ABNER’S TRAGEDY
Our quaint little Guamese was vociferously cheered at the close of his yarn, although in some parts it had been most difficult to follow, from the bewildering compound of dialects it was delivered in. Usually that does not trouble whalers’ crews, much accustomed as they are to the very strangest distortions of the adaptable English language. “The next gentleman to oblige” was, to my utter amazement, Abner Cushing, the child of calamity from Vermont, who had been hung up by the thumbs and flogged on the outward passage. Up till then we had all looked upon him as being at least “half a shingle short,” not to say downright loony, but that impression now received a severe shock. In a cultivated diction, totally unlike the half-intelligible drawl hitherto affected by him, he related the following story.
“Well, boys, I dare say you have often wondered what could have brought me here. Perhaps (which, come to think of it, is more likely) you haven’t troubled your heads about me at all, although even the meanest of us like to think that we fill some corner in our fellow’s mind. But if you have wondered, it could not be considered surprising. For I’m a landsman if ever there was one, a farmer, who, after even such a drilling as I’ve gone through this voyage, still feels, and doubtless looks, as awkward on board as any cow. My story is not a very long one, perhaps hardly worth the telling to anybody but myself, but it will be a change from whaling ‘shop’ anyhow, so here goes.
“My father owned a big farm in the old Green Mountain state, on which I grew up, an only son, but never unduly pampered or spoiled by the good old man. No; both he and mother, though fond of me as it was possible to be, strove to do me justice by training me up and not allowing me to sprout anyhow like a jimpson weed to do as I darn pleased with myself when and how I liked. They were careful to keep me out of temptation too, as far as they were able, which wasn’t so difficult, seeing our nearest neighbour was five miles away, and never a drop of liquor stronger than cider ever came within a day’s journey of home. So I suppose I passed as a pretty good boy; at least there were no complaints.
“One day, when I was about fifteen years old, father drove into the village some ten miles off on business, and when he came back he had a little golden-haired girl with him about twelve years old. A pale, old-fashioned little slip she was, as staid as a grandmother, and dressed in deep black. When I opened the gate for the waggon, father said, ‘This is your cousin Cicely, Abner, she’s an orphan, an’ I cal’late to raise her.’ That was all our introduction, and I, like the unlicked cub I must have been, only said, ‘that so, father,’ staring at the timid little creature so critically, that her pale face flushed rosy red under my raw gaze. I helped her out (light as a bird she was), and showed her into the house, where mother took her right to her heart on the spot. From that on she melted into the home life as if she had always been part of it, a quiet patient helper that made mother’s life a very easy one. God knows it had been hard enough. Many little attentions and comforts unknown before, grew to be a part of our daily routine, but if I noticed them at all (and I hardly think I did then), I took them as a matter of course, nor ever gave sign that I appreciated the thoughtful care that provided them. So the years slithered past uneventfully till I was twenty-one, when dad fell sick. Within a week he was dead. It was a terrible stroke to mother and Cicely, but neither of them were given to much show of feeling (I reckon there was scant encouragement), and things went on much as usual. I didn’t seem to feel it very much—didn’t seem to feel anything much in those days, except mad with my folks when everything wasn’t just as I wanted it. Dad’s affairs were all shipshape. He left mother fairly well off, and Cicely just enough to live on in case of necessity, while I came in for everything else, which meant an income of 1500 dollars a year if I chose to realize and not work any more. Being now, however, fairly wound up like any other machine, and warranted to go right on in the same jog, I had no thought of change. Don’t suppose I ever should have had; but—Excuse me, boys, I’m a bit husky, and there’s something in my eye. All right now.
“That summer we had boarders from Boston, well-to-do city folks pining for a change of air and scene, who offered a big price for such accommodation as we could give them for a couple of months.
“I drove down to the village to meet them with the best waggon, and found them waiting for me at Squire Pickering’s house—two elderly ladies and a young one. Boys, I can’t begin to describe that young lady to you; all I know is, that the first time our eyes met, I felt kinder as I guess Eve must have done when she eat the apple, only more so. All my old life that I had been well contented with came up before me and looked just unbearable. I felt awkward, and rough, and ugly; my new store clothes felt as if they’d been hewn out of deals, my head burned like a furnace, and my hands and feet were numb cold. When, in answer to some trifling question put to me by one of the old ladies, I said a few words, they sounded ’way off down a long tunnel, and as if I had nothing to do with them. Worst of all, I couldn’t keep my foolish eyes off that young lady, do what I would. How I drove the waggon home I don’t know. I suppose the machine was geared up so well, it ran of its own accord—didn’t want any thinking done. For I was thinking of anything in the wide world but my duty. I was a soldier, a statesman, a millionaire by turns, but only that I might win for my own that wonderful creature that had come like an unpredicted comet into my quiet sky.
“Now, don’t you think I’m going to trouble you with my love-making. I’d had no experience, so I dare say it was pretty original, but the only thing I can remember about it is that I had neither eyes nor ears for anything or anybody else but Agatha Deerham (that was her name), and that I neglected everything for her. She took my worship as a matter of course, calmly, royally, unconsciously; but if she smiled on me, I was crazy with gladness.
“Meanwhile my behaviour put mother and Cicely about no end. But for their industry and forethought, things would have been in a pretty muddle, for I was worse than useless to them; spent most of my time mooning about like the brainsick fool I was, building castles in Spain, or trying to invent something that would please the woman I worshipped. Oh, but I was blind; a poor blind fool. Looking back now, I know I must have been mad as well as blind. Agatha saw immediately upon coming into my home what I had never seen in all those long years—that Cicely—quiet, patient little Cicely—loved me with her whole heart, and would have died to serve me. So, with that refinement of cruelty that some women can show, she deliberately set herself, not to infatuate me more—that was impossible—but to show Cicely that she, the new-comer, while not valuing my love at a pin, could play with it, prove it, trifle with it as she listed.
