XXXV
Anthony Stevens' journey across New Jersey was slow; the track he followed was through the pine barrens, dismal even in the flush of spring. The wheels of the wagon sank in the sand, and the span of stout horses sweated in their collars. Of an evening—the fourth since his start—he arrived at a small white town, standing sparsely upon the banks of a creek which let out into the bay. This was Barnegat; and here the young man bargained for transportation to his journey's end.
His goods were transferred to a flat-boat, and with the first peep of morning they were out of the creek; the patched sail filled, and the boat stood away for the long, low shore that faced them. The morning was still wet with mist when they grounded in a cove; across the meadows Anthony saw the blue-white of the dunes, and beyond them was the shine of the moving sea; thousands of migrating birds filled the sky, coming from the south, and hovered in twittering hordes over the wax-myrtle thickets; here and there a pair of black-ducks, delayed in their journey north, paddled about, feeding on the edge of the cove.
"There's the house you mean," said the boatman to Anthony.
It stood upon a dune and overlooked both the bay and the sea; it was low and strong and had small windows much like ships' dead-lights; the timbers plainly were parts of vessels, broken by the sea and cast ashore.
"'Twas built years ago by a man who lived by what he took out of the bay and what he found on the beach," the boatman told Anthony. "But it's seldom used now by any one; this beach is not much frequented; you'd go many a mile along it and never see a soul."
The man helped Anthony carry his provisions along what remained of a track across the meadows; then his bedding and blankets and other equipment followed. The door was fast only by a wooden latch; inside, the place resembled a ship's cabin; and after the boatman had gone Anthony opened the small, round windows and permitted the fresh sea air to blow through it; then he sat down upon a keg and looked around.
The timbers of the hut were massive, and had been hewn to fit; the crevices were overlapped outside by scantling; there were shelves over the windows and the door; in one corner was a rough cupboard, in another a bunk; and there were chairs and a table made up of materials cast up on the shore. A battered brass ship's lamp hung from the center of the ceiling by a chain. Through the open door he saw the dunes and the sea and the sky, like a picture set in a frame—the dunes with their sparse, strong grass, and mist-like blue that blurred the glare of the sun; the sea heaved, green and endless, breaking white upon the bars; the sky carried soft, floating draperies over its deep bosom, and, far out, stooped suddenly to meet the lifting waters.
Anthony cut some soft branches from a small cedar-tree which grew near the hut and fashioned himself a broom; with this he swept the walls and floor; then he unrolled his bedding and made up the bunk, sailor-fashion, stowed his salt beef and dried fish and fruit, his flour and beans and peas, and meal and tea; a well sunken from the top of a neighboring dune was cleaned and made sweet, the roof was seen to, to guard against possible rains. Then Anthony cleared the fireplace of the ash of an ancient fire, and laid some sticks for the building of a new one; he placed a thin array of books upon a shelf over a window, hung a fowling-piece and the pistol which Tom Horn had given him upon the wall; he saw to it that his powder was protected from the damp, and began to feel at home.
Toward evening he set out for a tramp on the beach; it was broad and steep; the broken waves would rush up the incline frothing, and then go swirling dangerously back. High on the horizon-line he saw some filled topsails; and to the northeast he saw a shoal which ran as far as his vision carried, and the hurrying waves broke over its bars in a cloud of mist.
"That," said Anthony, "must be the point Tom Horn spoke of. And I can see well how the 'white ghosts would move through the night when the winds blew.'"
It was dark when he returned to the hut; he lighted two candles, and, when he had a good bed of coals in the fireplace, cooked his supper, which he ate with great comfort. The sea air was thin and chill after the sun had gone; so with the fire built up, the candles drawn close, and a blanket thrown over the biggest of the arm-chairs, he sat with a book until almost midnight; after that he rolled himself up in his bunk and slept soundly.
Next morning he bent a sail on a boat he'd brought from the mainland and prowled about among the coves of the bay; in the afternoon he explored the island to the north, and found it abruptly cut by a swift and dangerous-looking inlet, at the mouth of which began the range of shoals and bars he'd noticed the evening before.
To the south all was beach and dunes and sky; the gulls winged above the water; fish-hawks flopped drearily up and down the line of surf; sandpipers followed one receding wave in search of beach insects, to scamper alertly back before the rolling advance of the next. The air was bracing; the smell of the sea was grateful. As the charm of the place settled upon him, Anthony would stand at midday upon elevations, with the free wind blowing about him, the sun warm upon his body, and feel the life mounting in him. Days and then weeks went by; he took fish out of the bay for food; he brought turtles from the high bar; he cut green, edible plants for his table; now and then he had a duck, though they were none too plump at that season; at rare times he had a rabbit for the pot with a dried leek from the cluster hanging to a hook in the rafters.
