Now, of a sudden, the whole memory of the dream glowed in his brain, and ghastly pale, sweating at the palms of the hands, and at his neck, he realized the truth. He dared not go down into that place. Even as Rain had warned him, he knew that his mother was dead. Shuddering even at the touch of the woodwork which enclosed the tomb, he closed the hatchway, then found the dinghy's painter, hauled in, and dropped into the boat.
The flood tide swept him up the estuary, and the faint shadow of the barge melted away in the mist under the frosty starlight.
IX
Mr. James Watt, a canny Scots body, ye ken, was the man who changed the steam engine from a capricious plaything into a working servant of mankind. He did not believe in railway locomotives, but his marine engines were the pride and glory of Messrs. Boulton & Watt, of Birmingham. Mr. Fulton, of New York, bought one of them, you may remember, and used it to run a barge on Hudson River, the first to ply with passengers, they say. Mr. Watt did not live to see the little brigantineBeaverengined at Blackwall yard in 1835, but that was as good a job as any done by the famous firm. The boiler had a steam pressure of seven pounds, and when in later years it rusted through, the engineer would plug the holes with a pointed stick and a rag. And yet that engine lasted and worked well for fifty-two years, until the warship became a neglected tug and in 1889 was cast away in the cliffs of Stanley Park within the city limits of Vancouver in British Columbia.
TheBeaver'sregistered tonnage was 110, so her size was that of a second-rate wooden steam trawler in our modern fishing. She carried four brass six-pounder guns, each small enough for a man to lift by the trunnions. When she had business with savage tribes, to trade with them or bombard their villages, she set out boarding nettings, so she could not be rushed. The crew numbered thirty, sufficient for the methods of lick, spit, and polish to which her lickspittle bully of a Captain, Mr. David Home, devoted his whole soul.
A real live duchess christened theBeaver, and if I remember rightly Mr. Brunel, the engineer, left his work, hard by in the Thames Tunnel, to witness the cracking of the bottle. The owners attended in force, the Governor and Company of Merchant Adventurers trading into Hudson's Bay, all in top hats, white chokers, and swallow-tails. Most likely they cracked quite a lot of bottles.
The engine was in position, but the sponsons, paddle boxes, and paddles were stored in the forehold for the voyage under sail round Cape Horn.
At Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River, the capital of Oregon, the vessel was to be completed by her carpenters, and to be the first steamer on the Pacific Ocean.
Long afterwards it was, in 1842, that theBeavercarried the great Sir George Simpson to the founding of Fort Camosun on Vancouver Island. When, many years later, theBeaverwas sold to become a tug, her log books were pitched into the loft of an old log barn, the last remnant of Fort Camosun, hid in a backyard of the city of Victoria, capital of British Columbia. I found the rat-eaten log books there in 1889, and begged the Hudson's Bay Company to preserve these precious annals. The memory of them helps my story-telling.
X
The flood tide swept Bill's dinghy up past the Roman fortress of Reculver, on by Whitstable where oyster smacks lay moored, and thence towards the Isle of Sheppey and the Thames. It was only to keep warm that sometimes he would scull, oar over stern, athwart the stream, northward to channels with a stronger tide. Numb with cold, his heart like lead, not caring where he went, hour by hour he sculled until he was tired, or rested until he froze, not caring at all what happened. The new police would catch him if he went ashore, to charge him with murdering his parents, and send him to the gallows; or Uncle Thomas, his owner, would curse him for leaving the barge derelict, the property in law of the first man who went on board. Bill did not care now for Uncle Thomas, or anybody alive, but only in a hard, dry, gnawing grief mourned and was silent. He did not believe any more in God, who had allowed his mother to be murdered; and as to spirits, they were only phantasms of nightmare. A sullen hatred of the world, of men, of everything, of life itself, filled the north wind, the dark spaces of seething water, and the indifferent stars. And on towards dawn he sank down on his knees, his face in his hands, hoping for death, an end of everything. Yet, as he afterwards confessed, when theBeaver'sdolphin striker knocked his cap off, and her clipper bows hove the boat's gunwale under, so that she filled and sank beneath his feet, he fought for life as keenly as anybody who enjoyed the same. Groping, so he said, in the dark for hand and foot holds in the hanging wall, he found the anchor astrip, and jumped upon the fluke, swarmed up the shank and chain, then, getting a purchase with one toe in the hawse hole, vaulted across the bulwark.
The lad on lookout squeaked, and ran for all he was worth, reporting a ghost up on the starboard bow.
I
In sailing-ship days we who were seamen and self-respecting did not join for a voyage while we were sober enough to come on board all of our own accord. It would have been bad form.
So, having shipped her joyful mariners, theBeaver'sofficers and the afterguard, not more than half-seas over, got the vessel off from Gravesend as best they could, dropping downtide so far as the ebb served, then brought her up in the fairway. They dropped anchor on the Nore, hoisted a riding light, and posted two comparatively sober apprentices to keep each other awake and call the mate at dawn.
Bill Fright, being fast asleep in his dinghy, was swept up by the strong flood, and awakened in haste on finding the boat foul of a ship's bows and more or less capsized. He climbed on board, a matter arranged beforehand by the fairies or other spirits invisible who look after seafaring boys—they need a deal of looking after, too—and there is little doubt that his coming scared the anchor watch. Finding him, however, to be no mermaid, but somebody wet and profane, they sought for a hair of the dog which had bitten the crew, stole a flask from one of the men up forward, gave Bill a drink, and did not waste such liquor as remained.
At dawn Bill watched the mate, Mr. Dodd, come up to snuff the air, wrap three turns of brown muffler about his thin neck, button a monkey jacket across his portly front, and stump about the half-poop to get warm. A ship is always at her dirtiest on leaving port; and of a certainty the deck was filthy apart from the unholy ravel of new stiff halliards coiled like a knot of snakes. Bill felt these a disgrace, and set to work on them of his own accord to straighten out the loops and flemish down. Mr. Dodd, supposing him to be a member of the crew, saw that Bill knew his business.
Meanwhile one 'prentice had gone to the hoodway up forward, the other to the steerage hatch, and both of them howled like demons down the ladders. "Ahoy there! All hands on deck!" "Hear the good news! Oh, rise and shine, my hearties!" "Show a leg there, cripples, or the mate will bring you tea in bed. Ahoy! Ahoy! Tumble up for the rum! Ahoy!"
The people tumbled up, looking somewhat bilious in the gray light, and set to scrubbing the frosted deck. Bill hung the coiled halliards on their pins and watched the mate the while, a proper officer who knew his job, one who did not nag or fuss, but let each man work his best. "I dunno as I'd mind," Bill thought, "making a woyage with him." And he had always longed to go foreign. But for mother he would have gone big boating these three years past or more. And now she was dead. Why not!
The captain had appeared, a meager, pompous man with a mean face, stamping in sea boots along the windward side of the half-poop. Mr. Dodd gave him a curt salute and took the leeward side.
"Mr. Dodd," said the captain, pointing to Bill, "call that man aft."
The mate signaled Bill to come to the foot of the three steps which led from the quarter-deck up to the holy place behind the rails.
"Ask this Willie Muggins what the blank he means by getting himself arrested at Gravesend."
Bill felt surprised, somewhat abashed, not called upon to speak. Why did this captain call him Willie Muggins?
"I think, sir," answered the mate respectfully, "that the arrest was at the instance of Mrs. Willie Muggins. This lad seems much too young to be a husband."
"Mr. Dodd," said the captain, "you will be pleased to mind your own concerns. You, Muggins, what time did you come aboard?"
