XXXI
The autumn came in ruggedly—an autumn of storms, of flurries of snow, of bleak winds and driving rains. Under its breath the last trace of the plague vanished; the fugitives returned; normal life and trade were resumed; and in the hurry and bustle the terrors of the late summer were forgotten. The winter followed—a raging, boisterous, blowing winter, with deep snow in the wagon-ways, and ice in the river, the chimneys smoking, and the carts piled high with cord-wood.
At Rufus Stevens' Sons there had been no great briskness after the season of pestilence. There was a movement of trade through its warehouses and counting-rooms; but it was a dull movement, without rush or volume, with no ring of money in it, and no whetting of ideas. Anthony had a feeling that things were crumbling under him; the stout old walls were buckling. A ship of the firm's owning was held at Rio by the Portuguese because of the house's failure to pay certain moneys long due; another, lately repaired and cleaned at Barbados, was not permitted to sail until all debts were cleared; each ship that entered port from the East and South carried letters to the house from merchants and traders, shippers and agents, asking that settlements be made; and local merchants grew insistent that their accounts be dealt with forthwith. There was a steady crowding in, a pressing, a squeezing, and the wide-lunged old concern had no room to breathe; its slow methods, its calm reliance upon its own integrity, its ponderous insistence upon its own power had much the look of impotence. People who had inherited their belief in the house now observed it keenly; and what they saw made them shake their heads.
Charles came and went and planned for the future; of the succession of days that broke and waxed and waned he said nothing, except in that they served as things upon which to base calculations of what the ship Rufus Stevens was likely to be doing on the other side of the world.
"She must have made her port in three months," said Charles. "With that hull and spread of sail, and mastered as she is, she couldn't help it, unless the winds blew contrary every day. She'll surprise them in the East, I think. The Yankees have sent nothing like her, and the British are out-hulled and out-stowed, two to one."
He'd sit for hours, silent, still, a smile upon his face, his look many and many a league away in the track of the trades, across the warm, long waves of the Indian Ocean, past far lands and strange ships. There the very stars were new and had alien names; the horned moon swung downward like a yellow sword-blade; the sea and air were filled with grotesque life. What ports he came to! how they shrieked and strove and teemed and smelled! the stones were worn by generations of bare feet; the narrow ways roared with traffic, set toward the rivers; the deep warehouses were like rich mines; the merchants were grave of face and wore silken robes.
The Rufus Stevens, as he'd see her, was anchored in mid-stream, empty and standing high out of the water; she was a giant among ships, and she was waiting for her cargo. Her sails were furled neatly, as only skilful hands could furl them; her deck was as ordered as a parlor; the masts reared straight, like slim towers; after a three months' battering by the sea, her paint looked clean. And as she waited her merchandise was gathering! Charles would sit tighter in the corner of his sofa as he'd think of this; and he'd nurse his lame foot and smile; and his eyes would glow.
Busy brown hands were gathering that cargo; others were setting the items down in strange-seeming characters upon leaves of yellow paper; trains of asses were filing through mountain passes with packs of rich goods, with fabrics and shawls which would bear down the balance against red minted gold; camels plodded sullenly across hot, wind-swept plains, bearing rich carpets and soft rugs of rare design; flooding rivers bore craft moved by tides and poles and sweeps, or by the pressing wind in their worn brown sails. Silks were in these vessels, as delicate as though spider-spun, and as softly hued as a young morning.
And, then, there were the craftsmen of the cities; they were not without words in the matter. They offered things fashioned of gold and silver and ivory, richly and cunningly fashioned, of fine grace and beauty, the like of which was seldom seen out of the East. And, then, there were certain Jews, dark men, and said to have a strain of Moorish blood; they had gems in a strong room, guarded by men with hard, unbelieving eyes. But the mind of Charles barely touched these traffickers and their treasure; for when one thinks one talks, and it was not good to have it known that such items were in the ship's cargo; for there was no part of the world's waters where pirates were thicker than in the Indian Ocean.
"The kites," Charles would say. "The robbers! I wish I had mounted a few guns in her, and given her a few cases of muskets. These great, rich ships are as helpless as bustards."
