CHAPTER XV
IN WHICH TRUMET TALKS OF CAPTAIN NAT
Summer was over, autumn came, passed, and it was winter—John Ellery's first winter in Trumet. Fish weirs were taken up, the bay filled with ice, the packet ceased to run, and the village settled down to hibernate until spring. The stage came through on its regular trips, except when snow or slush rendered the roads impassable, but passengers were very few. Occasionally there were northeast gales, with shrieking winds, driving gusts of sleet and hail and a surf along the ocean side that bellowed and roared and tore the sandy beach into new shapes, washing away shoals and building others, blocking the mouth of the little inlet where the fish boats anchored and opening a new channel a hundred yards farther down. Twice there were wrecks, one of a fishing schooner, the crew of which were fortunate enough to escape by taking to the dories, and another, a British bark, which struck on the farthest bar and was beaten to pieces by the great waves, while the townspeople stood helplessly watching from the shore, for launching a boat in that surf was impossible.
The minister was one of those who watched. News of the disaster had been brought to the village by the lightkeeper's assistant, and Ellery and most of the able-bodied men in town had tramped the three miles to the beach, facing the screaming wind and the cutting blasts of flying sand. As they came over the dunes there were times when they had to dig their heels into the ground and bend forward to stand against the freezing gale. And, as they drew nearer, the thunder of the mighty surf grew ever louder, until they saw the white clouds of spray leap high above the crazily tossing, flapping bunches of beach grass that topped the last knoll.
Three masts and a broken bowsprit sticking slantwise up from a whirl of creamy white, that was all they could see of the bark, at first glance. But occasionally, as the breakers drew back for another cruel blow, they caught glimpses of the tilted deck, smashed bare of houses and rail.
“Those black things on the masts?” asked Ellery, bending to scream the question into the ear of Gaius Winslow, his companion. “Are they—it can't be possible that they're—”
“Yup,” shrieked Gaius in reply, “they're men. Crew lashed in the riggin'. Poor fellers! it'll soon be over for 'em. And they're most likely frozen stiff a'ready and won't sense drownin', that's a comfort.”
“Men!” repeated the minister in horror. “Men! Great God! and are we to stand by here and see them die without lifting a hand? Why, it's barbarous! It's—”
Winslow seized his arm and pointed.
“Look!” he shouted. “Look at them! How much good would our liftin' hands do against them?”
Ellery looked. The undertow, that second, was sucking the beach dry, sucking with such force that gravel and small stones pattered down the slope in showers. And behind it a wave, its ragged top raveled by the wind into white streamers, was piling up, up, up, sheer and green and mighty, curling over now and descending with a hammer blow that shook the land beneath their feet. And back of it reared another, and another, and another, an eighth of a mile of whirling, surging, terrific breakers, with a yelling hurricane whipping them on.
It was soon over, as Gaius had said it would be. A mighty leap of spray, a section of hull broken off and tossed into view for an instant, then two of the masts went down. The other followed almost at once. Then the watchers, most of them, went back to the village, saying little or nothing and dispersing silently to their homes.
During the next fortnight John Ellery conducted six funeral services, brief prayers beside the graves of unknown men from that wreck. The bodies, as they were washed ashore, were put into plain coffins paid for by the board of selectmen, and buried in the corner of the Regular cemetery beside other waifs thrown up by the sea in other years. It was a sad experience for him, but it was an experience and tended to make him forget his own sorrow just a little. Or, if not to forget, at least to think of and sympathize more keenly with the sorrows of others. Somewhere, in England or Ireland or scattered over the wide world, there were women and children waiting for these men, waiting anxiously for news of their safe arrival in port, praying for them. When he mentioned this thought to the townspeople they nodded philosophically and said yes, they “presumed likely.” As Captain Zeb put it, “Most sailors are fools enough to get married, prob'ly this lot wa'n't any exception.” It was no new thought to him or to any other dweller in that region. It was almost a fixed certainty that, if you went to sea long enough, you were bound to be wrecked sometime or other. The chances were that, with ordinary luck and good management, you would escape with your life. Luck, good or bad, was the risk of the trade; good management was expected, as a matter of course.
Mr. Pepper made no more calls at the parsonage, and when the minister met him, at church or elsewhere, seemed anxious to avoid an interview.
“Well, Abishai,” asked Ellery, on one of these occasions, “how are you getting on at home? Has your sister locked you up again?”
“No, sir, she ain't,” replied Kyan. “Laviny, she's sort of diff'rent lately. She ain't nigh so—so down on a feller as she used to be. I can get out once in a while by myself nowadays, when she wants to write a letter or somethin'.”
“Oh, she's writing letters, is she?”
“Um—hm. Writes one about every once in a week. I don't know who they're to, nuther, but I have my suspicions. You see, we've got a cousin out West—out Pennsylvany way—and he ain't very well and has got a turrible lot of money. I'm sort of surmisin' that Laviny's writin' to him. We're about his only relations that's left alive and—and so—”
“I see.” The minister smiled.
“Yup. Laviny's a pretty good navigator, fur's keepin' an eye to wind'ard is concerned. She was awful down on Phineas—that's his name—'cause he married a Philadelphy woman, but he's a widower man now, so I s'pose she feels better toward him. She's talkin' of goin' up to Sandwich pretty soon.”
“She IS? Alone?”
“So she says.”
“To leave you here? Why! well, I'm surprised.”
“Godfreys mighty! so be I. But she says she b'lieves she needs a change and there's church conference up there, you know, and she figgers that she ain't been to conference she don't know when. I s'pose you'll go, won't you, Mr. Ellery?”
“Probably.”
“Um—hm. I kind of wisht I was goin' myself. 'Twill be kind of lonesome round home without her.”
Considering that that variety of lonesomeness had been Abishai's dream of paradise for years, Ellery thought his change of heart a good joke and told Keziah of it when he returned to the parsonage. The housekeeper was greatly surprised.