These officers on the half-poop were rather terrifying. Unwashed since yesterday, with grimy hands, an aching heart, and a frantic desire for breakfast, Bill felt at a disadvantage. This captain also, bully and cur complete, had unlimited power to do him wrong. The lad's bulldog face turned rigid, his eyes were menacing, his fists clenched, his body strung for defense as he answered the captain.
"You sunk my boat," he said, "so you can put me ashore. As to this yere Villie Muggins, I'll find him out, and give him your love if you like."
"Mr. Dodd," asked the captain, "is this man a seaman?"
"To judge by his conduct, yes, sir."
"My man," said Captain Home, "you're signed on as Willie Muggins, your chest is in the forecastle beside your bunk. If you don't answer to your name, you'll be flogged until you do. Mr. Dodd, put him to work."
"But——"
"Turn to, lad," said Mr. Dodd.
Bill stood for a moment, feeling the man's kindness, the good will, the well-meant advice. He would do anything on earth to please that mate.
"Aye! aye!" said he quite cheerfully, and turned to.
II
In sailing days the Americans were a maritime people, first among nations as naval architects. Their ships were magnificently found, handled with headlong daring, and broke sea records; indeed, the young skippers of that time have never been rivaled in seamanship. The bucko mates aspiring to succeed them were man stealers and slave drivers well armed, able to cow the boldest seamen in the world. They did not stick at murder. So the American ship might be puritanically Sabbatarian of a Sunday, and even moderately well fed in rare examples, but, on the whole, she had the reputation of a hell afloat. There were cases of the ship's company being driven to desert, and replaced by shanghaied men at every port, so that for a three-years' voyage the captain paid no wages.
By comparison the Canadian, and especially the Bluenose or Nova Scotian shipping, was even more hard-bitten, with man-killing mates as a speciality. The British merchant service, like the North American, was undermanned, and had a reputation also for being hungry, but it was rather more humane, and the death rate of ships and men least among maritime nations. The Norwegian death rate was highest, the ships being second-hand coffins, ill-found, but handled with gallant seamanship. French ships were well designed, beautifully built, admirably found, but double-manned to make amends for poor seamanship, and their people liable to sudden panic. Prussian or "Square-head" seamanship was fairly good, Russian a joke, the Mediterranean shipping classified as "dago," and the rest as "nigger."
The pen runs away with the writer. Blame the pen. As one descended from a race of mariners, brought up among retired shellbacks, serving before the mast just at the end of that great Golden Age of Seamanship, I cannot but look back. The life was bitter hard, the men grim humorists, the ships most gloriously beautiful. They thronged the straits of Dover, outward, taut on a fine bowline, or homeward running free, while purple shadows of the racing clouds swept green sea pastures, and England faded into silver haze. The Channel widened under golden sunshine the gateway of Adventure, and beyond lay enchanted seas where there were pirates still, dangerous tribes of savages, lone desert isles, Empires in the making through remote, obscure campaigns, stampedes to new-found gold fields, and hardy pioneering of wild lands. Aye, but there is heartache when memory lights the corridors of Time, when pictures come to life of scene and incident in the days when one was young and cared, took the long odds and lost, fought on, and tried, and won.
According to the Norsemen, who are sea-wise beyond the common run of mariners, the fore-and-aft sails of schooner, smack, or cutter were masculine of gender, while the ship's rig with square yards was rated feminine. So, the world over, a vessel square-rigged on the foremast, but schooner rigged on the mainmast, partook in its nature of both sexes, and was called hermaphrodite. Such was the brigantineBeaver, but having a cross jack and a topgallant sail on the main, her conduct as a whole was that of a perfect lady.
When the seamen were thrown into their two divisions, the mate and the second chose alternately, each trying to pick the best team. So the mate chose the larboard watch, and picked out Bill Fright in preference to the apprentices.
At actual work in making or shortening sail, each man had his proper station, the stronger seamen on the large sails of the foremast, the weaker on the smaller canvas aft. So Bill found his way aft, and barge-trained as he was, proved from the start the best man on the trysail and the staysails. Yet though he would break his heart with overanxiety to please the mate and prove his manhood, it took him many weeks to learn the crossjack and topgallant sails, and longer still to win the leadership, to be first aloft, first at the weather earning or the bunt, taking the posts of honor on the high swaying yards.
The builders had left a deal of rubbish in the 'tween decks, which the crew saved for fuel in the forecastle bogey. On that first evening at sea, while theBeaverwas threading her way through the Downs and the Straits of Dover, the larboard watch rested from six P.M. to eight. They had firelight and leisure in their dogwatch below to get the place in order, the bedding in their bunks, and kit sorted out for use. Then they sat on the sea chests, and Auld Jock, the forecastle oracle, delivered a homily to instruct the young.
"Ye'll ken," he said, as he kindled his clay pipe with a coal from the fire, "that wi' the Scots Ahm Scotch, but when Ahm shipmates wi' the vulgar, as in the present circumstances, Ah speaks the vulgar tongue, which is the English, and that withoot a tr-r-ace o' Scottish accent."
"You bet your sweet socks," observed a Yankee, Silas by name, from Salem.
"And in pairfect English," continued Jock. "Ah lays it doon as a first princeeple, that the vulgar is liable to interrupt: Yankees especially being constructed like a dog, with an inch of brain to a fathom of mouth."
"!," said the Yankee, or something to that effect.
"But them as hae the gift of reason," Jock turned his eyes away from the American, "may have obsairved the hoose flag at oor fore truck, a white pennant wi' red letters 'H.B.C.,' the which means Here Before Christ forbye the Hudson's Company goes forth to the uttermost heathen which can be skinned for furs, and the missionaries do not follow after.
"And for why? Them as has brains, instead of"—he glanced at the Yankee—"of a bucket o' slush, considers the ways of the heathen. The missionary gives the puir savage a guid conceit of his soul, so up goes the price of furs. Whereupon the missionary is not invited, ye ken, to follow after.
"Whilk this Hudson's Bay Company is Here Before Christ in a second sense o' standing in front of Him, not being especially relegate to damnation, but for the maist pairt Presbyterian. So ye'll tak' notice, shipmates, that if the Company buys a leaky bucket, the same is put in soak until the wood swells—and is, in a manner, a reformed, guid, soond bucket, wi' warranty to haud water.
"So if the Company engages of a liar—like some he-ere present—as I sees grinning—he'll be richt weel advised to wrop up his girt talent in a napkin, or put it under a bushel, the while he larns to tell the truth—in moderation, ye ken.
"And if the Company engages a thief, the same will go to waste for want o' practice, or he'll be cast oot into a wilderness o' mosquitos withoot sae much as a hook to fush wi'.
"Ye manna leak, nor lie, nor steal, or ye'll na stay i' the Hudson's Bay Sairvice ane week. And as to gettin' fu'—— Well, boys, if I didna get droonk, for ma stomach's sake, ye ken, I'd be a captain afloat or a chief trader ashore instead o' wasting guid advice on a lot o' gumps in a ship's forec'stle.
"The which brings me roond to this lad heare, as is shippit i' the name o' Willie Muggins, whereas he's no but a lubberly bargee, taking the wage of an honest able-bodied sailorman. Coom oot o' that bunk, Willie, and let me get me een on ye. So. Rub oot the grin frae yer ugly mug, me son, and, juist as if ye were standin' He-ere Befo' Christ, tak a' that I say to hearrt.
