Colonel Hawkins, the Indian agent for the government at Pole Cat Springs, Alabama, in 1804, leaned across the pine table to extend a cordial hand to his visitor. Abram Mordecai, who stood before him, although almost fifty, gave one the impression of a much younger man. Lean and lithe as a panther, with shaggy black hair and keen eyes, his distinctly Jewish features were so tanned and weather-beaten that he looked far more the Indian than the Jew. He nodded gayly to his employer before he flung himself into a chair, his gun-stock between his knees, his great brown hands clasped behind his head. As he sat there dressed in the buckskin shirt and trousers of his half-civilized Indian neighbors, every free movement of his large body suggesting his life in the wilderness, the Jewish adventurer presented a perfect picture of the pioneer of his day.
"I have come, Colonel Hawkins," he began in his usual abrupt manner, "to ask your help in building a cotton gin. Yes," as the other showed surprise, "I know the enterprise seems a strange one for a rover like me to suggest, and, perhaps, a foolish undertaking in the wilderness. Yet the wilderness must pass and we must build now for the days to come."
"Go on, Mordecai," encouraged his chief. "What are your plans?"
"I know how eager you are to civilize the Indians in our region and teach them the arts of peace," went on Mordecai. "Thus far we have done nothing but trade with them for pelties and healing barks and oils. But could we not have the squaws raise the cotton and bring it down the river in their canoes and prepare it in our gin for the market in New Orleans?"
"Good." Hawkins nodded approvingly. "First we must gain permission of the Hickory Ground Indians for the erection of our gin, for it will not be wise to risk their enmity at the outset. But there is not another gin in the state. Where shall we find a pattern; where shall we get the workmen to fashion one for us; or the needed tools?"
"I have thought of that," Abram Mordecai told him. "There are two Jews of Georgia, Lyon and Barrett, who have both the tools and the skill for the task. I met Lyon when we were both young men serving in the army under General Washington. You can rely upon him for faithful service."
A little smile curved the agent's lips. "You Jews!" he exclaimed. "Is there any enterprise in which you have not had a hand? Even back to the building of the pyramids in old Egypt! It is like a Jew to plan the first cotton gin in Alabama—and to bring two of his race to build it."
"We are indeed builders," answered Mordecai a little dryly, "but not always for ourselves." He rose. "Shall I send for them?"
"The sooner the better. And it will be good to meet your fellow Hebrews again, eh, Mordecai?"
Abram Mordecai, already at the door, turned a moment. His eyes, a striking hazel in the tan of his roughened face, grew wistful for a moment. "I am more Indian than Jew, more savage than white man," he answered gravely. "Perhaps it is a pity," and he was gone.
Mordecai, the child of the wilderness, where the struggle against savage and beast of prey sharpen the wits and teach the pioneer the need for rapid decisions, lost no time in executing his commission. As soon as word could reach Lyon, he informed his old comrade of the work he had in mind for him. The next post told Mordecai that the two men with their tools, gin saws and other materials loaded upon pack horses, were already on their way to Alabama. He waited eagerly for their arrival. The gin meant more to him than a source of revenue, were he successful in the cotton market. For, as Hawkins had observed, the Jew was not content to be a mere trader and hunter, like so many adventurers of the back woods. He longed to build, to create something lasting even in that ever-changing wilderness. And perhaps, mingled with his impatience, was a queer longing to see his own again, not merely white men like Colonel Hawkins, but Jews such as he had known before leaving his native Pennsylvania so many years ago. He smiled to find himself actually counting the days before he could expect Lyon and Barrett to arrive.
They came at last one evening near sunset, twobrown-skinned rovers in half-savage dress affected by the backwoodsmen of that day; Lyon, grave and silent, Barrett, with a boy's laugh, despite the sprinkling of gray in his curly hair. Mordecai stood at the door of his hut to greet them. A little behind him, humbly respectful like all the women of her nation to her lord and master, stood a squaw clad in a blanket with strings of beads woven in the long, dark braids of her hair. Her bright, black eyes sparkled with interest as she surveyed the strangers; but as they came nearer, she turned quickly and went back into the hut, where she continued to prepare the evening meal. But Mordecai advanced toward the travellers, his hand extended in welcome.
"Shalom Aleichem," he began, his tongue faltering a little over the old Hebrew greeting he had not used for so long. "I am glad you have come at last."
"Aleichem Shalom," answered Lyon. "It is long since we have met, Abram Mordecai." He took his old comrade's outstretched hand and indicated Barrett with a curt nod. "My friend," he said, briefly. "He will help us build the gin."
"You are both welcome," their host assured them. "Becky," he called, and the Indian woman appeared at the door, "unload the horses and bed them for the night with ours," and he indicated a roughly constructed barn a little way from the hut which it so resembled. "But first bring a pail of fresh water from the spring that these gentlemen may wash after their journey."
Becky, still devouring the newcomers with her eyes, curiously, like those of an inquisitive squirrel, caught up a wooden bucket that stood by the open door and started down the winding path that led to the spring. "My wife," explained Mordecai, pretending not to see the look of surprise with which his former friend Lyon greeted his statement. "Yes," half in apology, "I know it seems strange to you. But for so many years I felt myself a part of the Creek nation, that when I was ill with malarial fever and she nursed me back to health, I was glad to lessen my loneliness and make her my wife according to the customs of her people. Yet," and he smiled a little bitterly, "yet, strange as it may seem, I still remember that I am a Jew."
