CHAPTER XXII
COLONEL HARRIS'S BIG BLUE ENVELOPE
The honeymoon of George and Gertrude included not only the two delightful weeks in Switzerland, but also the ten or twelve days on a slow steamer returning to New York. The weather at sea was all that could be desired. The longer a smooth sea-voyage, the better lovers are pleased. Return ocean passages usually furnish the much needed rest after a so-called vacation abroad. Overworked Americans need, not so much an entire cessation of activities, as a change of occupation, which usually, brings the desired results.
George and Gertrude made but few acquaintances on the steamer. The thought that each possessed the other was enjoyment that satisfied, and both were happy. Each lived as in dreamland, and scarcely observed even the daily runs made by the steamer. The death by accident of a sailor, and his strange burial at sea, served only for a brief time to arrest a happiness made complete by each other's voice and presence. The two weeks on the ocean came and went as softly as flowers unfold and disappear. Thus far, married life had been ideal.
It was after eleven o'clock, and anxious passengers were pacing the decks, hoping to sight native land before retiring. Suddenly the officer on the bridge discerned the dim Fire Island Light, bearing north by west, twenty miles distant. Ten minutes later, five points on the port bow, a pilot boat was sighted. Her mast-head light was visible, also the torch, which soaked in turpentine, burnt brightly at intervals.
The steamer signals, "We want a pilot," by burning a blue light on the bridge, and bears down on the pilot schooner. The moon reveals enormous figures, with a heavy dot beneath, on the mainsail of the schooner. Over the rail goes the yawl, followed by the oarsman and pilot, whose turn it is to go ashore. The pilot carries a lantern, which in the egg-shaped yawl dances on the white wave crests up and down like a fire-fly. The yawl is soon under the steamer's lee, and a line from the big ship pulls the little boat to the ladder, and the pilot nimbly climbs to the steamer's bridge, bringing the latest papers. The schooner drifts under the steamer's stern, takes in the yawl, and again sails to the eastward in search of another liner.
The entrance to the port of New York is patrolled night and day by a pilot-fleet of thirty boats, which cost from $10,000 to $20,000 each. They are staunch and seaworthy, the fastest schooners afloat. Often, knocked down by heavy seas, for a moment they tremble, like a frightened bird, then shaking the water off their decks, they rise, heave to, perhaps under double reefed foresail, and with everything made snug, outride the storm, and are at their work again. Pilots earn good pay, and this they deserve, as they often risk their lives in behalf of others.
Sandy Hook Light was now in sight, and long before the sun began his journey across the heavens, the steamer lay at anchor at quarantine, waiting for a certificate from the health officer. As the steamer proudly sped through "The Narrows," a jubilant crowd of passengers on the promenade deck sang,
"My country 'tis of thee
Sweet Land of Liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died;
Land of the pilgrim's pride;
From ev'ry mountain side
Let freedom ring."