“Sometimes her treatment nearly drove me frantic with rage, but a tender glance from her wonderful eyes brought me fawning to her feet again directly. Great heaven, how she made me suffer! I wonder I didn’t go really mad, I was in such a tumult of conflicting passions continually.
“The time drew near for them to return to their city home. Now, although Agatha had tacitly accepted all my attentions, nothing definite had yet passed between us, but the announcement of her imminent departure brought matters to a climax. Seizing the first opportunity of being alone with her, I declared my passion in a frenzy of wild words, offered her my hand, and swore that if she refused me I would do—I hardly remember what; but, among other things, certainly kill her, and then myself. She smiled pityingly upon me, and quietly said, ‘What about Cicely?’ Bewildered at her question, so little had any thought of Cicely in connection with love entered my head, I stared for a few moments blankly at the beautiful and maliciously smiling face before me, muttering at last, ‘Whatever do you mean?’
“With a ringing laugh, she said, ‘Can it be possible that you are unaware how your cousin worships you?’ Black shame upon me, I was not content with scornfully repudiating the possibility of such a thing, but poured all the bitter contempt I could give utterance to upon the poor girl, whose only fault was love of me. While thus basely engaged, I saw Agatha change colour, and turning, found Cicely behind me, trembling and livid as one who had received a mortal wound. Shame, anger, and passion for Agatha kept me speechless as she recovered herself and silently glided away.
“But I must hurry up if I’m not going to be tedious. Encouraged by Agatha, I sold the farm, sending mother and Cicely adrift to live upon their little means, and, gathering all together, took my departure for Boston. Arrangements for our marriage were hurried on at my request, not so swiftly, however, but that news reached me on my wedding morning of mother’s death. For a moment I was staggered, even the peculiar thing which served me for a heart felt a pang, but only in passing. What had become of Cicely I never troubled enough to think, much less to inquire.
“Some weeks of delirious gaiety followed, during which I drank to the full from the cup of my desires. Our lives were a whirl of what, for want of a better word, I suppose I must call enjoyment; at any rate, we did and had whatever we had a mind to, nor ever stopped to think of the sequel. We had no home, never waited to provide one, but lived at a smart hotel at a rate that would have killed my father to think of.
“One night at the theatre I slipped on the marble staircase, fell to the bottom a tangle of limbs, and was taken up with a broken leg, right arm, and collar bone. At some one’s suggestion I was removed to hospital. There, but for the ministrations of the nurses and surgeons, I was left alone, not a single one of my acquaintances coming near me. But what worried me was my wife’s neglect. What could have become of her? Where was she? These ceaselessly repeated and unanswered questions, coupled with my utter helplessness, drove me into a brain fever, in which I lost touch with the world for six weeks.
“I awoke one morning, a wan shade of my old self, but able to think again (would to God I never had). I was informed that no one had been to inquire after me during my long delirium, and this sombre fact stood up before me like a barrier never to be passed, reared between me and any hope in life. But, in spite of the drawbacks, I got better, got well, came out into the world again. I was homeless, friendless, penniless. The proprietor of the hotel where I had stayed with my wife informed me that she had left in company with a gentleman, with whom she seemed so intimate that he thought it must be some relative, but as he spoke, I read the truth in his eyes. He took pity on my forlorn condition and gave me a little money, enough to keep me alive for a week or two, but strongly advised me to go back to my native village and stay there. I was too broken to resent the idea, but in my own mind there was a formless plan of operations insisting upon being carried out.
“Husbanding my little stock of money with the utmost care, and barely spending sufficient to support life, I began a search for my wife. Little by little I learnt the ghastly sordid truth. Virtue, honour, or probity, had never been known to her, and my accident only gave her an opportunity that she had been longing for. Why she had married me was a mystery. Perhaps she sought a new sensation, and didn’t find it.
“Well, I tracked her and her various companions, until after about three months I lost all traces in New York. Do what I would, no more news of her could be obtained. But I had grown very patient in my search, though hardly knowing why I sought. My purpose was as hazy as my plan had been. So, from day to day I plodded through such small jobs as I could find, never losing sight for an hour of my one object in life.
“I must have been in New York quite six months, when I was one day trudging along Bleecker Street on an errand for somebody, and there met me face to face my cousin Cicely. I did not know her, but she recognized me instantly, and I saw in her sweet face such a look of sympathy and loving compassion that, broken-hearted, I covered my face and cried like a child. ‘Hush,’ she said, ‘you will be molested,’ and, putting her arm through mine, she led me some distance to a dilapidated house, the door of which she opened with a key. Showing me into a tidy little room, she bade me sit down while she got me a cup of coffee, refusing to enter into conversation until I was a bit refreshed. Then, bit by bit, I learned that she had heard of my desertion by Agatha, and had formed a resolution to find her and bring her back to me if possible. She did find her, but was repulsed by her with a perfect fury of scorn, and told to go and find me and keep me, since such a worthless article as I was not likely to be useful to any other person on earth. Such a reception would have daunted most women; but I think Cicely was more than woman, or else how could she do as she did.
“Driven from my wife’s presence, she never lost sight of her, feeling sure that her opportunity would soon come. It came very suddenly. In the midst of her flaunting, vicious round of gaiety small-pox seized her, and as she had left me, so she was left, but not even in an hospital. Cicely found her alone, raving, tearing at her flesh in agony, with no one to help or pity. It was the opportunity she had sought, and hour by hour she wrestled with death and hell for that miserable woman. It was a long fight, but she was victorious, and although a sorrowful gap was made in her small stock of money, she was grateful and content.