He led them into the little cabin with its one window and floor of clay. At one end stood a rude fireplace made of bricks where a huge kettle swung Indian-fashion above the logs. At the other end of the room several heavy blankets indicated a bed, the only furniture being a few rough chairs, a table and an old trunk half covered by a gayly striped blanket such as Indian women weave. "A rough place, even for the wilderness," confessed Mordecai, "but I dare attempt no better. Of late, the Indians once so friendly, have grown surly and suspicious; they rightly fear that the white man will wrench the wilderness from them. Especially Towerculla, a neighboring chief, who hates the ways of the whites and has been murmuring against me ever since he has heard that a cotton gin will be erected through my agency. So who knows when I will be drivenfrom this place by the red men—providing that they allow me to escape with my life."
"And have you no white neighbors?" asked Barrett, who had seated himself upon the trunk, where he sat loosening his dusty leggins.
"There is 'Old Milly'." Mordecai's hazel eyes twinkled a little. "She is the wife of an English soldier who deserted from the army during the Revolution. After her husband's death she took up her abode here. She is a woman of strong and resolute character and has considerable power over the Indians of this district, who stand greatly in awe of her. She lately married a red man and is really a great person in our little community, for she owns several slaves and many horses and cattle. Tomorrow I will introduce you to my only white neighbor. But here is Becky with the water," as the squaw entered with the brimming pail. "Wash the dust from your faces that we may sit and eat, for you must be nearly famished."
The travelers, having washed in the wooden basin that stood on one of the chairs and shaken some of the dust from their garments, now came eagerly enough to the table, which the silent Becky had prepared for them. Upon the bare boards she had set several mugs and heavy crockery bowls, pewter forks and a large, steaming vessel of the stew which she had taken from the fire, as well as several cakes made of corn flour and cooked in the ashes. Such fare was familiar enough to the pioneers, but the two guests could not help staring at the book that lay at each plate, a wornSidur(prayer book), theancient Hebrew characters looking strangely foreign in the primitive forests of America. Abram Mordecai saw the two men exchange glances and flushed a little beneath his tan.
"A foolish thought of mine," he murmured. "When I left my father's house in Pennsylvania I carried one of these in my pack, wrapped in thetalith(praying shawl), he had brought with him from Germany. And later I found the two others in the bundle of a Jewish peddlar murdered by the Indians. The Indian agent at St. Mary's sent me to ransom him and several other captives taken by the Creeks, but I came too late. Somehow, I could not bear to throw them away or destroy them. They have been with me in all my wanderings and more than once when I thought it about time for the fall holy days have I read the prayers and wished that I might have a few of my brethren with me to observe them aright. And tonight—" for a moment the confident, self-reliant adventurer seemed as embarrassed as a bashful child, "and tonight I hoped that since there would be three of us at grace, we might read the benedictions together—if you care to—and I would know how it feels to be a Jew again."
Barrett laughed, his hearty school boy laugh, as he flung himself unceremoniously into a chair beside the table. "It's many a day since I've said or heard abrocha(blessing)," he said, "but I'll go through it without any book, thank you."
Lyon said nothing, as he took the place Mordecai assigned him at the foot of the table, but therewas a tender look about his grave mouth. Perhaps he realized how difficult it had been for Mordecai to confess his loneliness for the customs of his people; but, according to his wont, he said nothing.
Smiling almost childishly, Mordecai passed a bowl of water to each of his guests that they might wash their hands, which they did, murmuring the blessing as they did so. Then, taking his place at the head of the table, he poured water over his own hands, saying the Hebrew benediction as he wiped them upon a faded red napkin which lay beside hisSidur. Somehow, after his brief confession, he felt ashamed to tell his guests that the napkin had belonged to his mother and had rested beside the neglectedSidurfor so many years. Then, breaking a bit from the bread and handing it to each of the men, he repeated the blessing for which, although he had not recited it for so many years, he need no prompting from the worn black book beside his plate.
"Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who bringest forth bread from the earth," he said in Hebrew.
Becky, as her husband called her, stood in the background as silent as a bronze statute until the little ceremony was over. If she was impressed by the strangeness of it all, she gave no sign. For so many of the customs of her husband's alien race were strange to her that she had long ago ceased to wonder or desire any explanation. Now at a sign from Mordecai, she took away the bowl of water, and, filling a plate with the savoury stew, took it to the corner of the hut, here, crouched upon the blankets,she ate her supper, quite content to watch the white strangers from a distance.
Mordecai served his guests, then himself, and over the stew and corn bread the men exchanged stories of their experiences in the wilderness. The host told a little of his own adventures since leaving the east, of his life as a trader with the Indians, of the peace treaty he had brought about with the Chickasaw nation, of his journeys south to New Orleans and Mobile, his furs and medicinal barks piled high in the barge with no companions but the painted savages to assist him. A life of highly-colored adventure with variety enough to satisfy any spirit, but even now Mordecai was growing restless and longed for another enterprise to occupy him after the cotton gin should be completed.