"This Captain Home, a' for his own honor and glory, and to keep his log book free frae blots and erasures, taks a bargee oot o' London River, worth ten shillin' a month as a boy, and ca's ye an a-able seaman at twa pun' ten a month, with anither man's kit to haud for yer ain, and a bunk among men in the forecastle.
"Weel. Weel, ye're in luck, ma son, and we'll no grudge ye the luck. But ye owes it to the captain, and to us, as ye mak' guid a' that luck. Ye've got to pu' yer weight as a man which doesn't leak, or lee, or steal, but does guid honest man's wark as a shipmate, come cauld, or storm, or wrack, frae heere to Cape Stiff, and roond, and hame agin, not leaving any ither mon to tak' yer trick at the wheel, or yer lookout aheid, or yer ain bunt, or earring, or jobs at sailorizing."
There was something about Bill's eyes told the Scotsman that this lad would not fail. Indeed, the youngster was looking not at Jock at all, but at his mother, who stood behind the seaman just as in life, nor was she changed by death save for a strange rare glory, love in her eyes, amusement in her smile, then on her lips a word. That word was "Peace!"
III
Auld Jock had likened the Yankee to a dog with an inch of brain and a fathom of jaw; and of a surety there was some faint suggestion, but not of a dog exactly. The retreating forehead, cold eyes, red eyelids, lean, ravenous jaws, and yellow fangs, the mean and stealthy smile with upcurved lip, were not quite those of a dog, but rather of a wolf. The one barks, and the other snarls, but this man kept silence watching, waiting. The Englishmen, the Norwegian, and the Iroquois Indian would make the best of things or share the worst in common, but the American would master the lot or go under. The hours they wasted he had filled with study. He would be second officer, then mate, and a bucko mate at that, then command a ship, and own one while they were still in the forecastle. They could play the game, but he would win.
As yet it had not entered into his mind that he, an American, had aught to learn from Britishers. Hatred for the British Government was part of his heritage, contempt for the British a portion of his faith. He would read them a lesson.
As his nation had nothing to learn from Great Britain, so Silas would have accounted anybody lunatic who claimed that he could be the better man for a lesson at the hands of these Britishers. He sat on the edge of his bunk contemptuous alike of the Scotsman's tolerance and the boy's simplicity. Auld Jock had affronted him, and Silas would get even. As for Willie Muggins or whatever his tally might be, here was a sodger, a mere bargee taking a man's pay for a boy's work. The shrewd American was too good a seaman to tolerate false ratings inhiswatch. He would take the shine out of Willie Muggins. "He'll wish himself dead," said Silas to himself, "before I'm through with him."
IV
TheBeaverand her consort theNereidlay at Falmouth completing for their voyage to Oregon. Captain Home had taken the coach to London, where he would get his final orders from the Hudson Bay House and say good-by to his family. His crew were at work from dawn until after dark, watering, taking in fuel, loading the ship's stores, and making all shipshape aloft. Except for an anchor watch, the people had the nights in the crowded forecastle, when foul air made the flame of the slush lamp blue, while in the bunks men lay half suffocated. Willie Muggins had been on anchor watch, trying hard to realize that he was really and truly Bill Fright of thePolly Phemus, and of London River, one who had vowed himself to a religious life, been in great dreams, beheld tremendous visions. He was all adrift, and now in light and troubled sleep haunted by nightmare. At last his body, tired out, lapsed into deep sleep, and his soul dreamed true.
A creature of fairy grace poised on the edge of the bunk, then settled down to pull his ears, to kiss his upturned nose.
"Oh, Slug! Wake up!" she said. "Storm! Storms-all-of-a-sudden! Wake up!"
"H'm!" said he in the deep sleep. "That you, Rain?"
"Why didn't you come, eh, Stupid?"
"I daresn't leave my body. Mother might come. She'd miss me."
"Kyai-yo!" she cried. "Her love would find you, Storm, if you were hid in the Shadows of the Sandhills."
She looked about her. "See that man?" she asked, pointing to Silas, the American. "He makes bad medicine against you, Storm. Keep your temper with him."
"I hate him."
"Love him," she answered, "and he is harmless. Hate him, and his hate is stronger than yours. He'll ruin you."
"How can I love him?"
"First pity him. He's lonely. He has no friends. His medicine is bad. The love of a friend could save him from sinking, drowning in seas of Hate. Now come to Dreamland."
"Dreamland!" he answered; and the two of them were walking through the Fairy Glen, with the squirrels running in front to say that they were coming.
When they came to the Tuft of Moss they found Rain's seat close guarded by Julia, the lady Griffin, who lay stretched out to a length of eighteen feet, asleep, with one eye open. At sight of Rain she blinked, and wagged eight feet of fine bronze tail with spikes, and a barbed tip complete.
"How d'ye do?" she minced affectedly. "I hope I see you well, ma'am." Her wicked eye was cocked at Storm, and her jaw slavered.
"If you sniff at him," said Rain, "I'll tell him how old you are."
Being a mature virgin, some fourteen centuries of age, she promised faithfully to be very good. "Especially," she added, if I may be chaperon. I'd love to feel like a real chaperon. I'd be vastly obleeged if I might take you to the Mythological Gardens.
"You know I'm really and truly a Dragon, and it's only to be genteel that I try to behave like a Griffin. But, would you believe it"—with much complaisance Julia surveyed her lion body, alligator tail, and folded bat wings—"that among my relatives at the Mythological Gardens I am considered almost plain, not quite of course, but almost?"
She invited the lovers to take their seats between her folded wings, which they did. They knew it would please poor Julia.
"If it were not unbecoming," she simpered, "to a perfect lady—ahem—I would say 'Hang on with teeth and toenails, or you will alight—ahem—at the wrong gardens.' I will now ask you, Lady and Gentleman, to put twopence in the slot. It's for the Home, you know, for Decayed Griffins. Thank you. I will next proceed—as expected—to breathe out a few small flames."
She did, although the flames were neither few nor small, and with a mighty leap extended her wings, all gloriously iridescent, flapped powerfully and soared into the skies. Then her wings seemed asleep upon the air, with delicate featherings as she steered through space.
As to the landscape down there which floated past at a hundred miles an hour, I might plead scant time to see, but that other fellows who have traveled in aeroplanes would sneer at my false pretenses. Or I might claim that, were the story told, nobody on earth would believe one word of it, and that again would be a mean excuse. It is best to own up at once to a very well-grown, mature, and lively ignorance. And yet, there being many sorts of gems, as diamonds or rubies; so there be divers kinds of ignorance. Nobody would compare my ignorance with that of a truly scientific person, shut up in a little truth-tight compartment, and taking less air and exercise than any convict. My darkness is complete and natural. Concerning the provinces of Dreamland, Fairyland, and Wonderland I have readAlice(a sound authority), theArabian Nights, which are most explicit, Malory'sMorte D'Arthur, Mandeville'sTravels, Hans Anderson, the Brothers Grimm, bits of theOdyssey, and in fact all the best authors, who visited lands of glamour in their dreams, and brought us back their happy memories of truly facts. But how did they get back? How tear themselves away? On questions like these the witnesses are dumb, the scientists are stumped, and how on earth should I know! Yet one may console oneself with the comfortable thought that the more ignorant an author is, the longer the words he is obliged to use, and the deeper his obscurity of style. By that measure the ignorance of Darwin about Biology, of Spencer in Philosophy, of Lodge on Ether of Space is something really too awful to think about.
