CHAPTER XA MISSING YACHT
In New York yachting circles there had been much wonder and speculation as to the whereabouts of William Hanson’s fine, fast-sailing cutter, theRoma, fornothing authentic had been heard of the yacht or her owner since the last week in the preceding November, when she was reported to have sailed from Washington for the Isle of Storms.
Many conflicting rumors were afloat concerning her and him, some to the effect that he had sailed for the Mediterranean, others that he had gone to the Caribbean Sea; and still others that he was cruising off the coast of South America.
All agreed that the irresponsible young fellow had really gone off to “parts unknown,” without taking the trouble to advise any one of his intended destination.
His stepmother and her family were so accustomed to his eccentric movements and utter negligence of all domestic ties, that they scarcely gave the matter a thought, very indifferently taking it for granted that he knew how to take care of himself, and that he was perfectly safe—somewhere!
But they were all wrong—sportsmen, friends and family.
To go back a little.
When Hanson recovered from his intoxication, to find his captive flown, and himself made a prisoner of the elements on the Isle of Storms, entirely cut off from communication with all the rest of the world by the loss of the boats, which had been carried away in the terrible tornado of November 17th, he felt a certain grim sense of humor in the irony of a blind fate that had reversed his condition from that of a jailer to that of a captive.
He laughed bitterly to think how completely he was caught in his own trap.
He knew, however, that his captivity would be but temporary; that the captain of his yacht had orders to bring her down to the Isle of Storms, so as to arrive there by the twenty-fifth of November, then only about one week off.
So Hanson bore his penance as well as he could under the circumstances, looking forward to the time when his white-winged sea swan should be seen offthe isle, and he should go on board and sail away—not, indeed, to the Orient, with the beautiful Roma Fronde as his bride, but to Washington, to claim her as his wife, and to demand her surrender by the friends who might have her under their protection; for he was firmly determined to resist to the extremity all attempts that might be made to have the fraudulent marriage set aside.
His sanguine temperament enabled him not only to hope for but to confide in the certainty of ultimate success.
He had legally married her against all the odds of fate and fortune, he told himself. Why, then, should he not hold her as his wife, in spite of her friends, her lawyers, and herself?
He made up his mind, and persuaded himself that he could have her, and would have her, and assuredly should have her. And then, like the Sybarite that he was, he resolved to make the best of his situation on the isle for the week or ten days he might have to remain there, and instead of moping and repining, to “eat, drink, and be merry.”
He was not an ill-tempered man, except on the rare occasions when he came under the influence of wine, very little of which sufficed to dethrone his reason and excite him to violence and vindictiveness. He never was even irritable, except when recovering from such excesses. At other times his manner, at least, was amiable.
As Roma Fronde had said of him, he was not a Moloch, but a Belial; not a lion, but a serpent.
After that first and only outbreak of fury on the day of Roma’s departure, he never again threatened or frightened the two poor old negroes, who were now his only companions, as well as his only attendants. He contented himself with keeping them pretty busy waiting on him, and amused himself with jesting and jeering at them, and playing practical jokes at their expense, a course which made the poor creatures’ lives for the time being a burden to them.
“It’s fo’ our sins, ’Rusalem, honey! It’s fo’ our sinsas we is ’libered ober to be tormented fo’ a season by de han’s ob de ebil one,” Wilet was accustomed to say.
“Dat’s so, chile—dat’s yeally so—but ef de Lor’ on’y spar’s my libe ’til dis young man go ’way f’om yere, I’ll try fo’ to be a better nigger, I will,” Jerusalem would answer; and once he added, with emphasis, “Yes, indeed, I will, fo’ sho.”
“Yes, yo’ will, fo’ sho; but will yo’ do it fo’ true? Dat’s wot I wan’ to know,” Wilet said, with unfeeling irony.
“Now, chile, yo’ oughtn’ fo’ to take yo’ ole ’panion up so short dat a-way,” he complained.
“’Deed, so I oughtn’; but, fac’ is, we’s bof been penned up yere in dis islan’ long ob dis aggrawatin’ young marster tell we’s bof gettin’ Ole Sam inter us. Leastways, I know I is,” Wilet confessed.
But the end of their trial drew near.
One fine morning, near the last of November, as Hanson stood on the brow of the crest, in front of the Mansion House, with his spyglass in his hand, he sighted his pretty yacht making directly for the island.
