforts of the winter weather. A thin drizzle of cold rain froze as it fell on the snow; the engineers' lines were quiet. There was no infantry drill and the raw recruits had rest from the never satisfied sergeants, while unmanageable accumulations of gifts from distant homes were being distributed to well-pleased men. Penhallow, lazily at ease, planned to spend Christmas day with Tom McGregor or Roland Blake. The orders of a too energetic Colonel of his own Corps summarily disposed of his anticipated leisure. The tired and disgusted Captain dismounted at evening, and limping gave his horse to Josiah.
"What you done to Hoodoo, Master John? He's lame--and you too."
Without answering John Penhallow turned to greet Tom McGregor. "Happy Christmas, Tom."
"You don't look very happy, John, nor that poor beast of yours. But I am glad to have caught you at last." The faraway thunder of the siege mortars was heard as he spoke. "Nice Christmas carol that! Have you been to-day in the graveyards you call trenches?"
"No, I was not on duty. I meant to ride over to your hospital to have a home-talk and exchange grumbles, but just as I mounted Colonel Swift stopped with a smartly dressed aide-de-camp. I saluted. He said, 'I was looking for an engineer off duty. Have the kindness to ride with me.'"
"By George! Tom, he was so polite that I felt sure we were on some unpleasant errand. I was as civil, and said, 'With pleasure.' A nice Christmas celebration! Well, I have been in the saddle all day. It rained and froze to sleet on the snow, and the horses slipped and slid most unpleasantly. About noon we passed our pickets. I was half frozen. When we got a bit further, the old colonel pulled up on a hillside and began to ask me questions, how far was that bridge, and could I see their pickets, and where did that cross-road go to. The aide was apparently ornamental and did not do anything but guess. I answered with sublime confidence, as my mind got thawed a little and the colonel made notes."
"I know," laughed Tom. "Must never admit in the army that you don't know. You can always write 'respectfully referred' on a document. When General Grant visits our hospital and asks questions ten to the minute, I fire back replies after quick consultation with my imagination. It works. He assured the surgeon-in-charge that I was a remarkably well-informed officer. So was he!"
"Come in," said Penhallow. "I am cold and cross. I expect a brevet at least--nothing less; but if Comstock or Duane reads the colonel's notes, I may get something else."
"Have you had a fall, John? You are pretty dirty, and that horse with the queer name is dead lame. How did you come to grief?"
"I had an adventure."
"Really! What was it?"
"Tell you another time--it was a queer one. Here's Mr. Rivers." He was followed by a contraband black with a basket.
"Happy Christmas, boys. I bring you a Christmas turkey and a plum-pudding from your aunt, John."
He was made heartily welcome and was in unusually good spirits, as Josiah took possession of these unexpected rations and John got into dry clothes.
They fell to familiar talk of Westways. "I fear," said Rivers, "that the colonel is worse. I am always sure of that when Mrs. Penhallow writes of him as cheerful."
"My father," said Tom, "tells me he has days of excessive unnatural gaiety, and then is irritable and cannot remember even the events of yesterday."
"Can you account for it, Tom?" asked John.
"No, but he ought to take dad's advice and see Professor Askew. It makes him furious. Oh! if we were all at home again, Mr. Rivers--and out of this row. You are limping, John--what's wrong? Let me see that leg."
"No, you don't," cried John merrily. "You promised to get even with me after our famous battle--I don't trust you. I bruised my knee--that's all."
"Well, I can wait."
They talked of home, of the village and its people, and at their meal of the way they proposed to conduct the spring campaign. Many bloodless battles were thus fought over mess-tables and around camp-fires.
"For my part," said John, "I want to get done with this mole business and do anything in the open--Oh, here comes Blake! You know our clergyman from home, the Rev. Mr. Rivers? No! Well, then I make you the Christmas gift of a pleasant acquaintance. Sit down, there is some turkey left and plum-pudding."
"Glad to see you, McGregor," said Blake. "I know Mr. Rivers by sight--oh, and well, too--he was back of the line in that horrid mix-up at the Bloody Angle--he was with the stretcher-bearers."
"Where," said McGregor, "he had no business to be."
Rivers laughed as he rarely did. "It may seem strange to you all, but I am never so happy"--he came near to saying so little unhappy--"as when I am among the dying and the wounded, even if the firing is heavy."
Blake looked at the large-featured face and the eyes that, as old McGregor said, were so kindly and so like mysterious jewels as they seemed to radiate the light that came from within. His moment of critical doubt passed, and he felt the strange attractiveness which Rivers had for men and the influential trust he surely won.
"I prefer," remarked McGregor, "to operate when bullets are not flying."
"But you do not think of them then," returned Rivers, "I am sure you do not."
"No, I do not, but they seem to be too attentive at times. I lost a little finger-tip back of Round Top. We had thirteen surgeons killed or wounded that day. The Rebs left eighty surgeons with their wounded. We sent them home after we got up enough help from the cities."
"It was not done always," said Penhallow. "More's the pity."
"We had Grant at the hospital yesterday," said the doctor. "He comes often."
"Did you notice his face?" queried Rivers.
"The face? Not particularly--why?"
"He has two deep lines between the eyes, and crossing them two lateral furrows on the forehead. In Sicily they call it the 'cross of misfortune.'"
"Then it has yet to come," said Blake.
"Late or early," said Rivers, "they assure you it will come. Some men find their calamities when young, some when they are old, which is better."
"Let us be thankful that we have no choice," said Blake.
"May God spare you now and always," said Rivers. The habitual melancholy he dreaded took possession of his face as he rose, adding, "Come, Tom, we must go."
"And I," said Blake.
"Happy Christmas to you all--and a happier New Year than 1864." They left John to the letters Josiah placed on the table.
The night was now clear and the stars brilliant, as Penhallow saw Blake mount his horse and Rivers and McGregor walk away to find the hospital ambulance. "There at least is peace," said John, as he watched the Pleiades and the North Star, symbol of unfailing duty. "Well, it is as good as a sermon, and as it belongs there on eternal guard so do I belong here for my little day; but I trust the spring will bring us peace, for--oh, my God! --I want it--and Westways." He went in to his hut and stirred the fire into roaring companionship.
Meanwhile Rivers, walking with McGregor, said, "Did the figure of that doomed wretch haunt you as we talked to John?"
"It did indeed! I had never before been ordered to certify to a death like that, and I hated it even before I bent down and knew who it was."
"How far was he accountable, Tom?"
"Don't ask me riddles like that, Mr. Rivers. It is a subject I have often thought about. It turns up in many forms--most terribly in the cases of the sins of the fathers being loaded on the sons. How far is a man accountable who inherits a family tendency to insanity? Should he marry? If he falls in love, what ought he to do or not do? It is a pretty grim proposition, Mr. Rivers."
"He should not marry," replied the clergyman, and both moved on in silent thought.
"Oh, here is our ambulance," said Tom. They got in, Rivers reflecting how war, parent of good and evil, had made of this rough country-bred lad a dutiful, thoughtful man.
Presently McGregor said, "When we were talking of our unpleasant duties, I meant to tell you that one of them is to tattoo a D--for deserter--on the breast of some poor homesick fellow. After that his head is shaved; then the men laugh as he is drummed out of the lines--and it's disgusting."
"I agree with you," said Rivers.
John lighted a fresh pipe and sat down by the fire to get some Christmas pleasure from the home letter in Leila's large and clear script. His aunt had ceased to write to him, and had left to her niece this task, insisting that it should be punctually fulfilled. This time the letter was brief.
"Of course, my dear John, you know that I am under orders to write to you once a week." --"Is that explanatory?" thought the reader. --The letter dealt with the town and mills, the sad condition of Colonel Penhallow, his aunt's messages and her advice to John in regard to health. The horses came in for the largest share of a page. And why did he not write more about himself? She did not suppose that even winter war consisted only in drawing maps and waiting for Grant to flank Lee out of Petersburg and Richmond. "War," wrote the young woman, "must be rather a dull business. Have you no adventures? Tom McGregor wrote his father that you had a thrilling experience in the trenches lately. The doctor spoke of it to Aunt Ann, who was surprised I had never mentioned it. Don't dry up into an old regular like the inspecting major of ordnance at the mills.
"Expectantly yours, "LEILA GREY.
"A Happy Christmas, Jack."
"Oh, Great Scott!" laughed John. He read it again. Not a word of herself, nor any of her rides, or of the incessant reading she liked to discuss with him. Some dim suspicion of the why of this impersonal letter gently flattered the winged hopefulness of love. "Well, I think I shall punish you, Miss Grey, for sending me a Christmas letter like that." Oh, the dear old playmate, the tease, the eyes full of tenderness when the child's shaft of satire hurt! He laughed gaily as he went through the historically famous test of courage in snuffing the flaring candle wicks with his fingers. The little cabin was warm, the night silent, not a sound came from the lines a mile away to disturb the peaceful memories of home within the thirty thousand pickets needed to guard our far-spread army. Men on both sides spoke this Christmas night, for they were often near and exchanged greetings as they called out, "Halloa, Johnny Reb, Merry Christmas!"
"Same to you, Yank," and during that sacred night there was the truce of God and overhead the silence of the solemn stars.
As the young Captain became altogether comfortable, his thoughts wandered far afield--always at last to Josiah's pansy, the many-masked Leila, and behind her pretty feminine disguises the serious-minded woman for whom, as he smilingly consulted his fancy, he found no flower emblem to suit him. The letter he read once more represented many Leilas. Could he answer all of them and abide too by the silence he meant to preserve until the war was over? The imp of mischief was at his side. There was no kind of personal word of herself in the letter, except that he was ordered to talk of John Penhallow and his adventures. He wrote far into the Christmas night: "DEAR LEILA: To hear is to obey. I am to write of myself--of adventures. Nearness to death in the trenches is an every-second-day adventure enough--no one talks of it. Tom was ill-advised to report of me at home. I used to dream of the romance of war when I was a boy. There is very little romance in it, and much dirt, awful horrors of the dead and wounded, of battles lost or won, and waste beyond conception. After a big fight or wearying march one could collect material for a rummage-sale such as would rout Aunt Ann's ideal of an amusing auction of useless things.
"My love to one and all, and above all to the dear Colonel who is never long out of my mind.
"Yours truly, "JOHN PENHALLOW."
"I put on this separate sheet for you alone the adventure you ask for. It is the only one worth telling, and came to me this Christmas morning. It was strange enough.
"An old Colonel caught me as I was about to visit Tom McGregor at the hospital. I was disgusted, but he wanted an engineer. He got me, alas! We rode far to our left over icy snow-crust. To cut my tale short, after we passed our outlying pickets and I had answered a dozen questions, he said, 'Can you see their pickets?' I said, 'No, they are half a mile away on the far side of a creek in the woods. That road leads to a bridge; they may be behind the creek.' " 'Do you think it fordable?' " 'I do not know.' Like a fool, I said, 'I will ride down the road and get a nearer look.' He would be much obliged. I rode Hoodoo down an icy hill with a sharp lookout for their pickets. As I rode, I slipped my revolver out and let it hang at my wrist. I rode on cautiously. About a quarter of a mile from the creek I made up my mind that I had gone far enough. The creek was frozen, as I might have known, and the colonel too. As I checked Hoodoo a shot rang out from a clump of pines on my right and a horseman leaped into the road some twenty yards in front of me. I fired and missed him. He turned and rode pretty fast toward the bridge, turning to fire as he went. I like a fool rode after him. We exchanged shot after shot. He was on the farther end of the bridge when he pulled up his horse and stopped short. He held up a hand; I felt for my sword, having emptied my revolver. It was rather ridiculous. By George! the man was laughing. We were not fifty feet apart when I reined up Hoodoo. We had each fired six shots in vain--I had counted his.
"He called out, 'A rather pretty duel, sir. Don't ride over the bridge.' A picket shot from the left singing over my head rather emphasized his warning. 'It would not be fair--you would ride right into my pickets.' It was an unusual bit of chivalry.
"I called out, 'Thank you, I hope I have not hit you. May I ask your name?' " 'I am at your service. I am'--here Captain John wrote merrily--'Scheherazade who says-- "Being now sleepy, the Caliph will hear the amazing sequel to-morrow night or _later_.
"There you have my adventure all but the end. If I do not hear more of Miss Grey's personal adventures she will never--never, hear the name.
"JOHN PENHALLOW."
He laughed outright as he closed and directed the envelope. I suppose, he wrote in his diary, that as there are several Leilas, there are also several John Penhallows, and I am just now the mischievous lad who was so much younger than Miss Grey. Would she laugh over the lesson of his letter or be angry, or cry a little and feel ill-treated, or--and even that was possible--say it was of no moment who the man was. He felt the gaiety which in some men who have not the mere brute courage of the bull-dog is apt to follow for many hours the escape from a great danger. The boylike mischief of his letter was in part due to some return of the cheerful mood which possessed him after the morning's risks. He went out to question the night of the weather. As he looked over the snow and then up at the mighty clock-work of the stars, he responded slowly to the awe this silentness of immeasurable forces was apt to produce; a perfect engine at the mills in noiseless motion always had upon him the same effect. As he moved, his knee reminded him of the morning's escape. When he rode away from the bridge, with attentions from the enemy's pickets following and came near the waiting colonel, his horse came down and like his rider suffered for the fall on frozen ground.
There was just then for a time less work than usual for the engineers, and he had begun to feel troubled by the fact that two weeks had gone by since Leila wrote, without a home letter. Then it came and was brief: "DEAR JOHN: I have truly no better and no worse news to send about dear Uncle Jim and this saddened home. To be quite frank with you, your letter made me realize what is hardly felt as here in our home we become used to war news. I thought less of your mischievous attempt to torment my curiosity than of your personal danger, and yet I know too well what are the constant risks in your engineer duties, for I have found among Uncle Jim's books accounts of the siege of Sevastopol. As to your naughty ending, I do not care who the man was--why should I? I doubt if you really know.
"I am, Your seriously indifferent LEILA GREY.
"P.S. I am ashamed to admit that I reopened my letter to tell you I fibbed large. _Please_ not to tease me any more."
He replied at once: "DEAR LEILA: I am off to the front as usual. The man was Henry Grey. An amazing encounter! I had never seen him, as you may know. I did not wait to reply to him because the Rebel pickets were not so considerate as their colonel. I recalled Uncle Jim's casual mention of Henry Grey as a rather light-minded, quixotic man. I am glad he is, but imagine what a tragedy failed to materialize because two men were awkward with the pistol. But what a strange meeting too! It is not the only case. A captain I know took his own brother prisoner last month; the Rebel would not shake hands with him. Do not tell Aunt Ann--or rather, do what seems best to you. I trust you, of course. The encounter made me want to know your uncle in some far-off happier day.
"In haste, Yours, "JOHN PENHALLOW."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
29
|
None
|
When late in March Grant about to move left the engineer brigade at City Point, the need to corduroy the rain-soaked roads called some of the corps to the front, and among them John Penhallow. As usual when unoccupied they were set free to volunteer for staff duty. It thus chanced that Penhallow found himself for a time an extra aide to General John Parke.
The guarded outer lines of the defences of Petersburg included forests with here and there open spaces and clumps of trees. More than a half mile away from the enemy, on rising ground, amid bushes and trees, lay the army corps of General Parke. It was far into the night. The men were comfortably asleep, for on this second of April, the air was no longer chilly and there were no tents up. In the mid-centre of the corps-line behind the ridge a huge fire marked the headquarters. As the great logs blazed high, they cast radiating shadows of tree trunks, which were and were not as the fire rose or fell. Horses tied to the trees moved uneasily when from far and near came the clamour of guns. Now and then a man sat up in the darkness and listened, but this was some new recruit. For the most of the sleepers the roar of guns was less disturbing than the surly mosquitoes and the sonorous trumpeting of a noisy neighbour. Aides dismounted near the one small tent in the wood shadows, and coming out mounted horses as tired as the riders and rode away into the night. Here and there apart black servants and orderlies slept the deep sleep of irresponsibility and among them Josiah. Beside the deserted fire John Penhallow sat smoking. A hand fell on his shoulder.
"Halloa, Blake!" he said, "where did you come from?"
"I am on Wright's staff. I am waiting for a note I am to carry. There will be no sleep for me to-night. We shall attack at dawn--a square frontal attack through slashes, chevaux-de-frises and parapets; but the men are keen for it, and we shall win."
"I think so--the game is nearly played out."
"I am sorry for them, Penhallow."
"And I. I was thinking when you came of the pleasant West Point friends who may be in those woods yonder, and of the coming agony of that wonderful crumbling host of brave men, and of my uncle's friend, Robert Lee. I shall be a happy man when I can take their hands again."
"How many will be left?" said Blake.
"God knows--we shall, I hope, live to be proud of them."
"My friend Francis sees always the humorous side of war--I cannot."
"It does have--oh, very rarely--its humorous side," returned Penhallow, "but not often for me. His mocking way of seeing things is doubly unpleasant because no man in the army is more in earnest. This orchestra of snoring men would amuse him."
As Blake sat down, he said, "I wonder if they are talking the language of that land--that nightly bourne from which we bring back so little. Listen to them!"
"That's so like you, Blake. I was reflecting too when you came on the good luck I had at the North Anna when you pulled me out. Mark Rivers once said that I was good at making acquaintances, but slow at making friendships."
"Thank you," said Blake, understanding him readily. "I am somewhat like you."
The solemnity of the night and of the fate-laden hours had opened for a minute the minds of two men as reserved and reticent as are most well-bred Americans, who as a rule lack the strange out-spoken frankness of our English kin.
"Oh! here is my summons," said Blake. "Good luck to you, Penhallow. I have about the closing of this war a kind of fear I have never had before."
"That is natural enough," returned Penhallow, "and I fancy it is not uncommon. Let us part with a more pleasant thought. You will come and shoot with me at Grey Pine in the fall? Bye-bye."
Blake rode away. His friend deep in thought and unable to sleep watched the dying fire. The night hours ran on. Obedient to habit he wound his watch. "Not asleep," said a pleasant voice. He rose to face the slight figure and gently smiling face of General Parke.
"What time is it, Penhallow?"
"Four o'clock, sir."
"I have sent back Captain Blake with a word to General Wright, but he will have too long a ride. I want you to carry this same request. By taking the short cut in front of our lines, you can get there in a third of the time. You will keep this side of our pickets to where our line turns, then go through them and down the slope a bit. For a short distance you will be near the clump of trees on the right. If it is picketed--there are no pickets nearer--you will have to ride hard. Once past the angle of their line you are safe. Am I clear?"
"Certainly, sir. There is some marshy ground--I climbed a tree and looked it over yesterday--it won't stop the men, but may slow a horse."
"I see. Here is my note."
Penhallow tucked it in his belt and roused Josiah. "See to the girth," he said. "Is Hoodoo in good order?"
"Yes, sir. Where you going, Master John?"
"A little errand. Make haste."
"I know those little errands," said the black. "The good Lord care for him," he murmured, as the man he loved best was lost in the darkness.
He was aware of the great danger of his errand and was at once in that state of intensity of attention which sharpens every sense. He rode for the fourth of a mile between the long lines of infantry now astir here and there, and then an officer saw him through their picket-line. "Good luck to you!" he said. "I think the Rebs have no outlying pickets, but the woods are full of them."
Penhallow rode down a slight incline, and remembering that the marsh lower down might be difficult turned aside and came on a deep gully. The night was still dark, but a faint glow to eastward made haste desirable. The gully, as he rode beside it, flattened out, but at once he felt that his horse was in trouble on marshy ground. He dismounted and led him, but always the better footing lay nearer to the clump of trees. He made up his mind to ride for it. While on foot he had been as yet hardly visible. A shot from the salient group of trees decided him. He mounted and touched Hoodoo with the spur. The horse bounded forwards too quickly to sink in the boggy ground. Then a dozen shots told the rider he had been seen. Something like the feeling of a blow from a stick was felt as his left arm fell with gripped reins, and the right arm also dropped. Hoodoo pitched forward, rose with a gallant effort, and sinking down rolled to left upon the rider's leg.
The horse lay still. Penhallow's first sensation was astonishment; then he began to make efforts to get free. His arms were of no use. He tried to stir his horse with the spur of the free foot. It had no effect. Something must be wrong with him. He had himself a feeling of weakness he could not comprehend, aware that he had no wound of the trunk. His useless arms made all effort vain, and the left foot under the weight of the horse began to feel numb. The position struck him as past help until our people charged. He thought of Francis's axiom that there was nothing so entirely tragic as to be without some marginalia of humour. The lad smiled at his use of the word. His own situation appealed to him as ridiculous--a man with a horse on him waiting for an army to lift it off.
The left elbow began to recover from the early insensibility of shock and to be painful. Then in the dim light, as he lifted his head, he was aware of a Rebel soldier in front covering him with a revolver. Penhallow cried out with promptness, "I surrender--and I am shot through both arms."
The soldier said, "You are not worth taking--guess you'll keep till we lick the Yanks," and walking around the helpless officer he appropriated his revolver.
"Can you get my horse up?" said John.
"Horse up! I want your boots."
"Well, pull them off--I can't."
"Oh, don't you bother, I'll get them." With this he knelt down and began on the boot which belonged to the leg projecting beneath the horse. "Darn it! They're just my size." As he tugged at it, Hoodoo dying and convulsed struck out with his fore legs and caught the unlucky soldier full in the belly. The man gave a wild cry and staggering back fell.
Penhallow craned over the horse's body and broke into laughter. It hurt his arm, but he gasped with fierce joy, "Francis would call him a freebooter." Then he fell back and quite helpless listened. Unable to turn his head, he heard behind him the wild rush of men. Leaping over horse and man they went by. He got a look to right and left. They tore through the slashes, dropping fast and facing a furious fusillade were lost to sight in the underbrush. "By George! they've won," he exclaimed and fell back. "They must have carried the parapet." He waited. In about a half hour a party of men in grey went by. An officer in blue cried out, "Up the hill, you beggars!" More of the grey men followed--a battle-grimed mob of hundreds.
"Halloa!" called Penhallow. "Get this horse up. Put your hand in my pocket and you will find fifty dollars." They stopped short and a half dozen men lifted the dead animal. "Thank you, set me on my feet," said Penhallow. "Empty my pockets--I can't use my arms." They did it well, and taking also his watch went on their way well pleased.
John stood still, the blood tingling in his numb foot. "Halloa!" he cried, as the stretcher-bearers and surgeons came near. A headquarters surgeon said, "We thought you were killed. Can you walk?"
"No--hit in both arms--why the deuce can't I walk?"
"Shock, I suppose."
A half hour later he was in a hospital tent and a grim old army surgeon handling his arms. "Right arm flesh-wound--left elbow smashed. You will likely have to lose the arm."
"No, I won't," said Penhallow, "I'd as leave die."
"Don't talk nonsense. They all say that. See you again."
"You will get ten dollars," said John to a hospital orderly, "if you will find Captain Blake of General Wright's staff."
"I'll do it, sir."
Presently his arms having been dressed, he was made comfortable with morphia. At dusk next morning his friend Blake sat down beside his cot. "Are you badly hurt?" he said. A certain tenderness in the voice was like a revelation of some qualities unknown before.
"I do not know. For about the first time in my life I am suffering pain--I mean constant pain, with a devilish variety in it too. The same ball, I believe, went through some muscle in the right arm and smashed my left elbow. It's a queer experience. The surgeon-in-charge informed me that I would probably lose the arm. The younger surgeon says the ball will become what he calls encysted. They probed and couldn't find it. Isn't that Josiah I hear?"
"Yes, I will bring him in."
In a moment they came back. "My God! Master John, I been looking for you all night and this morning I found Hoodoo dead. Didn't I say he'd bring you bad luck. Oh, my! --are you hurt bad?"