In her way, and as Griffins go, Julia was rather a good sort. She meant well, but when she set up as a guide to places where she had never been before, she became like a professional medium, all whoppers and busters. Her passengers were not at all particular, but when she pointed out Sinbad's palace she said it was Asgaard the gods-home of the Norseman. Then she showed off a Chinese pagoda as the Court of King Arthur of England, so Storm called her a liar. "So far," she said judicially, "as it is quite becoming to a perfect lady—I am. You see, my dears, I know exactly where we are, but the Mythological Gardens have been removed, and I regret to say mislaid in the confusion of removal. House-moving is always a worry, but think of having to move the whole Mythological Gardens! It's perfectly dreadful!"
It is much to be regretted that Julia could not find her way to the Mythological Gardens, which must be a wonderful show place.
Still, it was a nice excursion until, being very absent-minded, the poor Griffin turned her head towards home while her body continued in the old direction. That is how she managed to breathe a gust of her largest flames in the faces of her passengers. Storm was extremely annoyed....
* * * * * * *
V
An ant heap is a busy community, and has no time to be concerned at all with the domestic worries of the other ant heaps. Our world is absorbed in its worldly affairs, and looks upon other-worldly people as more or less lunatic for being attracted by the concerns of worlds remote or planets far removed. By these analogies we may perceive that Captain David Home was all the world to Captain David Home. The sun which lighted that world was the Hudson's Bay House, from whence came all good things, to which his prayers were addressed in duplicate. The moon which governed the night was Mrs. Home, whose face was full or peaked or turned away according to his conduct. There were certain little satellites whose music was not the music of the spheres as known to the angels in Heaven. And the rest of creation was theBeaver, peopled by mates and microbes of low degree, together possibly with rats, cockroaches, weevils, and other vermin to be kept down. The adoration of the sun, and moon and the suppression of low forms of life made up the sum of Captain's Home's religion. So shall it be understood that, what with the sun, the moon, and the microbes, he had no time to be bothered about the news-sheets, but merely caused a stack of the same to be hoarded for future use at sea, where they would come in handy when there was nothing better as food for the mind, for shaving paper, stuffing for his mattress, and an incentive to the mates. They might—if they behaved themselves—be allowed to see what was left next time he had his berth cleaned. So after a month or two the mates would read the news-sheets, use them for shaving paper, stuff mattresses, have their bunks cleaned, and allow what was left to be seen by the Boatswain, Chips, Sails, and others in the steerage. These, having read, shaved, stuffed, and cleaned out, would pass the ragged remnants forward to such as could read in the forecastle. There the very advertisements and obituaries would be devoured over and over again by men with starving minds.
Thus it came about that theBeaverwas in the tropics, and running down the "trades" while still the tragedy of the bargePolly Phemus, noted in all the news-sheets, escaped any special attention. It was an episode remote from the real world of things which matter. Indeed, from the point of view of deep-sea mariners a barge is a mere obstruction to traffic on the fairways, while bargees are lubbers of no account whatever.
TheBeaverwas a fine sight of a Sunday morning, when after the decks were holystoned snow-white and breakfast served, she set her colors out above a cloud of sail, and rigged church with the Union Jack upon the table. She had the boatswain whistle the men aft barefoot all in their best white slacks, their red or chequered shirts, black silken scarfs, and shiny tarpaulin hats. In no detail of pomp and circumstance would the Hudson's Bay Company come short of the Navy, being authorized by Royal Charter to arm their forts, their troops, their ships, to wield the Greater and the Lesser Justice, make treaty with savage peoples or levy war, or, in an Empire three times as large as the then United States, wield the main powers of a Sovereign state. Indeed the old man, standing at the break of the half-poop, addressed his prayers to the Almighty with a jolly good word of command.
In those days dinner and supper consisted of boiled salt horse served in a kid or wooden tub upon the forecastle floor. The fat joints went aft. There was always hard-tack; and tea, not too powerful, was served morning and evening. At noon there was lime juice, used by British merchant ships on long voyages to stave off scurvy. Sunday dinner was illustrated with boiled duff of flour and water. The Navy, East Indiamen, Hudson's Bay ships, and clippers of the first flight had plum duff.
Food thus being lavished upon common sailors, mainly because they could not be put out to graze, they had the Sunday afternoon off duty excepting one hand to relieve the wheel.
Men on good terms with the cook would sometimes win a mug of hot fresh water to wash themselves withal, instead of waiting months perhaps for a deluge of tropic rain. Clothes were cleaned with sea water by trailing them overboard. There was a deal of making and mending to get the whole kit ready against the cold and storms off the Cape and the Horn. Mighty fine was their craftsmanship with waxed thread, palm thimble, bladed needles, and awls for heavy sewing; but for delicate artistry of intricately beautiful knotting the sheath knife lanyard has never been excelled. The knots took years to learn. Men sat in the coil of a halliard or perched upon a boat, smoking black muck in cutty pipes while they sewed, gossiped, or spun yarns, though some would read or sleep. Above them a flaw of the wind would set the reef points tapping upon sails which slept, high up against white cloud race or deep azure. Out beyond the bulwarks, the indigo of the deeps was maned with diamond-glittering spray on the swift surges. On deck was a splendor of swaying light, and shadow soft as sapphire dissolved. Bill sat and darned socks, while Auld Jock read the Bible aloud, or at times expounded the sacred text, "withoot, ye ken, the verra slichtest trace o' Scottish accent."
Further aft, in the waist, his back against the weather bulwark, Silas the Yankee overhauled frayed scraps from theLondon Advertiser. "A coroner's inquest held on 28 October at Margate disclosed particulars, which we summarize, of a peculiarly shocking affair occurring on board the bargePolly Phemus[sic!]. The vessel was the property of T. Fright, licensed victualer at the "Fox under the Hill" tavern by the Adelphi, who appeared in court to make claim, contra the claimants who testified that they found her derelict.
"Residents of Margate to whom her cargo had been consigned, were astonished to hear on the 22nd inst. that the barge, six days overdue at that port, was reported to be lying at anchor some four miles to the westward off Epple Bay, in the parish of Birchington. Proceeding thither by road they learned, from laborers employed upon the farm adjacent to Epple Bay, that the barge's dinghy was gone from her stern, although nobody had been observed to come ashore. For some days no smoke had been seen to rise from the cabin funnel, nor had the vessel shown any sign of life.
"Such unusual circumstances being communicated to the Vicar as nearest Justice of the Peace, he caused a visit to be paid to thePolly Phemus. On the cabin floor lay the body, stabbed to the heart, of the master of the barge, identified by the owner as his brother James Fright. In the bunk, attired in a nightdress, lay the mortal remains of the man's wife, also stabbed to death, but under circumstances of awful ferocity. Indeed, the crime appears to be the deed of a maniac, indifferent to the woman's purse containing two sovereigns and some silver, her silver watch, and her gold wedding ring. The medical evidence pointed to an interval of about six days between the date of the crime and that of the discovery. There were no signs of a struggle, but the fact that the couple had been drinking heavily was attested by the discovery of no less than six empty gin bottles under the cabin table. A sheath knife was found crusted, blade and hilt, with dried blood. But the most sinister aspect of this affair remains to be told.
"The cabin was found locked from the outside, and this fact becomes of dreadful significance because the fore hatch was discovered to have been left wide open. The fore compartment was used as a store-room, but also occupied by the only son of the deceased couple, by name Bill Fright. That he had left in haste was evidenced by the finding in his spare clothes of six shillings in silver and elevenpence three-farthings in bronze, apparently forgotten when, after murdering both his parents, he locked their bodies in the cabin, and fled from the place in the dinghy. No trace of him or of the boat is as yet reported; but the coroner's jury gave their verdict against him of willful murder, a warrant has been issued for his apprehension, and the police are understood to have a strong clue to his present whereabouts.