Then, the meal being over, Mordecai, with the same shamefaced bashfulness he had shown when speaking of theSidurim, turned the pages of the book, saying almost wistfully: "I know that tonight is not a festival or Sabbath with us, gentlemen, but if you would care to go over the psalm with me——"
"We've been waiting a long time for this and we'll give good measure," laughed little Barrett, but his eyes did not jest as Mordecai in the quaint old sing-song of the synagogue began "When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion" and Lyon gravely followed.
"And now," Mordecai's face fairly glowed with pleasure, "now we will have the special grace, since there are three of us at the table."
"Let us say grace," he began, with hardly a look at the Hebrew.
"Blessed be the name of the Lord from this time forth and forever," responded his guests.
"With the permission of those present," went on the host, "we will bless Him of whose bounty we have partaken."
"Blessed be He of whose bounty we have partaken," answered the others, "and through whose goodness we live."
As Mordecai repeated the Hebrew phrases, learned in his almost forgottenCheder(Hebrew School) days, a great longing came upon him and the tears coursed down his cheeks. To return again to this home, to keep the customs of his people and to die at last with Jewish friends about him and the Hebrew's declaration of faith upon his lips! But, as he closed the book, his eyes glanced about the little room and they grew dark with pain. The gun standing in the corner, the furs drying upon the wall, Becky crouching upon the blankets—all spoke to him of a life he had lived too long to exchange for the quiet existence of which he sometimes dreamed. He rose, and, with an abrupt gesture, pointed to a shaggy robe before the fire place.
"I have no better bed to offer you," he said, "but I know you are not used to a soft couch. You must be tired from your journey. Becky will tend to your horses so you had better sleep now, that tomorrow we may start out early and visit Colonel Hawkins. He would see you before you begin work on the cotton gin."
The cotton gin, the first to be built in Alabama, was completed in due time, and Barrett and Lyons, their pack horses again loaded with their tools, were ready to return to Georgia. If Mordecai felt any pain at having his co-religionists depart, he was skilful in concealing it. For, after his confidence over the supper table, he had slipped back into his stoical reserve and not even the taciturn Lyon was more silent or chary of speech in anything that did not directly concern the business in hand. So it was merry little Barrett who alone mentioned the occasion that for a moment had brought the strangers of the wilderness together and had made them brothers.
"We'll be coming back again when we want a taste of Becky's good stew—and a blessing afterwards," he jested as he swung himself into his saddle and reached down to shake hands with Mordecai.
"Or to build another gin if the Indians do not molest this one and drive me off," answered Mordecai lightly, but the jest lingered in his mind. His life among the superstitious savages, his solitary hours in the wilderness, had helped to tinge his shrewd, practical mind with a strong mysticism. He tried to dismiss the matter; but, as he walked back to his hut that evening, Barrett's light words haunted him and gave him no rest. "Perhaps," he muttered, "perhaps, before my life is over, we will meet again and there will be three of us at grace."
But his fancies fled and his dreamy face grew hard and alert as he came to the clearing beforehis hut. There, in the midst of his Indian followers, all armed with long poles, stood Chief Towerculla, threatening Becky. The squaw had placed herself in the door of the hut, where she stood with folded arms, listening to the Chief's angry threats. If she felt any fear, there was no trace of it in her expressionless face. Nor did she seem relieved when Mordecai pushed between her and the angry Indian and demanded what business had brought him there. She merely shrugged a little, hitched up her buckskin skirt and resumed her task of pounding corn between two stones at the door of the hut, appearing to take no interest in the quarrel that followed. For like a good squaw, she did not think it seemly to interfere in her husband's business affairs.
"And now, Towerculla," began Mordecai in the Indian tongue which he spoke fluently. "Why do you come here and seek to frighten my squaw in my absence? And why have you brought your men with you?"
The Chief grunted in disgust. "And why do you bring the pale face here to build?" he answered Mordecai question for question. "Our squaws are well satisfied to work in the fields, to make oil from the hickory nuts, to weave blankets. But you would have them sell you cotton to make you rich; you would build a store and other white men would be greedy to trade with our women and build other gins and other stores—and soon there would be many of your people while we—" he waved his hand toward his warriors, "we children of the redmen would be driven further into the wilderness. You have already driven us too far, you white men. I am willing to spare you for the sake of 'Old Milly,' whom we do not fear, for she is one of us. And she has pleaded for you more than once. So I will allow you and your squaw to depart in peace. By tomorrow morning leave for some other place—for it is not good to dwell here any longer."
For a moment Mordecai was too astonished to answer. Then he laughed boldly into the Indian's angry face. Towerculla sprang for him, but Mordecai swiftly stepped aside, and crouching, sprung upon the Chief and struck him to the ground. For a minute the two struggled together. Then the Indians fell upon Mordecai and released Towerculla, who rose from the dust, his face terrible in his anger. Mordecai struggled in vain against the blows of Towerculla's followers. As he sank to the ground overpowered, he caught himself murmuring, "They cannot kill me, until we three say grace together again," even while he longed for death to cut short the agony which was beginning to wrack every limb of his cruelly beaten body. Then out of the mist of red which seemed to swim before his eyes, a merciful black cloud descended and he knew nothing more until he regained consciousness and found himself in "Old Milly's" cabin, with Becky, still calm of face and quiet of voice bathing his wounds with cool water from the spring.
"What has happened?" he asked, trying to rise, but falling back moaning in his pain.