As soon as he had satisfactorily identified her as his own craft he hastened into the house, quickly gathered his outlying “traps” together, and stuffed them into his valise, rang for ’Rusalem, and ordered him to take it down to the hall, with his umbrella, rug, pistol box, cigar case, and other effects. His trunk had been packed for several days, but it must wait for stronger muscles than Hanson’s own or old ’Rusalem’s, or both united, to move its weight down the stairs.
“Gwine away, young marse?” inquired the old man in a tone that he tried his best to make regretful, as he stood, laden like a hall hat-tree, with many goods and chattels.
“Yes. Didn’t you see that sail coming down the bay? That’s my yacht. She is coming for me. I am going off by her to-day.”
“’Deed, I’s moughty sorry to year yo’ say dat, young marse.”
“You old hypocrite!” laughed Hanson, who was in the best of humor at the near approach of his deliverance from captivity on the isle. “You know very well that you are glad to get rid of me.”
“’Deed, de bressed Lor’ knows I is mons’rous sorry to part long ob yo’, my young marse—I is fo’ sho—I means fo’ true I is,” ’Rusalem declared, not untruthfully, for his affectionate heart began to yearn over the young fellow, who had only given him great offense on one occasion—“W’en he were bit obercomed ’long ob too much wine,” as he put it. So he was sorry for the moment, and would not then confess to himself what a relief the departure of Hanson would be to himself and his “ole woman, Wilet.”
He took his load of small baggage below, piled it in the hall, and then went to tell the news to Wilet, whom he found standing at the kitchen table, making rolls to put in the oven for breakfast.
“Yo’ see dat dere wessel off yonner to de norf, p’intin’ dis yere way?”
“Yes—wot ail me not to see it? I been watchin’ ob it eber since I been stan’in’ at de table yere, ’fo’ de windy, makin’ my yoles. Wot ’bout it?”
“Heap ’bout it. Dat dere wessel ’longs to de young marster, an’ it comin’ yere to fetch him ’way. He gwine ’way to-day. He packin’ yup now. Wot yo’ fink ob dat?”
“Is dat so?” gravely inquired Wilet.
“Yas! Aine yo’ glad?”
“Y—a—s—course—I is,” hesitatingly replied the woman.
“Dere! I knowed it! Yo’ aine g’ad! Yo’ aine no mo’ g’ad nor I am, on’y yo’ doane wan’ to ’fess it,” chuckled ’Rusalem.
“Well, po’ fellow, yo’ see; but anyways it’s better fo’ ’im to go. He were a moughty deal ob trouble an’ ’sponsibility,” Wilet said.
“Ef I was yo’ I wouldn’ be finkin’ ’bout dat at dis hour ob partin’,” Jerusalem remarked.
Before Wilet could defend herself from the implied rebuke the bell rang, and ’Rusalem hastened to answer it.
He found Hanson standing in the hall.
“Go and hoist the signal, so that my sailing master may know where to send out a boat.”
“Young marse, de signal pol’ don been carried ’way long ob de stohm dat night w’en de boats an’ de boat’-ouse went; but ef yo’ can fin’ de f’ag I can put it up lon’ ob a clo’es prop, or sumhows.”
Without a word Hanson turned and fled upstairs, and soon came down again, with the red flag in his hand.
’Rusalem went around to the rear of the house, and brought from the shed one of Wilet’s long clothesline props. Hanson joined him, and together they went down to the broken pier, dug a hole in the sand, planted the pole, and hoisted the signal.
The yacht was now within a quarter of a mile of the island.
After fixing the signal Hanson stood with his small telescope at his eye, watching her. After a while he turned his glass toward Snowden, and started as he saw crossing from that point a large rowboat.
In the eight days that had passed since the storm had carried off the island boats, and made him a prisoner there, no boat had come from the mainland, nor was one expected or hoped for, as there was really nothing to bring the dwellers on the shore to the Isle of Storms at this season of the year.
What, therefore, should bring the strange boat on the very morning of the arrival of theRoma?
While he was speculating on this question a horn blew from the direction of the house.
This had been Wilet’s method of summoning people who were out of hearing of the bell, to come to the meal that was then ready.
“It’s breakfas’, young marse. Breakfas’ is yeady,” suggested ’Rusalem.
“And I am ready for breakfast,” gayly replied theyoung man, as he shut up his glass and put it in his pocket.