"Less noise there," said an assistant surgeon, "or get out of this."
"He'll be quiet," said Blake, "and you will have the decency to be less rough." The indignant doctor walked away.
"Poor Hoodoo--he did his best," murmured John. "Get me out of this, Blake. It's a hell of suffering. Take me to Tom McGregor at City Point."
"I will, but now I must go. General Parke hopes you are doing well. You will be mentioned in his despatches."
"That is of no moment--get me to McGregor. Hang the flies--I can't fight them."
John never forgot the ambulance and the rough railway ride to City Point, nor his pleasure when at rest in the officers' pavilion he waited for his old playmate. As I write I see, as he saw, the long familiar ward, the neat cots, the busy orderlies. He waited with the impatience of increasing pain. "Well, Tom," he said, with an effort to appear gay, "here's your chance at last to get even."
McGregor made brief reply as he uncovered the wounded joint. Then he said gravely, "A little ether--I will get out the ball."
"No ether, Tom, I can stand it. Now get to work."
"I shall hurt you horribly."
"No ether," he repeated. "Go on, Tom."
McGregor sat beside him with a finger on the bounding pulse and understood its meaning and the tale it told. "It will not be long, John," and then with attention so concentrated as not even to note the one stir of the tortured body or to hear the long-drawn groan of pain, he rose to his feet. "All right, John--it's only a slug--lucky it was not a musket ball." He laid a tender hand on the sweating brow, shot a dose of morphia into the right arm, and added, "You will get well with a stiff joint. Now go to sleep. The right arm is sound, a flesh-wound."
"Thanks," said John, "we are even now, Tom. Captain Blake telegraphed your father, Tom--but write, please."
"To whom, John?"
"To Leila--but do not alarm them."
"I will write. In a week or two you must go home. That is the medicine you need most. You will still have some pain, but you will not lose the arm."
"Thank you--but what of the army? I am a bit confused as to time. Parke attacked on the second of April, I think. What day is this?"
"Oh, they got out of Petersburg that night--out of Richmond too. Lee is done for--a day or two will end it."
"Thank God," murmured John, "but I am so sorry for Lee."
"Can't say I am."
"Oh, that blessed morphia!"
"Well, go to sleep--I will see you again shortly. I have other fellows to look after. In a few minutes you will be easy. Draw the fly-nets, orderly."
Of all that followed John Penhallow in later years remembered most distinctly the half hour of astonishing relief from pain. As his senses one by one went off guard, he seemed to himself to be watching with increase of ease the departure of some material tormentor. In after years he recalled with far less readiness the days of varied torment which required more and more morphia. Why I know not, the remembrance of pain as time goes by is far less permanent than that of relief or of an hour of radiant happiness. Long days of suffering followed as the tortured nerves recorded their far-spread effects in the waste of the body and that failure of emotional control which even the most courageous feel when long under the tyranny of continuous pain. McGregor watched him with anxiety and such help as was possible. On the tenth of April John awakened after a night of assisted sleep to find himself nearly free from pain. Tom came early into the ward.
"Good news, John," he said. "Lee has surrendered. You look better. Your resignation will be accepted, and I have a leave of absence. Economy is the rule. We are sending the wounded north in ship-loads. Home! Home! old fellow, in a week."
The man on the cot looked up. "You have a letter, I see," and as he spoke broke into childlike tears, for so did long suffering deal with the most self-controlled in those terrible years, which we do well to forgive, and to remember with pride not for ourselves alone. The child-man on the bed murmured, "Home was too much for me."
The surgeon who loved him well said, "Read your letter--you are not the only man in this ward whom pain has made a baby. Home will complete your cure--home!"
"Thank you, Tom." He turned to the letter and using the one half-useful hand opened it with difficulty. What he first felt was disappointment at the brevity of the letter. He was what Blake called home-hungry. With acute perception, being himself a homeless man, Blake made his diagnosis of that form of heart-ache which too often adds a perilously depressing agency to the more material disasters of war. Pain, fever, the inevitable ward odours, the easier neighbour in the next bed who was of a mind to be social, the flies--those Virginia flies more wily than Lee's troopers--and even trifling annoyances made Penhallow irritable. He became a burden to hospital stewards and over-worked orderlies, and now the first look at Leila's letter disturbed him, and as he read he became indignant: "DEAR JOHN: Mr. Blake's telegram telling us of your wound caused us some anxiety, which was made less by Dr. McGregor's somewhat hastily written letter. Aunt Ann thought it was excusable in so busy a man. Poor Uncle Jim on hearing it said, 'Yes, yes--why didn't John write--can't be much the matter.' This shows you his sad failure. He has not mentioned it since.
"It is a relief to us to know that you were not dangerously hurt. It seems as if this sad war and its consequences were near to end. Let us hear soon. Aunt Ann promises to write to you at once.
"Yours truly, "LEILA GREY."
He threw the letter down, and forgetting that he had asked Blake and the doctor not to alarm his people, was overcome by the coldness of Leila's letter. He lay still, and with eyes quite too full felt that life had for him little of that which once made it sweet with what all men hold most dear. He would have been relieved if he could have seen Leila when alone she read and read again McGregor's letter, and read with fear between the lines of carefully guarded words what he would not say and for days much feared to say. She sat down and wrote to John a letter of such tender anxiety as was she felt a confession she was of no mind to make. He was in no danger. Had he been, she would have written even more frankly. But her trouble about her uncle was fed from day to day by what her aunt could not or would not see, and it was a nearer calamity and more and more distressing. Then she sat thinking what was John like now. She saw the slight figure, so young and still so thoughtful, as she had smiled in her larger experience of men when they had sat and played years ago with violets on the hillside of West Point. No, she was unprepared to commit herself for life, for would he too be of the same mind? For a moment she stood still indecisive, then she tore up her too tender letter and wrote the brief note which so troubled him. She sent it and then was sorry she had not obeyed the impulse of the kindlier hour.
The nobler woman instinct is apt to be armed by nature for defensive warfare. If she has imagination, she has in hours of doubt some sense of humiliation in the vast surrender of marriage. This accounts for certain of the cases of celibate women, who miss the complete life and have no ready traitor within the guarded fortress to open the way to love. Some such instinctive limitations beset Leila Grey. The sorrow of a great, a nearer and constant affection came to her aid. To think of anything like love, even if again it questioned her, was out of the question while before her eyes James Penhallow was fading in mind.
John Penhallow was shortly relieved by McGregor's order that he should get some exercise. It enabled him to escape the early surgical visit and the diverse odours of surgical dressings which lingered in the long ward while breakfast was being served. There were more uneasy sleepers than he in the ward and much pain, and crippled men with little to look forward to. The suffering he saw and could not lessen had been for John one of the depressing agencies of this hospital life. The ward was quiet when he awoke at dawn of April 13th. He quickly summoned an orderly and endured the daily humiliation of being dressed like a baby. He found Josiah waiting with the camp-chair at the door as he came out of the ward.
"How you feeling, Master John?"
"Rather better. What time is it? That Reb stole my watch." Even yet it was amusing. He laughed at the remembrance of having been relieved by the prisoners of purse and watch.
For Josiah to extract his own watch was as McGregor said something like a surgical operation. "It's not goin', Master John. It's been losing time--like it wasn't accountable. What's it called watch for if it don't watch?"
This faintly amused John. He said no more, but sat enjoying the early morning quiet, the long hazy reaches of the James River, the awakening of life here and there, and the early stir among the gun-boats.
"Get me some coffee, Josiah," he said. "I am like your watch, losing time and everything else."
Josiah stood over him. His unnatural depression troubled a simple mind made sensitive by a limitless affection and dog-like power to feel without comprehending the moods of the master.
"Captain John, you was sayin' to me yesterday you was most unfortunate. I just went away and kept a kind of thinkin' about it."
"Well, what conclusion did you come to?" He spoke wearily.
"Oh, I just wondered if you'd like to change with me--guess you wouldn't for all the pain?"
Surprised at the man's reflection, John looked up at the black kindly face. "Get me some coffee."
"Yes, sir--what's that?" The morning gun rang out the sunrise hour. "What's that, sir?" The flag was being hoisted on the slope below them. "It's stopped at half-mast, sir! Who's dead now?"
"Go and ask, Josiah." McGregor came up as he spoke.
"The President was killed last night, John, by an assassin!"
"Lincoln killed!"
"Yes--I will tell you by and by--now this is all we know. I must make my rounds. We leave to-morrow for home."
John sat alone. This measureless calamity had at once on the thoughtful young soldier the effect of lessening the influences of his over-sensitive surrender to pain and its attendant power to weaken self-control. Like others, in the turmoil of war he had given too little thought to the Promethean torment of a great soul chained to the rock of duty--the man to whom like the Christ "the common people listened gladly." He looked back over his own physical suffering with sense of shame at his defeat, and sat up in his chair as if with a call on his worn frame to assert the power of a soul to hear and answer the summons of a great example.
"Thank you, Josiah," he said cheerfully. "No coffee is like yours to set a fellow up." A greater tonic was acting. "We go home to-morrow."
"That's good. Listen, sir--what's that?"
"Minute guns, Josiah. Have you heard the news?"
"Yes, sir--it's awful; but we are going home to Westways."
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
30
|
None
|
As the trains went northward crowded with more or less damaged officers and men, John Penhallow in his faded engineer uniform showed signs of renewed vitality. He chatted in his old companionable way with the other home-bound volunteers, and as they went through Baltimore related to McGregor with some merriment his bloodless duel with Mrs. Penhallow's Rebel brother Henry. The doctor watched him with the most friendly satisfaction and with such pride as a florist may have in his prospering flowers. The colour of health was returning to the pale face and there was evidently relief from excessive pain. He heard, too, as they chatted, of John's regrets that his simple engineer dress was not as neat as he would have desired and of whether his aunt would dislike it. Wearing the station of Westways Crossing, John fell into a laughing account of his first arrival and of the meeting with Leila. The home-tonic was of use and he was glad with gay gladness that the war was over.
As the train stopped, he said as he got out, "There is no carriage--you telegraphed, McGregor?"
"Yes, I did, but the service is, I fancy, snowed under just now with messages. I will walk on and have them send for you."
"No," said John, "I am quite able to walk. Come along."
"Are you really able?"
"Yes--we'll take it easy."
"There isn't much left of you to carry what remains."
"My legs are all right, Tom." He led the way through the woods until they came out on the avenue. "Think of it, Tom,--it is close to nine years since first I left Grey Pine for the Point."
In the afternoon of this sunny day late in April the Colonel sat on the porch with his wife. Below them on the step Rivers was reading aloud the detailed account of Lincoln's death. Leila coming out of the house was first to see the tall thin figure in dark undress uniform. She was thankful for an unwatched moment of ability to gain entire self-command. It was needed. She helped herself by her cry of joyous recognition.
"Aunt Ann! Aunt Ann!" she cried, "there is Dr. McGregor and--and John and Josiah." The aunt cast a look of anxiety at the expressionless face of James Penhallow, as he rose to his feet, saying, "Why wasn't I told?"
"We did not know, sir," said Rivers, dropping the paper as he went down the steps to meet the new-comer.
Then the wasted figure with the left arm in a sling was in Ann Penhallow's embrace.
"My God!" he said, "but it's good to be at home." As he spoke he turned to the Colonel who had risen.
"Got hit, John? It runs in the family. Once had a Sioux arrow through my arm. Glad to see you. Want to be fed up a bit. Lord! but you're lean." He said no more, but sat down again without appearance of interest.
Rivers made John welcome with a pleasant word, and Leila coming forward took his hand, saying quietly, "We hardly looked for you to-day, but it is none too soon." Then she turned to McGregor, "We have much to thank you for. You will stay to dine?"
John, still too sensitive, was troubled as he realized his uncle's condition, and felt that there was something in Leila's manner which was unlike that of the far-remembered Leila of other days. She had urged McGregor to stay and dine, and then added, "But, of course, that pleasure must wait--you will want to see your father. He is so proud of you--as we all are."
"That is a pleasant welcome, Miss Leila; and, dear Mrs. Penhallow, I do not want a carriage, I prefer to walk. I will see you, John, and that lame arm to-morrow. Good-bye, Colonel."
The master of Grey Pine said, "Nice young man! Ann ought to kill the fatted calf. Tell John not to be late for dinner."
"It is all right, James," said Mrs. Ann, "all right."
Rivers watched with pain the vacant face of the Colonel. This mental failure constantly recalled the days of anguish when with despair he had seen all who were dear to him one after another die mentally before their merciful exit from life.
"John must be tired," he said. Leila, who noted on the young soldier's face the effect of sudden realization of his useless state said, "Your room is ready, John."
"Yes," said John, "I should like to rest before dinner."
With a word as to the fatigue of his journey, Leila followed him into the well-remembered hall.
"Good heavens, Leila. It seems an age since I was here. Send up Josiah. I am like a baby and need him to help me."
She looked after him pitifully as he went up the stairs. "Surely," she thought, "we have paid dearly our debt to the country."
He came down at six o'clock, still in his undress uniform, but thinking that his aunt would not like it. In a day or two he would have the civilian clothes he had ordered in Philadelphia. He need have had no such anxiety; she was indifferent to all but her husband, who sat at table speechless, while Leila and John too consciously manufactured talk of the home and the mills--and the ending of the war. After the meal Ann began her patient efforts to interest the Colonel with a game of cards and then of backgammon. It seemed only to make him irritable, and he said at last, "I think I must go to bed."
"Certainly, dear." She went with him upstairs, saying, "Good-night, children."
"She will not return, John. This is what goes on day after day."
"It is very sad--I did not fully comprehend his condition."
"He is often far worse, and complains of his head or is resolutely--I should say obstinately--bent on some folly, such as walking to the mills and advising them. Aunt Ann never contradicts him--what he wants, she wants. Not the most reasonable opposition is of any use."
"Does he never ride, Leila?"
"Never, and is vexed when Dr. McGregor calls to see him and advises a consultation. Once we had a distressing outbreak."
"And yet," said John, "there should have been other advice long ago. Somehow there must be."
"Mr. Rivers has urged it and made him angry; as for Aunt Ann, she sees only the bright side of his case and humours him as she would a sick child."
"She is greatly changed, Leila. I hardly know how to state it. She has a look of--well, of something spiritual in her face."
"Yes, that is true. Are you in pain, John?" she added.
"Yes--not in great pain, but enough. For two weeks I did suffer horribly."
"John! Oh, my poor Jack! We never knew--is it so bad?"
"Yes, imagine a toothache in your elbow with a variety of torments in the whole arm."
"I can't imagine. I never had a toothache--in fact, I hardly know the sensation of serious pain."
"Well, I broke down under it, Leila. I became depressed and quite foolishly hopeless. Some day I will tell you what helped me out of a morass of melancholy."
"Tell me now."
"No, I must go to bed. I am getting better and will get off with a stiff elbow, so Tom says. At first they talked of amputation. That was awful. Good-night!"
It was none too soon. She was still unsure of herself, and although no word of tender approach had disturbed her as he talked, and she was glad of that, the tense look of pain, the reserve of his hospital confession of suffering nearly broke down her guarded attitude. As he passed out of view at the turn of the stairs, she murmured, "Oh, if only Uncle Jim were well."
Josiah came at the call of the bell. She detained him. She asked, "How was the Captain wounded? No one wrote of how it happened."
"Well, missy, he would ride a horse called Hoodoo--it was just the bad luck of that brute done it." Josiah's account was graphic and clear enough. John Penhallow's character lost nothing as interpreted by Josiah.
"It was a dangerous errand, I suppose."
"Yes, Miss Leila. You see, when they know about a man that he somehow don't mind bullets and will go straight to where he's sent, they're very apt to get him killed. At the first shot he ought to have tumbled off and played possum till it was dark."
"But then," said Leila, "he would have been too late with General Parke's message."
"Of course, Master John couldn't sham dead like I would. --I don't despise bullets like he does. Once before he had orders to go somewhere, and couldn't get across a river. He was as mad as a wet hen."
"A wet hen--delightful! Did he do it?"
"Guess you don't know him! When Master John wants anything, well, he's a terrible wanter--always was that way even when he was a boy--when he wants anything, he gets it."
"Indeed! does he? I think he is waiting for you, Josiah."
The black's conclusive summary hardened the young woman's heart. She sat a while smiling, then took up a book and failed to become interested.
As John became familiar with the altered life of a household once happy and in pleasant relation to the outer world, he felt as Leila had done the depressing influence of a home in which the caprices of an invalid life were constantly to be considered. Meanwhile his own spare figure gained flesh, and on one sunny morning--he long remembered it--he was rather suddenly free from pain, and with only the stiff elbow was, as McGregor described it, "discharged cured."
For some time he had been feeling that in bodily vigour and sense of being his normal self he had been rapidly gaining ground. The relief from the thraldom of pain brought a sudden uplift of spirits and a feeling of having been born anew into an inheritance of renewed strength and of senses sharpened beyond what he had ever known. A certain activity of happiness like a bodily springtime comes with such a convalescence. Ceasing to feel the despotism of self-attention, he began to recover his natural good sense and to watch with more care his uncle's state, his aunt's want of consideration for any one but James Penhallow, and the effect upon Leila of this abnormal existence. He began to understand that to surely win this sad girl-heart there must be a patient siege, and above all something done for the master of Grey Pine. He recognized with love's impatience the beauty of this young life amid the difficulties of the Colonel's moods and Ann Penhallow's ill-concealed jealousy. A great passion may be a very selfish thing, or in the nobler natures rise so high on the wings of love that it casts like the singing lark no shadow on the earth. He could wait and respect with patient affection the sense of duty which perhaps--ah! that perhaps--made love a thing which must wait--yes, and wait too with helpful service where she too had nobly served.
When the day came for his first venture on a horse and he rode through the young leafage of June, no enterprise seemed impossible. How could he be of use to her and these dear people to whom he owed so much? War had been costly, but it had taught him that devotion to the duty of the hour which is one of the best lessons of that terrible schoolmaster. There was, as he saw every day, no overruling common sense in the household of Grey Pine, and no apparent possibility of reasonable control. Just now it was worse than ever, and he meant to talk it over with the two McGregors. With Josiah riding behind him, he left a message here and there in the village, laughing and jesting, with a word of sympathy where the war had left its cruel memories. He had been in the little town very often since his return, but never before when free from pain or with the pleasant consciousness that he had it in his power to be to these friends of his childhood what the Colonel had been. He talked to Joe Grace, left a message for Pole's son, and then rode on to his appointment.
He sat down with father and son in the unchanged surroundings of the untidy office; even the flies were busy as before on the old man's tempting bald head.
"Well, John," said the doctor, "what's up now? The Squire won't see me at all." Tom sat still and listened.
"There are two things to consider, and I want your advice; but, first, I want to say that there is no head to that family. I wonder how Leila stands it. I mean that your advice shall be taken about a consultation with Prof. Askew."
"You want my advice? Do you, indeed! Mrs. Penhallow will ask the Colonel's opinion, he will swear, and the matter is at an end."
"I mean to have that consultation," said John. Tom laughed and nodded approval.
"It's no use, John, none," said the older man.
"We shall see about that. Do you approve? --that is my question."
"If that's the form of advice you want, why, of course--yes--but count me out."
"Count me in, John," said the younger surgeon. "I know what Askew will say and what should have been done long ago."
"An operation?" asked his father.
"Yes, sir, an operation."
"Too late!"
"Well," said John, "he gets no worse; a week or two will make no difference, I presume."
"None," said Dr. McGregor.
"It may," said Tom.
"Well, it may have to wait. Just now there is a very serious question. Aunt Ann made last night the wild suggestion that the Colonel might be amused if we had one of those rummage-sales with which she used to delight the village. Uncle Jim at once declared it to be the thing he would like best. Aunt Ann said we must see about it at once. Her satisfaction in finding an amusement which the Colonel fancied was really childlike. Leila said nothing, nor did I. In fact, the proposal came about when I happened unluckily to say what a fine chance Uncle Sam had for a rummage-sale after a forced march or a fight. I recall having said much the same thing long ago in a letter to Leila."
"Then there's nothing to be done just now, John," remarked Tom McGregor, "but I cannot conceive of anything more likely to affect badly a disordered brain."
The older man was silent until John asked, "Is it worth while to talk to Aunt Ann about it--advise against it?"
"Quite useless, John. I advise you and Leila quietly to assist your aunt, and like as not the Colonel may forget all about it in a day or two."
"No, Doctor. To-day he had Billy up with him in the attic bringing down whatever he can find, useful or useless."
With little satisfaction from this talk, John rode homeward. Sitting in the saddle at the post-office door, he called for the mail. Mrs. Crocker, of undiminished bulk and rosiness, came out.
"How's your arm, Captain? I bet it's more use than mine. The rheumatism have took to permanent boarding in my right shoulder--and no glory like you got to show for it."
"I could do without the glory."
"No, you couldn't. If I was a man, I'd be glad to swap; you've got to make believe a bit, but the town's proud of you. I guess some one will soon have to look after them Penhallow mills." Mrs. Crocker put a detaining hand on his bridle reins.
"Yes, yes," said John absently, glancing well pleased over a kind letter of inquiry from General Parke. "Well, what else, Mrs. Crocker?"
"The Colonel quite give me a shock this morning. He's not been here--no, not once--since he came home. Well, he walked in quite spry and told me there was to be a rummage-sale in a week, and I was to put up a notice and tell everybody. Why, Mr. John, he was that natural. He went away laughing because I offered to sell my old man--twenty-five cents a pound. I did notice he don't walk right."
"Yes, I have noticed that; but this notion of a rummage-sale has seemed to make him better. Now, suppose you let my reins go."
"Oh, Mr. John, don't be in such a hurry. It's surely a responsible place, this post-office; I don't ever get time for a quiet talk."
"Well, Mrs. Crocker, now is your chance."
"That's real good of you. I was wanting to ask if you ever heard anything of Peter Lamb. He wrote to his mother he was in the army, and then that was the end of it. She keeps on writing once a week, and the letters come back stamped 'not found.' I guess he's wandering somewhere."
"Like enough. I went to see her last week, but I could not give her any comfort. She couldn't have a worse thing happen than for Peter to come home."
"Well, Captain John, when you come to have babies of your own, you'll find mothers are a curious kind of animal."
"Mothers!" laughed John. "I hope there won't be more than one. Now, I really must go."
"Oh, just one more real bit of news. Lawyer Swallow's wife was here yesterday with another man to settle up her husband's business."
"Is he dead?"
"They say so, but you can't believe everything you hear. Now, don't hurry. What most killed Swallow was just this: He hated Pole like poison, and when he got a five hundred dollar mortgage-grip on Pole's pasture meadow, he kept that butcher-man real uneasy. When you were all away, Swallow began to squeeze--what those lawyers call 'foreclose.' It's just some lawyer word for robbery."
"It's pretty bad, Mrs. Crocker, but two people are waiting for you and this isn't exactly Government business."
"Got to hear the end, Captain."
"I suppose so--what next?" Dixy wondered why the spur touched him even lightly.