"Old Milly," a tall, sharp-faced woman, who satweaving a basket as skillfully as any squaw, answered him. "Towerculla would have slain you, had not Becky brought me in time. He is not a good enemy to have, Abram Mordecai. When you are stronger, you must take his advice and go away. The Indians did not burn the barn, so your horses are safe, but the house was in flames before I could reach it and persuade Towerculla to leave you in peace."
Becky rose and walked to the table. Returning to where her husband lay, she placed in his hand three books with worn black covers and a faded red napkin. "I ran and got these when I saw they were destroying our cabin," she told him. "I knew you had kept them long; that they were dear to you as the gods of our people are to us—like a charm, maybe, to keep death away. And perhaps, when the white men come again, you will want to have them on the table and sing."
For the moment, Mordecai forgot that Becky was only a squaw, undeserving, according to the custom of her people, either thanks or praise. "You are a very good wife," he said, gently, "and I will buy you real gold earrings with the first money I earn from the cotton gin." And since he was so weak, neither woman dared to tell him for several days that the vengeance of the Indians had extended to the gin house, which now lay a heap of black ruins hear the river.
Broken in body and ruined in fortune, Mordecai accompanied by the faithful Becky, bade farewell to Colonel Hawkins and journeyed further into thewilderness. For the Indian agent prudently refused to erect a second gin while the Indians still planned to injure Mordecai, and the adventurer himself felt that it would be hopeless to seek to gain the friendship of the embittered Chief. Trader and trapper, he led his solitary existence in the south, with no companionship but Becky's, until her death left him entirely alone.
He had regained his former vigor by this time and sometimes dreamed of returning to his boyhood home. But from the pioneer towns springing up wherever he passed, he knew that a new civilization was rising in America; that he was of the generation that must pass away as surely as the Indian and he realized that he would feel sadly out of place in the surroundings that he had known as a boy. Yet, dreamer that he was, he never ceased to picture himself, a sober stay-at-home citizen, living out the last years of his life in communion with his fellow Jews, who had never left their quiet firesides. Nor in all his wanderings did he ever part with the threeSidurimand the faded red napkin. For as he grew older, the fantastic notion grew ever stronger that before he died he would again say grace with the builders of his cotton gin.
Almost a century old, he wandered back at last to Montgomery county, seeking the very spot where his hut had stood before Chief Towerculla had driven him away. Now the settlement of Dudlyville, so close at hand, made him feel cramped and uncomfortable. Colonel Hawkins had long since left Pole Cat Springs; Chief Towerculla, driven awayby the white men he had always feared, was dead; "Old Milly" no longer lived in her savage kingdom with her husband and her slaves.
But he felt too tired to travel further; perhaps he realized that no matter where he went he would feel lonely as the survivor of another day and generation. So he built a tiny cabin for himself, even putting together some crude furniture. Here he lived, never seeing a human face unless he walked to the village to secure supplies, which the settlers, vaguely touched by his loneliness, never failed to press upon him. He talked to them sometimes of the days before the wilderness had been conquered, speaking too, of the first cotton gin, which the Indians had destroyed. "I love the spot," he used to say, "but it is growing too crowded; yes," with a shake of his white head, "too crowded for one who needs plenty of fresh air to breathe. Next spring I must journey on." But when spring came, he would wait until fall, and again through the long winter. For his old ambition had left him and though his heart still wandered afar through the forests, his feet were too weary to follow it.
But one evening he felt strangely strong and refreshed. He had worked hard all the afternoon cleaning his little hut and now the humble room looked as spotless as spring water and vigorous scrubbing could make it. Even the table and chairs were scoured and the fireplace cleaned, while, to complete the day's task Mordecai had emptied an old barrel in the corner, burning the heap of odds and ends which had accumulated since his return. But now ashe stood behind the table he held in his hand three black books and a faded napkin which he could not bring himself to destroy. As he stood there with the rays of the setting sun falling through the open door on his shaggy white head, old memories burned in his faded eyes and a strange, dreamy smile played about his mouth.
"I have found the books—it is time for them to come and say 'grace'," he murmured to himself. "I have put my house in order. I know it is time for me to go away—into the Great Wilderness—but not until we have three at grace once more."
Carefully placing a book at each place, he drew up two chairs and a box, spread the napkin at the head of the table and set out his few poor dishes and humble evening meal. Then he took his place, opened his book and waited. The Hebrew letters seemed strangely blurred; for the first time in his life his keen eyes failed him. But, glancing up, he thought he saw his two guests, Lyon and Barrett in their places waiting for him to begin the blessing before the meal.
"I am ready," he said, and even as he spoke, his head dropped upon the open book and Mordecai's restless spirit was at rest forever.
A little brown sand piper scudded along the beach. Uriah Levy, a brown-faced lad who looked several years older than a boy who had just passed his eleventh birthday, lay upon the shore and smiled to see it flirt importantly past him as though in a tremendous hurry to reach its destination. Then his keen eyes turned toward the sea, blue and stainless, as level as the long looking glass in his mother's parlor at home. Several sea gulls skimmed the quiet waters, now rising until their gray-white plumage melted into the clouds, now seeming to float upon the tide. Uriah was a trifle sorry when they disappeared at last, for he loved the sea gulls dearly. They seemed so akin to him in their wild freedom, in their love for the solitary waste of waters. Ever since he could remember, he, too, had loved the sea, since the days when he was a tiny boy, sailing his paper boats to strange ports across the ocean. And tomorrow he was going to sea at last—a real cabin boy in a real vessel! He threw himself back upon the warm sands and with half-closed eyes lay dreaming of the future.