“Yo’s gwine fo’ to leabe us, so I year ’Rusalem say, young marse,” remarked Wilet, as she stood at the head of the table, ready to pour out his coffee.
“Yes; are you not delighted to hear it?” he inquired, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Now dat dere is a wery s’archin’ question, young marse. But I do say, fo’ de trufe, I’m not zactly ’lighted as yo’re gwine ’way; but same time I doane deny as yo’ sartinly was a g’eat ’sponsibility to me an’ ’Rusalem, ’specially sence dat dere night w’en yo’ was—was—was—tuk so ill, wid no way ob gettin’ ob a doctor to yo’. No, sah, no way. But as yo’ gwine, young marse, I hopes, I des, as yo’ do well, an’ make up long ob de young mist’ess, an’ let wine ’lone—w’ich she woone put up wid, as yo’ see yo’se’f. An’ I hope yo’ bofe will lib togedder in lub, an’ sometimes come yere to see de ole p’ace in de p’easant summer time.”
“Thank you, Wilet. I, too, hope we shall,” he answered as he took the cup of coffee from her hand.
Hanson hurried with his breakfast, yet he had scarcely finished when old Jerusalem came in and said:
“Sah, dere is two boats at de lan’in’, an’ de men out’n bofe is comin’ to de house. Is I to denounce dem inter de drawin’-room or inter de kitchen?”
“I will go out and meet them on the porch,” said Hanson, rising.
He reached the hall door, which ’Rusalem attentively stepped before and opened for him, just as the first men came up—two sailors in the light blue uniform of theRoma.
They touched their caps and stood at “attention.”
“How are you, Coote? How are you, Reeves?” said Hanson, recognizing both; and then, without waiting for answer, he said: “Just follow this old man upstairs, and bring down the trunk he will show you, and take it down to the boat. Jerusalem, show these men the way to my room, and then follow them to the boat with this smaller luggage.”
The old negro beckoned the sailors, and conducted them to the upper floor, while Hanson turned to meet the stranger, who had now reached the house, and was stepping upon the piazza.
“You are Mr. Hanson?” inquired the stranger, who held a long envelope in his hand.
“That’s my name,” replied the young man.
“Mr. William Hanson?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
Without replying, the stranger handed him the long envelope.
Hanson took it, and drew from it a folded paper, which he opened, and found to be a notice summoning him to appear as a respondent in the suit entered by Roma Fronde for the setting aside of the fraudulent marriage ceremony that had been, without her own knowledge and consent, performed between herself and William Hanson.
“Quite right,” said the young man, with a light laugh. “I see what it is. I expected this. It has come in good time to enable me to appear promptly and put a stop to the antics of my lunatic wife and her scoundrelly counsel. This is Thursday. The hearing is set for Monday next. I shall have ample time. Sir, I would ask you to enter the house with me and take refreshments; but, as you see, I am just going away. However, if you will kindly accept the hospitalities of Guyon Hall at the moment of its master’s enforced departure, my servants are at your orders, and will make you comfortable.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hanson. I always feel quite at hame in the old house, having known it and its proprietor from youth up. I will go in and taste some of old Aunt Wilet’s applejack or cherry bounce. Don’t let me detain you,” said the officer.
And with a bow he passed the usurper and crossed the threshold.
Hanson stepped after him, and took his ulster from the peg and drew it on.
’Rusalem came downstairs, followed by the two sailors,bringing the heavy trunk, which they carried out of the house.
’Rusalem gathered up the smaller baggage and went after them.
Hanson had just finished buttoning up his ulster, and was drawing on his gloves, when Wilet made her appearance through the back door, complaining:
“Lor’s a-massy on me, young marse, wot I done to yo’ fo’ yo’ to be gwine ’way ’dout biddin’ a body good-by?”
“I was not going to do anything of the sort. Besides, I have left you some tokens of my regard which you will find up in my room—a dozen or so of assorted mufflers, silk and worsted, of all colors, as many large linen or silk pocket handkerchiefs, a half bushel of mixed gloves, socks, slippers, etc. These last you may not be able to wear, but the mufflers and the handkerchiefs will be beauty and joy to you forever. And here—here is something to get you a winter outfit.” With this, he handed her a twenty-dollar gold piece, which took away her breath. The scamp, bad as he was, could be liberal, perhaps because he had more money than he knew what to do with.