"He is described as follows: age 18 to 19, height 5 ft. 7 in., build slight but strong, fair hair, blue eyes, ruddy complexion, features those of a pug. Usual dress a ragged blue jersey and slacks, black silk neckcloth, sea boots. The Joseph Fright recently executed at Tyburn was an uncle of this atrocious young scoundrel.Verb. sap."
Silas looked up from his reading and stared at Bill with a malicious grin. "I guess," so ran his thought, "as he's the poor orphan right enough. Got his Uncle Joseph hanged, and knifed his beloved parents! He don't brag none of his past life, or talk about his last ship either, and now it comes to mind as I caught him blubbering—seems he feels kinder lonesome!
"Off Margate, eh? So his boat drifts up the flood twenty or thirty mile until he's off the Nore and fouls our bows, and comes aboard white as a ghost, his hands all shaking. Say! That's why he coiled them halliards down to hide the trembling. Waal!
"Calls himself Willie Muggins!
"All the same, I hain't due to be seen giving him away, and him a shipmate—sort of. The fellers wouldn't stand for that. Shucks! And yet I dunno. The news might be dragged out of me. And there's the mate leaning on the poop rail, curious as monkeys—sees me look sideways trying to hide the paper, sort o' furtive, acting mysterious. What if I ups and axes him!"
Silas went aft, ostentatiously hiding something in his trousers pocket, looking worried, anxious, as he approached the mate and asked his permission to speak.
"What's wrong, my man?"
"If you please, mister. I kinder doubt——No"—he turned away—"I ain't having any!"
"What on earth's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing 'cept you kin gimme the date as we dropped down on the tide from Gravesend, sir, to the Nore!"
"October 17th—why?"
Silas appeared to be appalled, stared forward at Bill, pulled out a corner of the paper, glanced at the date, then looked back over his shoulder, thanking the mate, and saying it didn't matter anyways.
"What doesn't matter? Silas, give me that paper!"
"Oh no, sir, not that! No! No!"
"I order you to give me that paper!"
Silas used his neckcloth to wipe the sweat from his face. Of course he knew that the man at the wheel heard everything.
"Waal, since you got ter have it, I guess I obeys orders, if I breaks owners. Here, sir."
Mr. Dodd read the cutting, which to the Yankee's mind appeared to concern young Willie who sat there darning socks, beyond the galley door. The ship had cleared from Falmouth on 1st November, this paper was dated 29 October, 1835. A week or so before that a young bargee had murdered his parents on board the bargePolly Phemus, lying not far from Margate. That must be on or about the 16th October, perhaps a day or two earlier. The murderer had got away in the dinghy. On the morning of the 17th young Willie, sweeping upriver in a dinghy, had fouled the ship's bows and come aboard at dawn. He had not given any name, had merely been dubbed Willie Muggins because the skipper said so.
Mr. Dodd told Silas to send Willie aft, and presently the Yankee brought the lad. "Stand out of earshot," said the mate; "go forward." Silas went forward, dragging his feet, reluctant to miss the fun.
There was something ominous in the mate's bearing, and Bill became uneasy, wondering vaguely which of his many crimes had been found out.
"Sonny," said Mr. Dodd, "what is your real name?"
"Bill Fright, sir." The lad was smiling now, yet with an inward dread, for the officer had a queer catch in his voice. What was this paper he held and glanced at?
"You worked on a barge," he said. "What was she called?"
"Polly Phemus," came the reluctant answer. Was this paper something to do with mother's death?
"Why did you leave her, son?"
Bill's face had clouded; the mate could see a glitter of tears, a twist of the lips.
"You leave that alone," said the lad in a broken voice. "It hain't your business."
"Mine, or the captain's business, Willie. Wouldn't you rather deal with me, lad, eh?"
"Well, if you got to know—my father done my mammie in with his belt knife, and then 'e killed hisself. I found 'em dead, I did." The lad's face was drawn and ghastly now. "I locked the cabin up——"
"Why?"
"D'ye think I hain't got no pride? D'ye think I vants strangers peeping and prying down that 'atch, and smellin' around my fambily affairs? Well, I don't." Then defiantly, "And I doesn't thank you for interfering neither!"
Mr. Dodd was a man first, an officer when he called to mind his duty. He saw no insubordination here, but only honesty and manly self-respect. He did not know that the old man was listening within the cabin hatchway.
"Who told you, sir?" Bill challenged, flushing with sudden temper, his fists clenched, his jaw thrust out, his anger mounting steadily. "Is that the paper you got from Silas? Eh? So that's the game! I'll see to him."
Shaking with passion the lad flashed round, looked out for Silas, saw him, and leaped like a wild beast. "You ... take that!" he yelled, launching his fist in the Yankee's face, dislodging teeth, then drawing back for a space to get his full strength into the second blow. But the American, snarling with rage and pain, whipped out his belt knife, and crouching low, ripped upwards with the blade.
"Ma mannie," Jock was saying, "calm yourself," as he tripped the Yankee headlong into the scappers. "Belay all that!" he added. The Yorkshireman seized the knife, and the Iroquois, with a long leap, jumped Silas to hold him down. The negro cook held Bill, who raged to get at his enemy again, screaming, "Leave go! Leave go!"
"What's all this? Now, what's all this about?" Captain Home, attended by the mate and the boatswain, came surging along the gangway. "I'll show who's master here!" He pointed to Auld Jock, and ordered the bos'n to "clap that man in irons!" The bos'n laughed. "What, sir!" asked the mate. "For saving a man's life?"
That brought the captain short with a round turn, baffled. He was determined to show his authority, somehow, anyhow. He rounded on the mate, would have sent him to his berth under arrest, but for the eyes of the seamen clustered forward. Here was menace, a low muttering not to be disregarded. This was their affair, a fight between two shipmates, and all hands were determined to see fair play.
Knowing his business thoroughly, he dared not be less than master. He was bound to dominate these men, or all of them would treat him with contempt, as unfit to command a ship. He must make some example, and as it happened Silas claimed attention. He was yelling, "I charge that man. I charge that man with murder!"
The captain and all hands had seen him attempting to knife the youngster. The Yorkshireman, grinning broadly, held out the weapon. The bos'n with a broad paw attempted in vain to mask a snort of joy. Auld Jock, suspecting the savor of a joke cried, "Haec mon! Wha's murdering ye? Wullie? Aye, mannie!" Even the captain, angry as he was, joined his bleak smile to the general roar of laughter. But the Yankee held his ground, defying all of them, pointing his accusation. "I guess," he said in his high nasal drawl, slowly, venomously, "the joke is on this man's father and mother, murdered! And there," he pointed to the paper which the mate still held, "is proof it ain't my joke."
The mate gave the paper to Captain Home. "You'd better read this, if you will, sir."
The captain read, but did not grasp the issue until the mate explained coincidence of dates, the description which identified the murderer as Bill Fright, the verdict of a jury, the warrant out. Cold, stiff, official, Home saw no demerit in this newspaper which dared to presume the guilt of an untried man. He looked at the accused, and in disgust sneered at him, contemptuous, disdainful. "Murdered your parents, eh?"
Bill turned on Silas, and in the same level voice, quiet, incisive, he said that all might hear, "Sneaked on your shipmate, eh? Sneaked on a shipmate!" He spat in the man's face. "Cur!"