“Well! well! well!” she exclaimed. “Miracles'll never cease. I don't wonder so much at Laviny wantin' to go to conference, but her darin' to go and leave Kyan at home is past belief. Why, every time she's had a cold her one fear was that she'd die and leave 'Bish behind to be kidnaped by some woman. Kyan himself was sick once, and the story was that his sister set side of the bed night and day and read him over and over again that chapter in the Bible that says there's no marryin' or givin' in marriage in heaven. Dr. Parker told me that he didn't believe 'Bish got ha'f the comfort out of that passage that she did. And now she's goin' to Sandwich and leave him. I can't think it's true.”
But it was true, and Lavinia got herself elected a delegate and went, in company with Captain Elkanah, Mrs. Mayo, and others, to the conference. She was a faithful attendant at the meetings and seemed to be having a very good time. She introduced the minister to one Caleb Pratt, a resident of Sandwich, whom she said she had known ever since she was a girl.
“Mr. Pratt's a cousin to Thankful Payne over to home,” volunteered Lavinia. “You know Thankful, Mr. Ellery.”
Ellery did know Mrs. Payne and said so. Mr. Pratt, who was dressed in a new suit of black which appeared to hurt him, imparted the information that he'd heard tell consider'ble of Mr. Ellery.
“I enjoyed your sermon to-night fust—rate,” he added solemnly. “Fust—rate, sir—yes.”
“Did you, indeed? I'm glad.”
“Yes, sir. You used words in that sermon that I never heard afore in my life. 'Twas grand.”
Lavinia confided to her pastor that Mr. Pratt made the best shoes in Ostable County. He could fit ANY kind of feet, she declared, and the minister ought to try him sometime. She added that he had money in the bank.
The Reverend John rode home in the stage beside Miss Annabel, not from choice, but because the young lady's father insisted upon it. Miss Daniels gushed and enthused as she always did. As they drove by the Corners the minister, who had been replying absently to Annabel's questions, suddenly stopped short in the middle of a sentence. His companion, leaning forward to look out of the window, saw Grace Van Horne entering the store. For an instant Annabel's face wore a very unpleasant expression. Then she smiled and said, in her sweetest manner:
“Why, there's the tavern girl! I haven't seen her for sometime. How old she looks! I suppose her uncle's death has aged her. Well, she'll be married soon, just as soon as Cap'n Nat gets back. They perfectly worship each other, those two. They say she writes him the longest letters. Hannah Poundberry told me. Hannah's a queer creature and common, but devoted to the Hammonds, Mr. Ellery. However, you're not interested in Come-Outers, are you? Ha, ha!”
Ellery made some sort of an answer, but he could not have told what it was. The sight of Grace had brought back all that he was trying so hard to forget. Why couldn't one forget, when it was so painful—and so useless—to remember?
Spring once more; then summer. And now people were again speaking of Captain Nat Hammond. His ship was overdue, long overdue. Even in those days, when there were no cables and the telegraph was still something of a novelty, word of his arrival should have reached Trumet months before this. But it had not come, and did not. Before the summer was over, the wise heads of the retired skippers were shaking dubiously. Something had happened to the Sea Mist, something serious.
As the weeks and months went by without news of the missing vessel, this belief became almost a certainty. At the Come-Outer chapel, where Ezekiel Bassett now presided, prayers were offered for the son of their former leader. These prayers were not as fervent as they might have been, for Grace's nonattendance at meetings was causing much comment and a good deal of resentment. She came occasionally, but not often. “I always said she was stuck-up and thought she was too good for the rest of us,” remarked “Sukey B.” spitefully. “'And, between you and me, pa says he thinks Nat Hammond would be one to uphold her in it. He wa'n't a bit spirituous and never experienced religion. If anything HAS happened to him, it's a punishment sent, that's what pa thinks.”
Those were gloomy days at the parsonage. Keziah said little concerning the topic of which all the village was talking, and John Ellery forebore to mention it. The housekeeper was as faithful as ever in the performance of her household duties, but her smile had gone and she was worn and anxious. The minister longed to express his sympathy, but Keziah had not mentioned Nat's name for months, not since he, Ellery, gave her the message intrusted to him by the captain before sailing. He would have liked to ask about Grace, for he knew Mrs. Coffin visited the Hammond home occasionally, but this, too, he hesitated to do. He heard from others that the girl was bearing the suspense bravely, that she refused to give up hope, and was winning the respect of all the thinking class in Trumet by her courage and patience. Even the most bigoted of the Regulars, Captain Daniels and his daughter excepted of course, had come to speak highly of her. “She's a spunky girl,” declared Captain Zeb, with emphasis. “There's nothing of the milk-sop and cry-baby about her. She's fit to be a sailor's wife, and I only hope Nat's alive to come back and marry her. He was a durn good feller, too—savin' your presence, Mr. Ellery—and if he was forty times a Come-Outer I'd say the same thing. I'm 'fraid he's gone, though, poor chap. As good a seaman as he was would have fetched port afore this if he was atop of water. As for Gracie, she's a brick, and a lady, every inch of her. My old girl went down t'other day to call on her and that's the fust Come-Outer she's been to see sence there was any. Why don't you go see her, too, Mr. Ellery? 'Twould be a welcome change from Zeke Bassett and his tribe. Go ahead! it would be the Almighty's own work and the society'd stand back of you, all them that's wuth considerin', anyhow.”
This was surprising advice from a member of the Regular and was indicative of the changed feeling in the community, but the minister, of course, could not take it. He had plunged headlong into his church work, hoping that it and time would dull the pain of his terrible shock and disappointment. It had been dulled somewhat, but it was still there, and every mention of her name revived it.
One afternoon Keziah came into his study, where he was laboring with his next Sunday sermon, and sat down in the rocking-chair. She had been out and still wore her bonnet and shawl.
“John,” she said, “I ask your pardon for disturbin' you. I know you're busy.”
Ellery laid down his pen. “Never too busy to talk with you, Aunt Keziah,” he observed. “What is it?”