He was aroused from his day dreaming by the strange uneasiness that comes to one who feels that he is being observed. Sitting up, he saw that Ned Allison, a lad whose father owned a fishing shacknear by, had come down to the beach and was now standing over him, his hands thrust into the pockets of his ragged trousers, his bare, brown toes kicking among the pebbles at his feet. The newcomer was a few years younger than Levy, a grave, stolid lad with bright, restless eyes.
"Hello, Ned," Uriah greeted him. "Did you know I was going to sea tomorrow?"
"No. You're lucky." The other's tone was delightfully envious of Uriah's good fortune. "I've got to wait till I'm twelve or maybe fifteen, I guess. Father's rheumatism is bad lately and I have to help him. How're you going?" He sank beside Uriah on the sands and gazed longingly over the blue waters.
"I'm going to ship as cabin boy; but I won't be gone long." Uriah couldn't help bragging a little as he told his good fortune. "I'm going to be like Paul Jones and that crowd—if it takes a hundred years."
"You'll be too old then," observed Ned dryly. He began to turn over the heap of pebbles that lay between them. "Now if you were to find an oyster or clam shell with several big pearls you could buy a ship of your own right now and——"
"I'd make you first mate," promised Uriah, generously. Leaning on his elbow, he too began to turn over the pebbles, for like every boy of his years he never gave up hope of finding an oyster shell thickly studded with pearls, each one milk-white and shining and worth a king's ransom. "Yes," he went on, dreamily, "I'd rig out a brig right away and sail the seas till I got tired. First, I guess, I'd clear theSpanish Main of pirates and then I'd visit far-off countries across the ocean. Remember what old Captain Ferguson told us about 'em; palm trees, and naked black men who'll sell you ivory and precious stones for a string of beads or a piece of red cloth? That's what I'd do if I had a ship of my own."
"I think I'd rather go to war," observed Allison with equal seriousness.
"Of course! If there would only be a war with some country or other, I'd like to be captain of the American Navy and capture all the other nation's vessels and tow 'em into port." His eager face clouded. "But I've heard my father say that this country's lucky to have peace after the Revolution; that we have to rest and grow strong. I suppose it isn't any more likely than either of us ever finding a pearl among all these stones." Suddenly he interrupted himself with a shrill whistle of delight. "I found a lucky stone," he exclaimed, "a beauty," holding it up for Ned's inspection. "And I'm going to wear it for luck as long as I'm a sailor." He took a piece of string from his pocket and ran it through one of the holes. "Maybe," he laughed, hanging the charm about his neck, "maybe this is almost as good as finding a pearl. Anyhow, I don't care about being rich as long as I can go to sea."
Uriah Levy stood upon the sea shore, no longer a dreaming boy, but a stalwart youth of twenty. At sixteen he already held the position of first mate after becoming part owner of the brig, "Five Sisters," on which he had made five voyages. It had not been easy for a youth with the down of manhood scarcelyvisible upon his cheeks to rule a crew gathered in that day from the riff-raff and scum of the sailing-ports. Yet the Jewish lad, who one day was to make it his boast that he had abolished the barbarous custom of corporal punishment from the United States Navy, by resorting to force ruled without difficulty when his lawless seamen once realized his courage and the strength of his fists.
But in the year 1812 the times were still wild times upon the ocean and it was no uncommon thing for a law-abiding crew to grow weary of the restraints of their commander, mutiny and follow the sea after the manner of the pirates who still ruled the Spanish Main. And so, when Uriah P. Levy became master of the schooner, "George Washington," not even his iron discipline was strong enough to withstand the plotting of several of the bolder spirits of his crew. Almost under his very eyes, the mutiny had been hatched and had grown to a head.
Standing upon the lonely sea shore, Uriah recalled the swarthy, leering face of Sam Jones, recently punished for infraction of discipline, and the crooked smile of Martin, he who puffed everlastingly at his pipe and wore a red handkerchief for a turban and earrings of heavy gold. He had known them for the ringleaders in the plot against him, even before they had seized command of the vessel and taken possession of the cabin that they might hold council whether their master should be spared or cast into the sea.
"He's but a boy," Martin had argued. "Let him go. Put him in a boat and set him adrift. We're offthe coast of Carolina now and even if he gets there with a whole skin, he's not likely to worry us when we're flying the black flag on the Main."
But Sam Jones had urged instant death. "Let him walk the plank," he suggested, his small eyes glittering with hate. "He's only a boy, but I tell you I'm afraid of him—sore afraid."
Martin laughed scornfully, puffing at his pipe. "I'm willing to take the risk," he declared, "though it's no concern of mine. So let's shake dice and the man who wins will say what's to be done with him."