Americans have a code of honor not less manful or more loosely held than the British, but it is different. The American code is one of an extraordinary chivalry towards women, children, all who are unarmed, defenseless, weak, but has no trace of mercy on any incompetence or false pretenses. Silas attacked a bargee pretending to be a seaman, and under a purser's name. But his method of attack struck at the roots of the British code the honor of the sportsman who plays the game to the death, but neither explains, nor complains, nor carries tales. Anybody is liable to lose his temper, and in the heat of anger, without the least intent of homicide, to kill. Silas himself had but this moment attempted a comrade's life. So much was readily forgiven, but he had sneaked to the mate, and for that there could be no pardon. So Bill was put in irons, and consigned to a cupboard known as the "bos'n's locker." He was now the pet of the ship's company. He might be innocent of parricide, or guilty, as time and a fair trial would bring to proof, but he was victim of a sneak. No officer or man on board theBeaverspoke to Silas after that, off duty, nor was there conversation in his presence.
As to the captain, he had his consolations. Whenever, as in this example, he made an all-round ass of himself, he "logged" the mate with entry in the ship's log book that Mr. Dodd had used insubordinate language (signed) D. Home. There are many such entries in the oldtime manuscript volume, and, if I remember rightly, Mr. Dodd did not always limit himself to the use of appropriate language. Reading between the lines, I suspect that at times he kicked his commanding officer down the companion ladder. Two years later, when Captain Home was drowned in the Columbia River, Dodd took the command, and his log books are quite free from any trace of peevishness.
Did Captain Home propose to relinquish the services of an able-bodied man? Did he expect Bill to be a prisoner in that cupboard rounding Cape Horn and to survive the voyage? Was the captain likely to get the prisoner transferred to a man-o'-war or to a magistrate in British territory this side of Oregon?
"Then," asked the mate, "why keep my watch short-handed, sir? I'll answer for him that he don't jump overboard."
"Mind your own business, Mr. Dodd."
"Right, sir; you are responsible for this man's life, not I. But it's my business, Captain Home, to report to you that the bos'n's locker is too small to kennel a dog. There's no air to breathe, and barely standing room. It is slow murder, and has put the men in an ugly mood, a very ugly mood, endangering your life, Captain Home."
"How dare you! Silence! Go below, sir. This is rank mutiny!"'
Next morning, very early, the captain took all that out of the bos'n, asking what the devil he meant by locking up one of the seamen in that doghole.
VI
The bos'n's locker must have been, apart from its perfume, cramped as an upright coffin, for Bill dreamed that he was grandfather's clock stuck in a corner of the old bar parlor at the "Fox," condemned from everlasting to everlasting to point out the minutes with one hand, the hours with the other. And really there was no room even to point.
Then into his dream swept Rain's beloved presence.
"Hai ya!" cried Rain. "I wouldn't point if I were you. I'd stop."
The scene of his dream had changed. He was in Dreamland.
"I haven't been wound up," he answered sorrowfully, "since we cleared Ushant. I'm feeling awful—run down, you know; but if the old man catches me——"
"Say a prayer to Old Man." The Indian maid put up her hands most reverently, for "old man" is a sort of god among her people. "Whenever you feel hungry, you should say, 'For what I am about to receive, please, Old Man, make me truly thankful.'"
"What, for hard-tack and water!"
"Yes, you've been bad; but when you're good and say grace prettily, Old Man will send you something nice to eat, a tongue, or berry pemmican from the captain's food box."
"Old Man!" said Storm, with scorn. "I don't hold with them heathen gods. Nice sort of a Christian you are!"
"And yet," she purred, "I hear that Christians swear by the Christian gods Be Jabers, and S'elp-me-Bob, and Strike-me-pink—or are these holy saints?"
So she began to tease him.
By this time they had traversed the glade which leads into Fairyland, and as Rain sat for the Tuft of Moss in the Fairy Parliament, of course she plumped down flop on her constituency. Moreover, this dream was taking on a certain strangeness, for the Red Indian maid was no longer clad in her warrior dress. All of a sudden she had changed into a stiff costume of ruff and farthingale in the fashions of the reign of James I of England, while her copper color took on a hectic flush, her face became shrunken, and she had a dry cough. The fairies, who have nice manners, pretended to take no notice.
"What do you know," said Storm disdainfully, "of how we swear in England?"
"Gadzooks!" was her joyful answer. "Sirrah, I do assure you"—this very primly—"that when I was in England I could swear like a little gentlewoman. Hoity-toity!"
The fairies had begun to scent a tale, and they are always ravenous for stories.
"You wasn't never there!" cried Storm.
She rose from her tuft, to dip him a low curtsy. Then she began to speak in the manner of the Devon peasantry.
"What! Haven't ye heeard as King Powhatan's darter, the Blessed Pocahontas, be coom a-land i' Devon? And they du tell as thicky ma-aid be marriet with Master John Rolfe, the young Planter, aie, an' has a son by him aie. Tammas his na-a-me is, and she be coom a' the way-ay frae Virginia, thicky Lady Rebecca Rolfe so they du sa-ay, which be her christened na-ame."
Eavesdropping fairies, pretending not to hear, were gathered by hundreds now to nurse a drooping rosebud.
"H'm!" Storm grunted. "You've always got some new mare's nest to sit on."
Yet he was puzzled to find himself arrayed, as Master John Rolfe might have been, coming ashore from Virginia, his sea boots changed to tan riding-boots, his trousers to trunk hose, his jersey to a brown doublet, a stiff, wide linen collar spreading above his shoulders, and on his head a green top hat with a feather.
"Mare's nest?" said Pocahontas. "Pillion, you mean, on the crupper, i' faith, be-hind my little master John Rolfe in his brown doublet, and his green top-hat, his scabbard bruising my knees, yes, all the way to Town."
Of course it was only a dream, but still it was queer that he seemed to be astride a sweaty gray horse, with a perfect little witch of a woman perched up behind him, poking shy fun as they rode.
"Now they do call me the Lady Rebecca Rolfe—as one might say our Lady the Queen. Yiss. All the simple people at their doors prick-eared and open-mouthed as we ride by, to see the Redskin lady coom a' the way from Jamestown at the new Plantations. And the gentries come of an evening to our tavern, where we shall lie the night, with civil welcome, so please you, to the Lady Rebecca Rolfe who is a Princess Royal."
Thousands of fairies formed the audience now, and as their numbers gave them confidence, sat unabashed to listen.
"The woman's got bats in her belfry!" said Storm, disgusted. He sat in the moss, and gloomed.
"Marry! Was it not proper to ride pillion, even with him my husband? Or to have my arm around him, with fingers creeping up under his jerkin, for it was cruel cold, to pull the fur on his chin?"
Storm gave examples of the latest bargese, but Rain put her fingers to her ears and went on, most demure.
"Of course my man had his servant to ride behind him, and a Devon lass, good Betsy, riding cockhorse with our baby son in her arms."
"Take leave of her senses!" was Storm's despairing comment.
"Strewth," she observed, "or so they said in Jamestown, for though I wore rich stuff under Dacca muslin, with jewels in my hair and birdplumes, they all held I had married beneath me. Aye, sirrah, Powhatan's eldest daughter of the Blood Royal mated to plain Mister, commoner, so please you. Albeit, my little widower looked quite smart, I grant you, in his court suit, a tobacco planter, a gentleman entitled to sword and spur—by no means the common bargee using foul speech to a lady. At least he was never anything low. Dear no!
"And after all, a Princess is only woman when it comes to mating, and John was rather nice. I loved him, so that's all there is to it, loved him, and love him still, and ever shall do—madly!"
"O-o!" said the lady fairies—"o-h! o-h!"