“I wanted to ask if you knew Mrs. Prince was sick?”
“No. Is she? I'm awfully sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No, I guess not. Only she's got a cold and is kind of under the weather. I thought p'r'aps you'd like to run up and see her. She thinks the world and all of you, 'cause you was so good when she was distressed about her son. Poor old thing! she's had a hard time of it.”
“I will go. I ought to go, of course. I'm glad you reminded me of it.”
“Yes. I told her you hadn't meant to neglect her, but you'd been busy fussin' with the fair and the like of that.”
“That was all. I'll go right away. Have you been there to-day?”
“No. I just heard that she was ailin' from Didama Rogers. Didama said she was all but dyin', so I knew she prob'ly had a little cold, or somethin'. If she was really very bad, Di would have had her buried by this time, so's to be sure her news was ahead of anybody else's. I ain't been up there, but I met her t'other mornin'.”
“Didama?”
“No; Mrs. Prince. She'd come down to see Grace.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. The old lady's been awful kind and sympathizin' since—since this new trouble. It reminds her of the loss of her own boy, I presume likely, and so she feels for Grace. John, what do they say around town about—about HIM?”
“Captain Hammond?”
“Yes.”
The minister hesitated. Keziah did not wait for him to answer.
“I see,” she said slowly. “Do they all feel that way?”
“Why, if you mean that they've all given up hope, I should hardly say that. Captain Mayo and Captain Daniels were speaking of it in my hearing the other day and they agreed that there was still a chance.”
“A pretty slim one, though, they cal'lated, didn't they?”
“Well, they were—were doubtful, of course. There was the possibility that he had been wrecked somewhere and hadn't been picked up. They cited several such cases. The South Pacific is full of islands where vessels seldom touch, and he and his crew may be on one of these.”
“Yes. They might, but I'm afraid not. Ah, hum!”
She rose and was turning away. Ellery rose also and laid his hand on her arm.
“Aunt Keziah,” he said, “I'm very sorry. I respected Captain Hammond, in spite of—of—in spite of everything. I've tried to realize that he was not to blame. He was a good man and I haven't forgotten that he saved my life that morning on the flats. And I'm so sorry for YOU.”
She did not look at him.
“John,” she answered, with a sigh, “sometimes I think you'd better get another housekeeper.”
“What? Are you going to leave me? YOU?”
“Oh, 'twouldn't be because I wanted to. But it seems almost as if there was a kind of fate hangin' over me and that,” she smiled faintly, “as if 'twas sort of catchin', as you might say. Everybody I ever cared for has had somethin' happen to 'em. My brother died; my—the man I married went to the dogs; then you and Grace had to be miserable and I had to help make you so; I sent Nat away and he blamed me and—”
“No, no. He didn't blame you. He sent you word that he didn't.”
“Yes, but he did, all the same. He must have. I should if I'd been in his place. And now he's dead, and won't ever understand—on this earth, anyhow. I guess I'd better clear out and leave you afore I spoil your life.”
“Aunt Keziah, you're my anchor to windward, as they say down here. If I lost you, goodness knows where I should drift. Don't you ever talk of leaving me again.”
“Thank you, John. I'm glad you want me to stay. I won't leave yet awhile; never—unless I have to.”
“Why should you ever have to?”
“Well, I don't know. Yes, I do know, too. John, I had another letter t'other day.”
“You did? From—from that man?”
“Yup, from—” For a moment it seemed as if she were about to pronounce her husband's name, something she had never done in his presence; but if she thought of it, she changed her mind.
“From him,” she said. “He wanted money, of course; he always does. But that wa'n't the worst. The letter was from England, and in it he wrote that he was gettin' sick of knockin' around and guessed he'd be for comin' to the States pretty soon and huntin' me up. Said what was the use of havin' an able-bodied wife if she couldn't give her husband a home.”
“The scoundrel!”
“Yes, I know what he is, maybe full as well as you do. That's why I spoke of leavin' you. If that man comes to Trumet, I'll go, sure as death.”
“No, no. Aunt Keziah, you must free yourself from him. No power on earth can compel you to longer support such a—”
“None on earth, no. But it's my punishment and I've got to put up with it. I married him with my eyes wide open, done it to spite the—the other, as much as anything, and I must bear the burden. But I tell you this, John: if he comes here, to this town, where I've been respected and considered a decent woman, if he comes here, I go—somewhere, anywhere that'll be out of the sight of them that know me. And wherever I go he shan't be with me. THAT I won't stand! I'd rather die, and I hope I do. Don't talk to me any more now—don't! I can't stand it.”
She hurried out of the room. Later, as the minister passed through the dining room on his way to the door, she spoke to him again.
“John,” she said, “I didn't say what I meant to when I broke in on you just now. I meant to tell you about Grace. I knew you'd like to know and wouldn't ask. She's bearin' up well, poor girl. She thought the world of Nat, even though she might not have loved him in the way that—”
“What's that? What are you saying, Aunt Keziah?”
“I mean—well, I mean that he'd always been like an own brother to her and she cared a lot for him.”
“But you said she didn't love him.”
“Did I? That was a slip of the tongue, maybe. But she bears it well and I don't think she gives up hope. I try not to, for her sake, and I try not to show her how I feel.”
She sewed vigorously for a few moments. Then she said:
“She's goin' away, Gracie is.”
“Going away?”
“Yup. She's goin' to stay with a relation of the Hammonds over in Connecticut for a spell. I coaxed her into it. Stayin' here at home with all this suspense and with Hannah Poundberry's tongue droppin' lamentations like kernels out of a corn sheller, is enough to kill a healthy batch of kittens with nine lives apiece. She didn't want to go; felt that she must stay here and wait for news; but I told her we'd get news to her as soon as it come, and she's goin'.”
Ellery took his hat from the peg and opened the door. His foot was on the step when Keziah spoke again.
“She—it don't mean nothin', John, except that she ain't so hard-hearted as maybe you might think—she's asked me about you 'most every time I've been there. She told me to take good care of you.”