There in the dimly lighted cabin, Levy with his arms bound behind him, had watched the game of dice as calmly as though his life did not lie in the hands of the two who played for such a ghastly stake. Out on the deck, the mutineers drank and jested and sang uproariously in their new freedom. He wondered if that were to be the end: a short plank, a blow to thrust him into the dark waves of the ocean which he had loved so well. Uriah closed his eyes, swaying a little; but he was quite calm, even smiling, when Jones sneered in disgust:
"Born to hang, will never drown. You win, Martin." He pushed the dice aside and rose to release Levy from his bonds. "Here you," he called to several sailors loitering near the door, "get a small boat ready and set him adrift."
"And put in a pair of oars," added Martin. "Give the lad a fighting chance, can't you? And some bread and a jug of water, too." Somehow he felt suddenly uncomfortable before the boy's quiet gaze. "Aren't you going to thank me?" he half blustered.
"I am an American gentleman," answered Levy, very slowly, "and I hold no speech with outlaws and pirates." And before the astonished mutineer could answer him he followed the sailors from the cabin.
And now his perilous journey was over at last, although his frail boat had been destroyed on the rocks before he reached the shore. An excellent swimmer, Levy had stripped off his shoes and coat and jumped into the water. Cleaving the waves with long powerful strokes, he soon reached land, where for several hours he lay wet and exhausted, so bitterly discouraged that he almost wished Jones had prevailed and cut his throat or forced him to walk the plank. Better to have fallen asleep beneath the waves, he thought, than try to live, a hopeless and a defeated man.
It was now past sunset and Levy mechanically set about building a fire to warm his aching limbs and keep off any prowling beasts while he slept. Scooping a hollow in the sand beyond the reach of the tide, he gathered dry drift wood which he finally lighted by the aid of a spark struck from two stones. He was hungry now and even more anxious for a smoke than for food; at that moment he hated the crew less for making off with the vessel in which he had had a third interest than for casting him on this deserted shore without even the solace of his evening pipe. Muttering angrily, he leaned over the fire to stir the blaze; as he did so the damp string about his neck swung free and he noticed the little lucky stone still fastened to the end.
Strangely enough, the sight of the pebble he hadworn as a charm for so many years gave him courage. His bold spirit which for a little while had lain bruised and discouraged grew strong again; he felt that he was not the man to submit tamely to treachery and misfortune. He must win back all that he had lost that day, not only the stolen vessel but his self-respect. He must not allow himself beaten. Crouching by the fire, his chin resting on his clenched fists, his eyes on the flames, the boy vowed not to rest until he had defeated his enemies and secured what was his own. "I'm strong and young," he told himself, confidently, "and so far my luck has never failed me." And he fingered the little stone on the string about his neck. At last the fire died down, but there was no one to stir the dying embers, for Uriah Levy had fallen asleep upon the sands, the luck stone still clutched between his strong, brown fingers, a confident smile upon his lips.
In the days that followed, it was not an easy thing for young Levy to smile confidently in the faces of those who predicted certain failure in his undertaking. "Other merchants and commanders have suffered from pirates and mutinous crews before your day," he was informed at every turn. "Better ship again and look for better luck."
Kindly and well-meant advice, but Levy would have none of it. He still smiled, though now somewhat grimly, as he went from friend to friend, insisting that he would not fail to bring his piratical crew to justice. And so confident was he that he would eventually find a backer, that he even spent several days roaming about the wharves in order to pick out atrustworthy crew, should he find anyone willing to send him to sea on his own vessel again.
"Why, Uriah Levy," exclaimed a deep voice as a stout sailor came toward him. "You surely haven't forgotten me?"
"You're Ned Allison," said Levy after a long look had convinced him that the slender fisher boy had grown into the burly man before him. "And do you follow the sea now as you planned?"
"Yes. My poor father died two years ago. So I sent mother to live with her sister and here I am. I just hit port last week and now I'm ready to leave again as soon as I find a good berth. Just can't feel at home on dry land anymore."
Levy nodded understandingly. "Take me to a good tavern around here," he suggested. "I want to talk to you."
Allison willingly led the way to a tavern in the neighborhood much frequented by sailors, chatting lightly as they walked. Levy hardly knew him for the shy, taciturn playfellow of his boyhood. He sipped his ale slowly as he studied Ned's bright, eager face. Somehow he felt encouraged at the thought that he might induce Allison to accompany him, should he set out on what seemed to be a hopeless voyage.
"And what have you been doing?" asked Allison, pausing for breath. "The last I heard of you, you were master of the 'George Washington' and part owner. Not that you look very lively and prosperous," he added with a keen glance.
Levy briefly related the story of the mutiny and his hope to pursue and punish his mutinous crew. "And I'll do it, too," he added, passionately. "Though I suppose you, like the rest, think it's a mad venture," he ended, doubtfully.
Allison put down his mug before replying. "I can't say that I do," he answered slowly. "Though it's risking a good deal if you catch up to the dogs and they sink your ship in the scuffle. You couldn't afford that, could you?"
"I'm not thinking of the money alone," insisted Levy. "Nor of revenge; although I've been treated pretty shabbily and they'll pay for it, if I live long enough to track them down. But it's a matter of conscience with me, too, Allison. I'm going to do my share in making the sea clean of piracy. Maybe there won't be a war in our time, though they say there's trouble threatening with England, but I'll serve my country in this way at least. Want to help me?" and he leaned across the table, looking straight into Ned's eyes.
"I'd rather ship with you as master than any man I know, Sir," answered Allison, gravely.