"Pole, he told Mrs. Penhallow all about it, and she wasn't as glad to help her meat-man as she was to bother Swallow, so she took over the mortgage. When the Squire first came home from Washington and wasn't like he was later, she told him, of course. Now everybody knows Pole's ways, and so the Squire he says to me--he was awful amused--'Mrs. Crocker, I asked Mrs. Penhallow how Pole was going to pay her.' She said she did put that at Pole, and he said it wouldn't take long to eat up that debt at Grey Pine. He wouldn't have dared to speak like that to your aunt if she hadn't got to be so meek-like, what with war and bother." By this time Dixy was with reason displeased and so restless that Mrs. Crocker let the reins drop, but as John Penhallow rode away she cried, "The price of meats at Grey Pine has been going up ever since, until Miss Leila--" The rest was lost to the Captain. He rode away laughing as he reflected on what share of Pole's debt he was to devour.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
31
|
None
|
The bustle and folly of a rummage-sale was once in every two or three years a frolic altogether pleasant to quiet Westways. It enabled Ann Penhallow and other wise women to get rid of worn-out garments and other trash dear to the male mind. When Leila complained of the disturbing antecedents of a rummage-sale, Mrs. Crocker, contributive of unasked wisdom, remarked, "Men have habits, and women don't; women have blind instincts. You'll find that out when you're married. You see marriage is a kind of voyage of discovery. You just remember that and begin early to keep your young man from storing away useless clothes and the like. That's where a rummage-sale comes in handy."
Leila laughed. "Why not sell the unsatisfactory young man, Mrs. Crocker?"
"Well, that ain't a bad idea," said the post-mistress slyly, "if he's a damaged article--a rummage-sale of husbands not up to sample."
"A very useful idea," said the young woman. "Good-bye."
In the afternoon a day later, Leila, making her escape from her aunt's busy collections, slipped away into the woods alone. The solitude of the early woodland days of summer were what she needed, and the chance they gave for such tranquil reflection as the disturbance and restless state of her home just now made it rarely possible to secure. She tried to put aside her increasing anxiety about her uncle and had more difficulty in dealing with John Penhallow and his over-quiet friendliness. She thought too of her own coldly-worded letters and of the suffering of which she had been kept so long ignorant. He had loved her once; did he now? She was annoyed to hear the voice of Mark Rivers.
"So, Leila, you have run away, and I do not wonder. This turmoil is most distressing."
"Yes, yes--and everything--those years of war and what it has brought us--and my dear Uncle Jim--and how is it to end? Let us talk of something else. I came here to be--well, to see if I could find peace of soul and what these silent forests have often given me, strength to take up again the cares and troubles of life." He did not excuse his intrusion nor seem to notice the obvious suggestions, but fell upon their personal application to himself.
"They have never done that for me," he said sadly. "There is some defect in my nature--some want. I have no such relation to nature; it is speechless to me--mute, and I never needed more what I fail to find in myself. The war and its duties gave me the only entire happiness I have had for years." Then he added, in a curiously contemplative manner, "It does seem as if a man had a right to some undisturbed happiness in life. I must go. I leave you to the quiet of the woods."
"I am sorry," she said, "I am sorry that you are able to imply that you have never known happiness. Surely you cannot mean that." It was all she could say. His look of profound melancholy hurt her, for like all who knew Mark Rivers well, she loved, respected and admired him.
He made no explanatory reply, but after a brief silence said, "I must go, Leila, where there are both duties and dangers--not--no, not in cities."
"I trust you do not mean to leave us--surely not!"
"No, not yet--not while I can be of use to these dear friends."
As she moved on at his side or before him, he saw too well the easy grace of her strong young virgin form, the great blue eyes, the expressive tenderness of features which told of dumb sympathy with what she had no knowledge to understand. He longed to say, "I love you and am condemned by my conscience to ask no return." It would only add to his unhappiness and disturb a relation which even in its incompleteness was dear to him. The human yearning to confess, to win even the sad luxury of pity beset the man. In his constant habit of introspection, he had become unobservant and had no least idea that the two young people he loved so well were nearing what was to him forever impossible.
"Let me sit down," he said unwilling to leave her; "I am tired." He was terribly afraid of himself and shaken by a storm of passion, which left his sensitive body feeble.
She sat down with him on a great trunk wrecked a century ago. "Are you not well?" she asked, observing the paleness of his face.
"No, it is nothing. I am not very well, but it is nothing of moment. Don't let it trouble you--I am much as usual. I want, Leila, what I cannot get--what I ought not to get." Even this approach to fuller confession relieved him.
"What is there, my dear Mr. Rivers, you cannot get? Oh! you are a man to envy with your hold on men, your power to charm, your eloquence. I have heard Dr. McGregor talk of what you were among the wounded and the dying on the firing-line. Don't you know that you are one of God's helpful messengers, an interpreter into terms of human thought and words of what men need to-day, when--" "No, no," he broke in, lifting a hand of dissenting protest. The flushed young face as she spoke, his sense of being nobly considered by this earnest young woman had again made him feel how just the little more would have set free in ardent words what he was honestly striving to control.
"Thank you, my dear Leila, I could wish I were all you think I am; but were it all true, there would remain things that sweeten life and which must always be forbidden to me."
He rose to his feet once again master of his troubled soul. "I leave you," he said, "and your tireless youth to your walk. We cannot have everything, I must be contented in some moment of self-delusion to half believe the half of what you credit me with."
"Then," cried Leila, laughing, "you would have only a fourth."
"Ah! I taught you arithmetic too well." He too laughed as he turned away. Laughter was rare with him and to smile frequent. He walked slowly away to the rectory and for two days was not seen at Grey Pine.
Leila, more at ease and relieved by the final gay banter, strolled into the solemn quiet of the pines the Squire had so successfully freed from underbrush and left in royal solitude. At the door of the old log-cabin she lay down on the dry floor of pine-needles. The quick interchange of talk had given her no chance to consider, as now she reviewed in thoughtful illumination, what had seemed to her strange. She tried to recall exactly what he had said. Of a sudden she knew, and was startled to know. She had come into possession of the power of a woman innocent of intention to inflict pain on a strong and high-minded man. A lower nature might have felt some sense of triumph. It left her with no feeling but the utmost distress and pitiful thinking of what had gone wrong in this man's life. Once before she had been thus puzzled. The relief of her walk was gone. She gathered some imperfect comfort in the thought that she might not have been justified in her conclusions regarding a man who was in so many ways an unexplained personality.
During the next few days the village was in a state of anticipative pleasure and of effort to find for the rummage-sale articles which were damaged or useless. At Grey Pine John and Leila Grey were the only unexcited persons. She was too troubled in divers ways to enjoy the amusement to be had out of what delighted every one else except John Penhallow. To please his aunt he made some small and peculiar offerings, and daily went away to the mills to meet and consult with the Colonel's former partners. He was out of humour with his world, saw trouble ahead if he did as he meant to do, and as there was an east wind howling through the pines, his wounded arm was recording the storm in dull aches or sharp twinges. He smoked, I fear, too much during these days of preparation for the rummage-sale, and rode hard; while Leila within the dismantled house was all day long like the quiet steadying flywheel in some noisy machinery. What with Billy as the over-excited Colonel's aide and her aunt aggrieved by a word of critical comment on her husband's actions, Leila had need of all the qualities required in a household where, as it seemed to her, it was hard to keep tongue or temper quiet.
Mr. Rivers towards the end of the week came in often, and would, of course, see that the Sunday school hall was made ready for the sale. He would make some contributions and help to arrange the articles for the sale. The Colonel's continuity of childlike interest deceived him into sharing the belief of Ann Penhallow, who was, Leila thought, unreasonably elated. Meanwhile Leila felt as a kind of desertion John's successive days of absence. Where was he? What was he doing? Once she would have asked frankly why he left to her the burden of cares he ought to have been eager to share, while Mark Rivers was so steadily helpful. When Ann Penhallow asked him to act as salesman, he said that he was at her disposal. The Colonel declared that was just the thing, and John must uncover and announce the articles to be sold. He said, "How long ago was the last sale? Wasn't it last year?"
"No, dear, not so lately."
"I must have forgotten. Perhaps, Rivers, we might sell a few useless people. What would Leila fetch in the marriage market?" Ann somewhat annoyed said nothing; nor did Rivers like it. The Colonel continued, "Might sell John--badly damaged."
"I must go," said Rivers. "I have my sermon to think over. I mean to use the text you gave me, Leila, some two weeks ago."
Sunday went by, and Tuesday, the day of the sale, came with a return of the east wind and a cold downpour of rain. The Colonel and Billy were busy late in the day; Mrs. Ann was tired; while John in some pain was silent at dinner. The carriage took the Colonel and his wife to the hall. He was now quiet and answered curtly the too frequent questions about how he felt.
"We will send back for you, Leila," said her aunt.
"No, I want to walk there with John."
The Captain looked up surprised, "Why, yes, with pleasure."
She came down in her rain-cloak. "Take a large umbrella, John. How it blows!"
As they set off in the face of a rain-whipped wind, he said, "Take my arm, Leila--the other side--the sound arm."
"You were in pain at dinner, John."
"It is my familiar devil, the east wind, but don't talk of it."
She understood him, and returned, "I will not if you don't wish me to talk of it. Where have you been all these uneasy days?"
"Oh, at the mills. Uncle refuses to speak of business and I am trying to understand the situation--some one must."
"I see--you must explain it all to me later."
"I will. One of the mill men of my Corps needed help. I have asked Tom to see him. How depressed Mr. Rivers seems. Gracious, how it rains!"
"Yes, he is at his worst. I am sorry you missed his sermon on Sunday--it was great. He talked about Lincoln, and used a text I gave him some time ago."
"What was it?"
"It is in Exodus: 'Ye have seen what I did unto the Egyptians and how I bare you on eagles' wings, and brought you unto myself.'"
John's ready imagination began for a silent moment to play with the words. "How did he use it, Leila?"
"Oh, he told the preceding story briefly, and then his great seeking eyes wandered a little and he said, 'Think how the uplift of God's eagles' wings enlarged their horizon!' Then he seemed to me to have the idea that they might not comprehend, so he made one of those eloquent pauses and went on to say, 'You can all, like Lincoln, rise as he rose from the lesser things of a hard life to see more widely and more surely the duties of life. The eagle-wings of God's uplifting power are for you, for me, for all of us.' He made them understand."
"I am sorry I missed it. I spent the Sunday morning with my engineer."
"Aren't you getting wet, John?"
"No. How did he end?"
"What I did not like was the dwelling on Lincoln's melancholy, and the effort it must have cost him--at times. It seemed to me, John, as if he was preaching to himself. I wonder if clergymen often preach to themselves. Some of us have to. The sketch of Lincoln's life was to me a wonder of terse biography. At the close he did not dwell on the murder, but just said--'Then--and then, my friends, God took him to himself.'"
"Thank you, Leila. What a lot of wagons--we must have half the county--and in this rain too."
"Now, John, you hate this affair, and so do I; but the Westways people think it great fun, and in the last few years they have had very little." " _Ni moi non plus, Mademoiselle Grey. _" "Yes, yes," she said, "I know, John, but make it go--make it gay, John. It will soon be over."
"I will try." They left their wet garments in an empty outer room and entering by a side door stood beside the raised platform at the end of the crowded hall.
Quite a hundred villagers or farming people, young and old, filled the room, and the air was oppressively heavy. At one end on a raised platform the Colonel was seated, and near by his wife well pleased to see him smiling as he recognized here and there some of the farmers who had been the playmates of his youth. John stood by the long table on which, covered by sheets, lay the articles for sale. Rivers came forward to the front of the platform, leaving Leila, who declined to sit down, at one side with Mr. Grace and the two McGregors.
The murmur of voices ceased; there was an appearance of expectant attention. Rivers raised a hand, and said, "You are all, I am sure, most glad to welcome the friend who like others among you has paid so dearly for keeping unbroken the union of the States." Loud applause followed, as he paused. "An occasion like this brings together young and old for good-humoured fun, and may remind you of a similar meeting years ago. This is to be a rummage-auction of useful things out of use, and of useless things. If you will explain why anybody wants useless things I shall know why some of you come to hear me preach or"--with a slight pause--"my friend, Grace." Every one laughed, and John and Leila alike felt that Rivers had struck the right note.
"Captain John Penhallow"--loud plaudits--"Captain John Penhallow will mention the articles for sale. Now, as you see, they are all hidden--some of them I have never seen. Whoever makes the highest bid of the sale for the most useless article will collect the whole product--the whole proceeds of the sale, and"--he laughed--"will pay it over to the girl about to be married."
This was really great fun, and even John felt some relief as the hall rang with merry laughter. Only Tom McGregor was grave while he watched the Colonel. As Rivers spoke, Colonel Penhallow stood up, swayed a little, straightened his tall figure, and waving Rivers aside said, "I shall now conduct this sale." This was only a pleasant surprise to the audience, and was welcomed with noisy hands.
The two McGregors exchanged looks of anxious alarm as the Colonel said, "Now, John!" Mrs. Penhallow smiled approval.
John uncovered a corner of the nearest sheet and brought out a clock without hands. "First article! Who'll bid? I think the hands have all struck like the mill-hands down East. Five cents--do I hear ten? Going--gone," cried the Colonel.
A rag doll came next and brought a penny. There was high bidding over a heavy band-box. When it went for half a dollar to Mrs. Crocker and was found to contain a shrivelled pumpkin of last year's crop, the audience wildly congratulated the post-mistress.
John, who was now thoroughly in the spirit of their fun, produced two large apples. "Now what daughter of Eve will bid," said the elated Colonel. Leila laughing bid fifty cents. "Going--gone."
"Look out for the serpent, Miss Grey," said Grace.
Leila handed the apples to a small girl, who losing no time followed Eve's remote example. "Oh, mother!" she cried, "it's got a five-dollar piece in it--most broke my new tooth."
"The root of all evil," said Grace.
There were pots that were cracked or bottomless, old novels, and to the evident dismay of John a favourite smoking jacket. Ann clapped her hands with delight as John shook at her a finger of reproach. Then came tied up in paper, which John unrolled, the long-forgotten cane of his youth, and how it got there the Squire or Billy may have known. John bid, but at a warning signal from Leila gave up, as she recaptured her property. There were other apples, with and without money; and so with fun and merriment the sale went on to Westways' satisfaction.
"What's this," said John, with an unpleasant shock of annoyance as he uncovered the Colonel's war-worn uniform. He hesitated, looking towards his uncle who seemed bewildered. "That's that rascal, Billy--it's a mistake," exclaimed the Colonel.
"No, sir," shouted Billy, "Squire told me to take 'em. There's a sword too. Squire said it wasn't any use now."
No one laughed; it was obviously one of Billy's blunders. John put the worn uniform and the sword aside and threw a cover over them. It was an unpleasant reminder of the Colonel's state of mind and disturbed the little group at one side of the stage. John made haste to get away from it.
"Last article for sale--it's large and must be bought covered up. Who will bid?" Amid laughter the bids rose. At a dollar and ten cents it fell to Mrs. Pole, and proved when uncovered to be another band-box. Mrs. Pole came forward, and Ann Penhallow pleased to have been able to amuse her husband said, "We are curious, Mrs. Pole, open it." Mrs. Pole obeyed, and as she held up the rolled package it dropped into the unmistakable form of a man's breeches.
Westways exploded into wild applause, understanding joyously this freak of fortune. Mrs. Pole joined in their merriment, and the carpenter punched the butcher in the ribs for emphasis, as he said, "How's that, Pole?" The butcher made use of unpleasant language, as John relieved said, "The sale is over. You can settle with Mr. Grace." As he spoke he moved over to where Leila stood beside the two McGregors.
The people rose and put on their cloaks preparing to leave. Then John heard Tom McGregor say, "Look out, father! Something is going to happen."
The Colonel moved forward unsteadily. His face flushed, grew pale, and something like a grimace distorted his features, as he said, "The sale is not over, sit down."
People took their places again wondering what was to come. Then with the clear ringing voice the cavalry lines knew in far-away Indian wars, he cried, "We will now sell the most useless article in Westways. Who'll buy silly Billy?"
"Can't sell me," piped out Billy's thin voice as he fled in alarm, amid laughter.
"The sale is over, uncle," said John.
"No, sir--don't interrupt. I'd like to sell Swallow."
This was much to their taste. "Guess he's sold a many of us," cried an old farmer.
"Why, he's dead," said Mrs. Crocker.
The Colonel's gaze wandered. The little group of friends became hopelessly uneasy; even Mrs. Ann ceased to smile. "You stand up, Polly Somers--you are the handsomest girl in the county," which was quite true.
The girl, who was near by, sat still embarrassed. "Get up," said Penhallow sharply.
"She's withdrawed these three months," cried a ready-witted young farmer.
"Oh, is she? Well, then, we will go on." Tom McGregor went quietly up the two steps to the platform. All those who were near to the much-loved master of Grey Pine stood still aware of something wrong and unable to interfere. Rivers alone moved towards him and was put aside by an authoritative gesture. The moment of silence was oppressive, and Leila was hardly conscious of the movement which carried her up beside Dr. McGregor to the level of the platform.
"Oh, do something," she whispered; "please do something."
"It is useless--this can't last."
"Uncle Jim," she exclaimed in her despair, and what more she would have urged was unheard or unsaid as the Colonel turned towards her and cried, "One more for sale!"
No one spoke. At last these various people who loved the man well saw more or less clearly that he was no longer their James Penhallow of other days. He went on at once with raised voice: "Last sale--Leila Grey--likely young woman--warranted sound--single or double harness. Fetch her up." His confusion of mind was painfuly apparent. "Who'll bid?" A suppressed titter rose from the younger people.
"She is withdrawn, uncle," said John Penhallow distinctly.
"Ah! who did you say--Like Polly, owner withdraws her--Can't you speak out?"
"I said, withdrawn, sir," John repeated. As he spoke he saw the Colonel stagger backwards and sink into his chair; his face became white and twitched; his head fell to one side; he breathed stertorously, flushed slightly, and was instantly as one asleep.
Ann Penhallow and the two doctors were at his side. Rivers called out, "Leave the room, all of you, please. Open the windows, Grace!"
"Is he dead?" asked Ann of McGregor.
"No, no--it is a slight fit--there is no danger."
A moment later Penhallow opened his eyes, sat up, and said, "Where am I? What's all this about?"
John said, "A bit faint, uncle. The carriage is waiting." He staggered to his feet, and seizing Rivers's arm followed Ann and John in silence. With Rivers they were driven back to Grey Pine. Of all Ann Penhallow's schemes to amuse or interest her husband this had been the most utter failure.
Every one had gone from the hall when John missing Leila returned to the outer room to put on his cloak. The boy-cap Leila liked to wear in bad weather, her rain-cloak, his umbrella, were as they had been left. He stood still in the first moment available for thought and knew that here was a new trouble. She must have been so shocked and ashamed as to have fled in the rain eager to get away.
Neither he nor any man could have realized what she felt as her uncle talked wildly--and she had been put up for sale. She used none of the resources of reason. All her body was hot with the same flush of shame which burned in her face. In her passion of disgust and anger, she hurried out into the storm. The chill of the east wind was friendly. She gave no other thought to the wind-driven rain, but ran through the woods like a wild thing, all virginal woman, unreasonable, insulted, angry as a child is angry--even her uncle was forgotten. She ran upstairs, the glory of her rain-soaked hair in tumbled disorder, and in her room broke into the open speech which passion confides to the priest solitude.
"Oh, John Penhallow, how could you! That ends it--a man who could--and oh, John Penhallow!" She cried a little, wailing in a childish way, and then with some returning sense of anxiety put herself in condition to go downstairs, where she learned that her uncle was in bed. She went back to her room.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
32
|
None
|
A half hour later John sat alone in the library. He had much to disturb a young man trained to obey and at need command, and was feeling the responsibility of an unusual position. At last he wrote a note to his aunt and sent it up to her by a maid. In a few minutes Ann Penhallow appeared.
"What is it, John? I cannot leave James alone long." She sat down. "Now don't keep me."
"I need not detain you long, but I feel that you ought to know, Aunt Ann, that I have had a talk with Tom McGregor and have sent a telegram to Dr. Askew desiring him to come at once and see my uncle. I ought to hear to-morrow."
She rose to her feet. "You did this, John, without a word to me and knowing that your uncle has over and over said he would not listen to anything of the kind. You have taken a great liberty--I shall telegraph for your doctor not to come. James is always better after these attacks."
Much surprised, he said, "These attacks--has he had them before?"
"Oh, twice--very slight."
"But, aunt, do you not understand how serious this one was?"
"He is better already--much better. There should not be any need to remind you that you are not the head of this house. I shall telegraph at once, in the morning, and stop him."
"It will be too late, aunt."
"Then your doctor may go back. I will not see this doctor if in spite of my telegram he should come. You will understand, John, that this ends it. I certainly will not have James constantly irritated. I shall telegraph now--at once."
"You will do, aunt, as it seems best to you." He saw the telegram written and heard her order to send it to the Westways office.
His aunt, having settled the matter, went upstairs, an angry and indignant woman, leaving in the library a man resolute not to accept defeat.
He wrote a second message: "Disregard Mrs. Penhallow's telegram. Come at once. Fee at discretion. Will meet you at Westways Crossing."
He roused up Josiah and gave his order. "Ride to the mills and get this despatch sent to-night or early to-morrow--oh, to-night, somehow. It is important. Pay some one--only get it sent. Here are five dollars."
He was of no mind to meet either Leila or his aunt, and to escape them breakfasted early next morning, and riding to the mills was pleased to avoid another painful interview. On his return at evening the dinner at Grey Pine was made rather less uncomfortable by the presence of Rivers who talked to Ann Penhallow while the Colonel dozed in his armchair. Accustomed to have her decisions obeyed in her home, Ann Penhallow had now dismissed the question of a consultation as settled, and had quite lightly mentioned to Leila that John had revived the subject and that she had once for all put an end to it.
She was sorry to have had to be so positive, but was pleased to be done with the matter in dispute. She little knew the young soldier. When he was certain that the consultant would come, he began to consider what he would do if his aunt did simply refuse to see Dr. Askew. She might, in fact, be as resolute as her nephew.
In her trouble about her husband's mishap, Ann Penhallow hardly regarded her niece's unpleasant share in the sad ending of the rummage-sale--it was relatively of no moment. Nor would the girl herself have been willing to discuss it. John Penhallow should have held his tongue, and now all Westways must be laughing--and she would never--never--forgive him. Evidently her aunt had scolded him about that consultation. She had a little curiosity to know how he had taken it and how he looked when he came to match the will of his young manhood against the unreasonable obstinacy of the woman he had been taught to obey. She observed next day at breakfast that John was more than usually gay, as he asked if there were any errands. There were none. He loitered about waiting and at last went out to the back porch where he stood a minute looking over the box hedge which bounded the garden. Leila was busy taking tribute from the first roses of the summer days. As she bent over, she let them fall one by one into the basket at her feet. Now and then she drew up her tall figure, and seemed to John as she paused to be deep in thought. When she became aware of his approach, she fell again to harvesting roses.
He said, "Leila, before I go to the mills, I want to talk with you about what is troubling me. In fact--" Without looking up she broke into his attempt to explain himself, "I am in no mood to discuss anything, John Penhallow."
He was frankly puzzled. Of the many Leilas, this was a new acquaintance, but he said quietly, "It is necessary to make a statement--I want first to explain."
She refreshed her rising anger with words. "I do not want any explanation--there are things no woman can pardon. I was insulted."
"My dear Leila, upon my honour I do not know what you mean."
She was near to saying, "I am not yours, or dear." Something in the look of the attentive face and the calmness of his manner put her on guard, and she said only, "That is, I presume, because you are not a woman."
He said, "I do not regret that, but you clearly are thinking of one thing and I of another. It must be the rummage-sale. I have no desire to discuss that sorrowful business, Miss Grey. You have quite misapprehended me. It is of Uncle Jim I want to talk--in fact, to ask advice."
"I did not understand," she said, flushing a little. His formal manner was very unpleasant, and to be called Miss Grey was ridiculous. If he had shown anger or even annoyance it would have eased the situation. He went on to explain himself, rather aware of her embarrassment and not altogether sorry for her mishap.