“Now I yeally do t’ank yo’, a hundred t’ousand times, young marster!” she fervently exclaimed.
“One time will do. Now, good-by. Don’t let your husband tyrannize over you.”
“Him! Po’ ole ’Rusalem? He! he! he!” laughed the woman. “He knows better ’an to ’tempt it! W’y, he’d no mo’ dare to get ’toxified an’ carry on dan he’d heave hisse’f inter de fire! ’Deed, ef ebber I cotched him at sich I’d make him fink de debil had got him sho. He taranize ober me! He! he! he! Yo’ make me laugh, young marster. Not but wot I lubs an’ ’specks ’Rusalem. He is one good, true ole man. Dat he is.”
“I don’t doubt it. Good-by.”
“Good-by, young marse. Gib my lub to young mist’ess w’en yo’ sees her, sah.”
“All right. Good-by!” said Hanson, for the last time, as he hurried out of the house and ran gaylydown the hill, whistling an air from “The Marriage of Figaro.”
At the landing he found the boat already laden with his luggage, and ’Rusalem waiting to see him off.
“Here, old man!” he called, and the patriarchal negro came up, and took off his hat.
“Here is a token of my deep regard for you,” he said, and put a double eagle into ’Rusalem’s hand.
The old negro bowed very profoundly, but said nothing. Such munificence deprived him of the power of speech for the moment.
“Now, good-by. And here! Harken to a little parting advice. Don’t you let your wife tyrannize over you.”
’Rusalem drew himself up with all the dignity of a “lord of creation.”
“Who, sah?” he demanded. “Wilet? No, sah! Wilet know her dooty too well, sah. I is de sup’eem yuler in my fambly, sah. Wilet no mo’ fink ob yunnin’ ’way offen de islan’ ’dout my leabe, dan she would jump inter de sea. No, sah! She knows wot she’d cotch ef she did! No, sah. I’s lord an’ marster ob dat ’oman! Yes, sah, I is fo’ sho—I mean fo’ true.”
Hanson laughed to think how utterly dependent was this sable and self-deceived “supreme ruler” on his wife, for counsel, assistance, and everything else he needed.
“T’ank yo’ berry much, sah, fo’ yo’ moneyifficence, an’ likewise yo’ good ’vice. Gib my dooty to de young madam, sah.”
“I will,” said Hanson as he stepped into the boat.
The men laid themselves to their oars, and, rowing swiftly, soon cleared the distance between the island and the yacht.
The captain was standing on the deck to welcome the owner.
“Glad to see you, sir!” he exclaimed.
“So am I to see you, Gamble,” Hanson answered, as he reached his side.
“But where is the bonny bride?”
“Oh, she is with friends in Washington. I am going to her now.”
“And not to the Mediterranean?”
“Yes, afterward. But, Gamble, what is the meaning of those clouds rising in the west? They have a strange, uncanny look.”
“Yes, sir, they have. They indicate ugly weather. I was just thinking we had better run into Snowden Inlet and anchor for the night.”
“Nonsense! TheRomacan weather any storm that could ever rise. We must sail for Washington immediately. I have no time to lose.”
“The impatience of a young husband is excusable,” laughed the captain, and he went forward and gave the necessary orders—fatal orders, they proved to be!
TheRomasailed away from the Isle of Storms, and that was the last seen or heard of her, or of her owner, for many days.
I must be brief here.
The terrible storm struck them at midnight, near the mouth of the bay. The small crew worked and struggled heroically with wind and waves, but to no purpose.
TheRomafoundered at sea.
Hanson, his captain and crew barely escaped with their lives by taking to an open boat, in which they were tossed about all night in the tempest, and from which, when it was about to break up under them, they were picked up by a merchant ship, bound from Baltimore to San Francisco.
Thus it happened that while Hanson’s friends were speculating as to what course his pleasure cruise on theRomahad taken, the yacht was at the bottom of Chesapeake Bay, and her owner, with all her crew, was bound on a long, compulsory voyage around Cape Horn, and was suffering the tortures of the damned through seasickness, cold, wet, exposure and deathly peril.
It was not until the first week in April that the ship reached San Francisco.
Hanson had not a cent of cash with him, but he had boundless credit. By this he obtained money enough to pay off his captain and crew and to make preparations to return to Washington by the overland route as fast as steam, by day and night, could carry him.
All through his long journey the question that racked him was:
How should he find Roma?