The door closed. Keziah put down her sewing and listened as the minister's step sounded on the walk. She rose, went to the window and looked after him. She was wondering if she had made a mistake in mentioning Grace's name. She had meant to cheer him with the thought that he was not entirely forgotten, that he was, at least, pitied; but perhaps it would have been better to have remained silent. Her gaze shifted and she looked out over the bay, blue and white in the sun and wind. When she was a girl the sea had been kind to her, it had brought her father home safe, and those homecomings were her pleasantest memories. But she now hated it. It was cruel and cold and wicked. It had taken the man she loved and would have loved till she died, even though he could never have been hers, and she had given him to another; it had taken him, killed him cruelly, perhaps. And now it might be bringing to her the one who was responsible for all her sorrow, the one she could not think of without a shudder. She clung to the window sash and prayed aloud.
“Lord! Lord!” she pleaded, “don't put any more on me now. I couldn't stand it! I couldn't!”
Ellery, too, was thinking deeply as he walked up the main road on his way to Mrs. Prince's. Keziah's words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain. She had asked about him. She had not forgotten him altogether. And what did the housekeeper mean by saying that she had not loved Captain Hammond in the way that—Not that it could make any difference. Nothing could give him back his happiness. But what did it mean?
Mrs. Prince was very glad to see him. He found her in the big armchair with the quilted back and the projecting “wings” at each side of her head. She was wrapped in a “Rising Sun” quilt which was a patchwork glory of red and crimson. A young girl, a neighbor, who was apparently acting in the dual capacity of nurse and housekeeper, admitted him to the old lady's presence.
“Well, well!” she exclaimed delightedly. “Then you ain't forgot me altogether. I'm awful glad to see you. You'll excuse me for not gettin' up; my back's got more pains in it than there is bones, a good sight. Dr. Parker says it's nothin' serious, and all I had to do was set still and take his medicine. I told him that either the aches or the medicine made settin' still serious enough, and when your only amusement is listenin' to Emeline Berry—she's the girl that's takin' care of me—when your only fun is listenin' to Emeline drop your best dishes in the kitchen sink, it's pretty nigh tragic. There! there! don't mind an old woman, Mr. Ellery. Set down and let's talk. It's a comfort to be able to say somethin' besides 'Don't, Emeline!' and 'Be sure you pick up all the pieces!'”
Mrs. Prince's good spirits were of short duration. Her conversation soon shifted to the loss of her son and she wept, using the corner of the quilt to wipe away her tears. “Eddie” had been her idol and, as she said, it was hard to believe what folks kept tellin' her, that it was God's will, and therefore all for the best.
“That's so easy to say,” she sobbed. “Maybe it is best for the Lord, but how about me? I needed him more than they did up there, or I think I did. O Mr. Ellery, I don't mean to be irreverent, but WHY was it all for the best?”
Questions like this are hard to answer. The young minister tried, but the answers were unsatisfactory, even to him.
“And there's Nat Hammond,” continued Mrs. Prince. “A fine man—no better anywhere, even though his father was a Come-Outer—just goin' to be married and all, now they say he's drowned—why? Why was that necessary?”
Ellery could not reply. The old lady did not wait for him to do so. The mention of Captain Nat's name reminded her of other things.
“Poor Gracie!” she said. “It's turrible hard on her. I went down to see her two or three times afore I was took with this backache. She's an awful nice girl. And pretty as a pink, too. Don't you think so? Hey? don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. I've been kind of expectin' she might get up to see me. Hannah Poundberry told the Berrys that she said she was comin'. I don't care about her bein' a Come-Outer. I ain't proud, Mr. Ellery. And there's Come-Outers and COME-Outers. Proud! Lord 'a' mercy! what has an old woman, next door to the poorhouse, got to be proud over? Yes, she told Hannah she was comin', and the Berry folks thought it might be to-day. So I've been watchin' for her. What! you ain't agoin', Mr. Ellery?”
“I think I must, Mrs. Prince.”
“Oh, don't! Do stay a spell longer. Gracie might come and I'd like for you to meet her. She needs sympathy and comfort an awful lot, and there's no tellin', you might convert her to bein' a Reg'lar. Oh, yes, you might. You've got the most persuadin' way, everybody says so. And you don't know her very well, do you? Land sakes alive! talk about angels! I snum if she ain't comin' up the road this blessed minute.”
John Ellery had risen. Now he seized his hat and moved hastily toward the door. Mrs. Prince called to him to remain, but he would not. However, her good-bys delayed him for a minute, and before he reached the yard gate Grace was opening it. They were face to face for the first time since they had parted in the grove, so many months before.
She was thinner and paler, he saw that. And dressed very quietly in black. She looked at him, as he stood before her in the path, and her cheeks flushed and her eyes fell. He stepped aside and raised his hat.
She bowed gravely and murmured a “Good afternoon.” Then she passed on up the path toward the door. He watched her for an instant and then stepped quickly after her. The black gown and the tired look in her eyes touched him to the heart. He could not let her go without a word.
She turned at the sound of his step behind her.
“Er—Miss Van Horne,” he stammered, “I merely wanted to tell you how deeply I—we all feel for you in your trouble. I—I—I am so sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said simply, and after a moment's hesitation.
“I mean it sincerely. I—I did not know Captain Hammond very well, but I respected and liked him the first time we met. I shall hope that—that—it is not so serious as they fear.”
“Thank you,” she said again. “We are all hoping.”
“Yes. I—I—” It was dreadfully hard to get words together. “I have heard so much of the captain from—”
“From Aunt Keziah? Yes, she was Nat's warmest friend.”
“I know. Er—Mrs. Coffin tells me you are going away. I hope you may hear good news and soon. I shall think of you—of him—I want you to understand that I shall.”
The door opened and Emeline Berry appeared on the threshold.
“Come right in, Grace,” she called. “Mrs. Prince wants you to. She's ahollerin' for you to hurry up.”