"I said I want help--advice. I have sent for Prof. Askew. Aunt Ann has telegraphed him not to come. I wired him to disregard her message. He has answered me that he will be here at the house, if the train is on time, about six to-day. It is our last hope, but it is a hope. Aunt Ann must see this gentleman--I say she must. Now, how can it be managed?"
Leila let fall a handful of roses into the basket and faced him. "Take time," he said. "I do really need help--how can I make Aunt Ann see this famous surgeon? Take time," he repeated.
Here was for Leila a rather astonishing revelation of resolute aggressive manhood--a new John Penhallow. Relieved to have been taken out of her angry mood, she stood still a moment while he waited on her counsel. "There is but one way," she said, "it is the only way. I do not like it--whether you will be willing to accept it, I do not know."
"And still you advise it?"
"I do not."
"Well, what is it?"
"At about six every afternoon, when Uncle Jim is asleep, Aunt Ann is almost certain to be in her little library-room. Take Dr. Askew in, present him, and walk out. She will hate it, but she is sure to be what she is always to a guest. He will have his chance."
"Thank you, Miss Grey." --How she hated that! --"You have helped me." He touched his army cap in salute and left her alone. At the garden gate he looked back--Miss Grey was also looking back, and vexed at being thus caught bent down again and cut buds and roses with sharp nips of the scissors.
It was not in the nature or breeding of John Penhallow to like Leila's plan for securing to the surgeon a chance to impose on a reluctant woman a clearly stated opinion which otherwise she might have the courage to disregard. But what else could he do? A little after six he met the carriage far down the avenue and walked slowly to the house with the younger McGregor and the surgeon.
"You are most welcome," said John. "Dr. McGregor has, I trust, told you of our difficulties with my aunt?"
Askew smiled. "Yes; it is no uncommon case. I may add that Dr. McGregor's letters have satisfied me that an immediate operation offers the only and too long delayed chance of success. I must, of course, see Mrs. Penhallow--the sooner the better."
"Yes--pray follow me." He led the way across the hall, opened the library door, and said to the astonished lady, "Prof. Askew, Aunt Ann." Then he went out.
Well aware of being trapped, Mrs. Penhallow stood up and apparently at perfect ease said, "You must have had a very tiresome journey."
"Not very," he returned, as he accepted a seat.
Then the little lady sat up and said, "You must pardon me if I say that this consultation has been brought about by my nephew against my husband's wishes."
"And your own?"
"Yes, my own."
"I so understand it. May I say in my defence that I missed your telegram and only saw it when it was sent after me on the train, but now I am here." She had not the courage to say what she would have liked to say, and he went on. "General Hancock saw me a day or two back. What he said of your husband gave me at once a personal interest in him. Isn't it odd how one is brought to realize what a small place our world is? I was at Port Delaware before the war ended and saw there--I was on inspection duty--a Confederate Colonel, Henry Grey--a prisoner. Is he not a relation of the handsome Miss Grey we met on the avenue?"
"My niece. He is my brother."
"Indeed! I gave some advice about his wound--it was not serious. May I talk to you a little about your husband?"
She felt herself cornered, and could not escape without discourtesy, of which she was quite incapable; "Or," he added, "may I not rather talk first to Colonel Penhallow, and later to you? It is, I take it, his view of this very grave matter which naturally influences you."
For the briefest of moments she made no reply. Then she stood up and felt the force conveyed in the personality of George Askew, as he towered over her, a man of unusual height. She looked up at the large kind face the long sad wards knew so well. The lines of thought were deeply graven below a broad forehead thinly crowned with yellow hair now fast greying. He showed no sign of impatience. "Yes," she said, "that will be better--you must see Mr. Penhallow before you talk to me. If he consents to do what you want to do--I--Well, Dr. Askew, I am just now too angry to reason. Have the kindness to follow me."
She was unwilling to give her husband any more choice than John Penhallow had given her. If the Colonel became irritable and declined to accept the visit of this impressive personage as a surgeon, well, that must of course end the matter. But as he went upstairs behind her, there arose in her mind a storm-battered hope.
The surgeon was smiling and so far pleased. He was greatly interested in the case he was about to see. It had excited some discussion as unusual, and the unusual in surgery or medicine has many times been the guide to broad highways of usefulness where the daring of the one has made easy the way for the many. Now he meant to win the confidence of the man, if he proved sane enough to reason. He might also have to make more complete his conquest of this coldly civil hostess. It was for him an old game, and he played it with tact and skill.
She paused at the door. "Pray wait a moment, Doctor. No--he has wakened, I hear him." He stopped her.
"Before we see the Colonel--before I see him--I want you to be heartily in accord with any decision we may reach. There are but two courses which seem to me possible, and I do want you to feel sure that either you will have to watch a mind crumble hopelessly or, if we succeed, see one of those amazing recoveries which are like the dawning of day. I say this most earnestly, because your hearty help may be wanted. If he says _no_ to our decision, his fate may really rest with your will to stand by me."
This was pretty hard, and no time was given for discussion. She looked up at the kind pleading face, and while feeling that she must yield, hesitated--so distinctly hesitated that the surgeon's brow became severely grave as the furrows between the eyes deepened in growing wonder. He took her hand as if to get into some personal touch with a woman whose opposition he could not understand. "You will help me? In this man's condition a word may win or lose a game in which the stake is a life--oh, that is little--or the restoration of a noble, useful mind. I know you will help me."
She looked down, and said faintly, "Yes."
"Thank you." He smiled--"Bless me! what a little hand," he said, as he let it fall.
She opened the door and as he followed her, stepped aside, saying bravely, "Here is a friend, James. You will like to see Dr. Askew."
He took the chair she set at the bedside, while the Colonel regarded him suspiciously, saying, "I think I heard of you after Gettysburg."
"Yes, I took care of General Hancock. A lot of us went down to help. Curious case his--a ball hit the pommel of his saddle and drove a nail into his leg."
"Yes, I heard of it. It was thought they were firing nails--queer that!"
Askew seized on the moment of illumined intelligence, wondering what dull surgeon had set in this man's mind an obsession which forbade all other opinion. "Hancock will suffer long--but now, about you--did no one think you could be relieved by an operation? Take your time to answer me."
Penhallow, groping in the confusion of remote memories, returned, "I seem to recall--yes--it was talked of--" "But not done? Some one is responsible for these years of pain. You do suffer?"
"Oh, my God! yes. I try to bear it." His eyes filled. "Is it too late?"
"No," said Askew, "it is not." What doubt he had he put aside.
"Then we will see to-morrow."
"An operation!" said Ann, alarmed. A look conquered her. "You will do, James, whatever Dr. Askew wishes?"
"I will--but don't make me talk any more, Ann--my head aches."
Askew rose. "Please to send up the Drs. McGregor. May I make use of another room?"
"Yes, of course."
Ann Penhallow found Dr. Tom and his father on the porch with Leila and John. She said, "Take the doctors up to my own room, Leila, and I want to talk with John--there are some arrangements to make."
Leila, guiltily conscious of her share in securing the surgeon's interview with her aunt, was glad to accept the hint and the chance to escape.
Ann sat down beside John, and said, "John, why did you trick me into a talk with Dr. Askew?"
"Because, aunt, you said you would not see him--and it was necessary."
"You took me too literally."
"I took you at your word--something had to be done. If it fails, we are no worse off."
"But it may fail--oh! what if it does, John."
"Aunt Ann, I am in despair. Listen to me; no, I must talk it out. The agreement with uncle's old partners ended with the war. Things at the mills are in confusion--what is to be done? I asked Uncle Jim to give me a power of attorney to act for him. He refused. You supported him. Delay is ruinous, and yet we can do nothing. You are vexed with me--Yes--you have not given me my morning kiss for days. Leila is unreasonably angry with me because that dreadful night I did the only thing possible in my power to stop my uncle. I am most unhappy. I sometimes think I had better go away and look for work as an engineer, and--you did love me once." He rose and walked up and down the porch silent; he had emptied mind and heart. Then he paused before her. She was crying, as she said, "Don't reproach me, John--I can't bear it--I have had to bear too much to-day--and you were so naughty." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "John," she said, "there is to be an operation to-morrow. It is terrible. May the good God be kind to him and us. Now go away--I want to be alone. See that Dr. Askew is well cared for."
"Certainly, Aunt Ann." He had won his battle.
At dinner the doctor was at pains to dispel the gloom which, as he well knew, falls on those who love when one of the critical hours of life approaches. When they left the table he went into the library with the doctors and John, where they smoked many pipes and talked war.
At breakfast next day Askew's account of his early morning drew a smile even from Ann Penhallow. "Sleep! Yes, I suppose I slept. There was a blank of some hours. I am apt to waken early. At dawn there was a bright red-eyed sky, then it clouded as if the eyes had shut. A little later Miss Grey rode away on a chestnut horse. I walked through your garden and an unseen lady gave me this rose-bud. I had a joyful swim. As I came back I saw Captain Penhallow ride away--and why not with you, Miss Grey? You may perceive that I am a dangerous man to entertain. If you do not prefer better society, may I ask to ride with you to-morrow?"
"What better society?" asked Leila.
"Oh, Miss Grey, alone--by herself."
The two young people understood the charitable gaiety of his talk, but although one of them at least was feeling a sudden access of relief the quick jesting chat and laughter became distressing to Ann Penhallow. At last she rose and excused herself, saying, "Another cup? My niece will give it to you."
"One moment," he returned--his face became grave. "I shall operate early this morning. You must go out-of-doors--the porch--I suggest the porch. I shall send down Dr. McGregor to tell you frankly the result of my operation. I want Captain Penhallow, and with him and the two McGregors we shall care for my patient. I hope the doctors will let you see the Colonel in a week. I shall trespass on your hospitality for two days more."
"I could wish it were a week. I shall do precisely what you desire."
John Penhallow caught some signal of amused surprise in Leila's looks. He checked his own smile of partnership in mirth at Ann Penhallow's sudden subjugation, feeling that with Leila the intimacies of mirth were at an end.
Ann took her knitting and went out upon the back porch. "How many rows can I knit until I hear? No, Leila--I want to be alone. Here is a note from Mr. Rivers. The Bishop met him at Harrisburg and carried him off to Philadelphia. I hope there is no scheme to take him away. Now go, dear." She heard the voices of the McGregors as they went upstairs. She sat alone and waited.
Among the friends who know me only through my summer-born books, there must be many who can recall such hours of suspense as Ann Penhallow endured. The clock in the hall struck ten. A little later her keen sense made her aware of the faint odour of ether from the open windows on the second floor. She let fall her work, went down the garden path, and walked with quick steps among the firstlings of June. Then came Tom McGregor swiftly, and in his smiling face she read good news.
"It is all right," he said; "it is over. There was a fracture of the fragile inner layer of the bone--a piece was pressing on the brain--it was easily removed. The doctor is very much pleased. Oh, my dear Mrs. Penhallow, there are better days ahead for you and him. Now, I must go back."
"Thank God!" she said, "and--and you--and--John. God forgive me, I have been a fool!"
The next two days went by without incident. Askew rode, walked, and had no news for her except, "He is doing well." He would say no more. What hours of doubt, of watchful fear, he had, she never knew. On the morning of the third day, while the carriage waited to carry him away, Mrs. Penhallow led him into her library.
"Now," she said, with her cheque-book open before her, "we owe you a debt none can pay, but let me offer you my most humble apologies for my behaviour when you came."
"Please, don't," he returned.
"But I had to. And now, let me know what is our lesser and more material debt?"
He rose, smiling. "It has been my happy, unbroken rule to take nothing from any soldier who served in this sad war--oh! on either side. I have made, I hope, some friends. The Colonel asked to-day about a horse Dixy--I think--and when could he ride. You may imagine my pleasure. He will get well, but you must be patient. I leave him in competent hands, and in the fall I mean to come back and shoot your woodcocks. Good-bye." He was gone.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
33
|
None
|
A week later Ann Penhallow was told that she might see her husband. She entered his bedroom with timidity. "Oh, Ann, my most dear Ann!" he cried, as she kissed him. His expression of recovered intelligence overcame her for a moment.
She faltered, "How are you feeling, James--any better?"
"Better--I am well."
"Hardly, dear--do be careful." She was unable to accept as a wholesome reality this amazing resurrection of a mind.
He understood her need for some reassurance, and said, "Don't worry about me, Ann. It is like a vague dream, all these many months--but a dream you know fades fast. My own memories get clearer--some things are quite lost--some are as distinct as if they happened yesterday. The war is a puzzle to me--and--if I try to remember, it confuses me. But I must not talk war to you--I do remember that. I won't do it again, dear."
There was something so childlike in this that it almost overcame the woman's steadily guarded calm. She had been warned to be careful that there should be no excitement to agitate a mind which was slowly groping its way out of the shadows of half-illumined memories.
"Oh, my dear James," she said quietly, "talk of war or anything; it is over." Despite her cautious command of her voice it trembled with emotion as she said, "Nothing is of any moment but you--you. What do I care for the war or--or anything but to have you as you were? Oh, my God! I am thankful."
It disturbed him, as she saw. He felt and looked puzzled as he said, "I see--I am not quite clear-headed yet, Ann."
"No, but you will be. Don't try too hard, James. We must be patient and wait."
"I will--I will--and it is such a relief to have no pain and to see you."
Then as he asked about Leila and the mill work, the younger doctor came in and said, "Time is up, Mrs. Penhallow."
"What--already, Tom?"
"But I want to know more," said the Colonel. "Wasn't there a rummage-sale--" "Yes; but now you must let Mrs. Penhallow go. You are mending daily. To-morrow Mrs. Penhallow may come again, and there will be to-morrow, and many happy to-morrows." She went out and downstairs singing in a low sweet voice--a long lost habit.
If to watch with an aching heart the hopeless decay of a mind be the most distressing of all human trials, surely there can be few greater joys than to see a disordered intellect emerge day by day into possession of its long lost capacities. James Penhallow was soon able to sign a power of attorney enabling John to reconstruct the old partnership with his own name added to the firm.
Very soon town and county shared in the growth of prosperity which followed the war. Rivers was the only one who was not what his friends desired, and never was his melancholy mood more noticeable.
The master of Grey Pine was, of course, many months in recovering his normal state of mind. The man's bodily strength had not been seriously impaired, and the return of his natural gaiety and his eager resumption one by one of his old habits filled his home with that cheerfulness which is the relieving and precious gift of convalescence. Penhallow's remembrances of the war were rapidly recovered as he talked to John, but much of his recent life was buried in the strange graveyard of memory, which gave up no reminding ghosts of what all who loved the man feared might haunt him.
When satisfied of the certainty of his uncle's recovery John Penhallow hurt by Leila's continual coldness and seeing for it no reasonable explanation gave more and more time to the mills in which the family fortunes were so seriously concerned. On the first of September he was glad to go away on business which carried him to several of the large cities, and resulted in orders which would keep the works busy for many months. He no longer wrote to Leila, nor did he expect letters from her. He considered any nearer relation than friendship to be at an end, but to lose that also seemed to him a quite too needlessly cruel loss, and now for the first time on returning he approached Grey Pine without pleasure. He had telegraphed to have a horse sent to meet him at Westways Crossing, that he might ride on to the mills after seeing his uncle.
Having taken the night train, it was about noon when Leila saw him coming up the avenue. She went forward to the roadside and as he sat in the saddle shook his hand, saying, "I am sorry you were delayed, John. You will be disappointed to know that Uncle Jim and Aunt Ann left home yesterday." She wished that he had not quite so clearly shown the limits of his regret, as he said quietly, "Well, I shall miss them, of course."
"A letter from aunt's brother, Henry Grey, asked them to visit him at the old Maryland home. I think it both pleased and surprised Aunt Ann. I am to join them later. Josiah is to matronize me--or, if you like, patronize me. Uncle Jim was delighted to be asked and hopes to reconcile the brothers. Henry's letter was very kind, but he is still suffering from his wound. Of course, Aunt Ann was happy."
He looked down at the upturned face as he sat in the saddle. She had given him no warm word of personal welcome. "Well, it can't be helped. I had much to talk over with uncle." Then he laughed.
"What amuses you, John?"
"Oh, I should like to see the interview. Both Uncle Jim and I had queer encounters with Henry Grey."
"Uncle Jim! --what--when?"
"Ask him. I should have liked to add George Grey to the party. As for your Uncle Henry"--John smiled--"a serious wound is rather productive of the unexpected, as I know. I will see you at dinner--now I must go on to the mills." He rode away thinking without pleasure of being alone with Leila.
The presence of the maids who waited at dinner kept their conversation on the Colonel's rapid gain in health, village incidents, and the mill life--mere loitering disconnected talk of no interest except to fill the hour of two people who would have preferred to be silent.
John said, as he rose from the table, "I have a letter to write, Leila, and so I must leave you to the better company of your book." Once--but a little while ago--he would have asked what book was now on hand. "Any messages for aunt or uncle?"
"None--I wrote this morning."
He sat down in the library at his old desk and wrote: "Dear Leila"--Then he stood up--the easy freedom of the letter was denied to him. He was in the mood when outspoken speech, always for him the more natural way of expressing himself, became imperative. He went back to the hall.
The book lay face down on her lap. "What is it, John?" she asked.
"I want to talk to you--not here. Come into the library; those maids hear everything."
"Certainly," she said, "if you want me."
She sat down, and John leaning against the mantel and looking down at her, said, "I came in here to write to you what is not easy to write or say--I prefer to put it into speech."
"Indeed! I am quite ready to listen."
"After your recent treatment of me, I have no inclination to make myself needlessly unpleasant. You have made it plain to me that what my heart longs for is to be put aside forever. There is something due to a man's self-respect. But if you were a man, Leila, I could say more easily something else. Are we--am I to lose also your friendship--or is even that at an end?"
The blue eyes became less adventurous as she said, "I don't understand you, John."
"I think you do. Long as I have known you, I cannot have known you fully. Blake used to say that everybody is several people, and just now--here has come into my life some one I don't know--and don't want to know."
"Indeed! It must be rather confusing to be several people. Your friend, Mr. Blake, as your letters showed, was rather given to enigmatical statements. I should like to know him. Would you please, John, to bring me my fan--I left it in that delightful book you interrupted."
"Certainly," he said, now a trifle more at ease. For Leila to ask of any one such a service was so unlike her that he felt it to be a betrayal of embarrassment, and was humorously pleased as he went and came again.
She took the fan and played with that expressive piece of a woman's outfit while John brought the talk back to its starting-point.
"Cannot you be the Leila I used to know--a frank girl; or are you to use one of your many disguises and just leave things as they have been of late?"
"If you will say plainly just what you mean, John"--the fan was in active use--"I will be as frank as possible."
"But you may not like it, Leila."
"Oh, go on. I know you are going to be unpleasant."
He looked at her with surprise. "We are fencing--and I hate it. Once at West Point I was fencing with a man, my friend; the button broke off my foil and I hurt him seriously. He fell dead beside me in the trenches at Vicksburg--dead!"
"Oh, John!" --the fan ceased moving.
"What I mean is that one may chance, you or I, to say something that will leave in memory that which no years will blot out. Don't be vexed with me. I have had a cruel summer. What with Uncle Jim and Aunt Ann--and now with you, I--well--you told me after that dreadful night when Uncle Jim was so wild that I had insulted you--" "Don't talk of it," she cried. "I was put to shame before all those grinning people. You ought to have said nothing--or something better than that farmer boy said--" "Well--perhaps, Leila; but the point is not _what_ I said in my desire to help you and stop a man for the time insane. The point is that I did not insult you; for an insult to be really that it must be intentional."
"Then you think I was unreasonably angry?"
"Yes, I do; and ever since then you have been coldly civil. I cannot stand it. I shall never again ask you for what you cannot give, but if you are to continue to resent what I said, then Grey Pine is no home for me."
She stood up, the fan falling to the floor. "What do you want me to say, John Penhallow?"
"Wait a little--just a word more. It was what poor Uncle Jim said that hurt you. You could not turn on him; in your quite natural dismay or disgust you turned on me, who meant only to help in a dreadful situation. You know I am right"--his voice rose as he went on--"it is I, not you, who am insulted. If you were a man, I should ask for an apology; as you are the woman I have hopelessly loved for years, I will not ask you to say you were wrong--I do not want you to say that. I want you to say you are sorry you hurt me."
"I am sorry I hurt you, John. Will that do?" --her eyes were filling.
"Yes--but--" "But what?"
"Oh, I want you to feel sorry."
"Don't say any more," she returned. "Let us be friends again." She put out her hand, he took it, picked up her fan, laid it on the table, and saying "Thank you!" opened the door towards which she moved and closed it after her.
"And so"--she kept saying to herself--"we are to be no more than friends." She sat still staring across the hall, trying to read. She was fast losing control of the woman who was fenced in by social rule and custom, trained to suppress emotion and to be the steady mistress of insurgent passion. "My God," she murmured, "I should never have been angry when he bought me, if I had not loved him--and now it is all over--perhaps!"
Some readjustment there may have been, for when he reentered the hall an hour later, she was reading. He said, as she looked up, "I mean to have a long tramp to-morrow. I shall start early and walk to the mills and on to the ore-beds. Then I shall return over the hills back of Westways, and bring you, I hope, a few wood-pigeons. I may be a little late for dinner."
"But, John, it is quite twelve miles, and you will have to carry a gun--and your arm--" John laughed happy laughter. "That was so like Aunt Ann!"
"Was it? --and now you will say 'yes, yes, you are quite right,' and walk away and do just as you meant to do, like Uncle Jim."
"I may, but I will not walk further than Grey Pine." The air had cleared--he had done some good!
"Good-night," he said, "it is late."
"Don't go too far, John. I shall read a while. This book is really so interesting. We will talk about it."
"Good-night, once more."
The woman he left in the hall laid her book aside. Her unreasonable vexation had gone, defeated by the quiet statement of his simply confessed unhappiness. She looked about the hall and recalled their youth and the love of which she still felt sure. The manliness of his ways appealed to her sense of the value of character. Why she had been so coldly difficult of approach she did not know. What woman can define that defensive instinct? "He shall ask me again, and I--ah, Heaven! --I love him." A wild passionate longing shook her as she rose to her feet.
At early morning John wandered away through the woods feeling the joyful relief from the hot air of cities. After his visit to the mills and the iron-mines, he struck across a somewhat unfamiliar country, found few birds, and the blackened ravage of an old forest fire. He returned to the well-known river-bank below the garden and the pines, and instead of going to Grey Pine as he had meant to do went on as far as the cabin, failing to get any more birds. He had walked some fourteen miles, and was reminded by a distinct sense of fatigue that the body had not yet regained its former vigour.
It was about five of the warm September day when he came to the old log-house. Smiling as he recalled the memories of his childhood, he went into the cabin and found its shelter pleasant and the cooling air of evening grateful. He took off his game bag, laid it on the floor, set his gun against the wall, and glad of a rest sat down. Having enjoyed his first smoke of the day, he let his head drop on the floor, and by no means intending it fell asleep.
Leila too was in a happier mood, and sure of not meeting John set out to walk through the forest. After a pleasant loitering stroll she stopped at the cabin door, and as she glanced in saw John Penhallow asleep. She leaned against the door post and considered the motionless sleeper in the shadows of the closing day. She was alone with him--alone as never before. He would neither question nor make answer. Strange thoughts came into her mind, disturbing, novel. How could he sleep without a pillow? It must be an army habit after tent-less nights of exhaustion in the deadly trenches. People--men--had tried to kill this living silent thing before her; and he too--he too had wanted to kill. She wondered at that as with the motion of a will-less automaton she drew nearer step by step. Her feet unwatched struck the half-filled game-bag. She stumbled, caught her breath, and had a moment of fear as she hung the bag on the wooden hook upon which as a child she used to hang her sun-bonnet.