"Oh, this is too much!" Storm shrieked. "Shut up! For Gawd's sake shut yer mouth!"
"Methinks my little man mislays his manners."
All the gentlemen fairies clapped their tiny hands.
"Who is he?" Storm ramped up and down in front of her, and the more he raged, the softer was her stroking. "Just let me at your little man this once. I'll corpse the swine. I'll tear his hide off over his ears. Now out with it! Who is he? Where is he?"
"Whom I did swear to love, honor, and obey—more or less, in his little tantrums, these two hundred years."
"Ah!" gasped the lady fairies. "Two hundred minutes!"
"Two hundred years? What d'ye mean?"
"Since you and I were wed, John Rolfe, in our last life, my little man, two hundred years ago. Don't you remember, John, how we came freezing in the bitter east wind into the courtyard at the 'Mermaid Inn,' so numb with cold that we couldn't get down off the horse. Don't you remember, dear? There was a bald vagabond came out of the bar parlor bearing a posset to warm us—God's charity to poor travelers. He told us he acted at the theater. Why, John, it seems but yesterday."
"You mean that I——"
"Dear stupid, I mean that you're my little man Master John Rolfe the planter of Virginia, and I'm your true wife, once called the Blessed Pocahontas, King Powhatan's daughter, christened i' the name of Rebecca, known to the Englishry as the Lady Rebecca Rolfe. I'd know you again by your naughty temper, John, pug nose, and fighting jaw, Storms-all-the-time. Oh! fie upon you! Can't you remember how you vexed the Bishop, the Heap Big Medicine Man of London, when we did lie in his lodge at Brentford?"
"I don't believe one word of it," said Storm. "It's only one of your games. Now, isn't it?"
"Oh, John dear, Matoaka speaks, your Matoaka. Can't you remember even that, my birth name? Why, you would whisper it in the night, weaving it into sonnets when you thought I was fast asleep! Oh, well!" she sighed, "you were not at all clever, John, dear, only a good, religious gentleman."
She sighed, she turned away, then there came a wicked little twinkle of her eye, a naughty curl of the lip, showing the sharp teeth—she would have another nibble!
"If it were only a game, why it does not matter then, I didn't truly love you in that last life of ours. Suppose, dear, that it was all make-believe! What if I loved another man at the time I wedded you?"
"Ah!" sighed the gentlemen fairies. "Oh!" gasped the ladies.
"Loved another devil!"
"He was more like a god."
"Hell!" Storm's jealousy had flamed to greater heights than ever.
"But, dearest, if you were not John Rolfe and I was not your wife, why fuss?"
"I don't fuss. I never fuss. It's you that fusses." Storm ground his teeth. "Who was he?"
"My friend, the dearest friend maid ever had, dread leader and dear father of all Virginia. Surely you must remember the mighty Johnsmith?"
"Never heard tell of him. Who was this Johnsmith?"
"Why think of the magic Johnsmith book you read to me at Brentford, all about the paladin—so you called him, this English lad commanding the Christian guns, crusading against the Paynim Turks. Big warriors were these Indians you called Turks, clean fighters, but Johnsmith made bad medicine against them, new conceits you said of blazing serpents and fiery flying dragons which burned up the Turkish towns. His medicine was very powerful.
"You read me how he fought three Turkish war chiefs, Knights was the word you said, below the stockade called Reigall. He fought with the lance and finished with the sword, taking their three heads, and from the last of them a suit of golden armor.
"You told me how once at the Pass of the Rose Tower this dread chief armed all his pony soldiers with branches of trees soaked in pitch, then lighted them like torches and charged a Turkish Army which fled into the night, thinking the Devil was after them.
"Next of a tribe called Tartars, very bad Indians, more in number than the leaves of the forest, who killed Johnsmith and all his warriors in battle. But Johnsmith came alive again to be a war slave sold to Turkish squaws.
"From which captivity he did escape by using his chain to club down a Turkish war lord whose head he chopped off, then took his armor, sword, and horse for that great ride he made, the ride of a hundred days back to the Christian tribes. They hailed him as first of all their warriors.
"Then of his passage in the little trade ship which fought two Spanish battleships. Oh, you must remember how they boarded, and when they got the fore part of the ship he touched off his powder barrels there and blew up the forecastle.
"Last of his coming to London, only twenty-five years old, but passing rich in plunder, first of all warriors on earth in glory, and so beautiful a man that every woman worshiped him—even as I did."
"Oh well, it's only fairy tales," said Storm resignedly.
"Boo!" said all the fairies. "Boo-oo-oo!"
"Truly it was like a fairy tale," said Pocahontas, and the fairies were ever so pleased, "when Johnsmith came into Virginia.
"My father King Powhatan watched that English camp in Virginia, of wasters led by idiots, who starved and squabbled until the sickness took their silly voices one by one out into the silence. 'There's only one man among them,' said my father Powhatan, 'so they landed him in irons—this fellow they call Johnsmith.' But we called him the Great Werowance. 'I'll kill him,' said Powhatan, 'and the rest of them will blow away like the dead leaves in winter.'
"But Johnsmith had the heart of a saint and the mind of a boy, magic beyond our biggest medicine men, and such a queer little laugh. Our warriors laid his head on a block to club his brains out, but I took his head in my arms and held on tight, so they must kill me first. After that he always used to call me his little daughter.
"My father was the biggest of all kings, but Captain Johnsmith was his master. Time and again Powhatan tried to get him killed but Werowance would come and talk it over, smoking with him, laughing at him. Once I ran through the woods all night to tell him that Powhatan's army was coming against his little helpless camp, but instead of running away he unpacked his goods to give me presents—oh, such lovely gifts if only I'd dared to take them, to be caught wearing them.
"Then came the night when the soldiers blew up his boat with gunpowder, and what was left of him was sent to die in England. You swore to me that he died there, or I'd never have married you. And yet in my heart I knew all the time, that he lived. But how was I to get to England and to him unless I married you? Well," she sighed, "it can't be helped. We're married.
"Verily when we got to England, Johnsmith was alive, but then you see I was married, to a little man with a temper—and so jealous. Well, better jealous than runagate!"
"Go on. Twist the knife deeper."
She put her little head sideways and chirped like a squirrel, then made a great pretense that she did no such thing.
All the fairies were poking one another in the ribs, ever so slyly.
"Johnsmith heard of my coming. The camp crier called it among the tipis in London town, but who believes what he says! And then one day the hero walked in Philpot Lane among the smelly lodges, when who should he see but Uttamatomahkin, one of Powhatan's counselors, who went with a stick and a knife, making a notch for every man he met. Powhatan had ordered him to find out the number of English warriors there were for killing. Johnsmith hailed him, making the sign for peace.
"'Oh, Great Werowance, Master of all the Seas,'" cried Uttamatomahkin. "'I come with the Lady Pocahontas, and her husband, and her baby son to seek you.'"
"So they walked together, the chief notching his stick for every man they met. 'Now show me God,' said he, supposing that the God of the English ought to live in their chief village.
"'Nay,' answered Johnsmith, 'but is it really true my little one is here?'
"They came to the Sachem, Sir Thomas of the English tribe in Virginia, and asked him about the Princess Pocahontas.
"'I hear,' said the Sachem, 'she is a very civil formal gentlewoman—though she be squaw in the wigwam of Bear-who-sulks.'"
"You made that up!" Storm snarled.
"I did," said Pocahontas. "Then Johnsmith put on his chief's dress, his war bonnet, and best velvet robe. He brushed his curly beard up, so, and his mustaches straight out like a wildcat seeking his love. He rode his painted war horse to the Bishop's tipi, where you and I were lying, with our small baby boy.