“Good-by,” said the minister.
“Good-by. Thank you again. It was very kind of you to say this.”
“No, no. I mean it.”
“I know; that was why it was so kind. Good-by.”
She held out her hand and he took it. He knew that his was trembling, but so, too, was hers. The hands fell apart. Grace entered the house and John Ellery went out at the gate.
That night Keziah, in the sitting room, trying to read, but finding it hard to keep her mind on the book, heard her parson pacing back and forth over the straw-matted floor of his chamber. She looked at the clock; it was nearly twelve. She shut the book and sighed. Her well-meant words of consolation had been a mistake, after all. She should not have spoken Grace Van Horne's name.
CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH THE MINISTER BOARDS THE SAN JOSE
“Hey, Mr. Ellery!”
It was Captain Zeb Mayo who was calling. The captain sat in his antique chaise, drawn by the antique white horse, and was hailing the parsonage through a speaking trumpet formed by holding both his big hands before his mouth. The reins he had tucked between the edge of the dashboard and the whip socket. If he had thrown them on the ground he would still have been perfectly safe, with that horse.
“Mr. Ellery, ahoy!” roared Captain Zeb through his hands.
The window of Zoeth Peters's house, next door to the Regular church, was thrown up and Mrs. Peters's head, bound with a blue-and-white handkerchief in lieu of a sweeping cap, was thrust forth into the crisp March air.
“What is it, Cap'n Mayo?” screamed Mrs. Peters. “Hey?”
“Hey?” repeated Captain Zeb, peering round the chaise curtain. “Who's that?”
“It's me. Is somebody dead?”
“Who's me? Oh! No, Hettie, nobody's dead, though I'm likely to bust a blood vessel if I keep on yellin' much longer. Is the parson to home?”
“Hey?”
“Oh, heavens alive! I say is—Ha, there you be, Mr. Ellery. Mornin', Keziah.”
The minister and Mrs. Coffin, the former with a napkin in his hand, had emerged from the side door of the parsonage and now came hurrying down to the gate.
“Land of Goshen!” exclaimed the captain, “you don't mean to tell me you ain't done breakfast yet, and it after seven o'clock. Why, we're thinkin' about dinner up to our house.”
Keziah answered. “Yes,” she said, “I shouldn't wonder. Your wife tells me, Zeb, that the only time you ain't thinkin' about dinner is when you think of breakfast or supper. We ain't so hungry here that we get up to eat in the middle of the night. What's the matter? Hettie Peters is hollerin' at you; did you know it?”
“Did I know it? Tut! tut! tut! I'd known it if I was a mile away, 'less I was paralyzed in my ears. Let her holler; 'twill do her good and keep her in practice for Come-Outer meetin'. Why, Mr. Ellery, I tell you: Em'lous Sparrow, the fish peddler, stepped up to our house a few minutes ago. He's just come down from the shanties over on the shore by the light—where the wreck was, you know—and he says there's a 'morphrodite brig anchored three or four mile off and she's flyin' colors ha'f mast and union down. They're gettin' a boat's crew together to go off to her and see what's the row. I'm goin' to drive over and I thought maybe you'd like to go along. I told the old lady—my wife, I mean—that I thought of pickin' you up and she said 'twas a good idee. Said my likin' to cruise with a parson in my old age was either a sign that I was hopeful or fearful, she didn't know which; and either way it ought to be encouraged. He, he, he! What do you say, Mr. Ellery? Want to go?”
The minister hesitated. “I'd like to,” he said. “I'd like to very much. But I ought to work on my sermon this morning.”
Keziah cut in here. “Cat's foot!” she sniffed. “Let your sermon go for this once, do. If it ain't long enough as it is, you can begin again when you've got to the end and preach it over again. Didama Rogers said, last circle day, that she could set still and hear you preach right over n' over. I'd give her a chance, 'specially if it did keep her still. Keepin' Didama still is good Christian work, ain't it, Zeb?”
Captain Mayo slapped his knee. “He, he, he!” he chuckled. “Cal'late you're right, Keziah.”
“Indeed, I am. I believe it would be Christianity and I KNOW 'twould be work. There! there! run in and get your coat and hat, Mr. Ellery. I'll step across and ease Hettie's mind and—and lungs.”
She went across the road to impart the news of the vessel in distress to the curious Mrs. Peters. A moment later the minister, having donned his hat and coat, ran down the walk and climbed into the chaise beside Captain Zeb. The white horse, stimulated into a creaky jog trot by repeated slappings of the reins and roars to “Get under way!” and “Cast off!” moved along the sandy lane.
During the drive the captain and his passenger discussed various topics of local interest, among them Captain Nat Hammond and the manner in which he might have lost his ship and his life. It was now taken for granted, in Trumet and elsewhere, that Nat was dead and would never be heard from again. The owners had given up, so Captain Zeb said, and went on to enumerate the various accidents which might have happened—typhoons, waterspouts, fires, and even attacks by Malay pirates—though, added the captain, “Gen'rally speakin', I'd ruther not bet on any pirate gettin' away with Nat Hammond's ship, if the skipper was alive and healthy. Then there's mutiny and fevers and collisions, and land knows what all. And, speakin' of trouble, what do you cal'late ails that craft we're goin' to look at now?”
They found a group on the beach discussing that very question. A few fishermen, one or two lobstermen and wreckers, and the lightkeeper were gathered on the knoll by the lighthouse. They had a spyglass, and a good-sized dory was ready for launching.
“Where is she, Noah?” asked Captain Zeb of the lightkeeper. “That her off back of the spar buoy? Let me have a squint through that glass; my eyes ain't what they used to be, when I could see a whale spout two miles t'other side of the sky line and tell how many barrels of ile he'd try out, fust look. Takes practice to keep your eyesight so's you can see round a curve like that,” he added, winking at Ellery.