Then again some natural yearning moved her, and unresisting as in a dream she drew still nearer--merely a woman in an unguarded moment once again under the control of a great passion which knew no social rule of conduct nor the maiden modesties of a serenely dutiful life. At each approach, she stood still, unashamed, innocent of guile, thrilling with emotion which before in quiet hours had been felt as no more disturbing than the wandering little breezes which scarcely stir the leafage of the young spring. She stood still until she won bodily mastery of this stormy influence with its faintly conveyed sense of maiden terror. Her thoughts wandered as she looked down on the sleeper. In voiceless self-whispered speech she said, "Ah me! he used to be so vexed when I said he was too young to ask me--a woman--to marry him. How young he looks now!" The wounded arm forever crippled lay across his breast. She caught her breath. "I wonder," she thought, "if we get younger in sleep--and then age in the daytime. Good Heavens! he is smiling like a baby. Oh! but I should like to know what he is thinking of." There was unresisted fascination in the little drama of passionate love so long repressed.
She knelt beside him, saw the one great beauty of the hardy bronzed face, the mouth now relaxed, with the perfect lip lines of a young Antinous. She bent over him intent, reading his face as a child reads some forbidden book, reading it feature by feature as a woman reads for the first time with understanding a passionate love-poem. Ah, if he would but open his eyes and then sleep again and never know. He moved, and she drew back ready for flight, shy and startled. And now he was quiet. "I must--I must," she murmured. "His lips? Ah! would they forgive? --and--if, if he wakens, I shall die of shame. Oh, naughty love of mine that was so cruel yesterday, I forgive you!" What would he do--must he do--if he wakened? The risk, the urgent passion of appealing love, gave her approach the quality of a sacred ceremonial. She bent lower, not breathing, fearful, helpless, and dropt on his forehead a kiss, light as the touch a honey-seeking butterfly leaves on an unstirred flower. He moved a little; she rose in alarm and backed to the door. "Oh! why did I?" she said to herself, reproachful for a moment's delicious weakness. She looked back at the motionless sleeper, as she stood in the doorway. "Why did I? --but then he does look so young--and innocent."
Once more in the world of custom, she fled through the forest shadows, and far away sank down panting. She caught up the tumbled downfall of hair, and suddenly another Leila, laughed as she remembered that he would miss the game-bag he had set at his side. How puzzled he would be when he missed it. Amused delight in his wondering search captured her. She saw again the beauty of his mouth and the face above it as she recalled what her Aunt Margaret Grey had mischievously said to her, a girl, of James Penhallow. "He has the one Penhallow beauty--the mouth, but then he has that monumental Penhallow nose--it might be in the way." She had not understood, but now she did, and again laughing went away homeward, not at all unhappy or repentant, for who would ever know, and love is a priest who gives absolution easily.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
34
|
None
|
In her room she went straight to the long cheval glass and looked at Leila Grey. "So, he will never ask me again?" The mirror reported a quite other answer. "Mark Rivers once said conscience runs down at times like a watch. I must have forgotten to wind up mine. How could I have done it!" She blushed a little at the remembrance. "Well, he will never know." She dressed in white summer garb with unusual care and went down the stairs smiling.
"The Captain is not in yet," said the maid.
She waited long for John Penhallow, who had gone up the back stairs, and now at last came down to dinner.
"Excuse me, Leila. I was so very tired that I fell asleep in the old cabin, but I had a noble tramp, and there are some birds, not many; I shot badly." He said no word of the displaced game-bag, which made her uneasy, but talked of the mills and of some trouble at the mines about wages. She pretended to be interested.
After dinner, she said, "You will want to smoke--come into Uncle Jim's library. I like the pipe smell. How Aunt Ann detests it!"
"Has Uncle Jim gone back to his pipe?" he inquired, as she sat down.
"Yes, and Aunt Ann declares that she likes it now."
"How pleasantly you women can fib," remarked John.
She made no reply except, "Well, sometimes." He did not fill his pipe although he lighted in succession two matches and let them burn out.
"Why don't you smoke, John?" This was a vague effort at the self-defence which she felt might be needed, the mood of the hour not being at all like the mood of two hours ago.
"No," he replied, "not yet. Where did you walk--or did you walk?"
"Oh, I took a little stroll through the woods."
"Did you chance to go by the old cabin?" This was very dreadful.
"Oh, one hardly remembers if one passes places seen every day. Why do you ask, John?" --and then knew she was fatally blundering.
"Why? Oh, I fell asleep, and when I woke up my game-bag had mysteriously hung itself on the wall."
"You might have put it there and forgotten it."
"No, some one must have been in the cabin."
"Oh, John, how stupid of us! Why, of course, it was Josiah."
John was in a state of mind to enjoy the game, and shaking his head in negation said, "No, Josiah passed me long before. He had a lot of frogs he caught in Lonesome Man's Swamp."
Miss Leila having exhausted all the possible explanations, said with sweet simplicity, "Did you ever find out the origin of that name? Who was the _lonesome man_? You see, John, lonesome seems to stand for lonely and sad, as Mr. Rivers said." This was rather too clever, but the young woman was so near detection as not to think wisely.
John repeated her words, "Lonely and sad." He had been humorously sure of his prey, but the words she used had the effect of bringing into direct speech the appeal she had been trying to evade and knew was near at hand.
He stood leaning against the mantel, his crippled arm caught in his waistcoat. Repeating her word "lonesome" "more than merely alone"--he put aside his pipe, the companion of many camp-fires. His moment of after-silence caused the blue eyes to question timidly with upward glance as their owner sat below him. He was very grave as he said, "I have come, Leila, to a critical time in my life. I loved you in a boy's unmeaning way; I loved you as a lad and a man. I have said so often in one way or another. You told me at West Point pretty plainly that--oh, you made it clear--that I was a boy asking a woman for her heart. It was years ago."
"John, I--want to--" "Well--later--now I mean to have my say. You were not altogether wrong. I told you that I should ask again when I had more to offer than a boy cadet. Since then I have held my tongue, or said enough to be sure that your reply made clear that my time had not yet come.
"You cannot know how much you have been a part of my life. I went gladly into the war because it was a righteous cause. No man thinks as he goes into action, this is for my country, but--well, Leila, many times when men were falling around me, you have been with me. If a fatal ball had found me, I should have carried with me to another world a thought of you. This is not mere lover's talk. I believe in you--you are a noble-minded woman, worthy of any man's love, but"--and he smiled--"as Josiah put it, you are rather numerous."
"Am I? --I am much obliged by Josiah's study of my character."
"Don't, please, Leila! It is true. I have been as good as my word. I have been through all that can tempt in camps and cities. I was only a young officer, but I have won praise from men whose praise is history. Did you ever think that an honest love may be to a man like a second--an angelic--conscience? By Heaven! Leila, it should make a woman careful."
The woman's eyes had long since been lost to the man's, as with bent head she listened intently, for the first time amazed at what she had been to a man whose ideals were of the highest and his ways beyond reproach. A coy upward lift of the proudly carried head--a mere glance of transient reply--too brief for the man to read--might have meant, "Have not I too been careful of my life!"
He went on slowly. "You and I have not been spared the discipline of responsibility. Action, danger--helps a man. You at home have had the worst of it--you dear, sweet, beautiful thing. It would have made some women peevish or rebellious. You have grown under it in mind and heart, and I think the soul has fed the dear body. To have set you free from Aunt Ann's morbid unreason and the sorrow of Uncle Jim's condition would have been enough to repay my taking over responsibilities which Aunt Ann should have borne."
"John--I--" "No, dear, let me say a word more. I have at last talked myself out--or almost. It is vain to put me aside again. You do not dare to say you do not love me--" "You have not asked me," she murmured.
"No, I said I would not yesterday. A tender word would have brought me to your feet--and I was very sore."
"If you were a woman, you would have understood and--" "Oh, wait a little," he said. "You are going to ask me to marry you, Leila Grey--" She was on her feet. "Take care," he cried, and a smile on the strong battle-tried face arrested her angry outburst.
She said only, "Why? --I ask--you--why indeed?"
"Because, Leila, you owe it to my self-respect--because you have given that which implies love, and all I ask--" She looked up at him with eyes that implored pity, but all she found herself able to say was, "I don't understand."
"You kissed me in the cabin this afternoon--I was not asleep--I had half risen when I heard you, and I fell back in wondering quiet to see what you would do or say when you should wake me up."
She was silent.
"And then you kissed me--" "Oh, John! how wicked of you--why did you keep so still?"
"I waited--longing."
"For what?"
"Hoping you would kiss me again."
"What! twice?" she cried. "How could you think I would kiss you twice--I was so ashamed--" "Well, Leila?"
She began to feel that she was perilously close to tears, as he said softly, "Leila Grey!"
"John Penhallow, will you take me--oh, John! I love you."
He caught her hand and touched it with his lips reverently.
"If," she cried, "if you do not give me back my kiss, I shall die of shame."
He bent over her and kissed her forehead lightly, as though he were in fear of too familiar approach to a thing too sacred for a rude caress. A great surf-like rush of comprehension swept over the woman. "Was I so loved as this--so honoured?" Then she said suddenly, "You are pale--are you in pain?" for she saw him grasp the wounded arm and set his teeth.
"Yes, yes--sometimes--when things happen--it wakes up and reminds me. I shall be better in a moment. Take care"--for her arms were around him--"I think, dear, I am not yet as strong as I shall be--but love is a great tonic, and--I can bear no more to-night. I am in pain. I fear this has been too much for me."
Then he kissed her on lips that took it as a great draft from the fountain of youth and love. "To-morrow, dear, we will ride together--in the morning. Ah, together!"
"Where--Jack?"
"Oh, into fairyland! God bless you! Great Heavens, how beautiful you are! Good-night!"
She fell into a seat as he went out, and heard his feet on the stair--then he stood beside her again.
"Leila, forgive me--I was hard--uncourteous--to make you say--" "Hush!" she cried, between tears and laughter, as she put her hand over his mouth, "no one shall abuse my Jack--not even Captain Penhallow. There, sir! I deserved it." She ran by him, and was gone.
I have not the pass-words into fairyland, and where they rode that morning in September is not within my knowledge; nor can I say what adventures they may have met with. The byways of this enchanted land here and there by ill-luck come near to the haunts of men, who may catch glimpses of such as ride through fairyland unsuspicious of other eyes. Billy neglectful of mails this morning, was on the river bobbing for eels. To be long attentive to anything was for him impossible, wherefore his wandering gaze caught sight for a moment through the fringe of willows of two people riding slowly. He saw with amazement that on horseback in fairyland the feat of kissing is possible.
Some hours later, my lovers, feeling as John wickedly quoted, that "the world is too much with us," rode into Westways to get Billy's neglected mail.
Mr. Crocker, lean and deaf, at ease in charge of the grocery counter, sat unoccupied in his shirt sleeves, while Mrs. Crocker bent over the mail she had sorted. There were letters for the little group of village folk, who read them at once as they sat on the step or as they moved away stumbling along the sidewalk.
Mrs. Crocker sallied out with a batch of letters. "Quite a lot, Captain. Good-morning, Leila."
"Mail these, Mrs. Crocker," said the travellers fresh from fairyland.
"I saw some was from the Squire and some from Mrs. Penhallow--Squire's writing better."
"You wicked Mrs. Crocker," said John, "how much you pick up of folk's secrets, I should like to know--" "Secrets!" laughed Leila. "They can't be read on the outside of letters."
Then Mrs. Crocker on the sidewalk to them on horseback began to talk. John seeing that Leila was interested and amused sat still and listened.
"Secrets," exclaimed the post-mistress, "ain't all inside of letters. They're on the envelopes sometimes. Oh! I've seen 'em in war time, letters that looked like they'd been out in the rain--sort of blistered; and people here in those days just tore open their letters and laughed or cried." Mrs. Crocker caught her breath and paused.
"I know, John," said Leila in a low aside.
"And there used to come back from the front letters marked 'missing' or 'can't be found.' Folks used to come in gay and go away with a letter just crumpled up in a hand. And now it's all over--and up you come right gallant and happy. Here comes old Granny Lamb tottering along. I'd invent a letter from that brute if I could. I tell you, Leila, mother-hope dies hard."
"It is sad--dreadful. Come, John."
"One minute, please," said Mrs. Crocker, "I'm not half done. I tell you, Captain John, there's a heap of human nature comin' and goin' through a post-office. Well, good-bye."
They rode away to Grey Pine exchanging bits from their letters. Their uncle and aunt would be home in a week. "Sooner--if they get the letter I mailed last night," laughed Leila.
"I should like to have seen it."
"No doubt."
At the open avenue gate Josiah was waiting. He saluted in soldier fashion, Penhallow acknowledging the greeting in like manner.
Josiah said, "Wouldn't you just let me have a minute with the Captain?"
Leila laughed. "Certainly." She rode away wondering what Josiah had to report alone to the man who for him was and always would he Captain despite the old custom of the regular army.
"Well, Josiah--nothing wrong, I trust."
"No, sir--everything just entirely right--but first I got to ask your advice. I've had a letter from the Colonel--he just says some things ought to make a man kind of blush."
John had the odd thought that a blush must be the securely private property of a fellow as black as this grey-headed old friend. "What does he say, Josiah?"
"He wants to give me a farm."
"Well, why not--you have earned a dozen."
"I'd like it--but--if you're goin' to marry Miss Leila, I'd rather live with you."
"Good Heavens!" said the traveller out of fairyland, "what put that in your head?"
Josiah smiled. "You'll please to excuse me, Captain--but I thought I ought to tell you about that fool Billy. He was bobbin' for eels--and--he saw you go by--" "Well, what else?"
"He met me and he said, 'Saw Mr. John kissin' Miss Leila!' He was off like a shot singin' out 'Goin' to get married, sure.' It will be all over Westways by noon, sir."
John laughed. "Well, it's true, Josiah--Confound Billy! Well, what more?"
"Oh, I would rather live with you. The Colonel wants to give me a farm--don't want any farm."
"Well, well--we'll see about it later."
"The trouble would be, sir, who's to shave the Colonel?"
"That's serious," said John, as he rode away to rejoin Leila, who had meant to keep their secret from the village until their aunt's return. Three days went by before Ann Penhallow's letter of reply came to hand.
"Well, any more news, Leila?" said John.
"Yes, but not altogether pleasant--I am to leave early tomorrow. Uncle Jim will meet me in Philadelphia--and, oh! I know Aunt Ann well--there will be no end of shopping."
"I should feel worse about it, Leila, but I see by one of my letters that there is some row in Pittsburgh over our last rails. I am not responsible, but I must go to-night and see about it. Isn't it dreadful, Leila?"
The two having come of late into a great inheritance in fairyland demanding close personal attention were at one as regarded absence.
After dinner Leila said, "My order to report to headquarters from heart-quarters was in the second post-script. I have saved the rest of the letter for you."
"Read it, please."
"MY DEAR CHILDREN: You are a pair of young ostriches--you know what they do. Did you suppose a middle-aged ostrich could not use her eyes? I did think it took a quite needless length of time."
"Isn't that absurd, John, as if--" "Well, what more?"
She read on--"I dislike long engagements--" "Now, that is better, Leila."
"Your uncle says you must live at Grey Pine. I said, no--young married people had better be alone. He must build you a house on the river nearer the mills. I am making a list of what furniture you will require--" "There is more of that--much more, John, and a list of things to be done before her return. Isn't that like what aunt was before the war?"
John laughed. "Well, she will have her way."
"More or less," said Leila. "Oh, there's another postscript!"
"Well?"
"I think you should be married about Christmas week. Of course, Mark Rivers will marry you, and I shall ask the Bishop to assist, when I see him on our way home. Don't fail to write to both your uncles."
"It is certainly complete," said John. He left for Pittsburgh that night.
* * * * * I have little to add to this long story. The days went by swiftly, and after a week all of the family, except John, were once more together at Grey Pine. Mark Rivers had also returned. He was too evidently in one of his moods of sombre silentness, but his congratulations were warm and as he sat at dinner he made unusual efforts to be at his agreeable best.
When they left the table, he said, "No, Colonel, I shall not smoke to-night. May I have a few minutes of your time, Mrs. Penhallow?"
"Certainly, Mark--I want to talk to you about the Bible Class--I mean to take it up again." She led the way into her own little library. "Sit down--there is so much to talk over. Of course, you will marry these dear children somewhere about Christmas time."
"No," he said, "I shall be far away."
"Away! Oh, Mark! surely you do not mean to leave us."
"Yes, I am going to live as a missionary among the Indians."
"You cannot--you really cannot--where could you be more useful than here?"
"No, I must go. My life on the whole has been most happy here--and how to thank you I fail to be able to say."
"But why," she urged, "why do you go?"
"Oh--I want--I must have an active life, open air, even risks. The war gave me what I need for entire competence of body and mind to use in my Master's service. But now, the war is at an end--" "Thank God! But all you ask--and more--Mark, except danger, are here--and oh, but we shall miss you, and more than ever when we miss too these children. Think of it--don't make up your mind until James talks to you--" "No, I go to-morrow."
"But it does seem to me, Mark, that you are making a serious change without sufficient consideration of what you lose and we lose."
"Yes, yes," he returned, "I know--but to remain is for me impossible."
"But why?"
He was silent a moment, looking at this dear friend with the over-filled eyes of a troubled and yet resolute manhood. Then he said, "I did not mean to tell you why in my weakness flight alone will save me from what has been to me unbearable here and ever will be."
"Can I in any way help you?"
"No."
"But what is it--trust me a little--what is it?"
He hesitated, and then said, "It is Leila Grey! God pity my weakness, and you will say good-bye and give the Squire this note and them my love." He was gone.
The woman sat still for an hour, pitiful, and understanding the flight of a too sensitive man. Then she gave her husband the note, with her good-night, and no other word. Of why her friend had gone she said later nothing, except to defend him for his obedience to the call of duty. Late that evening John returned.
When after breakfast next day he and Leila were riding through the wood-roads of the forest, John said, "I cannot or I could not see why Mr. Rivers went away so abruptly."
"Nor I," said Leila. Then there was one of those long silences dear to lovers.
"What are you thinking of, Jack?"
"Uncle Jim told me last night the story of the early life of Mark Rivers."
"Tell it to me."
He told it--"But," he continued, "that was not all of him. I have heard Mr. Rivers hold at the closest attention a great crowd of soldiers with that far-carrying voice; and then to hear as he led them singing the old familiar hymns--perhaps a thousand men--oh, it was a thing to remember! And they loved him, Leila, because behind the battle line he was coolly, serviceably brave; and in the hospital wards--well, as tender as--well, as you would have been. I wondered, Leila, why he did not marry again. The first was a mistake, but I suppose he knew that for him to marry would have been wrong, with that sad family history. Probably life never offered him the temptation."
"Perhaps not," said Leila, and they rode out of the woods and over the meadows. "Let us talk of something less sad."
"Well, Leila, a pleasant thing to discuss is Tom McGregor. I suspect him of a fortunate love affair with the daughter of the General at Fortress Monroe."
"Indeed--but what else? Oh, our own great debt to him!"
"Uncle Jim is considering that. We may trust him to be more than generous. Yes, surely. Now for a run over this grass. Can you take that fence?"
"Can I, indeed! Follow me, Jack."
"Anywhere. Everywhere, Leila!"
THE END Books by Dr. S. Weir Mitchell Fiction HUGH WYNNE.
CONSTANCE TRESCOT.
THE YOUTH OF WASHINGTON.
CIRCUMSTANCE.
THE ADVENTURES OF FRANÇOIS.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK.
DR. NORTH AND HIS FRIENDS.
IN WAR TIME.
ROLAND BLAKE.
FAR IN THE FOREST.
CHARACTERISTICS.
WHEN ALL THE WOODS ARE GREEN.
A MADEIRA PARTY.
THE RED CITY.
HEPHZIBAH GUINNESS.
A COMEDY OF CONSCIENCE.
A DIPLOMATIC ADVENTURE.
THE GUILLOTINE CLUB.
JOHN SHERWOOD, IRONMASTER.
WESTWAYS.
Essays.
DOCTOR AND PATIENT.
WEAR AND TEAR. --HINTS FOR THE OVERWORKED.
Poems.
COLLECTED POEMS.
THE WAGER, AND OTHER POEMS.
THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS.
|
{
"id": "14153"
}
|
1
|
None
|
"You believe pretty thoroughly in these things, or you wouldn't abandon the eternal triangle and the other stock subjects of the modern novelists to write the story of Gilles de Rais," and after a silence Des Hermies added, "I do not object to the latrine; hospital; and workshop vocabulary of naturalism. For one thing, the subject matter requires some such diction. Again, Zola, in _L'Assommoir_, has shown that a heavy-handed artist can slap words together hit-or-miss and give an effect of tremendous power. I do not really care how the naturalists maltreat language, but I do strenuously object to the earthiness of their ideas. They have made our literature the incarnation of materialism--and they glorify the democracy of art!
"Say what you will, their theory is pitiful, and their tight little method squeezes all the life out of them. Filth and the flesh are their all in all. They deny wonder and reject the extra-sensual. I don't believe they would know what you meant if you told them that artistic curiosity begins at the very point where the senses leave off.
"You shrug your shoulders, but tell me, how much has naturalism done to clear up life's really troublesome mysteries? When an ulcer of the soul--or indeed the most benign little pimple--is to be probed, naturalism can do nothing. 'Appetite and instinct' seem to be its sole motivation and rut and brainstorm its chronic states. The field of naturalism is the region below the umbilicus. Oh, it's a hernia clinic and it offers the soul a truss!
"I tell you, Durtal, it's superficial quackery, and that isn't all. This fetid naturalism eulogizes the atrocities of modern life and flatters our positively American ways. It ecstasizes over brute force and apotheosizes the cash register. With amazing humility it defers to the nauseating taste of the mob. It repudiates style, it rejects every ideal, every aspiration towards the supernatural and the beyond. It is so perfectly representative of bourgeois thought that it might be sired by Homais and dammed by Lisa, the butcher girl in _Ventre de Paris_."
"Heavens, how you go after it!" said Durtal, somewhat piqued. He lighted his cigarette and went on, "I am as much revolted by materialism as you are, but that is no reason for denying the unforgettable services which naturalism has rendered.
"It has demolished the inhuman puppets of romanticism and rescued our literature from the clutches of booby idealists and sex-starved old maids. It has created visible and tangible human beings--after Balzac--and put them in accord with their surroundings. It has carried on the work, which romanticism began, of developing the language. Some of the naturalists have had the veritable gift of laughter, a very few have had the gift of tears, and, in spite of what you say, they have not all been carried away by an obsession for baseness."
"Yes, they have. They are in love with the age, and that shows them up for what they are."
"Do you mean to tell me Flaubert and the De Goncourts were in love with the age?"
"Of course not. But those men were artists, honest, seditious, and aloof, and I put them in a class by themselves. I will also grant that Zola is a master of backgrounds and masses and that his tricky handling of people is unequalled. Then, too, thank God, he has never followed out, in his novels, the theories enunciated in his magazine articles, adulating the intrusion of positivism upon art. But in the works of his best pupil, Rosny, the only talented novelist who is really imbued with the ideas of the master, naturalism has become a sickening jargon of chemist's slang serving to display a layman's erudition, which is about as profound as the scientific knowledge of a shop foreman. No, there is no getting around it. Everything this whole poverty-stricken school has produced shows that our literature has fallen upon evil days. The grovellers! They don't rise above the moral level of the tumblebug. Read the latest book. What do you find? Simple anecdotes: murder, suicide, and accident histories copied right out of the newspaper, tiresome sketches and wormy tales, all written in a colorless style and containing not the faintest hint of an outlook on life nor an appreciation of human nature. When I have waded through one of these books its insipid descriptions and interminable harangues go instantly out of my mind, and the only impression that remains is one of surprise that a man can write three or four hundred pages when he has absolutely nothing to reveal to us--nothing to say!"