The sun burned him brown; the rowing, hauling, and tramping toughened his thews and gave stiffness to his bones. His eyes grew bright and ready; and, as those grinding, punishing last days at Rufus Stevens' Sons became fainter in his memory, the old tilt came back to his chin and the steadfast quality returned once more to his gaze. He'd plunge into the surf of a morning; tingling with the water, air, and sun, he'd cut wood for his fire, and cook his porridge, and bake his corn-bread upon the coals. Then he'd sit by the open window, eating, and sipping his wine and water, and he said to himself that he had begun no days like them since those he'd spent breasting the wilderness, or stepping the deck of a Spanish ship, voyaging among the southern seas.
After breakfast he'd scour the beach to see what the tide had brought in; planks, cordage, spars, broken ship's furniture, all added to his ease of life; and tinkering it into useful things passed many of his hours with profit. In mid-morning he'd hoist the sail of his boat and point away to his fishing-places; in the afternoon he'd lie on the top of a dune in the still of the sun; the sea washed in monotonously, a fishing bird complained in his passage, the wind rustled in the thickets on the meadow edge; but the sense of isolation would be on him completely; his eye and body were keen and eager, but his mind drowsed, resting after its wearing fight.
In all this time Anthony had seen no one on the island, and there was no sign of another habitation anywhere. Toward the mainland he'd frequently see a small sail, but they kept to their side of the bay; to seaward many vessels passed. Ships, schooners, brigs, and sloops, when the wind was in the west, ventured into the flat, near-shore waters, though none ever paused on their way. But one day while a tower of storm-clouds was building in the northwest he saw a small brig, standing on and off, and seeming in no haste. She was, as far as Anthony could see, a craft of no outstanding character; her hull had the unkempt look of a carelessly kept fishing-vessel; her dress of sails was patched, and discolored by long use, except one topsail, and that was white and new and shining. Though the wind freshened and blew levelly out of the windows of the storm-tower, the brig still kept pondering in and out; once a boat was lowered; but a shrill note crept into the wind, and the sea began to leap a little under its urging, and the boat was hoisted aboard directly; and the vessel pointed her nose toward the southeast and ran for deep water.
While at his supper that night Anthony listened to the rain washing against the cabin windows and roaring on the roof. The wind carried the sand and spray before it; the thunder rattled, and the lightning drove sharply across the sky. But the fine fish Anthony had hooked smoked deliciously on the table; there was rice cooked white and dry; there were stewed leeks and good corn-bread; and a brandy-flask seemed to expand its stout mid-section and smile rosily at the candle-light. And, later, snug and safe in the stout cabin, Anthony put more wood upon the fire; for all of early June the east wind chilled the air with its wet touch; the candles were cheery, the billets flamed up, and, with a book and pipe and a comfortable chair, he saw the storm through to its peak; then he blew out the light and went to bed, while it still jeered and strove, but with a tiring voice; and he slept soundly.
He found the beach cut and lashed desperately next day; and the seas were still roaring and boiling in, making the cuts deeper and changing the whole aspect of the shore. But the wind had gone down, and late in the day the sea sullenly did likewise. Then, far down the line of shore, as Anthony trudged along to view the havoc of the gale, he saw the stern of a long-boat sticking out of the sand. His eye told him, as he approached it, that some previous storm had driven it in and buried it; and now this one had uncovered it once more. The stern was badly stove; he saw that as he drew nearer; and another thing he saw was that the boat, for all her mishandling, was a new one. And then, as he stepped around the broken stern, he found painted upon it the name of Rufus Stevens!
Anthony stood quite still for a long time; his eyes never moved from the painted name; his mind carried a picture of the vessel to which the boat had belonged. The Rufus Stevens! A stout, good ship! The hopes that had been put in her!—hopes as precious as the stuffs she stowed! And now she was a broken ruin somewhere in the sea's depths, and the hopes were broken, too, in the ruined mind of her owner. A plunging, bold ship! And she would have come safe home if the dirty hand of villainy had not been put upon her. A broad-sailed ship. Christ! it was a shame to think of her, used like that; and no mind or voice to save her.
"I'd give my arm to have stood on her deck when her peril came upon her," said Anthony, all his muscles tight. "The rats! They sank her in the sea, and brought living death to as kindly a man as ever God made!"
That night Anthony did not sleep well, for the thought of the lost ship troubled him gravely; so he arose and dressed and stepped out into the quiet of the summer night. His eyes went seaward, for something there caught his attention; it was a light at no great distance—intermittent, winking, sometimes with long pauses between, sometimes rapid, considered, carrying an undoubted meaning. Then the night grew dark and blank; and, though he watched a long time, Anthony saw the light no more. He tramped about until weariness urged him back to bed, and this time he slept with no disturbing thoughts breaking in upon him.
Next morning he was early upon the beach and looking sharply about for any sign that might give a reason for the light that had come winking offshore. He saw nothing until he reached the spot where the stove long-boat of the Rufus Stevens protruded from the sands. All about her were the imprints of men's feet, which the making tide had already begun to wash away. Anthony studied them, his eyes intent under frowning brows; and then, as he lifted his head, he saw a vessel riding upon the horizon-line. She was a brig; and one of her topsails glinted white in the morning sun.