“She's a brigantine, Zeb,” observed the keeper, handing up the spyglass. “And flyin' the British colors. Look's if she might be one of them salt boats from Turk's Islands. But what she's doin' out there, anchored, with canvas lowered and showin' distress signals in fair weather like this, is more'n any of us can make out. She wa'n't there last evenin', though, and she is there now.”
“She ain't the only funny thing along shore this mornin', nuther,” announced Theophilus Black, one of the fishermen. “Charlie Burgess just come down along and he says there's a ship's longboat hauled up on the beach, 'bout a mile 'n a half t'other side the mouth of the herrin' crick yonder. Oars in her and all. And she ain't no boat that b'longs round here, is she, Charlie?”
“No, Thoph, she ain't,” was the reply. “Make anything out of her, cap'n?”
Captain Zeb, who had been inspecting the anchored vessel through the spyglass, lowered the latter and seemed puzzled. “Not much,” he answered. “Blessed if she don't look abandoned to me. Can't see a sign of life aboard her.”
“We couldn't neither,” said Thoph. “We was just cal'latin' to go off to her when Charlie come and told us about the longboat. I guess likely we can go now; it's pretty nigh smooth as a pond. You'll take an oar, won't you, Noah?”
“I can't leave the light very well. My wife went over to the village last night. You and Charlie and Bill go. Want to go, too, Zeb?”
“No, I'll stay here, I guess. The old lady made me promise to keep my feet dry afore I left the house.”
“You want to go, Mr. Ellery? Lots of room.”
The minister was tempted. The sea always had a fascination for him and the mystery of the strange ship was appealing.
“Sure I won't be in the way?”
“No, no! 'course you won't,” said Burgess. “Come right along. You set in the bow, if you don't mind gettin' sprinkled once in a while. I'll steer and Thoph and Bill'll row. That'll be enough for one dory. If we need more, we'll signal. Heave ahead.”
The surf, though low for that season of the year, looked dangerous to Ellery, but his companions launched the dory with the ease which comes of experience. Burgess took the steering oar and Thoph and “Bill,” the latter a lobsterman from Wellmouth Neck, bent their broad backs for the long pull. The statement concerning the pondlike smoothness of the sea was something of an exaggeration. The dory climbed wave after wave, long and green and oily, at the top of each she poised, tipped and slid down the slope. The minister, curled up in the bow on a rather uncomfortable cushion of anchor and roding, caught glimpses of the receding shore over the crests behind. One minute he looked down into the face of Burgess, holding the steering oar in place, the next the stern was high above him and he felt that he was reclining on the back of his neck. But always the shoulders of the rowers moved steadily in the short, deep strokes of the rough water oarsman, and the beach, with the white light and red-roofed house of the keeper, the group beside it, and Captain Zeb's horse and chaise, grew smaller and less distinct.
“Humph!” grunted Charlie.
“What's the matter?” asked Thoph.
The steersman, who was staring hard in the direction they were going, scowled.
“Humph!” he grunted again. “I swan to man, fellers, I believe she IS abandoned!”
“Rubbish!” panted Bill, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder. “'Course she ain't! Who'd abandon a craft such weather's this, and Province-town harbor only three hours' run or so?”
“When it comes to that,” commented Burgess, “why should they anchor off here, 'stead of takin' her in by the inlet? If there's anybody aboard they ain't showed themselves yet. She might have been leakin', but she don't look it. Sets up out of water pretty well. Well, we'll know in a few minutes. Hit her up, boys!”
The rowers “hit her up” and the dory moved faster. Then Burgess, putting his hand to his mouth, hailed.
“Ship ahoy!” he roared. “Ahoy!”
No reply.
“Ahoy the brig!” bellowed Burgess. “What's the matter aboard there? All hands asleep?”
Still no answer. Thoph and Bill pulled more slowly now. Burgess nodded to them.
“Stand by!” he ordered. “Easy! Way enough! Let her run.”
The dory slackened speed, turned in obedience to the steering oar, and slid under the forequarter of the anchored vessel. Ellery, looking up, saw her name in battered gilt letters above his head—the San Jose.
“Stand by, Thoph!” shouted Charlie. “S'pose you can jump and grab her forechains? Hold her steady, Bill. Now, Thoph! That's the time!”
Thoph had jumped, seized the chains, and was scrambling aboard. A moment later he appeared at the rail amidships, a rope in his hand. The dory was brought alongside and made fast; then one after the other the men in the boat climbed to the brig's deck.
“Ahoy!” yelled Burgess. “All hands on deck! tumble up, you lubbers! Humph! She is abandoned, sure and sartin.”
“Yup,” assented Bill. “Her boats are gone. See? Guess that explains the longboat on the beach, Charlie.”
“Cal'late it does; but it don't explain why they left her. She ain't leakin' none to speak of, that's sure. Rides's light's a feather. Christmas! look at them decks; dirty hogs, whoever they was.”
The decks were dirty, and the sails, sloppily furled, were dirty likewise. The brig, as she rolled and jerked at her anchor rope, was dirty—and unkempt from stem to stern. To Ellery's mind she made a lonesome picture, even under the clear, winter sky and bright sunshine.
Thoph led the way aft. The cabin companion door was open and they peered down.
“Phew!” sniffed Burgess. “She ain't no cologne bottle, is she? Well, come on below and let's see what'll we see.”
The cabin was a “mess,” as Bill expressed it. The floor was covered with scattered heaps of riff-raff, oilskins, coats, empty bottles, and papers. On the table a box stood, its hinged lid thrown back.
“Medicine chest,” said Burgess, examining it. “And rum bottles aplenty. Somebody's been sick, I shouldn't wonder.”
The minister opened the door of one of the little staterooms. The light which shone through the dirty and tightly closed “bull's-eye” window showed a tumbled bunk, the blankets soiled and streaked. The smell was stifling.
“Say, fellers,” whispered Thoph, “I don't like this much myself. I'm for gettin' on deck where the air's better. Somethin's happened aboard this craft, somethin' serious.”
Charlie and Bill nodded an emphatic affirmative.