“Agatha was a wreck. Utterly hideous to look upon, with memory like a tiger tearing at her heart, she yet had not the courage to die, or, doubtless, she would quickly have ended all her woes. Quietly, unobtrusively, constantly, Cicely waited on her, worked for her, and at last had succeeded in bringing us together. The knowledge that she whom I had sought so long was in the same house took away my breath. As soon as I recovered myself a bit, Cicely went to prepare her for meeting me. Unknown to Cicely, I followed, and almost immediately after she entered the room where my wife lay, I presented myself at the door. Looking past the woman who had preserved her miserable life, she saw my face. Then, with a horrible cry, unlike anything human, she sprang at my poor cousin like a jaguar, tearing, shrieking. If I dwell any longer on that nightmare I shall go mad myself. I did what I could, and bear the marks of that encounter for life, but I could not save Cicely’s life.
“The room filled with people, and the maniac was secured. After I had given my evidence on the inquiry, I slunk away, too mean to live, afraid to die. A recruiter secured me for this ship, and here I am, but I know that my useless life is nearly over. The world will be well rid of me.”
When he stopped talking, there was a dead silence for a few minutes. Such a yarn was unusual among whalemen, and they hardly knew how to take it. But the oldest veteran of the party dispelled the uneasy feeling by calling for a song, and volunteering one himself, just to keep things going. In the queerest nasal twang imaginable he thundered out some twenty verses of doggerel concerning the deeds of Admiral Semmes of the Alabama, with a different tune to each verse. It was uproariously received, but story-telling held the field, and another yarn was demanded.
LOST AND FOUND
A Sea Amendment
He stood alone on the little pier, a pathetic figure in his loneliness—a boy without a home or a friend in the world. There was only one thought dominating his mind, the purely animal desire for sustenance, for his bodily needs lay heavily upon him. Yet it never occurred to him to ask for food—employment for which he should be paid such scanty wages as would supply his bare needs was all he thought of; for, in spite of years of semi-starvation, he had never yet eaten bread that he had not worked for—the thought of doing so had never shaped itself in his mind. But he was now very hungry, and as he watched the vigorous preparation for departure in full swing on board the smart rakish-looking fishing schooner near him, he felt an intense longing to be one of the toilers on her decks, with a right to obey the call presently to a well-earned meal. Whether by any strange thought-transference his craving became known to the bronzed skipper of the Rufus B. or not, who shall say? Sufficient to record that on a sudden that stalwart man lifted his head, and looking steadily at the lonely lad, he said, “Wantin’ a berth, sonny?” Although, if his thoughts could have been formulated, such a question was the one of all others he would have desired to hear, the lad was so taken aback by the realization of his most fervent hopes that for several seconds he could return no answer, but sat endeavouring to moisten his lips and vainly seeking in his bewildered mind for words with which to reply. Another sharp query, “Air ye deef?” brought his wits to a focus, and he replied humbly—
“Yes, sir!”
“Well, whar’s yer traps, then?” queried the skipper; “‘kaze we’re boun’ ter git away this tide, so it’s naow er never, ef you’re comin’.”
Before answering, the boy suddenly gathered himself up, and sprang in two bounds from his position on the quay to the side of the skipper. As soon as he reached him, he said, in rapid disjointed sentences—
“I’ve got no close. Ner no boardin’ house. Ner yet a cent in the world. But I ben to sea for nearly three year, an’ ther ain’t much to a ship thet I don’ know. I never ben in a schooner afore, but ef you’ll take me, Cap’n, I’ll show you I’m wuth a boy’s wages, anyhow.”
As he spoke the skipper looked down indulgently at him, chewing meditatively the while, but as soon as he had finished, the “old man” jerked out—
“All right. Hook on ter onct, then;” and almost in the same breath, but with an astonishing increase of sound, “Naow, then, caest off thet guess warp forrard there,’n run the jib up. Come, git a move on ye—anybody’d think you didn’t calk’late on leavin’ Gloster never no more.”
Cheery “Ay, ay, cap’s,” resounded from the willing crowd as they obeyed, and in ten minutes the Rufus B. was gliding away seawards to the musical rattle of the patent blocks and the harmonious cries of the men as they hoisted the sails to the small breeze that was stealing off the land.
The grey mist of early morning was slowly melting off the picturesque outline of the Massachusetts shore as they departed, and over the smooth sea before them fantastic wreaths and curls of fog hung about like the reek of some vast invisible fire far away. It was cold, too, with a clammy chill that struck through the threadbare suit of jeans worn by the new lad, and made him exert himself vigorously to keep his blood in circulation. So hearty were his efforts that the mixed company of men by whom he was surrounded noted them approvingly; and although to a novice their occasional remarks would have sounded harsh and brutal, he felt mightily cheered by them, for his experienced ear immediately recognized the welcome fact that his abilities were being appreciated at their full value. And when, in answer to the skipper’s order of “Loose thet gaff taupsle,” addressed to no one in particular, he sprang up the main rigging like a monkey and cast off the gaskets, sending down the tack on the right side, and shaking out the sail in a seamanlike fashion, he distinctly heard the skipper remark to the chap at the wheel, “Looks ’sif we’d struck a useful nipper at last, Jake,” the words were heady as a drink of whisky. Disdaining the ratlines, he slid down the weather backstays like a flash and dropped lightly on deck, his cheek flushed and his eye sparkling, all his woeful loneliness forgotten in his present joy of finding his services appreciated. But the grinning darky cook just then put his head outside his caboose door and shouted “Brekfuss.” With old habit strong upon him, the boy bounded forrard to fetch the food into the fo’c’sle, but to his bewilderment, and the darky’s boisterous delight, he found that in his new craft quite a different order of things prevailed. Here all hands messed like Christians at one common table in the cabin, waited upon by the cook, and eating the same food; and though they looked rough and piratical enough, all behaved themselves decently—in strong contrast to the foul behaviour our hero had so often witnessed in the grimy fo’c’sles of merchant ships. All this touched him, even though he was so ravenously hungry that his senses seemed merged in the purely physical satisfaction of getting filled with good food. At last, during a lull in the conversation, which, as might be expected, was mostly upon their prospects of striking a good run of cod at an early date, the skipper suddenly looked straight at the boy, and said—
“Wut djer say yer name wuz, young feller?”