Less than a week later, Uriah Levy succeeded in convincing several wealthy friends of the sanity of his plan. They advanced the necessary funds and with a carefully picked crew he started out on a vessel of his own with Allison as first mate in pursuit of the sailors who had cast him afloat near the Carolina shores.
Of all the tales Ned Allison loved to tell his grandchildren when he had grown to be an old man, theyclamored most for the story of the sea fight in which Uriah Levy conquered the pirate crew of the "George Washington." It was a short battle, but a terrible one, which he fought a year after the mutiny; and before the mutineers finally lowered their black flag in token of surrender, a third of the crew lay dead or wounded upon the slippery decks. Old Martin, his pipe still between his teeth, lay among the dead, but Sam Jones, his right arm hanging limp and useless at his side, was among the survivors who were put into irons when their vessel was taken in tow and Levy turned his face homeward. Like the other mutineers Jones never doubted what his fate would be, for those days were hard days and the men who lived by the sword knew only too well that at any moment death by the sword might be their portion. Hourly they waited for Levy to pass judgment upon them, to hang them from the yard arm of the ship which they had sailed under the flag of piracy. While Levy's own crew grew impatient until the first mate, Allison, ventured to speak to him of the matter as they sat in Levy's cabin the night after the battle.
"I can't help wondering, sir," Allison began, doubtfully, "why you have said nothing so far concerning the fate of our prisoners, since it is practically in your hands."
Levy shook his head as he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. Perhaps he was thinking of the night when Jones had threatened him with death and laughed at his helplessness. "According to the 'unwritten law' which is made to cover so many lawless acts, Ihave the power to deal with them as I think fit," he answered. "And I must confess I was sorely tempted to take the law into my own hands when I knew the mutineers were in my power. But," smiling a little, "it is much better to leave it to the law courts when we reach port."
"And if they should be acquitted?" Allison's eyes snapped with excitement. "Sir, if I were in your place——"
"If you were in my place, you might not be censured for yielding to your desire for revenge," returned Levy, very quietly. "But I—" his voice took on a tinge of bitterness, "I am a Jew and these wretches, no matter how criminal, would be pitied as the victim of a Jew's vengeance. Even in America, my dear Allison, and in spite of the liberal influence of men like Thomas Jefferson, it is not always easy to be a Jew."
The civil authorities, however, were entirely on Levy's side at the trial and the mutineers were duly tried and condemned to death. The young sailor was about to put out to sea again, for he longed for further adventure, when the outbreak of the war of 1812 set him a-dreaming once more of serving his country upon the sea. In spite of his youth, he was commissioned sailing master in the United States Navy, serving on the ship, "Alert," and later on the brig, "Argus," which ran the blockade to France, Mr. Crawford, the American minister to that country, being aboard. The "Argus" captured several English vessels, one of which was placed at Levy's command; but his triumph was short-lived; recaptured bythe English, Levy and his crew were kept prisoners of war in England for over a year.
Regaining his freedom, Levy returned to America to be promoted to the rank of lieutenant. It was then that he realized how just had been his complaint to Allison, for on every hand those who were envious of his good fortune proved even more malicious because of his loyalty to his faith. Levy suffered, too, from the hatred of those naval officers who looked upon him as an intruder into their ranks. For, with the exception of a year's attendance at the Naval School in Philadelphia, he had had no naval training and had worked his way up from the ranks. Perhaps his long fight against the practise of flogging unruly sailors helped to add to the number of his enemies, for those in authority were outraged that this Jewish upstart should criticise a custom so deeply rooted in the traditions of the navy. Another man of quieter temper might have tried to combat the prejudice and hatred which met him at every turn; but Levy's nature was not a patient one. When raised to the rank of captain, he felt that he could not allow the slanders of one of his enemies to go unanswered; he challenged the Jew-hater to a duel and caused his opponent to pay for his insults with his life.
Although the duel was still recognized as an honorable means of settling a controversy between gentlemen, Levy was made to pay bitterly for his vindication. His enemies were too strong for him. He fought them bravely and with his old proud spirit, but when the trial was over, Allison still serving inthe navy, read in one of the newspapers that his old master had been court-martialed and dropped from the roll of the United States Navy as captain.
"I knew they'd get him," thought the honest seaman. "Ah, he was too good for them and now they put him to shame. I couldn't blame him if he turned against his country when he's treated so after all his services. And I wonder what'll happen to him if he doesn't follow the sea."
Allison was right in suspecting that his old playmate would turn in his trouble to the sea as a child when hurt or tired runs to its mother for comfort. Glad of an offer to take charge of an important business commission in Brazil, Levy left the United States, hoping that the long sea voyage might do a little toward easing the pain in his heart. But he found that he had been mistaken, although no one ever knew how deeply he suffered from the moment he left the land he had sought to serve from his boyhood. Disgraced by his country, tired and broken in spirit, he spent endless hours in brooding over his misfortune. No longer the commander of his men, not even a common seaman, he spent the long days on board leaning upon the rail, looking with somber eyes upon the waves. His proud heart was bitter against those who had goaded him on to his ruin; he felt that there was no justice for the Jew in the whole world, not even in America. Although he had already set the wheels in motion for a new trial, he was confident that his enemies would again prove too powerful for him. It was a hopeless and aheartsick man who landed at last and began his new duties at the Brazilian Capital.