"If it's all the same to you, Des Hermies, let's speak of something else. We shall never agree on the subject of naturalism, as the very mention of it makes you see red. What about this Mattei system of medicine? Your globules and electric phials at least relieve a few sufferers?"
"Hmph. A little better than the panaceas of the Codex, though I can't say the effects are either lasting or sure. But, it serves, like anything else. And now I must run along. The clock is striking ten and your concierge is coming to put out the hall light. See you again very soon, I hope. Good night."
When the door closed Durtal put some more coke in the grate and resumed a comfortless train of thought aggravated by this too pertinent discussion with his friend. For some months Durtal had been trying to reassemble the fragments of a shattered literary theory which had once seemed inexpugnable, and Des Hermies's opinions troubled him, in spite of their exaggerated vehemence.
Certainly if naturalism confined one to monotonous studies of mediocre persons and to interminable inventories of the objects in a drawing-room or a landscape, an honest and clear-sighted artist would soon cease to produce, and a less conscientious workman would be under the necessity of repeating himself over and over again to the point of nausea. Nevertheless Durtal could see no possibilities for the novelist outside of naturalism. Were we to go back to the pyrotechnics of romanticism, rewrite the lanuginous works of the Cherbuliez and Feuillet tribe, or, worse yet, imitate the lachrymose storiettes of Theuriet and George Sand? Then what was to be done? And Durtal, with desperate determination, set to work sorting out a tangle of confused theories and inchoate postulations. He made no headway. He felt but could not define. He was afraid to. Definition of his present tendencies would plump him back into his old dilemma.
"We must," he thought, "retain the documentary veracity, the precision of detail, the compact and sinewy language of realism, but we must also dig down into the soul and cease trying to explain mystery in terms of our sick senses. If possible the novel ought to be compounded of two elements, that of the soul and that of the body, and these ought to be inextricably bound together as in life. Their interreactions, their conflicts, their reconciliation, ought to furnish the dramatic interest. In a word, we must follow the road laid out once and for all by Zola, but at the same time we must trace a parallel route in the air by which we may go above and beyond.... A spiritual naturalism! It must be complete, powerful, daring in a different way from anything that is being attempted at present. Perhaps as approaching my concept I may cite Dostoyevsky. Yet that _exorable_ Russian is less an elevated realist than an evangelic socialist. In France right now the purely corporal recipe has brought upon itself such discredit that two clans have arisen: the liberal, which prunes naturalism of all its boldness of subject matter and diction in order to fit it for the drawing-room, and the decadent, which gets completely off the ground and raves incoherently in a telegraphic patois intended to represent the language of the soul--intended rather to divert the reader's attention from the author's utter lack of ideas. As for the right wing verists, I can only laugh at the frantic puerilities of these would-be psychologists, who have never explored an unknown district of the mind nor ever studied an unhackneyed passion. They simply repeat the saccharine Feuillet and the saline Stendhal. Their novels are dissertations in school-teacher style. They don't seem to realize that there is more spiritual revelation in that one reply of old Hulot, in Balzac's _Cousine Bette_, 'Can't I take the little girl along?' than in all their doctoral theses. We must expect of them no idealistic straining toward the infinite. For me, then, the real psychologist of this century is not their Stendhal but that astonishing Ernest Hello, whose unrelenting unsuccess is simply miraculous!"
He began to think that Des Hermies was right. In the present disorganized state of letters there was but one tendency which seemed to promise better things. The unsatisfied need for the supernatural was driving people, in default of something loftier, to spiritism and the occult.
Now his thoughts carried him away from his dissatisfaction with literature to the satisfaction he had found in another art, in painting. His ideal was completely realized by the Primitives. These men, in Italy, Germany, and especially in Flanders, had manifested the amplitude and purity of vision which are the property of saintliness. In authentic and patiently accurate settings they pictured beings whose postures were caught from life itself, and the illusion was compelling and sure. From these heads, common enough, many of them, and these physiognomies, often ugly but powerfully evocative, emanated celestial joy or acute anguish, spiritual calm or turmoil. The effect was of matter transformed, by being distended or compressed, to afford an escape from the senses into remote infinity.
Durtal's introduction to this naturalism had come as a revelation the year before, although he had not then been so weary as now of _fin de siècle_ silliness. In Germany, before a Crucifixion by Matthæus Grünewald, he had found what he was seeking.
He shuddered in his armchair and closed his eyes as if in pain. With extraordinary lucidity he revisualized the picture, and the cry of admiration wrung from him when he had entered the little room of the Cassel museum was reechoing in his mind as here, in his study, the Christ rose before him, formidable, on a rude cross of barky wood, the arm an untrimmed branch bending like a bow under the weight of the body.
This branch seemed about to spring back and mercifully hurl afar from our cruel, sinful world the suffering flesh held to earth by the enormous spike piercing the feet. Dislocated, almost ripped out of their sockets, the arms of the Christ seemed trammelled by the knotty cords of the straining muscles. The laboured tendons of the armpits seemed ready to snap. The fingers, wide apart, were contorted in an arrested gesture in which were supplication and reproach but also benediction. The trembling thighs were greasy with sweat. The ribs were like staves, or like the bars of a cage, the flesh swollen, blue, mottled with flea-bites, specked as with pin-pricks by spines broken off from the rods of the scourging and now festering beneath the skin where they had penetrated.
Purulence was at hand. The fluvial wound in the side dripped thickly, inundating the thigh with blood that was like congealing mulberry juice. Milky pus, which yet was somewhat reddish, something like the colour of grey Moselle, oozed from the chest and ran down over the abdomen and the loin cloth. The knees had been forced together and the rotulæ touched, but the lower legs were held wide apart, though the feet were placed one on top of the other. These, beginning to putrefy, were turning green beneath a river of blood. Spongy and blistered, they were horrible, the flesh tumefied, swollen over the head of the spike, and the gripping toes, with the horny blue nails, contradicted the imploring gesture of the hands, turning that benediction into a curse; and as the hands pointed heavenward, so the feet seemed to cling to earth, to that ochre ground, ferruginous like the purple soil of Thuringia.
Above this eruptive cadaver, the head, tumultuous, enormous, encircled by a disordered crown of thorns, hung down lifeless. One lacklustre eye half opened as a shudder of terror or of sorrow traversed the expiring figure. The face was furrowed, the brow seamed, the cheeks blanched; all the drooping features wept, while the mouth, unnerved, its under jaw racked by tetanic contractions, laughed atrociously.
The torture had been terrific, and the agony had frightened the mocking executioners into flight.
Against a dark blue night-sky the cross seemed to bow down, almost to touch the ground with its tip, while two figures, one on each side, kept watch over the Christ. One was the Virgin, wearing a hood the colour of mucous blood over a robe of wan blue. Her face was pale and swollen with weeping, and she stood rigid, as one who buries his fingernails deep into his palms and sobs. The other figure was that of Saint John, like a gipsy or sunburnt Swabian peasant, very tall, his beard matted and tangled, his robe of a scarlet stuff cut in wide strips like slabs of bark. His mantle was a chamois yellow; the lining, caught up at the sleeves, showed a feverish yellow as of unripe lemons. Spent with weeping, but possessed of more endurance than Mary, who was yet erect but broken and exhausted, he had joined his hands and in an access of outraged loyalty had drawn himself up before the corpse, which he contemplated with his red and smoky eyes while he choked back the cry which threatened to rend his quivering throat.
Ah, this coarse, tear-compelling Calvary was at the opposite pole from those debonair Golgothas adopted by the Church ever since the Renaissance. This lockjaw Christ was not the Christ of the rich, the Adonis of Galilee, the exquisite dandy, the handsome youth with the curly brown tresses, divided beard, and insipid doll-like features, whom the faithful have adored for four centuries. This was the Christ of Justin, Basil, Cyril, Tertullian, the Christ of the apostolic church, the vulgar Christ, ugly with the assumption of the whole burden of our sins and clothed, through humility, in the most abject of forms.
It was the Christ of the poor, the Christ incarnate in the image of the most miserable of us He came to save; the Christ of the afflicted, of the beggar, of all those on whose indigence and helplessness the greed of their brother battens; the human Christ, frail of flesh, abandoned by the Father until such time as no further torture was possible; the Christ with no recourse but His Mother, to Whom--then powerless to aid Him--He had, like every man in torment, cried out with an infant's cry.
In an unsparing humility, doubtless, He had willed to suffer the Passion with all the suffering permitted to the human senses, and, obeying an incomprehensible ordination, He, in the time of the scourging and of the blows and of the insults spat in His face, had put off divinity, nor had He resumed it when, after these preliminary mockeries, He entered upon the unspeakable torment of the unceasing agony. Thus, dying like a thief, like a dog, basely, vilely, physically, He had sunk himself to the deepest depth of fallen humanity and had not spared Himself the last ignominy of putrefaction.
Never before had naturalism transfigured itself by such a conception and execution. Never before had a painter so charnally envisaged divinity nor so brutally dipped his brush into the wounds and running sores and bleeding nail holes of the Saviour. Grünewald had passed all measure. He was the most uncompromising of realists, but his morgue Redeemer, his sewer Deity, let the observer know that realism could be truly transcendent. A divine light played about that ulcerated head, a superhuman expression illuminated the fermenting skin of the epileptic features. This crucified corpse was a very God, and, without aureole, without nimbus, with none of the stock accoutrements except the blood-sprinkled crown of thorns, Jesus appeared in His celestial super-essence, between the stunned, grief-torn Virgin and a Saint John whose calcined eyes were beyond the shedding of tears.
These faces, by nature vulgar, were resplendent, transfigured with the expression of the sublime grief of those souls whose plaint is not heard. Thief, pauper, and peasant had vanished and given place to supraterrestial creatures in the presence of their God.
Grünewald was the most uncompromising of idealists. Never had artist known such magnificent exaltation, none had ever so resolutely bounded from the summit of spiritual altitude to the rapt orb of heaven. He had gone to the two extremes. From the rankest weeds of the pit he had extracted the finest essence of charity, the mordant liquor of tears. In this canvas was revealed the masterpiece of an art obeying the unopposable urge to render the tangible and the invisible, to make manifest the crying impurity of the flesh and to make sublime the infinite distress of the soul.
It was without its equivalent in literature. A few pages of Anne Emmerich upon the Passion, though comparatively attenuated, approached this ideal of supernatural realism and of veridic and exsurrected life. Perhaps, too, certain effusions of Ruysbroeck, seeming to spurt forth in twin jets of black and white flame, were worthy of comparison with the divine befoulment of Grünewald. Hardly, either. Grünewald's masterpiece remained unique. It was at the same time infinite and of earth earthy.
"But," said Durtal to himself, rousing out of his revery, "if I am consistent I shall have to come around to the Catholicism of the Middle Ages, to _mystic_ naturalism. Ah, no! I will not--and yet, perhaps I may!"
Here he was in the old dilemma. How often before now had he halted on the threshold of Catholicism, sounding himself thoroughly and finding always that he had no faith. Decidedly there had been no effort on the part of God to reclaim him, and he himself had never possessed the kind of will that permits one to let oneself go, trustingly, without reserve, into the sheltering shadows of immutable dogma.
Momentarily at times when, after reading certain books, his disgust for everyday life was accentuated, he longed for lenitive hours in a cloister, where the monotonous chant of prayers in an incense-laden atmosphere would bring on a somnolence, a dreamy rapture of mystical ideas. But only a simple soul, on which life's wear and tear had left no mark, was capable of savouring the delights of such a self-abandon, and his own soul was battered and torn with earthly conflict. He must admit that the momentary desire to believe, to take refuge in the timeless, proceeded from a multitude of ignoble motives: from lassitude with the petty and repeated annoyances of existence, quarrels with the laundress, with the waiter, with the landlord; the sordid scramble for money; in a word, from the general spiritual failure of a man approaching forty. He thought of escaping into a monastery somewhat as street girls think of going into a house where they will be free from the dangers of the chase, from worry about food and lodging, and where they will not have to do their own washing and ironing.
Unmarried, without settled income, the voice of carnality now practically stilled in him, he sometimes cursed the existence he had shaped for himself. At times, weary of attempting to coerce words to do his bidding, he threw down his pen and looked into the future. He could see nothing ahead of him but bitterness and cause for alarm, and, seeking consolation, he was forced to admit that only religion could heal, but religion demanded in return so arrant a desertion of common sense, so pusillanimous a willingness to be astonished at nothing, that he threw up his hands and begged off.
Yet he was always playing with the thought, indeed he could not escape it. For though religion was without foundation it was also without limit and promised a complete escape from earth into dizzy, unexplored altitudes. Then, too, Durtal was attracted to the Church by its intimate and ecstatic art, the splendour of its legends, and the radiant naïveté of the histories of its saints.
He did not believe, and yet he admitted the supernatural. Right here on earth how could any of us deny that we are hemmed in by mystery, in our homes, in the street,--everywhere when we came to think of it? It was really the part of shallowness to ignore those extrahuman relations and account for the unforeseen by attributing to fate the more than inexplicable. Did not a chance encounter often decide the entire life of a man? What was love, what the other incomprehensible shaping influences? And, knottiest enigma of all, what was money?
There one found oneself confronted by primordial organic law, atrocious edicts promulgated at the very beginning of the world and applied ever since.
The rules were precise and invariable. Money attracted money, accumulating always in the same places, going by preference to the scoundrelly and the mediocre. When, by an inscrutable exception, it heaped up in the coffers of a rich man who was not a miser nor a murderer, it stood idle, incapable of resolving itself into a force for good, however charitable the hands which fain would administer it. One would say it was angry at having got into the wrong box and avenged itself by going into voluntary paralysis when possessed by one who was neither a sharper nor an ass.
It acted still more strangely when by some extraordinary chance it strayed into the home of a poor man. Immediately it defiled the clean, debauched the chaste, and, acting simultaneously on the body and the soul, it insinuated into its possessor a base selfishness, an ignoble pride; it suggested that he spend for himself alone; it made the humble man a boor, the generous man a skinflint. In one second it changed every habit, revolutionized every idea, metamorphosed the most deeply rooted passions.
It was the instigator and vigilant accomplice of all the important sins. If it permitted one of its detainers to forget himself and bestow a boon it awakened hatred in the recipient, it replaced avarice with ingratitude and re-established equilibrium so that the account might balance and not one sin of commission be wanting.
But it reached its real height of monstrosity when, concealing its identity under an assumed name, it entitled itself capital. Then its action was not limited to individual incitation to theft and murder but extended to the entire human race. With one word capital decided monopolies, erected banks, cornered necessities, and, if it wished, caused thousands of human beings to starve to death.
And it grew and begot itself while slumbering in a safe, and the Two Worlds adored it on bended knee, dying of desire before it as before a God.
Well! money was the devil, otherwise its mastery of souls was inexplicable. And how many other mysteries, equally unintelligible, how many other phenomena were there to make a reflective man shudder!
"But," thought Durtal, "seeing that there are so many more things betwixt heaven and earth than are dreamed of in anybody's philosophy, why not believe in the Trinity? Why reject the divinity of Christ? It is no strain on one to admit the _Credo quia absurdum_ of Saint Augustine and Tertullian and say that if the supernatural were comprehensible it would not be supernatural, and that precisely because it passes the faculties of man it is divine.
"And--oh, to hell with it! What's it all about, anyway?"
And again, as so often when he had found himself before this unbridgeable gulf between reason and belief, he recoiled from the leap.
Well, his thoughts had strayed far from the subject of that naturalism so reviled by Des Hermies. He returned to Grünewald and said to himself that the great Crucifixion was the masterpiece of an art driven out of bounds. One need not go far in search of the extra-terrestrial as to fall into perfervid Catholicism. Perhaps spiritualism would give one all one required to formulate a supernaturalistic method.
He rose and went into his tiny workroom. His pile of manuscript notes about the Marshal de Rais, surnamed Bluebeard, looked at him derisively from the table where they were piled.
"All the same," he said, "it's good to be here, in out of the world and above the limits of time. To live in another age, never read a newspaper, not even know that the theatres exist--ah, what a dream! To dwell with Bluebeard and forget the grocer on the corner and all the other petty little criminals of an age perfectly typified by the café waiter who ravishes the boss's daughter--the goose who lays the golden egg, as he calls her--so that she will have to marry him!"
Bed was a good place, he added, smiling, for he saw his cat, a creature with a perfect time sense, regarding him uneasily as if to remind him of their common convenience and to reproach him for not having prepared the couch. Durtal arranged the pillows and pulled back the coverlet, and the cat jumped to the foot of the bed but remained humped up, tail coiled beneath him, waiting till his master was stretched out at length before burrowing a little hollow to curl up in.
|
{
"id": "14323"
}
|
2
|
None
|
Nearly two years ago Durtal had ceased to associate with men of letters. They were represented in books and in the book-chat columns of magazines as forming an aristocracy which had a monopoly on intelligence. Their conversation, if one believed what one read, sparkled with effervescent and stimulating wit. Durtal had difficulty accounting to himself for the persistence of this illusion. His sad experience led him to believe that every literary man belonged to one of two classes, the thoroughly commercial or the utterly impossible.
The first consisted of writers spoiled by the public, and drained dry in consequence, but "successful." Ravenous for notice they aped the ways of the world of big business, delighted in gala dinners, gave formal evening parties, spoke of copyrights, sales, and long run plays, and made great display of wealth.
The second consisted of café loafers, "bohemians." Rolling on the benches, gorged with beer they feigned an exaggerated modesty and at the same time cried their wares, aired their genius, and abused their betters.
There was now no place where one could meet a few artists and privately, intimately, discuss ideas at ease. One was at the mercy of the café crowd or the drawing-room company. One's interlocutor was listening avidly to steal one's ideas, and behind one's back one was being vituperated. And the women were always intruding.
In this indiscriminate world there was no illuminating criticism, nothing but small talk, elegant or inelegant.
Then Durtal learned, also by experience, that one cannot associate with thieves without becoming either a thief or a dupe, and finally he broke off relations with his confrères.
He not only had no sympathy but no common topic of conversation with them. Formerly when he accepted naturalism--airtight and unsatisfactory as it was--he had been able to argue esthetics with them, but now!
"The point is," Des Hermies was always telling him, "that there is a basic difference between you and the other realists, and no patched-up alliance could possibly be of long duration. You execrate the age and they worship it. There is the whole matter. You were fated some day to get away from this Americanized art and attempt to create something less vulgar, less miserably commonplace, and infuse a little spirituality into it.
"In all your books you have fallen on our _fin de siècle_--our _queue du siècle_--tooth and nail. But, Lord! a man soon gets tired of whacking something that doesn't fight back but merely goes its own way repeating its offences. You needed to escape into another epoch and get your bearings while waiting for a congenial subject to present itself. That explains your spiritual disarray of the last few months and your immediate recovery as soon as you stumbled onto Giles de Rais."
Des Hermies had diagnosed him accurately. The day on which Durtal had plunged into the frightful and delightful latter mediæval age had been the dawn of a new existence. The flouting of his actual surroundings brought peace to Durtal's soul, and he had completely reorganized his life, mentally cloistering himself, far from the furore of contemporary letters, in the château de Tiffauges with the monster Bluebeard, with whom he lived in perfect accord, even in mischievous amity.
Thus history had for Durtal supplanted the novel, whose forced banality, conventionality, and tidy structure of plot simply griped him. Yet history, too, was only a peg for a man of talent to hang style and ideas on, for events could not fail to be coloured by the temperament and distorted by the bias of the historian.
As for the documents and sources! Well attested as they might be, they were all subject to revision, even to contradiction by others exhumed later which were no less authentic than the first and which also but waited their turn to be refuted by newer discoveries.
In the present rage for grubbing around in dusty archives writing of history served as an outlet for the pedantry of the moles who reworked their mouldy findings and were duly rewarded by the Institute with medals and diplomas.
For Durtal history was, then, the most pretentious as it was the most infantile of deceptions. Old Clio ought to be represented with a sphinx's head, mutton-chop whiskers, and one of those padded bonnets which babies wore to keep them from bashing their little brains out when they took a tumble.
Of course exactitude was impossible. Why should he dream of getting at the whole truth about the Middle Ages when nobody had been able to give a full account of the Revolution, of the Commune for that matter? The best he could do was to imagine himself in the midst of creatures of that other epoch, wearing their antique garb, thinking their thoughts, and then, having saturated himself with their spirit, to convey his illusion by means of adroitly selected details.
That is practically what Michelet did, and though the garrulous old gossip drivelled endlessly about matters of supreme unimportance and ecstasized in his mild way over trivial anecdotes which he expanded beyond all proportion, and though his sentimentality and chauvinism sometimes discredited his quite plausible conjectures, he was nevertheless the only French historian who had overcome the limitation of time and made another age live anew before our eyes.
Hysterical, garrulous, manneristic as he was, there was yet a truly epic sweep in certain passages of his History of France. The personages were raised from the oblivion into which the dry-as-dust professors had sunk them, and became live human beings. What matter, then, if Michelet was the least trustworthy of historians since he was the most personal and the most evocative?
As for the others, they simply ferreted around among the old state papers, clipped them, and, following M. Taine's example, arranged, ticketed, and mounted their sensational gleanings in logical sequence, rejecting, of course, everything that did not advance the case they were trying to make. They denied themselves imagination and enthusiasm and claimed that they did not invent. True enough, but they did none the less distort history by the selection they employed. And how simply and summarily they disposed of things! It was discovered that such and such an event occurred in France in several communities, and straightway it was decided that the whole country lived, acted, and thought in a certain manner at a certain hour, on a certain day, in a certain year.
No less than Michelet they were doughty falsifiers, but they lacked his vision. They dealt in knickknacks, and their trivialities were as far from creating a unified impression as were the pointillistic puzzles of modern painters and the word hashes cooked up by the decadent poets.
And worst of all, thought Durtal, the biographers. The depilators! taking all the hair off a real man's chest. They wrote ponderous tomes to prove that Jan Steen was a teetotaler. Somebody had deloused Villon and shown that the Grosse Margot of the ballade was not a woman but an inn sign. Pretty soon they would be representing the poet as a priggishly honest and judicious man. One would say that in writing their monographs these historians feared to dishonour themselves by treating of artists who had tasted somewhat fully and passionately of life. Hence the expurgation of masterpieces that an artist might appear as commonplace a bourgeois as his commentator.
This rehabilitation school, today all-powerful, exasperated Durtal. In writing his study of Gilles de Rais he was not going to fall into the error of these bigoted sustainers of middle-class morality. With his ideas of history he could not claim to give an exact likeness of Bluebeard, but he was not going to concede to the public taste for mediocrity in well-and evil-doing by whitewashing the man.
Durtal's material for this study consisted of: a copy of the memorial addressed by the heirs of Gilles de Rais to the king, notes taken from the several true copies at Paris of the proceedings in the criminal trial at Nantes, extracts from Vallet de Viriville's history of Charles VII, finally the _Notice_ by Armand Guéraut and the biography of the abbé Bossard. These sufficed to bring before Durtal's eyes the formidable figure of that Satanic fifteenth century character who was the most artistically, exquisitely cruel, and the most scoundrelly of men.
No one knew of the projected study but Des Hermies, whom Durtal saw nearly every day.
They had met in the strangest of homes, that of Chantelouve, the Catholic historian, who boasted of receiving all classes of people. And every week in the social season that drawing-room in the rue de Bagneux was the scene of a heterogeneous gathering of under sacristans, café poets, journalists, actresses, partisans of the cause of Naundorff,[1] and dabblers in equivocal sciences.