“Hadn't we better look about a little more?” asked Ellery. “There's another stateroom there.”
He opened the door of it as he spoke. It was, if possible, in a worse condition than the first. And the odor was even more overpowering.
“Skipper's room,” observed Burgess, peeping in. “And that bunk ain't been slept in for weeks. See the mildew on them clothes. Phew! I'm fair sick to my stomach. Come out of this.”
On deck, in the sunlight, they held another consultation.
“Queerest business ever I see,” observed Charlie. “I never—”
“I see somethin' like it once,” interrupted Bill. “Down in the Gulf 'twas. I was on the old Fishhawk. Eben Salters's dad from over to Bayport skippered her. We picked up a West Injy schooner, derelict, abandoned same as this one, but not anchored, of course. Yeller jack was the trouble aboard her and—Where you bound, Thoph?”
“Goin' to take a squint at the fo'castle,” replied Theophilus, moving forward. The minister followed him.
The fo'castle hatchway was black and grim. Ellery knelt and peered down. Here there was practically no light at all and the air was fouler than that in the cabin.
“See anything, Mr. Ellery?” asked Thoph, looking over his shoulder.
“No, I don't see anything. But I thought—”
He seemed to be listening.
“What did you think?”
“Nothing. I—”
“Hold on! you ain't goin' down there, be you? I wouldn't. No tellin' what you might find. Well, all right. I ain't curious. I'll stay up here and you can report.”
He stepped over and leaned against the rail. Bill came across the deck and joined him.
“Where's Charlie?” asked Thoph.
“Gone back to the cabin,” was the answer. “Thought likely he might find some of her papers or somethin' to put us on the track. I told him to heave ahead; I didn't want no part of it. Too much like that yeller-jack schooner to suit me. What's become of the parson?”
Thoph pointed to the open hatch.
“Down yonder, explorin' the fo'castle,” he replied. “He can have the job, for all me. Phew! Say, Bill, what IS this we've struck, anyhow?”
Ellery descended the almost perpendicular ladder gingerly, holding on with both hands. At its foot he stopped and tried to accustom his eyes to the darkness.
A room perhaps ten feet long, so much he could make out. The floor strewn, like that of the cabin, with heaps of clothing and odds and ends. More shapes of clothes hanging up and swaying with the roll of the brig. A little window high up at the end, black with dirt. And cavities, bunks in rows, along the walls. A horrible hole.
He took a step toward the center of the room, bending his head to avoid hitting the fo'castle lantern. Then in one of the bunks something stirred, something alive. He started violently, controlled himself with an effort, and stumbled toward the sound.
“What is it?” he whispered. “Who is it? Is anyone there?”
A groan answered him. Then a voice, weak and quavering, said:
“Gimme a drink! Gimme a drink! Can't none of you God-forsaken devils give me a drink?”
He stooped over the bunk. A man was lying in it, crumpled into a dreadful heap. He stooped lower, looked, and saw the man's face.
There was a shout from the deck, or, rather, a yell. Then more yells and the sound of running feet.
“Mr. Ellery!” screamed Burgess, at the hatchway. “Mr. Ellery, for the Almighty's sake, come up here! Come out of that this minute. Quick!”
The minister knew what was coming, was sure of it as he stepped to the foot of the ladder, had known it the instant he saw that face.
“Mr. Ellery!” shrieked Burgess. “Mr. Ellery, are you there?”
“Yes, I'm here,” answered the minister, slowly. He was fighting with all his might to keep his nerves under control. His impulse was to leap up those steps, rush across that deck, spring into the dory and row, anywhere to get away from the horror of that forecastle.
“Come up!” called Burgess. “Hurry! It's the smallpox! The darned hooker's rotten with it. For God sakes, come quick!”
He ran to the rail, yelling order to Bill and Thoph, who were frantically busy with the dory. Ellery began to climb the ladder. His head emerged into the clean, sweet air blowing across the deck. He drew a breath to the very bottom of his lungs.
Then from behind and below him came the voice again.
“Gimme a drink!” it wailed. “Gimme a drink of water. Ain't one of you cussed swabs got decency enough to fetch me a drink? I'm dyin' for a drink, I tell you. I'm dyin'!”
The minister stood still, his feet on the ladder. The three men by the rail were working like mad, their faces livid under the sunburn and their hands trembling. They pushed each other about and swore. They were not cowards, either. Ellery knew them well enough to know that. Burgess had, that very winter, pulled a skiff through broken ice in the face of a wicked no'theaster to rescue an old neighbor whose dory had been capsized in the bay while he was hauling lobster pots. But now Burgess was as scared as the rest.
Thoph and Bill sprang over the rail into the boat. Burgess turned and beckoned to Ellery.
“Come on!” he called. “What are you waitin' for?”
The minister remained where he was.
“Are you sure—” he faltered.
“Sure! Blast it all! I found the log. It ain't been kept for a fortni't, but there's enough. It's smallpox, I tell you. Two men died of it three weeks ago. The skipper died right afterwards. The mate—No wonder them that was left run away as soon as they sighted land. Come on! Do you want to die, too?”
From the poison pit at the foot of the ladder the man in the bunk called once more.
“Water!” he screeched. “Water! Are you goin' to leave me, you d—n cowards?”
“For Heaven sakes!” cried Burgess, clutching the rail, “what's that?”
Ellery answered him. “It's one of them,” he said, and his voice sounded odd in his own ears. “It's one of the crew.”
“One of the—Down THERE? Has he—”
“Yes, he has.”
“Help! help!” screamed the voice shrilly. “Are you goin' to leave me to die all alone? He-elp!”
The minister turned. “Hush!” he called, in answer to the voice, “hush! I'll bring you water in a minute. Burgess,” he added, “you and the rest go ashore. I shall stay.”
“You'll stay? You'll STAY? With THAT? You're crazy as a loon. Don't be a fool, man! Come on! We'll send the doctor and somebody else—some one that's had it, maybe, or ain't afraid. I am and I'm goin'. Don't be a fool.”
