Just at dusk that evening, the men at Fourth Cliff Station (a few miles to the south) had sighted a large brig close-hauled and struggling northward under storm sails.  The blinding storm had apparently prevented those on board from seeing how perilously near they were to land, but they soon after discovered their danger, for more sail was clapped on the vessel—much more than she could safely carry—and she tore through the water at a great rate, in a desperate endeavor to drive past the outlying rocks and shoals off Scituate and Cohasset.  The attempt might have succeeded had it not been for the fearful leeway the craft was making, but it seemed as though every cable’s length she advanced brought her perceptibly nearer to the beach.

But the station crew redoubled their vigilance.  They well knew the brig could not tack in that furious gale, and there was not room to wear, without taking ground;—

The signal!

A patrolman on the northern beat had suddenly ignited his Coston light—the red emblem which both tells the watchful keeper that a wreck has been sighted, and assures the crew of the unfortunate vessel that succor is at hand.

The surfmen and patrolmen passed the signal along the beats and hurried to the station, each to perform his allotted part in the work of rescue.  The keeper burned a rocket to inform the Fourth Cliff crew.  It was answered almost simultaneously by a distant patrolman with his handlight, and by a white rocket sent up from Fourth Cliff; the crew and apparatus from that point would soon be hurrying to the scene of the wreck.

In the station all was excitement and action, but there was no confusion.  Within a few moments of the time the wreck had been sighted, the keeper issued the first order: “Open boat-room doors—man the beach-cart!”

Bad news travels swiftly, and a rapidly increasing knot of men, boys, and even a few women was already assembled, many of whom offered assistance, while one or two did not hesitate to give advice.  The keeper directed them to procure dry wood from the station and start a bonfire, which they did with alacrity, the flames soon crackling merrily.

The operation had to be repeated, and a second shot was fired as quickly as the apparatus could be made ready.  This was a complete failure, for it did not go over the brig at all.  The third attempt promised to be crowned with success, for the line not only fell upon the vessel, but came within reach of the beleagured crew—a fact that was soon made apparent by a decided pull upon it.  It was the first evidence of life upon the wreck, and sent a thrill through the breasts of the rescuers.

At this juncture the Fourth Cliff crew arrived, having toiled for two hours through snow-drifts, and over loose stones, with their heavy apparatus.  It had been found impossible to obtain horses in the neighborhood without great delay, and the men were thus compelled to set out without them.  The major part of the work of rescue was already done, allowing the half-frozen crew time to warm themselves at the fire, where they held themselves in readiness to render instant service.

The signal from the brig having been given, Captain Litchfield commanded: “Man weather whip—haul ashore!”  The men hauled in the whip with a will, while the villagers, eager to get a glimpse of the approaching buoy and its human freight, crowded about until the keeper was compelled to order them back.

The next man landed proved to be the mate—a small, wiry fellow, who bore his sufferings well.  He thanked the keeper and surfman who helped him out of the buoy and stamped upon the wet sand as though enjoying the sensation of having something firm beneath his feet.  His hands were stiff from clinging to the rigging, and were almost useless from the action of the bitter wind and freezing water.  But he picked up fast, and after borrowing a dry suit of clothes and an overcoat, insisted on returning to the beach.

Both men had on life-preservers, which gave them a slight chance for their lives.  The chance was indeed a frail one, but it was all there was left—the poor fellows might possibly be thrown upon the beach before life was extinct.

Both station crews and dozens of volunteers were marshalled into line and stationed along the edge of the surf, ready to grasp the bodies should they come within reach.  Wreckage was coming ashore rapidly; and alive or dead, the keeper felt certain that the brig’s captain and his companion would soon appear in the breakers.

The other body was discovered by the Fourth Cliff keeper, a considerable distance down the beach to the right of the station.  It, too, was floating near shore.  Six men ranged themselves along a rope, the keeper being at the outer end with a grappling hook, Thus they waded into the surf and endeavored to catch the body.  Four successive times were those furthest out carried off their feet and thrown down in the water before their object was accomplished, and the body drawn out of the breakers.  Like that of the captain, it was seemingly lifeless.

Next morning the sky was clear, the snow had ceased, the wind shifted into the north-west, and it was stinging cold.  The sea had been busy with its work of destruction during the hours of darkness, and the staunch brig of yesterday was strewn piece-meal along the beach.  Stout oak beams and iron girders were splintered, twisted, or rent asunder, while the thick coat of ice with which they were covered, caused them to assume strangely fantastic shapes.  The two masts had come ashore; mattresses, provisions of all sorts, boxes, rigging, the cabin floor, and countless casks of molasses, lay scattered upon the beach for leagues in both directions.

People all over the country read in the papers that morning of wrecks by the dozen; of deaths innumerable from freezing, drowning, and exposure; of terrible hardships endured for many hours by unfortunates whom human aid was powerless to save; and they said, “What an awful night it was!”  Then they turned to their usual occupations, and the subject was forgotten.  How should those who spent the night in a warm bed, far from the sound of the waves, have any real conception of the fearful struggles with death represented by those inanimate lines?