"Now may it please your worship Master Rolfe. There was little me tied up with strings like a sacred medicine bundle, in wooden hoops, and a stomacher stiff as a baby's cradle board, a piccadill collar stuck out all round with skewers, a tall hat, and high-heeled moccasins—yes, with red heels tap-tap-tap on a floor like black ice. Tap-tap-tap—flop, then scramble up to my feet, and tap, tap, tap—lawks!"
She slithered round the Tuft of Moss, like a cat on glare ice, pretending to overbalance and recover, wide-eyed, hands outstretched.
Some of the fairies skirled and ran away.
"I couldn't run to him on heels like that. I couldn't love him properly in stomacher and farthingale. I knew he'd hate me in blue, because I'm yellow, and what could I do but beat the air with a fan of three plumes or a stick? He never liked face paint either—men who kiss nicely object to the taste. H'm? No? But then you don't kiss nicely like dear Johnsmith.
"On the whole I couldn't bear it. At the sight of him I tried to run and couldn't. So I just turned away, flopped on the floor, and howled. Yes, there's your civil formal Lady Rebecca, Royal Squaw, gentlewoman, and tied up with a husband, sniff, boo-hoo-hoo-oo! Although he was only a little one."
Storm crouched in the moss a picture of glum despair, and all the fairies poking fun at him.
"Out with it," he growled. "You ran away with Johnsmith!"
"Ran away with grand-dad! He kissed you as if you were his long lost little one, and took you to walk in the fields, his arm about your neck, until I'd time to mend the ravages in my face-paint."
Storm looked up, wistfully, humbly. "I seem to remember," he whispered. "Father of Virginia and New England."
"Founder of the United States," said Rain, "for so my spirit-guide would call him."
"Captain John Smith? Why didn't you call him by his proper name?"
"Beshrew me I did," she answered indignantly. "All the time."
"Oh, you little liar!"
* * * * * * *
"I may be a little liar," said the bos'n, "but this is the first I've heered about it. Now wake up properly."
The bos'n had brought Bill hard-tack and water for breakfast, together with a hunk of cold meat pie pinched from the cabin pantry. He unlocked the handcuffs, and put the food on the small paint-shelf. "When youse put that inside your belt," said he, "Old Home-sweet-home says you kin make yourself scarce, and join your watch, my son, the watch below."
VII
The old man nagged like an old woman and Mr. Dodd looked haggard, haunted, grew irritable, and hounded the men at their work. As to the second mate, he seemed demoralized altogether. Nor was there comfort in the forecastle, where the straining bowsprit worked a passage for the water until all bunks were sodden and men wrung out wet clothes to put on damp ones after their watch on deck. The presence of a sneak made talk unsafe, and there was sullen silence in that wet, black, freezing hole, while the Cape Horn swell struck like a battering-ram and freezing sprays lashed high. Then somehow Captain Home took exception to a glance or a word from Auld Jock, flew in a passion, had the man spread-eagled, and gave him three dozen to show him who was master.
"Rope's end" could not be mentioned after that, or "rope," a word but seldom used afloat. It was barred lest that or ever so slight a reference remind Auld Jock of the outrage. Delicately tactful, afraid to take over his duties lest they affront his pride, the fellows would leave to him the bit of meat which had a trace of fat, offer all sorts of little courtesies, seek Jock's advice in their affairs, ask his opinion when a point was argued. Silas was once more a member of the mess, apparently quite friends again with Bill, for in this general mourning all men were brothers. But on duty there were no chanteys sung. The job which had taken five minutes was now dragged out for an hour; a surly obedience, a scowling glance, replaced the old alacrity of service, and Captain Home had remarkably narrow escapes from blocks or marlinespikes which fell from aloft by accident.
Then at long last, driven far down towards the Antarctic after six weeks of awful cold, of furious gales, of peril without and smoldering mutiny within, the ship won round the Horn. Sheeted with ice from truck to keelson, she drove before a polar gale straight to the norrard. A storm jib, and a close-reefed to'gallant sail kept her just clear of being jumped by black-browed, white-manned, hell-bred, mast-high combers, outroaring the Antarctic wind, while sheeted spray slashed overhead, and on the rolling decks green seas came aft, waist deep.
Jock and the Iroquois, the two strongest men in the watch, were at the wheel, the mate standing by lest a kick of the rudder whirl them into the scuppers. Forward the rest of the men hung on, half drowned, Silas and Bill together in the starboard shrouds. "Say," the American had to shout to make himself heard in that uproar, "jest you keep an eye on the old man, aft there in the rigging. He knows he daren't heave to, and if we broach we'll founder; but if he's man enough he'll set three reefs in the tawps'l and let her rip for Hail Columbia."
By the fading daylight Bill saw the gleam in this Yankee's eyes, the smile upon his lips, the triumph of him, caught the exultant laugh, and for the first time knew that here was indeed a man. But as it needs a light to cast a shadow, this new admiration for the Yankee sharpened Bill's memory of the betrayal, so mean an act of spite. If the ship won through to the Columbia, Silas had prospects ahead a life to live. If she broached to, if one of these vindictive monster seas should batter in her ribs, and send her reeling down through the black deeps beneath, he need not go to Newgate, or be hanged at Tyburn on a false charge of murdering his mother. As he looked at Silas the lad's lips appeared to be drawn, gray, smoldering, while in his eyes the American saw grief so awful that he turned away. He was afraid.
To fear is only human, but the display of it is cowardice, that meanest selfishness which infects and saps and drains away the courage of others just when they need their strength. So Silas, knowing at the inner-most of his being that he was afraid of Bill, in spirit terrified, must needs, for his manhood's sake, attempt to bluff.
"Shucks! You got a grouch ag'in me still?" he challenged.
"Yes," answered Bill, through his clenched teeth, "I has."
"You'd as lief fight it out?"
"In the second dog watch if we've time," said Bill, "or the middle watch if we hasn't."
"Right-o. Where?"
"On the bowsprit end. We'll 'ave it out with knives."
Silas wished then with all his heart he had not tried to bluff.
"You mean that?" he asked huskily.
"I mean," said Bill, "as I'm afraid to live, and Silas," he stared into the man's eyes, "you're scared to die!"
"Waal, that's a fact. I am—leastways to die at such a job as that."
"When you sneaked," said Bill, "your words was murder."
A heavy sea crashed inboard, filled the fore deck, and when the spray cleared they saw the galley all adrift against the half-poop.
"Bill," said Silas, "I ax your pardon for what I done."
"And I forgives yer, Silas."
"Bill—I see the old man screeching for us."
But Bill saw his mother standing amid the wash and wreckage aft. She nodded and smiled to him. Then she was gone, and the lad went to his duty about the shattered galley.
VIII
The gale was at its height during the middle watch, but on towards dawn began to flaw with lulls between the furious squalls, so when the starboard watch was called the captain had the idlers on deck, served rum, and set the topsail. It was a sign that, for Cape Horn was conquered, and in their victorious mood, with the sudden glow of liquor warming them, the men forgot the gloom of the long nights, the piercing cold, drenched clothing, boils, wet berths, the chronic hunger, and mental weariness from lack of sleep, their burning hatred of the captain, even the lack of that human kindness which alone makes life worth living. The setting of the topsail was a sign of better days, of favoring winds, of sunshine, warmth, the Happy Latitudes ahead, water to wash with, a landfall, a seaport, fresh food, and an all-night's rest.