[Footnote 1: A watchmaker who at the time of the July monarchy attempted to pass himself off for Louis XVII.]
This salon was on the edge of the clerical world, and many religious came here at the risk of their reputations. The dinners were discriminately, if unconventionally, ordered. Chantelouve, rotund, jovial, bade everyone make himself at home. Now and then through his smoked spectacles there stole an ambiguous look which might have given an analyst pause, but the man's bonhomie, quite ecclesiastical, was instantly disarming. Madame was no beauty, but possessed a certain bizarre charm and was always surrounded. She, however, remained silent and did nothing to encourage her voluble admirers. As void of prudery as her husband, she listened impassively, absently, with her thoughts evidently afar, to the boldest of conversational imprudences.
At one of these evening parties, while La Rousseil, recently converted, howled a hymn, Durtal, sitting in a corner having a quiet smoke, had been struck by the physiognomy and bearing of Des Hermies, who stood out sharply from the motley throng of defrocked priests and grubby poets packed into Chantelouve's library and drawing-room.
Among these smirking and carefully composed faces, Des Hermies, evidently a man of forceful individuality, seemed, and probably felt, singularly out of place. He was tall, slender, somewhat pale. His eyes, narrowed in a frown, had the cold blue gleam of sapphires. The nose was short and sharp, the cheeks smooth shaven. With his flaxen hair and Vandyke he might have been a Norwegian or an Englishman in not very good health. His garments were of London make, and the long, tight, wasp-waisted coat, buttoned clear up to the neck, seemed to enclose him like a box. Very careful of his person, he had a manner all his own of drawing off his gloves, rolling them up with an almost inaudible crackling, then seating himself, crossing his long, thin legs, and leaning over to the right, reaching into the patch pocket on his left side and bringing forth the embossed Japanese pouch which contained his tobacco and cigarette papers.
He was methodic, guarded, and very cold in the presence of strangers. His superior and somewhat bored attitude, not exactly relieved by his curt, dry laugh, awakened, at a first meeting, a serious antipathy which he sometimes justified by venomous words, by meaningless silences, by unspoken innuendoes. He was respected and feared at Chantelouve's, but when one came to know him one found, beneath his defensive shell, great warmth of heart and a capacity for true friendship of the kind that is not expansive but is capable of sacrifice and can always be relied upon.
How did he live? Was he rich or just comfortable? No one knew, and he, tight lipped, never spoke of his affairs. He was doctor of the Faculty of Paris--Durtal had chanced to see his diploma--but he spoke of medicine with great disdain. He said he had become convinced of the futility of all he had been taught, and had thrown it over for homeopathy, which in turn he had thrown over for a Bolognese system, and this last he was now excoriating.
There were times when Durtal could not doubt that his friend was an author, for Des Hermies spoke understandingly of tricks of the trade which one learns only after long experience, and his literary judgment was not that of a layman. When, one day, Durtal reproached him for concealing his productions, he replied with a certain melancholy, "No, I caught myself in time to choke down a base instinct, the desire of resaying what has been said. I could have plagiarized Flaubert as well as, if not better than, the poll parrots who are doing it, but I decided not to. I would rather phrase abstruse medicaments of rare application; perhaps it is not very necessary, but at least it isn't cheap."
What surprised Durtal was his friend's prodigious erudition. Des Hermies had the run of the most out-of-the-way book shops, he was an authority on antique customs and, at the same time, on the latest scientific discoveries. He hobnobbed with all the freaks in Paris, and from them he became deeply learned in the most diverse and hostile sciences. He, so cold and correct, was almost never to be found save in the company of astrologers, cabbalists, demonologists, alchemists, theologians, or inventors.
Weary of the advances and the facile intimacies of artists, Durtal had been attracted by this man's fastidious reserve. It was perfectly natural that Durtal, surfeited with skin-deep friendships, should feel drawn to Des Hermies, but it was difficult to imagine why Des Hermies, with his taste for strange associations, should take a liking to Durtal, who was the soberest, steadiest, most normal of men. Perhaps Des Hermies felt the need of talking with a sane human being now and then as a relief. And, too, the literary discussions which he loved were out of the question with these addlepates who monologued indefatigably on the subject of their monomania and their ego.
At odds, like Durtal, with his confrères, Des Hermies could expect nothing from the physicians, whom he avoided, nor from the specialists with whom he consorted.
As a matter of fact there had been a juncture of two beings whose situation was almost identical. At first restrained and on the defensive, they had come finally to _tu-toi_ each other and establish a relation which had been a great advantage to Durtal. His family were dead, the friends of his youth married and scattered, and since his withdrawal from the world of letters he had been reduced to complete solitude. Des Hermies kept him from going stale and then, finding that Durtal had not lost all interest in mankind, promised to introduce him to a really lovable old character. Of this man Des Hermies spoke much, and one day he said, "You really ought to know him. He likes the books of yours which I have lent him, and he wants to meet you. You think I am interested only in obscure and twisted natures. Well, you will find Carhaix really unique. He is the one Catholic with intelligence and without sanctimoniousness; the one poor man with envy and hatred for none."
|
{
"id": "14323"
}
|
3
|
None
|
Durtal was in a situation familiar to all bachelors who have the concierge do their cleaning. Only these know how a tiny lamp can fairly drink up oil, and how the contents of a bottle of cognac can become paler and weaker without ever diminishing. They know, too, how a once comfortable bed can become forbidding, and how scrupulously a concierge can respect its least fold or crease. They learn to be resigned and to wash out a glass when they are thirsty and make their own fire when they are cold.
Durtal's concierge was an old man with drooping moustache and a powerful breath of "three-six." Indolent and placid, he opposed an unbudgeable inertia to Durtal's frantic and profanely expressed demand that the sweeping be done at the same hour every morning.
Threats, prayers, insults, the withholding of gratuities, were without effect. Père Rateau took off his cap, scratched his head, promised, in the tone of a man much moved, to mend his ways, and next day came later than ever.
"What a nuisance!" thought Durtal today, as he heard a key turning in the lock, then he looked at his watch and observed that once again the concierge was arriving after three o'clock in the afternoon.
There was nothing for it but to submit with a sigh to the ensuing hullabaloo. Rateau, somnolent and pacific in his lodge, became a demon when he got a broom in his hand. In this sedentary being, who could drowse all morning in the stale basement atmosphere heavy with the cumulative aroma of many meat-stews, a martial ardour, a warlike ferocity, then asserted themselves, and like a red revolutionary he assaulted the bed, charged the chairs, manhandled the picture frames, knocked the tables over, rattled the water pitcher, and whirled Durtal's brogues about by the laces as when a pillaging conqueror hauls a ravished victim along by the hair. So he stormed the apartment like a barricade and triumphantly brandished his battle standard, the dust rag, over the reeking carnage of the furniture.
Durtal at such times sought refuge in the room which was not being attacked. Today Rateau launched his offensive against the workroom, so Durtal fled to the bedroom. From there, through the half open door, he could see the enemy, with a feather duster like a Mohican war bonnet over his head, doing a scalp dance around a table.
"If I only knew at what time that pest would break in on me so I could always arrange to be out!" groaned Durtal. Now he ground his teeth, as Rateau, with a yell, grabbed up the mop and, skating around on one leg, belaboured the floor lustily.
The perspiring conqueror then appeared in the doorway and advanced to reduce the chamber where Durtal was. The latter had to return to the subjugated workroom, and the cat, shocked by the racket, arched its back and, rubbing against its master's legs, followed him to a place of safety.
In the thick of the conflict Des Hermies rang the door bell.
"I'll put on my shoes," cried Durtal, "and we'll get out of this. Look--" he passed his hand over the table and brought back a coat of grime that made him appear to be wearing a grey glove--"look. That brute turns the house upside down and knocks everything to pieces, and here's the result. He leaves more dust when he goes than he found when he came in!"
"Bah," said Des Hermies, "dust isn't a bad thing. Besides having the taste of ancient biscuit and the smell of an old book, it is the floating velvet which softens hard surfaces, the fine dry wash which takes the garishness out of crude colour schemes. It is the caparison of abandon, the veil of oblivion. Who, then, can despise it--aside from certain persons whose lamentable lot must often have wrung a tear from you?
"Imagine living in one of these Paris _passages_. Think of a consumptive spitting blood and suffocating in a room one flight up, behind the 'ass-back' gables of, say the passage des Panoramas, for instance. When the window is open the dust comes in impregnated with snuff and saturated with clammy exudations. The invalid, choking, begs for air, and in order that he may breathe the window is _closed_.
"Well, the dust that you complain of is rather milder than that. Anyway I don't hear you coughing.... But if you're ready we'll be on our way."
"Where shall we go?" asked Durtal.
Des Hermies did not answer. They left the rue du Regard, in which Durtal lived, and went down the rue du Cherche-Midi as far as the Croix-Rouge.
"Let's go on to the place Saint-Sulpice," said Des Hermies, and after a silence he continued, "Speaking of dust, 'out of which we came and to which we shall return,' do you know that after we are dead our corpses are devoured by different kinds of worms according as we are fat or thin? In fat corpses one species of maggot is found, the rhizophagus, while thin corpses are patronized only by the phora. The latter is evidently the aristocrat, the fastidious gourmet which turns up its nose at a heavy meal of copious breasts and juicy fat bellies. Just think, there is no perfect equality, even in the manner in which we feed the worms.
"But this is where we stop."
They had come to where the rue Férou opens into the place Saint-Sulpice. Durtal looked up and on an unenclosed porch in the flank of the church of Saint-Sulpice he read the placard, "Tower open to visitors."
"Let's go up," said Des Hermies.
"What for! In this weather?" and Durtal pointed at the yellow sky over which black clouds, like factory smoke, were racing, so low that the tin chimneys seemed to penetrate them and crenelate them with little spots of clarity. "I am not enthusiastic about trying to climb a flight of broken, irregular stairs. And anyway, what do you think you can see up there? It's misty and getting dark. No, have a heart."
"What difference is it to you where you take your airing? Come on. I assure you you will see something unusual."
"Oh! you brought me here on purpose?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you say so?"
He followed Des Hermies into the darkness under the porch. At the back of the cellarway a little essence lamp, hanging from a nail, lighted a door, the tower entrance.
For a long time, in utter darkness, they climbed a winding stair. Durtal was wondering where the keeper had gone, when, turning a corner, he saw a shaft of light, then he stumbled against the rickety supports of a "double-current" lamp in front of a door. Des Hermies pulled a bell cord and the door swung back.
Above them on a landing they could see feet, whether of a man or of a woman they could not tell.
"Ah! it's you, M. des Hermies," and a woman bent over, describing an arc, so that her head was in a stream of light. "Louis will be very glad to see you."
"Is he in?" asked Des Hermies, reaching up and shaking hands with the woman.
"He is in the tower. Won't you stop and rest a minute?"
"Why, when we come down, if you don't mind."
"Then go up until you see a grated door--but what an old fool I am! You know the way as well as I do."
"To be sure, to be sure.... But, in passing, permit me to introduce my friend Durtal."
Durtal, somewhat flustered, made a bow in the darkness.
"Ah, monsieur, how fortunate. Louis is so anxious to meet you."
"Where is he taking me?" Durtal wondered as again he groped along behind his friend, now and then, just as he felt completely lost, coming to the narrow strip of light admitted by a barbican, and again proceeding in inky darkness. The climb seemed endless. Finally they came to the barred door, opened it, and found themselves on a frame balcony with the abyss above and below. Des Hermies, who seemed perfectly at home, pointed downward, then upward. They were halfway up a tower the face of which was overlaid with enormous criss-crossing joists and beams riveted together with bolt heads as big as a man's fist. Durtal could see no one. He turned and, clinging to the hand rail, groped along the wall toward the daylight which stole down between the inclined leaves of the sounding-shutters.
Leaning out over the precipice, he discerned beneath him a formidable array of bells hanging from oak supports lined with iron. The sombre bell metal was slick as if oiled and absorbed light without refracting it. Bending backward, he looked into the upper abyss and perceived new batteries of bells overhead. These bore the raised effigy of a bishop, and a place in each, worn by the striking of the clapper, shone golden.
All were in quiescence, but the wind rattled against the sounding-shutters, stormed through the cage of timbers, howled along the spiral stair, and was caught and held whining in the bell vases. Suddenly a light breeze, like the stirring of confined air, fanned his cheek. He looked up. The current had been set in motion by the swaying of a great bell beginning to get under way. There was a crash of sound, the bell gathered momentum, and now the clapper, like a gigantic pestle, was grinding the great bronze mortar with a deafening clamour. The tower trembled, the balcony on which Durtal was standing trepidated like the floor of a railway coach, there was the continuous rolling of a mighty reverberation, interrupted regularly by the jar of metal upon metal.
In vain Durtal scanned the upper abyss. Finally he managed to catch sight of a leg, swinging out into space and back again, in one of those wooden stirrups, two of which, he had noticed, were fastened to the bottom of every bell. Leaning out so that he was almost prone on one of the timbers, he finally perceived the ringer, clinging with his hands to two iron handles and balancing over the gulf with his eyes turned heavenward.
Durtal was shocked by the face. Never had he seen such disconcerting pallor. It was not the waxen hue of the convalescent, not the lifeless grey of the perfume-or snuff-maker, it was a prison pallor of a bloodless lividness unknown today, the ghastly complexion of a wretch of the Middle Ages shut up till death in a damp, airless, pitch-dark _in-pace_.
The eyes were blue, prominent, even bulging, and had the mystic's readiness to tears, but their expression was singularly contradicted by the truculent Kaiser Wilhelm moustache. The man seemed at once a dreamer and a fighter, and it would have been difficult to tell which character predominated.
He gave the bell stirrup a last yank with his foot and with a heave of his loins regained his equilibrium. He mopped his brow and smiled down at Des Hermies.
"Well! well!" he said, "you here."
He descended, and when he learned Durtal's name his face brightened and the two shook hands cordially.
"We have been expecting you a long time, monsieur. Our friend here speaks of you at great length, and we have been asking him why he didn't bring you around to see us. But come," he said eagerly, "I must conduct you on a tour of inspection about my little domain. I have read your books and I know a man like you can't help falling in love with my bells. But we must go higher if we are really to see them."
And he bounded up a staircase, while Des Hermies pushed Durtal along in front of him in a way that made retreat impossible.
As he was once more groping along the winding stairs, Durtal asked, "Why didn't you tell me your friend Carhaix--for of course that's who he is--was a bell-ringer?"
Des Hermies did not have time to answer, for at that moment, having reached the door of the room beneath the tower roof, Carhaix was standing aside to let them pass. They were in a rotunda pierced in the centre by a great circular hole which had around it a corroded iron balustrade orange with rust. By standing close to the railing, which was like the well curb of the Pit, one could see down, down, to the foundation. The "well" seemed to be undergoing repairs, and from the top to the bottom of the tube the beams supporting the bells were crisscrossed with timbers bracing the walls.
"Don't be afraid to lean over," said Carhaix. "Now tell me, monsieur, how do you like my foster children?"
But Durtal was hardly heeding. He felt uneasy, here in space, and as if drawn toward the gaping chasm, whence ascended, from time to time, the desultory clanging of the bell, which was still swaying and would be some time in returning to immobility.
He recoiled.
"Wouldn't you like to pay a visit to the top of the tower?" asked Carhaix, pointing to an iron stair sealed into the wall.
"No, another day."
They descended and Carhaix, in silence, opened a door. They advanced into an immense storeroom, containing colossal broken statues of saints, scaly and dilapidated apostles, Saint Matthew legless and armless, Saint Luke escorted by a fragmentary ox, Saint Mark lacking a shoulder and part of his beard, Saint Peter holding up an arm from which the hand holding the keys was broken off.
"There used to be a swing in here," said Carhaix, "for the little girls of the neighbourhood. But the privilege was abused, as privileges always are. In the dusk all kinds of things were done for a few sous. The curate finally had the swing taken down and the room closed up."
"And what is that over there?" inquired Durtal, perceiving, in a corner, an enormous fragment of rounded metal, like half a gigantic skull-cap. On it the dust lay thick, and and in the hollow the meshes on meshes of fine silken web, dotted with the black bodies of lurking spiders, were like a fisherman's hand net weighted with little slugs of lead.
"That? Ah, monsieur!" and there was fire in Carhaix's mild eyes, "that is the skull of an old, old bell whose like is not cast these days. The ring of that bell, monsieur, was like a voice from heaven." And suddenly he exploded, "Bells have had their day! --As I suppose Des Hermies has told you. --Bell ringing is a lost art. And why wouldn't it be? Look at the men who are doing it nowadays. Charcoal burners, roofers, masons out of a job, discharged firemen, ready to try their hand at anything for a franc. There are curates who think nothing of saying, 'Need a man? Go out in the street and pick up a soldier for ten sous. He'll do.' That's why you read about accidents like the one that happened lately at Notre Dame, I think. The fellow didn't withdraw in time and the bell came down like the blade of a guillotine and whacked his leg right off.
"People will spend thirty thousand francs on an altar baldachin, and ruin themselves for music, and they have to have gas in their churches, and Lord knows what all besides, but when you mention bells they shrug their shoulders. Do you know, M. Durtal, there are only two men in Paris who can ring chords? Myself and Père Michel, and he is not married and his morals are so bad that he can't be regularly attached to a church. He can ring music the like of which you never heard, but he, too, is losing interest. He drinks, and, drunk or sober, goes to work, then he bowls up again and goes to sleep.
"Yes, the bell has had its day. Why, this very morning, Monsignor made his pastoral visit to this church. At eight o'clock we sounded his arrival. The six bells you see down here boomed out melodiously. But there were sixteen up above, and it was a shame. Those extras jangled away haphazard. It was a riot of discord."
Carhaix ruminated in silence as they descended. Then, "Ah, monsieur," he said, his watery eyes fairly bubbling, "the ring of bells, there's your real sacred music."
They were now above the main door of the building and they came out into the great covered gallery on which the towers rest. Carhaix smiled and pointed out a complete peal of miniature bells, installed between two pillars on a plank. He pulled the cords, and, in ecstasies, his eyes protruding, his moustache bristling, he listened to the frail tinkling of his toy.
And suddenly he relinquished the cords.
"I once had a crazy idea," he said, "of forming a class here and teaching all the intricacies of the craft, but no one cared to learn a trade which was steadily going out of existence. Why, you know we don't even sound for weddings any more, and nobody comes to look at the tower.
"But I really can't complain. I hate the streets. When I try to cross one I lose my head. So I stay in the tower all day, except once in the early morning when I go to the other side of the square for a bucket of water. Now my wife doesn't like it up here. You see, the snow does come in through all the loopholes and it heaps up, and sometimes we are snowbound with the wind blowing a gale."
They had come to Carhaix's lodge. His wife was waiting for them on the threshold.
"Come in, gentlemen," she said. "You have certainly earned some refreshment," and she pointed to four glasses which she had set out on the table.
The bell-ringer lighted a little briar pipe, while Des Hermies and Durtal each rolled a cigarette.
"Pretty comfortable place," remarked Durtal, just to be saying something. It was a vast room, vaulted, with walls of rough stone, and lighted by a semi-circular window just under the ceiling. The tiled floor was badly covered by an infamous carpet, and the furniture, very simple, consisted of a round dining-room table, some old _bergère_ armchairs covered with slate-blue Utrecht velours, a little stained walnut sideboard on which were several plates and pitchers of Breton faience, and opposite the sideboard a little black bookcase, which might contain fifty books.
"Of course a literary man would be interested in the books," said Carhaix, who had been watching Durtal. "You mustn't be too critical, monsieur. I have only the tools of my trade."
Durtal went over and took a look. The collection consisted largely of works on bells. He read some of the titles: On the cover of a slim parchment volume he deciphered the faded legend, hand-written, in rust-coloured ink, "_De tintinnabulis_ by Jerome Magius, 1664"; then, pell-mell, there were: _A curious and edifying miscellany concerning church bells_ by Dom Rémi Carré; another _Edifying miscellany_, anonymous; a _Treatise of bells_ by Jean-Baptiste Thiers, curate of Champrond and Vibraye; a ponderous tome by an architect named Blavignac; a smaller work entitled _Essay on the symbolism of bells_ by a parish priest of Poitiers; a _Notice_ by the abbé Baraud; then a whole series of brochures, with covers of grey paper, bearing no titles.
"It's no collection at all," said Carhaix with a sigh. "The best ones are wanting, the _De campanis commentarius_ of Angelo Rocca and the _De tintinnabulo_ of Percichellius, but they are so hard to find, and so expensive when you do find them."
A glance sufficed for the rest of the books, most of them being pious works, Latin and French Bibles, an _Imitation of Christ_, Görres' _Mystik_ in five volumes, the abbé Aubert's _History and theory of religious symbolism_, Pluquet's _Dictionary of heresies_, and several lives of saints.
"Ah, monsieur, my own books are not much account, but Des Hermies lends me what he knows will interest me."
"Don't talk so much!" said his wife. "Give monsieur a chance to sit down," and she handed Durtal a brimming glass aromatic with the acidulous perfume of genuine cider.
In response to his compliments she told him that the cider came from Brittany and was made by relatives of hers at Landévennec, her and Carhaix's native village.
She was delighted when Durtal affirmed that long ago he had spent a day in Landévennec.
"Why, then we know each other already!" she said, shaking hands with him again.
The room was heated to suffocation by a stove whose pipe zigzagged over to the window and out through a sheet-iron square nailed to the sash in place of one of the panes. Carhaix and his good wife, with her honest, weak face and frank, kind eyes, were the most restful of people. Durtal, made drowsy by the warmth and the quiet domesticity, let his thoughts wander. He said to himself, "If I had a place like this, above the roofs of Paris, I would fix it up and make of it a real haven of refuge. Here, in the clouds, alone and aloof, I would work away on my book and take my time about it, years perhaps. What inconceivable happiness it would be to escape from the age, and, while the waves of human folly were breaking against the foot of the tower, to sit up here, out of it all, and pore over antique tomes by the shaded light of the lamp."
He smiled at the naïveté of his daydream.
"I certainly do like your place," he said aloud, as if to sum up his reflections.
"Oh, you wouldn't if you had to live here," said the good wife. "We have plenty of room, too much room, because there are a couple of bedchambers as big as this, besides plenty of closet space, but it's so inconvenient--and so cold! And no kitchen--" and she pointed to a landing where, blocking the stairway, the cook stove had had to be installed. "And there are so many, many steps to go up when you come back from market. I am getting old, and I have a twinge of the rheumatics whenever I think about making the climb."
"You can't even drive a nail into this rock wall and have a peg to hang things on," said Carhaix. "But I like this place. I was made for it. Now my wife dreams constantly of spending her last days in Landévennec."
Des Hermies rose. All shook hands, and monsieur and madame made Durtal swear that he would come again.
"What refreshing people!" exclaimed Durtal as he and Des Hermies crossed the square.
"And Carhaix is a mine of information."
"But tell me, what the devil is an educated man, of no ordinary intelligence, doing, working as a--as a day labourer?"
"If Carhaix could hear you! But, my friend, in the Middle Ages bell-ringers were high officials. True, the craft has declined considerably in modern times. I couldn't tell you myself how Carhaix became hipped on the subject of bells. All I know is that he studied at a seminary in Brittany, that he had scruples of conscience and considered himself unworthy to enter the priesthood, that he came to Paris and apprenticed himself to a very intellectual master bell-ringer, Père Gilbert, who had in his cell at Notre Dame some ancient and of course unique plans of Paris that would make your mouth water. Gilbert wasn't a 'labourer,' either. He was an enthusiastic collector of documents relating to old Paris. From Notre Dame Carhaix came to Saint Sulpice, fifteen years ago, and has been there ever since."