But as I said, Cap’n Pratt took a drop too much now and then; mostly after dinner, for he kept pretty straight until the sun was taken.  I’m no teetotlar myself, though I was green enough to sign the pledge before I’d got to what they call “the age of reason.”  Still, it goes against my idees for a skipper to drink much when on duty, and if Pratt hadn’t owned his schooner, I reckon he’d lost his berth long before I knew him.  After working out his sights he used to take a drink by way of celebration in case the day’s run had been good, and if we’d made a poor record he just took something to drown his sorrows—and sometimes it needed a deal of liquor to drown ’em.

The three fellows in my watch looked exactly alike—I never could tell one negro from another—so I called ’em Sunday, Monday and Tuesday.  I forgot what Pratt named his.

Once he said to me: “Mr. Hunt, I would give any reasonable amount to be as slender as you are.”

“We thin chaps certainly have the advantage in the tropics, Mr. Warriner; and ever since I was seventeen, and had the yellow fever at Rio, there ain’t been any more meat on me than there is on a starved horse,” I answered.

“Lobscouse!  Captain Pratt, I will thank you not to mention that abominable mixture in my presence.  It passes my comprehension how you can eat such stuff.  Neither do I like this flippant reference to so august a day as Thanksgiving.

“But a plum-pudding will be excellent—that is, if you think that darkey won’t ruin it in the making.  I have a splendid recipe in my trunk, and although some of the necessary ingredients are probably lacking, it will be possible to produce a very fair pudding.”

“Let’s have it,” said I.  “Anything for a change is my sentiments.”

“Darkeys usually have quite a knack for cooking, and I suppose if the recipe is placed before Cornwallis he will do the subject justice.  I will get it at once.”

Pratt went below, and soon after, Warriner and me went forward with the directions for the pudding.  He told the cook what was wanted and then read off the recipe, so as to be sure and have no mistake.  Never did I hear of such a lot of truck being put together, and I don’t believe the cook did either, for his eyes got bigger and bigger as Warriner read the list of what he called “ingredients.”  My! that pudding took some of everything.  There was raisins, currants, brown sugar, beef-suet, flour, bread-crumbs, citron, candied lemon-peel, eggs, nutmeg and salt!  “Boil seven hours in a buttered mould.  A sprig of holly should be stuck in the center.  Pour brandy around the pudding when ready to serve, and set it on fire.”  Holy Moses!  Then there was a sauce with brandy and other things in it.

The cook sat down on a bench and looked at Warriner.

“How should the poor things lay, shut up in a small coop?  But as for the brandy, I will furnish that, and also some nice layer raisins.  Currants, lemon-peel and citron we must do without, but ten eggs are a necessity, and the other things you have.”

“We has jes’ got ’leben eggs, an’ ef yo’ takes ten from ’leben, dar ain’t but bery few lef’.  Where we gwine to get moah?”

“I neither know nor care,—we shall reach Vera Cruz sometime I devoutly hope,—but ten eggs go into this pudding.  The question is, can you make it?”

“Can I make it?” repeated the cook, as if someone had asked him whether he could breathe.  “Waal, sah, dere ain’t no dish knowed to man or debil dat dis chile can’t make, Mistah Warmer.  Must I bile de sass seben hour too?”

“Me read?  Well, I hope not, boss.  I’s got all my receipts in my head.  None o’ yo’ new-fangled notions fur dis niggah.”

I had to laugh, poor Warriner looked so disgusted.  He just all gave up for a minute and thought the pudding was done for.  Then he stamped his foot and said:

“I am not to be thwarted by trifles, and will weigh out everything myself.  Then you can mix the articles together.”

Warriner fetched the raisins and brandy—if he’d been smart he wouldn’t have brought the brandy till the last minute—and between ’em they managed to mix up all the truck and get it in the mould.  It was about the middle of the afternoon when they got it on to boil.

“Heavens and earth!  What are those things for?” cried Warriner.

“Dem is fedders, sah.  You tole me dat holly was to be stuck up in de middle, but dat bush ain’t to be foun’ in dese pahts.  I done de best I could, Mass’.”

“Was ever such a thing heard of!  And are those feathers from the chicken we have just eaten?”

“Laws, no.  I done kotched de rooster—Golly! how dat ole bird did squawk—and I yanked de fedders out ob his tail.  Dere dey is, a wavin’ like a flag.”

The whole thing blazed right up to the skylight, and scared all hands nearly to death!  You could have knocked me over with a fish-hook, and that darky rolled up the whites of his eyes and acted as if he was praying.  Warriner’s face turned all colors, and Pratt was scared and mad both.  He jerked the cloth and everything off the table, took off his coat and threw it on the blaze.  Then he stamped on it.