“Tom Burt, sir,” he answered promptly, although he was tempted to say that he hadn’t yet been asked his name at all.
“Wall, then, Tom Burt,” replied the skipper, “yew shape ’s well ’s yew’ve begun, and I’m doggoned ef yew won’t have no eend of a blame good time. Th’ only kind er critter we kain’t find no sort er use fer in a Banker ’s a loafer. We do all our bummin’ w’en we git ashore, ’n in bad weather; other times everybody’s got ter git up an’ hustle fer all they’re wuth.”
Tom looked up with a pleasant smile, feeling quite at his ease among men who could talk to him as if he, too, were a human being and not a homeless cur. He didn’t make any resolves to do his level best—he would do that anyhow—but his heart beat high with satisfaction at his treatment, and he would have kept his end up with any man on board to the utmost ounce of his strength. But meanwhile they had drawn clear of the land, and behind them dropped a curtain of fog hiding it completely from view. To a fresh easterly breeze which had sprung up, the graceful vessel was heading north-east for the Grand Banks, gliding through the long, sullen swell like some great, lithe greyhound, and yet looking up almost in the wind’s eye. In spite of the breeze, the towering banks of fog gradually drew closer and closer around them until they were entirely enveloped therein, as if wrapped in an impenetrable veil which shut out all the world beside. The ancient tin horn emitted its harsh discords, which seemed to rebound from the white wall round about them, and in very deed could only have been heard a ship’s length or so away. And presently, out of the encircling mantle of vapour, there came a roar as of some unimaginable monster wrathfully seeking its prey, the strident sounds tearing their way through the dense whiteness with a truly terrific clamour. All hands stood peering anxiously out over the waste for the first sight of the oncoming terror, until, with a rush that made the schooner leap and stagger, a huge, indefinite blackness sped past, its grim mass towering high above the tiny craft. The danger over, muttered comments passed from mouth to mouth as to the careless, reckless fashion in which these leviathans were driven through the thick gloom of those crowded waters in utter disregard of the helpless toilers of the sea. Then, to the intense relief of all hands, the fog began to melt away, and by nightfall all trace of it was gone. In its stead the great blue dome of the heavens, besprinkled with a myriad glittering stars, shut them in; while the keen, eager breeze sent the dancing schooner northward at a great rate to her destined fishing-ground, the huge plateau in the Atlantic, off Newfoundland, that the codfish loves.
But it was written that they should never reach the Virgin. The bright, clear weather gave way to a greasy, filmy sky, accompanied by a mournful, sighing wail in the wind that sent a feeling of despondency through the least experienced of the fishermen, and told the more seasoned hands that a day of wrath was fast approaching, better than the most delicately adjusted barometer would have done. When about sixty miles from the Banks the gale burst upon the staunch little craft in all its fury, testing her powers to the utmost as, under a tiny square of canvas in the main rigging, she met and coquetted with the gathering immensities of the Atlantic waves. No doubt she would have easily weathered that gale, as she had done so many others, but that at midnight, during its fiercest fury, there came blundering along a huge four-masted sailing-ship running under topsails and foresail that, like some blind and drunken giant staggered out of the gloom and fell upon the gallant little schooner, crushing her into matchwood beneath that ruthless iron stem, and passing on unheeding the awful destruction she had dealt out to the brave little company of men. It was all so sudden that the agony of suspense was mercifully spared them, but out of the weltering vortex which swallowed up the Rufus B. only two persons emerged alive—Tom Burt and Jem the cook. By a miracle they both clung to the same piece of flotsam—one of the “dorys” or flat little boats used by the Bankers to lay out their long lines when on the Banks. Of course she was bottom up, and, but for the lifeline which the forethought of the poor skipper had caused to be secured to the gunwale of every one of his dorys, they could not have kept hold of her for an hour. As it was, before they were able to get her righted in that tumultuous sea, they were almost at their last gasp. But they did succeed in getting her right way up at last, and, crouching low in her flat bottom, they dumbly awaited whatever Fate had in store for them.
A huge sailing-ship crushed her into matchwood.
A mere fragment in the wide waste, they clung desperately to life through the slowly creeping hours while the storm passed away, the sky cleared, and the sea went down. The friendly sun came out in his strength and warmed their thin blood. But his beams did more: they revealed at no great distance the shape of a ship that to the benumbed fancies of the two waifs seemed to behave in most erratic fashion. For now she would head toward them, again she would slowly turn as if upon an axis until she presented her stern in their direction, but never for five minutes did she keep the same course. Dimly they wondered what manner of ship she might be, with a sort of impartial curiosity, since they were past the period of struggle. Well for them that it was so, for otherwise their agonies must have been trebled by the sight of rescue apparently so near and yet impossible of attainment. So they just sat listlessly in their empty shell gazing with incurious eyes upon the strange evolutions of the ship. Yet, by that peculiar affinity which freely floating bodies have at sea, the ship and boat were surely drawing nearer each other, until Tom suddenly awoke as if from a trance to find that they were so close to the ship that a strong swimmer might easily gain her side. The discovery gave him the needed shock to arouse his small store of vital energy, and, turning to his companion, he said—his voice sounding strange and far away—“Doc, rouse up! Here’s the ship! Right on top of us, man!” But for some minutes the negro seemed past all effort, beyond hearing, only known to be living by his position. Desperate now, Tom scrambled towards him, and in a sudden fever of excitement shook, beat, and pinched him. No response. Then, as if maddened by the failure of his efforts, the boy seized one of the big black hands that lay so nervelessly, and, snatching it to his mouth, bit a finger to the bone. A long dry groan came from the cook as he feebly pulled his hand away, and mechanically thrust the injured finger into his mouth. The trickling blood revived him, his dull eyes brightened, and looking up he saw the ship close alongside. Without a word he stooped and plunged his hands into the water on either side the dory, paddling fiercely in the direction of the ship, while Tom immediately followed his example. Soon they bumped her side, and as she rolled slowly towards them, Tom seized the chain-plates and clung limpet-like for an instant, then, with one supreme effort, hauled himself on board and fell, fainting but safe, on her deck.