"How did you happen to make his acquaintance?"
"First he was my patient, then my friend. I've known him ten years."
"Funny. He doesn't look like a seminary product. Most of them have the shuffling gait and sheepish air of an old gardener."
"Carhaix will be all right for a few more years," said Des Hermies, as if to himself, "and then let us mercifully wish him a speedy death. The Church, which has begun by sanctioning the introduction of gas into the chapels, will end by installing mechanical chimes instead of bells. That will be charming. The machinery will be run by electricity and we shall have real up-to-date, timbreless, Protestant peals."
"Then Carhaix's wife will have a chance to go back to Finistère."
"No, they are too poor, and then too Carhaix would be broken-hearted if he lost his bells. Curious, a man's affection for the object that he manipulates. The mechanic's love for his machine. The thing that one tends, and that obeys one, becomes personalized, and one ends by falling in love with it. And the bell is an instrument in a class of its own. It is baptized like a Christian, anointed with sacramental oil, and according to the pontifical rubric it is also to be sanctified, in the interior of its chalice, by a bishop, in seven cruciform unctions with the oil of the infirm that it may send to the dying the message which shall sustain them in their last agonies.
"It is the herald of the Church, the voice from without as the priest is the voice from within. So you see it isn't a mere piece of bronze, a reversed mortar to be swung at a rope's end. Add that bells, like fine wines, ripen with age, that their tone becomes more ample and mellow, that they lose their sharp bouquet, their raw flavour. That will explain--imperfectly--how one can become attached to them."
"Why, you seem to be an enthusiast yourself."
"Oh, I don't know anything about it. I am simply repeating what I have heard Carhaix say. If the subject interests you, he will be only too glad to teach you the symbolism of bells. He is inexhaustible. The man is a monomaniac."
"I can understand," said Durtal dreamily. "I live in a quarter where there are a good many convents and at dawn the air is a-tingle with the vibrance of the chimes. When I was ill I used to lie awake at night awaiting the sound of the matin bells and welcoming them as a deliverance. In the grey light I felt that I was being cuddled by a distant and secret caress, that a lullaby was crooned over me, and a cool hand applied to my burning forehead. I had the assurance that the folk who were awake were praying for the others, and consequently for me. I felt less lonely. I really believe the bells are sounded for the special benefit of the sick who cannot sleep."
"The bells ring for others, notably for the trouble-makers. The rather common inscription for the side of a bell, '_Paco cruentos_,' 'I pacify the bloody-minded,' is singularly apt, when you think it over."
This conversation was still haunting Durtal when he went to bed. Carhaix's phrase, "The ring of the bells is the real sacred music," took hold of him like an obsession. And drifting back through the centuries he saw in dream the slow processional of monks and the kneeling congregations responding to the call of the angelus and drinking in the balm of holy sound as if it were consecrated wine.
All the details he had ever known of the liturgies of ages came crowding into his mind. He could hear the sounding of matin invitatories; chimes telling a rosary of harmony over tortuous labyrinths of narrow streets, over cornet towers, over pepper-box pignons, over dentelated walls; the chimes chanting the canonical hours, prime and tierce, sexte and none, vespers and compline; celebrating the joy of a city with the tinkling laughter of the little bells, tolling its sorrow with the ponderous lamentation of the great ones. And there were master ringers in those times, makers of chords, who could send into the air the expression of the whole soul of a community. And the bells which they served as submissive sons and faithful deacons were as humble and as truly of the people as was the Church itself. As the priest at certain times put off his chasuble, so the bell at times had put off its sacred character and spoken to the baptized on fair day and market day, inviting them, in the event of rain, to settle their affairs inside the nave of the church and, that the sanctity of the place might not be violated by the conflicts arising from sharp bargaining, imposing upon them a probity unknown before or since.
Today bells spoke an obsolete language, incomprehensible to man. Carhaix was under no misapprehension. Living in an aërial tomb outside the human scramble, he was faithful to his art, and in consequence no longer had any reason for existing. He vegetated, superfluous and demoded, in a society which insisted that for its amusement the holy place be turned into a concert hall. He was like a creature reverted, a relic of a bygone age, and he was supremely contemptuous of the miserable _fin de siècle_ church showmen who to draw fashionable audiences did not fear to offer the attraction of cavatinas and waltzes rendered on the cathedral organ by manufacturers of profane music, by ballet mongers and comic opera-wrights.
"Poor Carhaix!" said Durtal, as he blew out the candle. "Another who loves this epoch about as well as Des Hermies and I do. But he has the tutelage of his bells, and certainly among his wards he has his favourite. He is not to be pitied. He has his hobby, which renders life possible for him, as hobbies do."
|
{
"id": "14323"
}
|
4
|
How is Gilles de Rais progressing?"
|
"I have finished the first part of his life, making just the briefest possible mention of his virtues and achievements."
"Which are of no interest," remarked Des Hermies.
"Evidently, since the name of Gilles de Rais would have perished four centuries ago but for the enormities of vice which it symbolizes. I am coming to the crimes now. The great difficulty, you see, is to explain how this man, who was a brave captain and a good Christian, all of a sudden became a sacrilegious sadist and a coward."
"Metamorphosed over night, as it were."
"Worse. As if at a touch of a fairy's wand or of a playwright's pen. That is what mystifies his biographers. Of course untraceable influences must have been at work a long time, and there must have been occasional outcropping not mentioned in the chronicles. Here is a recapitulation of our material.
"Gilles de Rais was born about 1404 on the boundary between Brittany and Anjou, in the château de Mâchecoul. We know nothing of his childhood. His father died about the end of October, 1415, and his mother almost immediately married a Sieur d'Estouville, abandoning her two sons, Gilles and René. They became the wards of their grandfather, Jean de Craon, 'a man old and ancient and of exceeding great age,' as the texts say. He seems to have allowed his two charges to run wild, and then to have got rid of Gilles by marrying him to Catherine de Thouars, November 30, 1420.
"Gilles is known to have been at the court of the Dauphin five years later. His contemporaries represent him as a robust, active man, of striking beauty and rare elegance. We have no explicit statement as to the rôle he played in this court, but one can easily imagine what sort of treatment the richest baron in France received at the hands of an impoverished king.
"For at that moment Charles VII was in extremities. He was without money, prestige, or real authority. Even the cities along the Loire scarcely obeyed him. France, decimated a few years before, by the plague, and further depopulated by massacres, was in a deplorable situation.
"England, rising from the sea like the fabled polyp the Kraken, had cast her tentacles over Brittany, Normandy, l'Ile de France, part of Picardy, the entire North, the Interior as far as Orléans, and crawling forward left in her wake towns squeezed dry and country exhausted.
"In vain Charles clamoured for subsidies, invented excuses for exactions, and pressed the imposts. The paralyzed cities and fields abandoned to the wolves could afford no succour. Remember his very claim to the throne was disputed. He became like a blind man going the rounds with a tin cup begging sous. His court at Chinon was a snarl of intrigue complicated by an occasional murder. Weary of being hunted, more or less out of harm's way behind the Loire, Charles and his partisans finally consoled themselves by flaunting in the face of inevitable disaster the devil-may-care debaucheries of the condemned making the most of the few moments left them. Forays and loans furnished them with opulent cheer and permitted them to carouse on a grand scale. The eternal _qui-vive_ and the misfortunes of war were forgotten in the arms of courtesans.
"What more could have been expected of a used-up sleepy-headed king, the issue of an infamous mother and a mad father?"
"Oh, whatever you say about Charles VII pales beside the testimony of the portrait of him in the Louvre painted by Foucquet. That bestial face, with the eyes of a small-town ursurer and the sly psalm-singing mouth that butter wouldn't melt in, has often arrested me. Foucquet depicts a debauched priest who has a bad cold and has been drinking sour wine. Yet you can see that this monarch is of the very same type as the more refined, less salacious, more prudently cruel, more obstinate and cunning Louis XI, his son and successor. Well, Charles VII was the man who had Jean Sans Peur assassinated, and who abandoned Jeanne d'Arc. What more need be said?"
"What indeed? Well, Gilles de Rais, who had raised an army at his own expense, was certainly welcomed by this court with open arms. There is no doubt that he footed the bills for tournaments and banquets, that he was vigilantly 'tapped' by the courtiers, and that he lent the king staggering sums. But in spite of his popularity he never seems to have evaded responsibility and wallowed in debauchery, like the king. We find Gilles shortly afterward defending Anjou and Maine against the English. The chronicles say that he was 'a good and hardy captain,' but his 'goodness' and 'hardiness' did not prevent him from being borne back by force of numbers. The English armies, uniting, inundated the country, and, pushing on unchecked, invaded the interior. The king was ready to flee to the Mediterranean provinces and let France go, when Jeanne d'Arc appeared.
"Gilles returned to court and was entrusted by Charles with the 'guard and defence' of the Maid of Orleans. He followed her everywhere, fought at her side, even under the walls of Paris, and was with her at Rheims the day of the coronation, at which time, says Monstrelet, the king rewarded his valour by naming him Marshal of France, at the age of twenty-five."
"Lord!" Des Hermies interrupted, "promotion came rapidly in those times. But I suppose warriors then weren't the bemedalled, time-serving incompetents they are now."
"Oh, don't be misled. The title of Marshal of France didn't mean so much in Gilles's time as it did afterward in the reign of Francis I, and nothing like what it has come to mean since Napoleon.
"What was the conduct of Gilles de Rais toward Jeanne d'Arc? We have no certain knowledge. M. Vallet de Viriville, without proof, accuses him of treachery. M. l'abbé Bossard, on the contrary, claims--and alleges plausible reasons for entertaining the opinion--that he was loyal to her and watched over her devotedly.
"What is certain is that Gilles's soul became saturated with mystical ideas. His whole history proves it.
"He was constantly in association with this extraordinary maid whose adventures seemed to attest the possibility of divine intervention in earthly affairs. He witnessed the miracle of a peasant girl dominating a court of ruffians and bandits and arousing a cowardly king who was on the point of flight. He witnessed the incredible episode of a virgin bringing back to the fold such black rams as La Hire, Xaintrailles, Beaumanoir, Chabannes, Dunois, and Gaucourt, and washing their old fleeces whiter than snow. Undoubtedly Gilles also, under her shepherding, docilely cropped the white grass of the gospel, took communion the morning of a battle, and revered Jeanne as a saint.
"He saw the Maid fulfil all her promises. She raised the siege of Orléans, had the king consecrated at Rheims, and then declared that her mission was accomplished and asked as a boon that she be permitted to return home.
"Now I should say that as a result of such an association Gilles's mysticism began to soar. Henceforth we have to deal with a man who is half-freebooter, half-monk. Moreover--" "Pardon the interruption, but I am not so sure that Jeanne d'Arc's intervention was a good thing for France."
"Why not?"
"I will explain. You know that the defenders of Charles were for the most part Mediterranean cut-throats, ferocious pillagers, execrated by the very people they came to protect. The Hundred Years' War, in effect, was a war of the South against the North. England at that epoch had not got over the Conquest and was Norman in blood, language, and tradition. Suppose Jeanne d'Arc had stayed with her mother and stuck to her knitting. Charles VII would have been dispossessed and the war would have come to an end. The Plantagenets would have reigned over England and France, which, in primeval times before the Channel existed, formed one territory occupied by one race, as you know. Thus there would have been a single united and powerful kingdom of the North, reaching as far as the province of Languedoc and embracing peoples whose tastes, instincts, and customs were alike. On the other hand, the coronation of a Valois at Rheims created a heterogeneous and preposterous France, separating homogeneous elements, uniting the most incompatible nationalities, races the most hostile to each other, and identifying us--inseparably, alas! --with those stained-skinned, varnished-eyed munchers of chocolate and raveners of garlic, who are not Frenchmen at all, but Spaniards and Italians. In a word, if it hadn't been for Jeanne d'Arc, France would not now belong to that line of histrionic, forensic, perfidious chatterboxes, the precious Latin race--Devil take it!"
Durtal raised his eyebrows.
"My, my," he said, laughing. "Your remarks prove to me that you are interested in 'our own, our native land.' I should never have suspected it of you."
"Of course you wouldn't," said Des Hermies, relighting his cigarette. "As has so often been said, 'My own, my native land is wherever I happen to feel at home.' Now I don't feel at home except with the people of the North. But I interrupted you. Let's get back to the subject. What were you saying?"
"I forget. Oh, yes. I was saying that the Maid had completed her task. Now we are confronted by a question to which there is seemingly no answer. What did Gilles do when she was captured, how did he feel about her death? We cannot tell. We know that he was lurking in the vicinity of Rouen at the time of the trial, but it is too much to conclude from that, like certain of his biographies, that he was plotting her rescue.
"At any rate, after losing track of him completely, we find that he has shut himself in at his castle of Tiffauges.
"He is no longer the rough soldier, the uncouth fighting-man. At the time when the misdeeds are about to begin, the artist and man of letters develop in Gilles and, taking complete possession of him, incite him, under the impulsion of a perverted mysticism, to the most sophisticated of cruelties, the most delicate of crimes.
"For he was almost alone in his time, this baron de Rais. In an age when his peers were simple brutes, he sought the delicate delirium of art, dreamed of a literature soul-searching and profound; he even composed a treatise on the art of evoking demons; he gloried in the music of the Church, and would have nothing about his that was not rare and difficult to obtain.
"He was an erudite Latinist, a brilliant conversationalist, a sure and generous friend. He possessed a library extraordinary for an epoch when nothing was read but theology and lives of saints. We have the description of several of his manuscripts; Suetonius, Valerius Maximus, and an Ovid on parchment bound in red leather, with vermeil clasp and key.
"These books were his passion. He carried them with him when he travelled. He had attached to his household a painter named Thomas who illuminated them with ornate letters and miniatures, and Gilles himself painted the enamels which a specialist--discovered after an assiduous search--set in the gold-inwrought bindings. Gilles's taste in furnishings was elevated and bizarre. He revelled in abbatial stuffs, voluptuous silks, in the sombre gilding of old brocade. He liked knowingly spiced foods, ardent wines heavy with aromatics; he dreamed of unknown gems, weird stones, uncanny metals. He was the Des Esseintes of the fifteenth century!
"All this was very expensive, less so, perhaps, than the luxurious court which made Tiffauges a place like none other.
"He had a guard of two hundred men, knights, captains, squires, pages, and all these people had personal attendants who were magnificently equipped at Gilles's expense. The luxury of his chapel and collegium was madly extravagant. There was in residence at Tiffauges a complete metropolitan clergy, deans, vicars, treasurers, canons, clerks, deacons, scholasters, and choir boys. There is an inventory extant of the surplices, stoles, and amices, and the fur choir hats with crowns of squirrel and linings of vair. There are countless sacerdotal ornaments. We find vermilion altar cloths, curtains of emerald silk, a cope of velvet, crimson and violet with orpheys of cloth of gold, another of rose damask, satin dalmatics for the deacons, baldachins figured with hawks and falcons of Cyprus gold. We find plate, hammered chalices and ciboria crusted with uncut jewels. There are reliquaries, among them a silver head of Saint Honoré. A mass of sparkling jewelleries which an artist, installed in the château, cuts to order.
"And anyone who came along was welcome. From all corners of France caravans journeyed toward this château where the artist, the poet, the scholar, found princely hospitality, cordial goodfellowship, gifts of welcome and largesse at departure.
"Already undermined by the demands which the war had made on it, his fortune was giving way beneath these expenditures. Now he began to walk the terrible ways of usury. He borrowed of the most unscrupulous bourgeois, hypothecated his châteaux, alienated his lands. At times he was reduced to asking advances on his religious ornaments, on his jewels, on his books."
"I am glad to see that the method of ruining oneself in the Middle Ages did not differ sensibly from that of our days," said Des Hermies. "However, our ancestors did not have Monte Carlo, the notaries, and the Bourse."
"And _did_ have sorcery and alchemy. A memorial addressed to the king by the heirs of Gilles de Rais informs us that this immense fortune was squandered in less than eight years.
"Now it's the signories of Confolens, Chabanes, Châteaumorant, Lombert, ceded to a captain for a ridiculous price; now it's the fief of Fontaine Milon, of Angers, the fortress of Saint Etienne de Mer Morte acquired by Guillaume Le Ferron for a song; again it's the châteaux of Blaison and of Chemille forfeited to Guillaume de la Jumelière who never has to pay a sou. But look, there's a long list of castellanies and forests, salt mines and farm lands," said Durtal, spreading out a great sheet of paper on which he had copied the account of the purchases and sales.
"Frightened by his mad course, the family of the Marshal supplicated the king to intervene, and Charles VII,'sure,' as he said, 'of the malgovernance of the Sire de Rais,' forbade him, in grand council, by letters dated 'Amboise, 1436,' to sell or make over any fortress, any château, any land.
"This order simply hastened the ruin of the interdicted. The grand skinflint, the master usurer of the time, Jean V, duke of Brittany, refused to publish the edict in his states, but, underhandedly, notified all those of his subjects who dealt with Gilles. No one now dared to buy the Marshal's domains for fear of incurring the wrath of the king, so Jean V remained the sole purchaser and fixed the prices. You may judge how liberal his prices were.
"That explains Gilles's hatred of his family who had solicited these letters patent of the king, and why, as long as he lived, he had nothing to do with his wife, nor with his daughter whom he consigned to a dungeon at Pouzauges.
"Now to return to the question which I put a while ago, how and with what motives Gilles quitted the court. I think the facts which I have outlined will partially explain.
"It is evident that for quite a while, long before the Marshal retired to his estates, Charles had been assailed by the complaints of Gilles's wife and other relatives. Moreover, the courtiers must have execrated the young man on account of his riches and luxuries; and the king, the same king who abandoned Jeanne d'Arc when he considered that she could no longer be useful to him, found an occasion to avenge himself on Gilles for the favours Gilles had done him. When the king needed money to finance his debaucheries or to raise troops he had not considered the Marshal lavish. Now that the Marshal was ruined the king censured him for his prodigality, held him at arm's length, and spared him no reproach and no menace.
"We may be sure Gilles had no reason to regret leaving this court, and another thing is to be taken into consideration. He was doubtless sick and tired of the nomadic existence of a soldier. He was doubtless impatient to get back to a pacific atmosphere among books. Moreover, he seems to have been completely dominated by the passion for alchemy, for which he was ready to abandon all else. For it is worth noting that this science, which threw him into demonomania when he hoped to stave off inevitable ruin with it, he had loved for its own sake when he was rich. It was in fact toward the year 1426, when his coffers bulged with gold, that he attempted the 'great work' for the first time.
"We shall find him, then, bent over his retorts in the château de Tiffauges. That is the point to which I have brought my history, and now I am about to begin on the series of crimes of magic and sadism."
"But all this," said Des Hermies, "does not explain how, from a man of piety, he was suddenly changed into a Satanist, from a placid scholar into a violator of little children, a 'ripper' of boys and girls."
"I have already told you that there are no documents to bind together the two parts of this life so strangely divided, but in what I have been narrating you can pick out some of the threads of the duality. To be precise, this man, as I have just had you observe, was a true mystic. He witnessed the most extraordinary events which history has ever shown. Association with Jeanne d'Arc certainly stimulated his desires for the divine. Now from lofty Mysticism to base Satanism there is but one step. In the Beyond all things touch. He carried his zeal for prayer into the territory of blasphemy. He was guided and controlled by that troop of sacrilegious priests, transmuters of metals, and evokers of demons, by whom he was surrounded at Tiffauges."
"You think, then, that the Maid of Orleans was really responsible for his career of evil?"
"To a certain point. Consider. She roused an impetuous soul, ready for anything, as well for orgies of saintliness as for ecstasies of crime.
"There was no transition between the two phases of his being. The moment Jeanne was dead he fell into the hands of sorcerers who were the most learned of scoundrels and the most unscrupulous of scholars. These men who frequented the château de Tiffauges were fervent Latinists, marvellous conversationalists, possessors of forgotten arcana, guardians of world-old secrets. Gilles was evidently more fitted to live with them than with men like Dunois and La Hire. These magicians, whom all the biographers agree to represent--wrongly, I think--as vulgar parasites and base knaves, were, as I view them, the patricians of intellect of the fifteenth century. Not having found places in the Church, where they would certainly have accepted no position beneath that of cardinal or pope, they could, in those troubled times of ignorance, but take refuge in the patronage of a great lord like Gilles. And Gilles was, indeed, the only one at that epoch who was intelligent enough and educated enough to understand them.
"To sum up: natural mysticism on one hand, and, on the other, daily association with savants obsessed by Satanism. The sword of Damocles hanging over his head, to be conjured away by the will of the Devil, perhaps. An ardent, a mad curiosity concerning the forbidden sciences. All this explains why, little by little, as the bonds uniting him to the world of alchemists and sorcerers grow stronger, he throws himself into the occult and is swept on by it into the most unthinkable crimes.
"Then as to being a 'ripper' of children--and he didn't immediately become one, no, Gilles did not violate and trucidate little boys until after he became convinced of the vanity of alchemy--why, he does not differ greatly from the other barons of his times.
"He exceeds them in the magnitude of his debauches, in opulence of murders, and that's all. It's a fact. Read Michelet. You will see that the princes of this epoch were redoubtable butchers. There was a sire de Giac who poisoned his wife, put her astride of his horse and rode at breakneck speed for five leagues, until she died. There was another, whose name I have forgotten, who collared his father, dragged him barefoot through the snow, and calmly thrust him into a subterranean prison and left him there until he died. And how many others! I have tried, without success, to find whether in battles and forays the Marshal committed any serious misdeeds. I have discovered nothing, except that he had a pronounced taste for the gibbet; for he liked to string up all the renegade French whom he surprised in the ranks of the English or in the cities which were not very much devoted to the king.
"We shall find his taste for this kind of torture manifesting itself later on in the château de Tiffauges.
"Now, in conclusion, add to all these factors a formidable pride, a pride which incites him to say, during his trial, 'So potent was the star under which I was born that I have done what no one in the world has done nor ever can do.'
"And assuredly, the Marquis de Sade is only a timid bourgeois, a mediocre fantasist, beside him!"
"Since it is difficult to be a saint," said Des Hermies, "there is nothing for it but to be a Satanist. One of the two extremes. 'Execration of impotence, hatred of the mediocre,' that, perhaps, is one of the more indulgent definitions of Diabolism."
"Perhaps. One can take pride in going as far in crime as a saint in virtue. And that expresses Gilles de Rais exactly."
"All the same, it's a mean subject to handle."
"It certainly is, but happily the documents are abundant. Satan was terrible to the Middle Ages--" "And to the modern."
"What do you mean?"
That Satanism has come down in a straight, unbroken line from that age to this."
"Oh, no; you don't believe that at this very hour the devil is being evoked and the black mass celebrated?"
"Yes."
"You are sure?"
"Perfectly."
"You amaze me. But, man! do you know that to witness such things would aid me signally in my work? No joking, you believe in a contemporary Satanistic manifestation? You have proofs?"
"Yes, and of them we shall speak later, for today I am very busy. Tomorrow evening, when we dine with Carhaix. Don't forget. I'll come by for you. Meanwhile think over the phrase which you applied a moment ago to the magicians: 'If they had entered the Church they would not have consented to be anything but cardinals and popes,' and then just think what kind of a clergy we have nowadays. The explanation of Satanism is there, in great part, anyway, for without sacrilegious priests there is no mature Satanism."
"But what do these priests want?"
"Everything!" exclaimed Des Hermies.
"Hmmm. Like Gilles de Rais, who asked the demon for 'knowledge, power, riches,' all that humanity covets, to be deeded to him by a title signed with his own blood."
|
{
"id": "14323"
}
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.