His mind was seldom off the vessel. Item by item, the cargo would pile up before him: casks, bales, chests, rich silks, rare dyes, spices, fabrics of amazing texture, drugs, soft leather, gold vessels. There were days when he'd talk of nothing else; he would be drunk with the prospect of it. But Anthony frowned and doggedly worked with the affairs of the house; for they, at least, were things one could put one's hand on; a ship away at the other side of the world, as any man who knew the ways of ships would tell, was a chance, only. There were delays to be considered, and falling markets; there were gales and sinister currents and coasts dreaded of mariners; there were the springing of timbers, mutiny, and the Moorish corsairs; a drunken third mate had ruined the hopes of many a merchant; a helmsman whose mind was not on his work had smashed the ribs of hundreds of sound ships on easy headlands.
But the work of the counting-room was never-ending; the young man would no sooner, and sometimes with deadening labor, surmount a difficulty or avoid a peril than another of a greater growth would show itself at the door. He met them steadily and fought them as was his nature; but they came swiftly, one upon another, like the waves of the sea; they came so unexpectedly and with such crushing viciousness that he was gradually being borne down by them; the horizons of the house were clouded by mists and spray, and breakers seemed roaring all around it.
"It's no use," said Weir; "you cannot fight these things back; they lie too deep; they must take their course."
"And then?" asked Anthony, pale, harassed, but still stubborn.
Weir shrugged his shoulders.
"I have seen unexpected strokes," said he. "Fortune is peculiar." There was a cold smile in his eyes. "It may be your uncle's thoughts will come true."
Of a night, after the work of the day, Anthony would sometimes spend an hour with Christopher Dent; and he'd sit and smoke while the little apothecary watched him with troubled eyes.
"You are breaking down," said Christopher. "Your mind is killing your body. The vital elements have gone out of your blood. What does it serve to work as you are doing? When the house of Stevens falls, as seems likely now, I'm told, will there be any purpose in finding your body in the ruins?"
"I shall, at least, have striven to prevent the fall," said Anthony.
Christopher made no answer to this, for there was no answer for such a saying. It was a man's nature speaking, and a man's nature does not change, as the little apothecary well knew, except by fierce rendings and great drifts of emotion.
One day news came, by an English ship out of the East, and carrying a great freight of woven cotton goods: the Rufus Stevens had reached her port after a swift and uneventful voyage, and, when the letter was written, was discharging her cargo. Charles was vastly excited; he limped to and fro and his face shone.
"She sails like a hawk, and is as safe as a city," said he. "She'll make a high mark, as I've told you; she'll outrun and out-stow them all."
Three weeks later, more news; this time from the ship's supercargo; Winslow, the master, was sick of an injury and was being taken care of. The ship was now discharged and ready for the merchandise she was to bring back. Charles's face clouded when he read of his captain's disability; but it cleared up at once.
"Winslow is a hale man," said he, "and he'll throw off a hurt quickly enough. Never fear for Winslow."
There was a long wait—well into February, when the next word came. Winslow was completely disabled; the ship had taken her cargo aboard and waited at anchor in the river; but his condition showed no sign of a turn. Also, and the supercargo was gravely concerned about this, those who were accustomed to issue insurances at Calcutta had refused to do so in the case of the Rufus Stevens. Pressed for a reason, they were vague; there had been strange mishaps; the house of Stevens had been oddly unfortunate. Others had been appealed to; but the result was the same.
At this spot in the letter, Charles suddenly lost control of himself; with the veins of his neck swollen and purple, he began swearing futilely and bitterly. Weir finished reading the message. Because there was not like to be storms, because the ship was sound and new, because the American States were at peace with the world, it had been agreed, despite the failure of the insurance, that the Rufus Stevens sail for home with her store of goods. The vessel had waited three weeks for Winslow; but he was still in the hospital, and so another master was procured and they were making ready to put to sea.
Charles stopped cursing and listened; and Anthony, his eyes narrowing, asked:
"What is the new master's name?"
"He is Captain Gorman," read Weir, "out of New York, and, by good fortune, in Calcutta without employment."
"A good man," said Charles. "A very good man. Not the sort I would choose if there were many to select from; but an excellent man for all that." He turned to Anthony. "Eh?"
But Anthony's brows were heavy, and his eyes were burning under them.
"I've only heard of Captain Gorman once," said he, his mind going back to the ravings of old Bulfinch that night at Bush Hill; "and my impression then was not good."