Several days after his arrival, Uriah P. Levy stood by the window of his room reading a letter, his brows knitted in thought. The note was written on the royal stationery and requested him to appear the next morning for an audience with Emperor Dom Pedro. Levy could think of but one reason for such a strange command. Perhaps the slanders of his enemies had preceded him even to this far-off place; perhaps he was already under suspicion and the audience with the emperor might lead to imprisonment or ejection from the country. The thought of new difficulties to encounter wakened his fighting spirit; he was strangely elated and the dreadful langor which had seized him during his journey disappeared.
"I am ready for another good fight," he told himself grimly as he prepared for bed. That night for the first time since his court-martial he slept the long hours through, and he rested as peacefully as a little child.
Dressing himself with his usual care and holding his head as proudly as though he still wore his country's uniform, Levy appeared at the palace and was immediately ushered into the emperor's presence. His quick eyes, long trained to notice the smallest detail, quickly took in every feature of the richly appointed room, noting even the fantastic carving of the chair on which the emperor sat, and one of the rings he wore, a flat green emerald with a mystic letter carved upon it making the jewel, so he judged, a sort of talisman. He smiled in spite of himself as heremembered his own humble charm, the lucky stone. Perhaps the pebble's usefulness was over; he could hardly call his career especially fortunate just now.
Emperor Dom Pedro was a man of a few words. He murmured a few polite phrases of greeting, asked Levy of his voyage and whether he had completed the mission which had brought him to Brazil. "For if you have," he ended, "I may have matters of interest to discuss with you."
"I am not quite finished with the business which brought me here," answered Levy, "but naturally I am honored by your majesty's request to appear before you and not a little eager to learn what matters you may care to discuss with me."
The emperor twirled the ring with its strange green stone about his finger. "I have heard much of you," he returned, briefly, "and I need men of your daring and enterprise in my service. Will you take an important commission under the Brazilian government?"
For a moment Levy wavered. Already an exile in spirit, he felt he did not have the courage to return to his native country. Here was an opportunity for an honorable career which would bring him position, wealth, all the excitement his daring heart desired. Then, curiously enough, as he gazed at the emperor's ring, there flashed across his mind the picture of a brown-faced boy upon the sands, a boy turning a lucky stone in his fingers as he dreamed of a glorious career in the country of his birth. He turned to the emperor and spoke quietly, but with his characteristic decision.
"Your majesty," said Uriah Levy, "I thank you. But the humblest position in my country's service is more to be preferred than royal favor." And bowing before Dom Pedro, he left the court.
Nor was Levy's trust in the justice of his country unfounded. Just as he had persisted in bringing his mutinous crew to punishment, now he showed the same determination in insisting that a court of inquiry be established to question the justice of his court-martial. He prepared his own defense—merely a statement of his record while in the service of his country—a record that won his complete and honorable acquittal. Not only was he restored to his old rank in the United States Navy, but shortly afterwards he rose to the advanced rank of commodore.
When the Civil War broke out he was holding the position of flag officer, the highest rank in our navy at that time. The years had been kind to the little cabin boy and his private inheritance had grown into a considerable fortune. He had already purchased Monticello, the home of his old idol, Thomas Jefferson, intending to preserve it as a national shrine, and had presented a statue of the author of our Declaration of Independence to the nation's Hall of Fame. Now he felt that there was but one cause to which he cared to devote his wealth; he sought an interview with President Lincoln and placed his entire private fortune at the nation's disposal.
A few days later, his boyhood friend, Ned Allison, now crippled with rheumatism but with a laugh as hearty and boyish as of old, visited his formermaster. He found Uriah Levy grown frail and listless, the fires of his youth beginning to burn low as he neared his seventieth year. To be sure the commodore tried to rouse himself, asking after Ned's children, and even laughing feebly at the latter's account of his youngest grandson, "named Uriah Levy Allison, after you, sir," who now toddled along the beach where the two boys had searched among the pebbles so long ago.
"We didn't know we'd live to see two wars, did we, sir," mused Allison, "when we were just lads playing before my father's shack. Well, even if we're past our prime now, they can't say we didn't do our part back in 1812," and he chuckled a little in his pride.
But Levy's eyes were sad. "We have lived a little too long, Allison," he said, gravely but without bitterness. "When this war broke out I tried to help once more. But my offer of my entire fortune—and it was little enough to offer my country—has been refused, although I am allowed to subscribe to the war loan. Yet money means so little in a time like this. Whenever I hear the call for volunteers, I am like the old war horse that is turned out to grass. I am an old man now, nearly seventy, and must sit at home by the fire. But it hurts a little, Allison; it hurts a little."
For a while there was silence between them. When Allison rose to go, Levy followed him to the door, stopping a moment at the drawer of his desk to wrap a small package which he thrust into his old friend's hand.
"'Tis for the boy, my name-sake," he explained. "The money will buy him some toy—maybe a small vessel to sail when the tide is low—and the other—," he laughed a little confusedly. "I found the trifle among some old keepsakes and papers the other day when I put my affairs in order. Give it to the boy and tell him of the day we found it. And come again soon, Allison, and talk over old times."
Out in the street, Ned Allison removed the wrappings from the little package. It contained a gold piece and a lucky stone with a bit of soiled string still fastened through one of the holes.