Blowing weather

by John T. McIntyre

"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."