"There is evil to be said of every man who has sailed the seas," said Charles. "Gorman has a heavy hand; crews are not apt to like him, and he cares more for the brandy bottle than is good for either him or his employers. But he is a good sailor, an excellent navigator, and brings his ships home, and quickly. These are the qualities, after all, that make the shipmaster. Gorman will do very well; I'm glad of him in the emergency."
Anthony looked at his uncle; it was in his mind to tell him what old Bulfinch had said. But he frowned, listened, and held his tongue; for what purpose would the telling serve? The vessel was thousands of miles away, and her prow would be turned homeward months before any word could reach Calcutta. Also, he knew Charles's bounding, sanguine spirit would at once cry the thing down. What? give credit to the maunderings of an old wretch like Bulfinch? If one had given ear, and he could fancy Charles saying this, to the ravings of every one stricken with the plague, God knows what would have become of matters! For they had been made mad by it; and the words of people in that condition should not be listened to, much less remembered! So Anthony held his peace—and waited.
And now the ship was on the sea; the wonderous freight she carried was blowing nearer and nearer each day. The mind of Charles mounted into thin air; his spirits sang; his sayings were like things printed in old books. He laughed at the dull routine of the counting-room, and the bent shoulders and moody brows he saw there; and he put a good-humored curse on their doings and bade Anthony take his mind from worrying.
"But," said the young man, "the claims made against us must be understood and met. They are real; they are heaping up; I can only hope they'll not fall in on us."
"They are nothing. When the Rufus Stevens comes into the river we'll be able to pay every claim made upon us, three times over."
"But," said Anthony, "suppose she does not come?"
Charles laughed at this.
"Take your mind from provoking things," he insisted. "The world is full of such, but they were never made to think about. To-day is shabby and has nothing to give you; keep your thoughts on to-morrow."
But the gaunt present had its spell on Anthony; and he could not take his mind from its grim approach. Later he spoke bitterly to Captain Weir.
"There is enough come to us already to give us our deaths, once the weight of it falls together; and what is to come, in his expectations, rests upon no better foundation than a tale told to children. But, nevertheless, the stroke of fortune you spoke of some time since seems the only thing that promises. If the house is to go on at all,—and I see the thing plainer each day,—my uncle's dream must come true."
"His visionings of the past had a way of doing so," said Weir. "And, who knows? fortune may repeat itself. This I know: let the ship once come to port, and there will be enough money to enrich a prince."
Two days later the sky, in the morning, was leaden; a bitter wind blew out of the northeast; the river was sealed, but there was a broad channel through the bay from New Castle to the sea, and ships attempting to beat out, so the news came up to the city, were driven back. For a week the wind continued, and the sky lowered like a dismal casque upon the world. The news of what was happening trickled in slowly, from down the river, from across the Jerseys, from New York. The gale was the heaviest known in years; the hardiest mariners, the stoutest ships had ridden in the bays, content to tug at their anchors and with no thought to face it. It had torn and yelled along the coast; the ocean had risen until spent waves were sweeping between the huts in some of the fishing hamlets.
Charles and Anthony had gone out early of an afternoon to get a bite at the City Tavern, and had paused to read a bulletin posted at the door; as they were turning from it they met old Martin Dacy, mate of many a deep-water ship and master of more than one coastwise brig.
"Eh?" said old Dacy. "Wild winds! And no fresh news? Leave it alone, Mr. Stevens; leave it alone. The news'll come fast enough. What the winds have done inside the capes and along the coast is all you've heard of yet. You'll hear more than that as the days go on; and when the thing's blown itself out you'll hear the worst. This has been none of your gusty blows, none of your mad things that don't know their own minds. There's been a devil behind this one, a bitter, wicked devil, and he's pressed steadily for days and days in the one direction, and he's piled seas before him so that out there it must look as though the whole world were a-churning. The news'll come later; and that merchant is lucky, sir, who has no ships at sea; and that sailor is lucky that has a fire to sit at, ashore, and a chimney for the wind to roar in."
Charles and Anthony went into the tavern.
"Old seamen are fond of mumbling such prophecies," smiled Charles, as they sat down at a table in the public room. "As they grow weaker themselves, the danger and power of the ocean magnifies in their minds. What would have been the day's work in their youth or their prime comes to be looked upon as vast peril in their old age. God help them," said Charles, "it may be a sort of compensation; they, like enough, think themselves fortunate in having grown well away from such dangerous days."