Thoph, from the dory, shouted to know what was the matter. Ellery climbed the ladder to the deck and walked over to the rail. As he approached, Burgess fell back a few feet.
“Thoph,” said the minister, addressing the pair in the dory, “there is a sick man down in the forecastle. He has been alone there for hours, I suppose, certainly since his shipmates ran away. If he is left longer without help, he will surely die. Some one must stay with him. You and the rest row ashore and get the doctor and whoever else you can. I'll stay here till they come.”
Thoph and his companions set up a storm of protest. It was foolish, it was crazy, the man would die anyhow, and so on. They begged the minister to come with them. But he was firm.
“Don't stop to argue,” he urged. “Hurry and get the doctor.”
“Come on, Charlie,” ordered Bill. “No use talkin' to him, he's set. Come on! I won't stay alongside this craft another minute for nobody. If you be comin', come.”
Burgess, still protesting, clambered over the rail. The dory swung clear of the brig. The rowers settled themselves for the stroke.
“Better change your mind, Mr. Ellery,” pleaded Charlie. “I hate to leave you this way. It seems mean, but I'm a married man with children, like the rest of us here, and I can't take no risks. Better come, too. No? Well, we'll send help quick as the Lord'll let us. By the Almighty!” he added, in a sudden burst, “you've got more spunk than I have—yes, or anybody I ever come across. I'll say that for you, if you are a parson. Give way, fellers.”
The oars dipped, bent, and the dory moved off. The sound of the creaking thole pins shot a chill through Ellery's veins. His knees shook, and involuntarily a cry for them to come back rose to his lips. But he choked it down and waved his hand in farewell. Then, not trusting himself to look longer at the receding boat, he turned on his heel and walked toward the forecastle.
The water butts stood amidships, not far from the open door of the galley. Entering the latter he found an empty saucepan. This he filled from the cask, and then, with it in his hand, turned toward the black hatchway. Here was the greatest test of his courage. To descend that ladder, approach that bunk, and touch the terrible creature in it, these were the tasks he had set himself to do, but could he?
Vaccination in those days was by no means the universal custom that it now is. And smallpox, even now, is a disease the name of which strikes panic to a community. The minister had been vaccinated when he was a child, but that was—so it seemed to him—a very long time ago. And that forecastle was so saturated with the plague that to enter it meant almost certain infection. He had stayed aboard the brig because the pitiful call for help had made leaving a cowardly impossibility. Now, face to face, and in cold blood, with the alternative, it seemed neither so cowardly or impossible. The man would die anyhow, so Thoph had said; was there any good reason why he should risk dying, too, and dying in that way?
He thought of a great many things and of many people as he stood by the hatchway, waiting; among others, he thought of his housekeeper, Keziah Coffin. And, somehow, the thought of her, of her pluck, and her self-sacrifice, were the very inspirations he needed. “It's the duty that's been laid on me,” Keziah had said, “and it's a hard one, but I don't run away from it.” He began to descend the ladder.
The sick man was raving in delirium when he reached him, but the sound of the water lapping the sides of the saucepan brought him to himself. He seized Ellery by the arm and drank and drank. When at last he desisted, the pan was half empty.
The minister laid him gently back in the bunk and stepped to the foot of the ladder for breath. This made him think of the necessity for air in the place and he remembered the little window. It was tightly closed and rusted fast. He went up to the deck, found a marlin spike, and, returning, broke the glass. A sharp, cold draught swept through the forecastle, stirring the garments hanging on the nails.
An hour later, two dories bumped against the side of the San Jose. Men, talking in low tones, climbed over the rail. Burgess was one of them; ashamed of his panic, he had returned to assist the others in bringing the brigantine into a safer anchorage by the inlet.
Dr. Parker, very grave but businesslike, reached the deck among the first.
“Mr. Ellery,” he shouted, “where are you?”
The minister's head and shoulders appeared at the forecastle companion. “Here I am, doctor,” he said. “Will you come down?”
The doctor made no answer in words, but he hurried briskly across the deck. One man, Ebenezer Capen, an old fisherman and ex-whaler from East Trumet, started to follow him, but he was the only one. The others waited, with scared faces, by the rail.
“Get her under way and inshore as soon as you can,” ordered Dr. Parker. “Ebenezer, you can help. If I need you below, I'll call.”
The minister backed down the ladder and the doctor followed him. Parker bent over the bunk for a few moments in silence.
“He's pretty bad,” he muttered. “Mighty little chance. Heavens, what a den! Who broke that window?”
“I did,” replied Ellery. “The air down here was dreadful.”
The doctor nodded approvingly. “I guess so,” he said. “It's bad enough now. We've got to get this poor fellow out of here as soon as we can or he'll die before to-morrow. Mr. Ellery,” he added sharply, “what made you do this? Don't you realize the risk you've run?”
“Some one had to do it. You are running the same risk.”
“Not just the same, and, besides, it's my business. Why didn't you let some one else, some one we could spare—Humph! Confound it, man! didn't you know any better? Weren't you afraid?”
His tone rasped Ellery's shaken nerves.
“Of course I was,” he snapped irritably. “I'm not an idiot.”
“Humph! Well, all right; I beg your pardon. But you oughtn't to have done it. Now you'll have to be quarantined. And who in thunder I can get to stay with me in this case is more than I know. Just say smallpox to this town and it goes to pieces like a smashed egg. Old Eb Capen will help, for he's had it, but it needs more than one.”
“Where are you going to take—him?” pointing to the moaning occupant of the bunk.
“To one of the empty fish shanties on the beach. There are beds there, such as they are, and the place is secluded. We can burn it down when the fuss is over.”
“Then why can't I stay? I shall have to be quarantined, I know that. Let me be the other nurse. Why should anyone else run the risk? I HAVE run it. I'll stay.”
Dr. Parker looked at him. “Well!” he exclaimed. “Well! I must say, young man, that you've got—Humph! All right, Mr. Ellery; I'm much obliged.”