When he returned to life again, his first thought was of his chum, and great was his peace to find that the cook had also gained safety. He lay near, stretched out listlessly upon the timber, with which the vessel’s deck was completely filled, rail-high, fore and aft. Feebly, like some decrepit old man, Tom rose to his knees and shuffled towards the cook, finding that he was indeed still alive, but sleeping so soundly that it seemed doubtful whether waking would be possible. Reassured by finding the cook living, the boy dragged himself aft, wondering feebly how it was that he saw no member of this large vessel’s crew. He gained the cabin and crawled below, finding everything in disorder, as if she had been boarded by pirates and ravaged for anything of value that might be concealed. She seemed a staunch, stout, frigate-built ship, of some eleven or twelve hundred tons register, English built, but Norwegian owned; and to a seaman’s eye there was absolutely no reason why she should thus be tumbling unguided about the Atlantic—there was no visible cause to account for her abandonment. Aloft she was in a parlous condition. The braces having been left unbelayed, her great yards had long been swinging to and fro with every thrust of the wind and roll of the ship, until it was a marvel how they still hung in their places at all. Most of the sails were in rags, the unceasing grind and wrench of the swinging masses of timber to which they were secured having been too much for their endurance, and their destruction once commenced, the wind had speedily completed it.
All this, requiring so long to tell, was taken in by the lad in a few seconds, but his first thought was for food and drink wherewith to revive his comrade. He was much disappointed, however, to find that not only was the supply of eatables very scanty, but the quality was vile beyond comment—worse than even that of some poverty-stricken old British tub provisioned at an auction sale of condemned naval stores. The best he could do for Jem was to soak some of the almost black biscuit in water until soft, and then, hastening to his side, he roused the almost moribund man, and gently coaxed him to eat, a morsel at a time, until, to his joy, he found the poor darky beginning to take a returning interest in life. Fortunately for them, the weather held fine all that day and night, relieving them from anxiety about handling the big vessel, and by morning they were both sufficiently themselves again to set about the task of getting her under control. A little at a time they reduced the chaotic web of gear aloft to something like its original systematic arrangement, and under such sail as was still capable of being set they began to steer to the south-westward. In this, as in everything else now, the boy took the lead, for Jem had never set foot upon a square-rigged ship before, and even his schooner experience had been confined to the galley. But Tom had spent his three years at sea entirely in large square-rigged ships, and, being a bright observant lad, already knew more about them and their manipulation than many sailormen learn all their lives. He it was who set the course, having carefully watched the direction steered from Gloster by the hapless Rufus B., and now he judged that a reversal of it would certainly bring them within hail of the American seaboard again, if they could hold on it long enough. So all day long the two toiled like beavers to make things aloft more shipshape, letting the vessel steer herself as much as possible, content if she would only keep within four points of her course. With all their labours they could not prevent her looking like some huge floating scarecrow that had somehow got adrift from its native garden and wandered out to sea. Her appearance simply clamoured for interference by any passing ship in trumpet tones had one entered the same horizon, but much to the youngster’s wonder, and presently to his secret delight, not a sail hove in sight day after day.
Thus a fortnight passed away satisfactorily enough but for the wretched food and the baffling winds, that would not permit them to make more than a meagre handful of miles per day towards the land, and worried Tom not a little with the idea that perhaps the Gulf Stream might be sweeping them steadily eastward at a much greater rate than they were able to sail west. But he did not whisper a syllable of his fears to his shipmate in case of disheartening that docile darky, whom even now he often caught wistfully looking towards him, as if for some further comfort. He himself was full of high hopes, building a fantastic mental edifice upon the prospect of being able to make the land unaided, and therefore becoming entitled not only to the glory of a great exploit in ship-handling but also to the possession of a fortune, as he knew full well his share of the salvage of this ship would be. For although she contained but a cheap cargo of lumber, yet from her size and sea-worthiness she was worth a very large sum could she be brought into port without further injury, her hull being, as sailors say, “as tight as a bottle”—that is, she leaked not at all. But both the shipmates were puzzled almost to distraction to account for a vessel in her condition being abandoned. Nearly every spare moment in which they could be together was devoted to the discussion of this mystery, and dark Jem showed a most fertile inventiveness in bringing out new theories, none of which, however, could throw the slightest glimmer of explanation upon the subject. Except that from the disorder of the cabin and fo’c’sle, and the absence of the boats, with their lashings left just as they had been hacked adrift, there was no other clue to the going of her crew; and, if, as was probable, the deserters had afterwards been lost by the swamping of their frail craft, this mystery was but another item in the long list of unravelled sea-puzzles.