But, though there was a smile in Charles's eyes as he said this, Anthony saw a look of strained wistfulness; and, for all the laugh, there was something fixed and frightened in his face.
"What are ships for," said Charles, "if it is not to weather storms? With honest planks and plenty of deep water, a good sailor can outlive the roughest wind that ever came out of the north. And the Rufus Stevens is an honest ship, I'll take oath to that; and what deeper water do you want, than the Atlantic? And, again, while a storm may blow here or there, there may be calm weather enough in another place. I doubt if our ship has come far enough to feel even the edge of this."
With each day while the storm lasted Charles grew more and more buoyant in his talk. Before it broke, his calculations had been how very near the Rufus Stevens must be to port, how quickly she must have taken in her merchandise, how she had run out and set herself before the trades, and how she had blown with them across the leagues of water. But now he conjured up all sorts of things that must have held her back; she could not, he found, have left Calcutta for days after the time his first figures had given him; and then at this season of the year the trade-winds were not as brisk as might be; then, too, Gorman was no fellow for pushing matters. He had that reputation. He was one of the sort who was willing to take things fair and easy. And, this being so, taking all likely things together, the vessel must still be far away; she must be in a region of the seas where the weather was very calm, indeed.
But when the storm ceased, when the sun shone out brightly and the wind fell away to only a joyous romping, Charles was still. He went about quietly; his face was white; and in his eyes was the look one sees in the eyes of a boy who is afraid. And the time for news was at hand, news of deep water, and barren stretches of coast; ships came creeping in, broken in hull and rigging, with crews whose eyes stared and whose minds were stunned. Fearful tales were told of the deadly wind and the hill-like seas; vessels had gone down in the whirl of waters; the coast was piled with oaken bones; a thousand lives could be reckoned as lost even then; millions of money was scattered and sunk.
Then one of Girard's ships worked her way into the river; only one of her masts was standing; half her company had been swept away. Her master was a Chester man of the name of Frisbee, a plain sailor who said little but whose sparse sentences meant much. In Lat. 35° 30' N., Lon. 63° 10' W., before the storm was at its worst they had sighted a ship with her masts gone, pitching before the gale. He had stood by to see if he could give aid; and once venturing close to her he saw the name upon her bow. There was no mistake. She was the Rufus Stevens. Her decks were deserted; her crew had abandoned her during a lull, or had been washed away. Captain Frisbee had held his ship in position to help any who might still be on board, if the chance came, but was finally forced by the growing strength of the wind to give up the effort and look to himself.
Charles Stevens was told this by Frisbee himself, in the London Coffee-House. Anthony and Weir stood by—Anthony close to his uncle's elbow, for he feared the result. But Charles took it quietly.
"How unfriendly the sea can be," he said. "It takes men's lives, and it takes their goods. Merchants and shipmen have suffered much from it."
Frisbee stared, for the mild face was not that of a man who had lost a fortune; and Charles, his odd, impersonal look going about the public room, finally looked at Anthony, and he smiled as though gratified and surprised.
"Ah, you're there, are you, Anthony?" said he. "I knew you would be." He put his arm across his nephew's shoulders. "You are a fine fellow." Anthony, a sudden shock at his heart, studied him with fearful eyes. "You see it, do you, Anthony?" said Charles, forlornly. "I knew you would at last. I should have told you when it first came. But I knew it would hurt you, and so I did not. It's a strange thing, is it not?" and he spoke very quietly, seemingly unaware of the ring of wondering faces about him. "It's a very strange thing. I've always thought it would be the dark I'd be afraid of. But it's the light."
"Well," said Frisbee, startled. "A good day to you." And off he went; but Charles did not see him go.
"Yes, it's the light," said he, nodding his head; "the long nights when I'd sit by the fire alone taught me that. I knew the darkness would come in the end, and I dreaded it. But I do not fear it now; one can sit undisturbed in the darkness; one can be quiet and peaceful. It's the light that brings unrest; it's the light that's always seeking to force its way through—a pale, bitter thing, and it always brings despair."
"Come home," said Anthony; and to Weir he added, "See if Dr. King can be found; and, if so, fetch him at once."