But one evening the sun set in a lowering red haze, which, though dull like a dying fire, stained the oily-looking sea as if with stale blood. The feeble uncertain wind sank into fitful breaths, and at last died completely away. Gigantic masses of gloomy cloud came into being, apparently without motion of any kind, marshalling their vast formlessness around the shrinking horizon. As the last lurid streaks faded out of the sky, and utter darkness enfolded them, the two lonely wanderers clung together, as if by the touch of each other’s living bodies to counteract the benumbing effect of the terrible quiet. Deeper, denser grew the darkness, heavier grew the burden of silence, until at the thin cry of a petrel out of the black depths their hearts felt most grateful. It was like a tiny message telling them that the world was not yet dead. A sudden, hissing spiral of blue flame rent the clouds asunder, and immediately, as if it leaped upon them through the jagged cleft in that grim barrier, the gale burst. Wind, lightning, thunder, rain; all joined in that elemental orchestra, with ever-increasing fury of sound as they smote upon the amazed sea, as if in angry scorn of its smoothness. In the midst of that tremendous tumult the two chums were powerless—they dared not move from the helm, even though, with yards untrimmed, their presence there was useless. But, in some curious freak of the neglected vessel, she flung her head off the wind farther and farther until the boy suddenly snatched at hope again, and spun the wheel round to assist her. Off she went before the wind like a hunted thing, and knowing it was their only chance for life, the two friends laboured to keep her so. It was so dark that they could not see anything aloft, so that they did not know how far the small amount of sail on her when the gale burst still remained; but that mattered little, since they were powerless in any case. But they stuck to their steering, caring nothing for the course made as long as she could be kept before the gale. And in the bitter grey of the morning they saw a graceful shape, dim and indefinite, yet near, that reminded them painfully of their late vessel and her hapless crew. The shadowy stranger drew nearer, until, with thumping hearts, they recognized one of the schooners belonging to that daring, hardy service, the New York Pilots. Rushing to the side, Tom waved his arms, for they were now so close together that he could see the figures grouped aft. With consummate seamanship, the schooner was manœuvred towards the ship until so close that three men sprang from her rail into the ship’s mizzen rigging. Few words passed, but leaving one of their number at the wheel, the other two worked like giants to get a little sail set, while the schooner, shaking out a reef, bounded ahead to bespeak steam aid.
With such assistance, the troubles of the two wanderers were now at an end, and in less than thirty hours they were snugly anchored in New York harbour, with a blazing fire in the galley and a Christian meal before them. At the Salvage Court, held soon after, their share came to $7,000, equally divided between the two of them, the pilot crew receiving $3,000 for their two days’ work. Feeling like millionaires, they hurried back to Gloster, fully agreed to do what they could for the benefit of their late shipmates’ bereaved ones, and handing over to the authorities for that purpose on their arrival half of their gains. Then Jem, declaring that he had seen all he wanted of fishing, opened a small oyster saloon in Gloster, while Tom, aided by the advice of a gentleman who was greatly interested in the whole story, entered himself at Columbia College. He will be heard of again.
THE END
A PICTURESQUE BOOK OF THE SEA.
A Sailor’s Log.
Recollections of Forty Years of Naval Life. By Rear-Admiral Robley D. Evans, U.S.N. Illustrated. Large 12mo. Cloth, $2.00.
“It is essentially a book for men, young and old; and the man who does not enjoy it is lacking in healthy red blood.”—Chicago Bookseller.
“A profoundly interesting book. There is not a line of bravado in its chapters, nor a carping criticism. It is a book which will increase the esteem and high honor which the American feels and willingly awards our naval heroes.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
“It would be difficult to find an autobiography possessing more interest than this narrative of forty years of active naval service. It equals the most fascinating novel for interest; it contains a great deal of material that has a distinct historical value.... Altogether it is a most delightful book.”—Brooklyn Eagle.
“His is a picturesque personality, and he stands the supreme test by being as popular with his officers and men as he is with the public generally. His life has been one of action and adventure since he was a boy, and the record of it which he has prepared in his book ‘A Sailor’s Log’ has not a dull line in it from cover to cover. It is all action, action, and again action from the first page to the last, and makes one want to go and ‘do things’ himself. Any boy between fifteen and nineteen who reads this book and does not want to go to sea must be a sluggish youth.... The book is really an interesting record of an interesting man.”—New York Press.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
BOOKS BY C. C. HOTCHKISS
The Strength of the Weak.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
The delightful outdoor quality of Mr. Hotchkiss’s novel forms a charming accompaniment to the adventurous happenings of the romance. The author has found some apt suggestions in the diary of a soldier of the New Hampshire Grants, and these actual experiences have been utilized in the development of the tale. The story is one of love and daring and American courage, and the varying outdoor scenes which succeed each other as the tale unfolds provide a picturesqueness and zest which show the increasing power of an author whose previous books have won for him a large circle of admirers.
Betsy Ross.
A Romance of the Flag. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“A novelized drama, and a right good one, too, with plenty of stir, patriotism, and love.”—New York World.
“‘Betsy Ross’ reaches the American ideal in fiction. It is the long-looked-for American novel. Stirring, intense, dealing with great native characters, and recalling some of the noblest incidents connected with our national history, it is the one novel of the time that fulfills the ideal that we had all conceived, but no one had before accomplished.”—Philadelphia Item.
In Defiance of the King.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
“As a love romance it is charming, while it is filled with thrilling adventure and deeds of patriotic daring.”—Boston Advertiser.
“A remarkable good story.... The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes described, the popular breeze seizes upon us and whirls us away into the tumult of war.”—Chicago Evening Post.
A Colonial Free-Lance.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
“A fine, stirring picture of the period, full of brave deeds, startling though not improbable incidents, and of absorbing interest from beginning to end.”—Boston Transcript.
“A brave, moving, spirited, readable romance. Every one of his pages is aglow with the fire of patriotism, the vigor of adventure, and the daring of reckless bravery.”—Washington Times.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
RECENT FICTION.
A Nest of Linnets.
By F. Frankfort Moore, author of “The Jessamy Bride,” “A Gray Eye or So,” etc. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“That ‘A Nest of Linnets’ is bright, clever, and well written follows as a matter of course, considering that it was written by F. Frankfort Moore.”—Philadelphia Telegraph.
The Eternal City.
By Hall Caine, author of “The Christian,” “The Manxman,” “The Bondman,” “The Deemster,” etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“A powerful novel, inspired by a lofty conception, and carried out with unusual force. It is the greatest thing that Hall Caine has ever attempted.”—Brooklyn Eagle.
The Teller.
By Edward Noyes Westcott, author of “David Harum.” Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
The publishers of “David Harum” have the pleasure of presenting the only other story written by the lamented Edward Noyes Westcott. Mr. Westcott’s business life lay with practical financial matters, and in “The Teller” he has drawn upon his knowledge of life in a bank.
When Love Flies Out o’ the Window.
By Leonard Merrick. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
“The attention of the reader is held from start to finish, because the whole plot is original, and one can not tell what is going to happen next.”—Washington Times.
The Beleaguered Forest.
By Elia W. Peattie. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“‘The Beleaguered Forest’ is not a novel—it is a romance; it is not a romance—it is a poem.”—Chicago Post.
Some Women I have Known.
By Maarten Maartens, author of “God’s Fool,” etc. With Frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power.”—Boston Beacon.
The Wage of Character.
By Julien Gordon, author of “Mrs. Clyde,” etc. With Portrait. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
Julien Gordon’s new novel is a story of the world of fashion and intrigue, written with an insight, an epigrammatic force, and a realization of the dramatic and the pathetic as well as more superficial phases of life, that stamp the book as one immediate and personal in its interest and convincing in its appeal to the minds and to the sympathies of readers.
The Quiberon Touch.
A Romance of the Sea. By Cyrus Townsend Brady, author of “For the Freedom of the Sea,” “The Grip of Honor,” etc. With Frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“This story has a real beauty; it breathes of the sea. Fenimore Cooper would not be ashamed to own a disciple in the school of which he was master in these descriptions of the tug of war as it was in the eighteenth century between battle-ships under sail.”—New York Mail and Express.
Shipmates.
A Volume of Salt-Water Fiction. By Morgan Robertson, author of “Masters of Men,” etc. With Frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
When Mr. Robertson writes of the sea, the tang of the brine and the snap of the sea-breeze are felt behind his words. The adventures and mysteries of sea life, the humors and strange complications possible in yachting, the inner tragedies of the foks’l, the delightful adventures of Finnegan in war, and the original developments in the course of true love at sea, are among the vivid pictures that make up a volume so vital in its interests and dramatic in its situations, so delightful in its quaint humor and so vigorous and stirring throughout, that it will be read by sea lovers for its full flavor of the sea, and by others as a refreshing tonic.
Shacklett.
A Story of American Politics. By Walter Barr. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“As a picture of American political life and possibilities it is wonderfully vivid and truthful.”—Brooklyn Eagle.
Four-Leaved Clover.
By Maxwell Gray, author of “The Silence of Dean Maitland.” 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
“An honest piece of work by a story-teller who knows her trade thoroughly.... It is a book which ought to be in every hammock.”—Pittsburg Commercial Gazette.
A Woman Alone.
By Mrs. W. K. Clifford, author of “Love Letters of a Worldly Woman.” 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
“Mrs. Clifford is an adroit writer, whose knowledge of the world and whose brilliancy have not destroyed in her a simple tenderness to which every sensitive reader must respond.”—Chicago Tribune.
Mills of God.
By Elinor Macartney Lane. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“It is a good novel in comparison with even the best in current American fiction. Its author, in this her maiden effort, easily takes her place among the Churchills and the Johnstons and the Runkles.”—New York Herald.
The Seal of Silence.
By Arthur R. Conder. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
“A novel of marked originality, of extraordinary strength.... I recommend this very dramatic and exciting story, with its quaint love interest and its dry, quiet humor, to all lovers of a good story capitally conceived and happily told.”—George S. Goodwin, in Philadelphia Item.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
BOOKS BY JULIEN GORDON.
Each, 12mo, cloth.
The Wage of Character. $1.25.
Julien Gordon’s new story of modern society is in her most brilliant vein. Glimpses of social life in New York are accompanied by vivid pictures of political life and society in Washington. Her novel is a story of the world of fashion and intrigue, written with an insight, an epigrammatic force, and a realization of the dramatic and the pathetic, as well as more superficial phases of life, that stamp the book as one immediate and personal in its interest and convincing in its appeal to the minds and to the sympathies of readers.
Mrs. Clyde. $1.50.
“It all makes a story of exceeding interest, with now and then some delicious moments.”—New York Herald.
“A pure literary style, combined with graphic incidents, and punctuated with deep, shrewdly expressed aphorisms on social forms, makes this a story of exceptional strength and interest. This is a strong, brilliant story.”—Philadelphia Item.
His Letters. New Edition. $1.50.
“The writer’s style and diction are charming, and these passionate letters touch the chords of emotion and sympathy in the reader’s heart.”—New Haven Journal and Courier.
“The letters are bound to rank high in the mass of epistolary literature—fact and fiction—which looms in the season’s output of the army of publishers.”—St. Louis Republic.
A Puritan Pagan. $1.00.
“This beautiful novel will, without doubt, add to the repute of the writer, who chooses to be known as Julien Gordon.... The ethical purpose of the author is kept fully in evidence through a series of intensely interesting situations.”—Boston Beacon.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
NOVELS BY HALL CAINE.
Uniform Edition. Each, 12mo, cloth.
The Eternal City. $1.50.
“One of the very strongest productions in fiction that the present age has been privileged to enjoy.”—Philadelphia Item.
“The novel is wonderful in its power, its wealth of dramatic incident, and its richness of diction.”—Rochester Democrat and Chronicle.
“A powerful novel, inspired by a lofty conception, and carried out with unusual force. It is the greatest thing that Hall Caine has ever attempted.”—Brooklyn Eagle.
The Christian. $1.50.
“A book of wonderful power and force.”—Brooklyn Eagle.
“Its strength grasps you at the beginning and holds you to the end. There is in it something of the fervor of true prophecy.”—Chicago Journal.
“The public is hardly prepared for so remarkable a performance as ‘The Christian.’... A permanent addition to English literature.... Above and beyond any popularity that is merely temporary.”—Boston Herald.
The Manxman. $1.50.
“May easily challenge comparison with the best novels of the latter part of the century.”—San Francisco Call.
“Hall Caine has the art of being human and humane, and his characters have the strength of elemental things. In ‘The Manxman’ he handles large human questions—the questions of lawful and lawless love.”—New York Commercial Advertiser.
The Deemster. $1.50.
New copyright edition, revised by the author.
“Hall Caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and ‘The Deemster’ is a story of unusual power.... Certain passages and chapters have an intensely dramatic grasp, and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited nowadays in literature.”—The Critic.
The Bondman. $1.50.
New copyright edition, revised by the author.
“A story of Iceland and Icelanders at an early era. Our author throws a charm about the homes and people he describes which will win the interest and care of every reader. Their simple lives and legends, which shaped and directed them, take the reader clear away from the sensational and feverish and unhealthy romance and give the mind a rest.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
The Scapegoat. $1.50.
New copyright edition, revised by the author.
Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon. $1.00.
The Little Manx Nation. $1.00.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
BY CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY.
The Quiberon Touch.
A Romance of the Sea. With frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50
“A story to make your pulse leap and your eyes glisten. It fairly glows with color and throbs with movement.”—Philadelphia Item.
“This story has a real beauty; it breathes of the sea. Fenimore Cooper would not be ashamed to own a disciple in the school of which he was master in these descriptions of the tug of war as it was in the eighteenth century between battle-ships under sail.”—New York Mail and Express.
Commodore Paul Jones.
A new volume in the Great Commander Series, edited by General James Grant Wilson. With Photogravure Portrait and Maps. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50 net; postage, 11 cents additional.
“A thousand times more interesting than any of the so-called historical romances that are now in vogue.”—Spirit of the Times.
“Mr. Brady’s vigorous style, vivid imagination, and dramatic force are most happily exhibited in this book.”—Philadelphia Press.
“Incomparably fine. Being the work of a scholarly writer, it must stand as the best popular life yet available. The book is one to buy and own. It is more interesting than any novel, and better written than most histories.”—Nautical Gazette.
Reuben James.
A Hero of the Forecastle. A new volume in the Young Heroes of Our Navy Series. Illustrated by George Gibbs and Others. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
“A lively and spirited narrative.”—Boston Herald.
“Mr. Brady has made a stirring tale out of the material before him, one of those brilliant and forceful descriptions of the glories of the old wooden-walled navy, which stir the blood like a trumpet call.”—Brooklyn Eagle.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
RECENT FICTION.
The Man Who Knew Better.
By T. Gallon, author of “Tatterley,” etc. Illustrated by Gordon Browne. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.
“The best Christmas story that has appeared since the death of Charles Dickens.... It is an admirably written story, and merits warm welcome and broad recognition.”—Baltimore Sun.
Under the Skylights.
By Henry B. Fuller, author of “The Chevalier of Pensieri-Vani,” “The Cliff Dwellers,” etc. 12mo. Deckle edge, gilt top, $1.50.
The charming humor, delightful flavor, and refined quality of Mr. Fuller’s work impart a peculiar zest to this subtly satirical picture of the extraordinary vicissitudes of arts and letters in a Western metropolis.
The Apostles of the Southeast.
By Frank T. Bullen, author of “The Cruise of the Cachalot,” “Idyls of the Sea,” etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“Mr. Bullen writes with a sympathy and pathetic touch rare indeed. His characters are living ones, his scenes full of life and realism, and there is not a page in the whole book which is not brimful of deepest interest.”—Philadelphia Item.
The Alien.
By F. F. Montrésor, author of “Into the Highways and Hedges,” etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“May be confidently commended to the most exacting reader as an absorbing story, excellently told.”—Kansas City Star.
While Charlie Was Away.
By Mrs. Poultney Bigelow. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
Mrs. Bigelow tells a wonderfully vivid story of a woman in London “smart” life whose hunger for love involves her in perils, but finds a true way out in the end.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
BOOKS BY GILBERT PARKER.
Uniform Edition.
The Seats of the Mighty.
Being the Memoirs of Captain Robert Moray, sometime an Officer in the Virginia Regiment, and afterwards of Amherst’s Regiment. Illustrated, $1.50.
“Another historical romance of the vividness and intensity of ‘The Seats of the Mighty’ has never come from the pen of an American. Mr. Parker’s latest work may without hesitation be set down as the best he has done. From the first chapter to the last word interest in the book never wanes; one finds it difficult to interrupt the narrative with breathing space. It whirls with excitement and strange adventure.... All of the scenes do homage to the genius of Mr. Parker, and make ‘The Seats of the Mighty’ one of the books of the year.”—Chicago Record.
“Mr. Gilbert Parker is to be congratulated on the excellence of his latest story, ‘The Seats of the Mighty,’ and his readers are to be congratulated on the direction which his talents have taken therein.... It is so good that we do not stop to think of its literature, and the personality of Doltaire is a masterpiece of creative art.”—New York Mail and Express.
The Trail of the Sword. A Novel. $1.25.
“Mr. Parker here adds to a reputation already wide, and anew demonstrates his power of pictorial portrayal and of strong dramatic situation and climax.”—Philadelphia Bulletin.
The Trespasser. $1.25.
“Interest, pith, force, and charm—Mr. Parker’s new story possesses all these qualities.... Almost bare of synthetical decoration, his paragraphs are stirring because they are real. We read at times—as we have read the great masters of romance—breathlessly.”—The Critic.
The Translation of a Savage. $1.25.
“A book which no one will be satisfied to put down until the end has been matter of certainty and assurance.”—The Nation.
Mrs. Falchion. $1.25.
“A well-knit story, told in an exceedingly interesting way, and holding the reader’s attention to the end.”
The Pomp of the Lavilettes. 16mo. Cloth, $1.25.
“Its sincerity and rugged force will commend it to those who love and seek strong work in fiction.”—The Critic.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.