None of us spoke a word for a minute; we were clean on our beam ends.  Then Pratt looked at the passenger and roared out: “Well, sir, you’ve raised h— with your pudding, I must say!  Like to have burned us all up into the bargain.  That’s what comes of setting brandy on fire.  I thought when you spoke of it, it was the d—dest nonsense to burn up a lot of good liquor that might better be drunk.”

Warriner had found his voice by this time.

The old boy was on his mettle, and Pratt saw it.

“No offense meant, Mr. Warriner, but I insist that your having that brandy set on fire was a rash proceeding.”

“Brandy!  That was not brandy.  Do you suppose I never saw a plum-pudding before?  If that had been the brandy I gave that imp of Satan” (pointing to the cook) “it would never have blazed up like that.  And what foul odor did we smell when he poured the stuff around the pudding?  What odor do we smell now?  Kerosene, or I’m no judge.”

“Kerosene!” echoed the Cap’n.

I began to think the passenger knew what he was talking about.  All of us smelled oil, and we cast our eyes on Cornwallis.  He looked as innocent as a lamb.

“Gents, dat ain’t possible,” said he, his black face shining like polished ebony.

“Curious,” he muttered, “there is no odor of oil or brandy either.”

Then the old chap tasted it.

“This is extraordinary!  There’s nothing to this sauce—it has no body.  There is positively not a drop of brandy in it; nor of kerosene, for that matter.”

“Dat am bery strange, Mass’ Warmer.  De brandy must ’a’ done ’vaporated.”

“Evaporated down your throat, you black villain!  Captain Pratt, I consider this a flagrant outrage.  I furnished a quantity of good brandy for this pudding, not a drop of which has been used.  What has become of it?”

“Dat Monday or some ob de han’s might ’a’ stole it when I wahn’t lookin’,” suggested the cook.

Prince, the bo’s’un, was standing outside near the door, and had evidently heard part of the confab.  He now called out:

“Come in, Prince,” answered Pratt.  “If you can get any truth out of Cornwallis you’re smarter than I think you are.”

The cook looked indignant—not so much at being called a liar as having the bo’s’un admitted,—for he and Prince were not on good terms, and he considered the bo’s’un’s interference a piece of pure impudence.

Prince entered, cap in hand.  I’m tolerable tall myself, but he was a good four inches above me, and a right good looking darkey into the bargain.  He walked right up to the cook.

“Walrus Jones, you stole dat gemmen’s brandy.  You lies ef you says you didn’t.”

Cornwallis looked at his accuser defiantly.

“You awoids de subjek’.  Dat am a shuah sign ob guilt.”

“Lemme tell yo’ somfin’, yo’ onery niggah!  I doan’ sociate wid sech trash as yo’ be, what can’t tell who his own fadder and mudder was.  I come from a hono’ble fam’ly what was tole ob in hist’ry.  Ef yo’ keeps on probokin’ me to wraf I’ll put pizen in yo’ wittals, dat’s what I’ll do, an yo’ now has fair wahnin’!”

Prince showed signs of wrath himself at this speech, but Pratt interfered before he could answer.

“No more talk about poisoning people, Cornwallis.  Answer me this: Where did that brandy go to?”

“Ef it didn’t go in dat sass an’ aroun’ dat puddin’, Cap’n, den I ’lows some ob de crew done stole it.  Dem critters ain’t to be trusted, no how.  Cockroaches is bery bad in dat galley, too, an’ dey likes sech drinks, I hearn tell.  Whose to know if dey wahn’t at de bottle?”

“So I did, Cap’n.  Ef dat ain’t de truf an’ nothin’ but de truf, I hopes de good Lawd will hab me pah’lized, an’ make me fall dead heah in my tracks.”

“Impious creature!  Unworthy descendant of Ham!” cried Warriner.

“Me a ham?  Me, a linear decen’ant ob de great Lawd Cornwahlis, what lan’ed at Yohktown an’ chased de Yanks all ober de plains ob Ole Virgintay?  Dat’s de stock I come from, Mistah Warmer, an’ so I want yo’ to understan’.”

The cook’s reference to his ancestors astounded Warriner, though none of the rest of us saw anything queer about it.

“Good heavens!  What curse is there like ignorance?” said he, looking up at the ceiling.

It was lucky for me that Warriner spoke up, for I was just going to show off about Lord Cornwallis, and would likely have made a fool of myself.  My history is a bit uncertain; so I stood by and kept mum.

All of us were surprised at this, but Pratt went to fetch the book.  Prince could read large print tolerably well, and write a little, which facts he was very proud of.  His confident air, and the new tack he had taken, made the cook a bit uneasy for the first time.  He had no idee what was coming next.

Pratt beckoned to me from the door of his room, and whispered in my ear: “The Bible’s mislaid.  Hasn’t been used for so long it can’t be found.  Here’s a book the same size, though.”

“Maybe that’ll do,” said I.  “We’ll try, anyway.”

Cornwallis looked uneasily from one to the other, and at the sacred volume.  He was ignorant and superstitious, and Prince as reader and oracle was much more to be feared than Prince the bo’s’un, with all his threats and accusations.

“Dis chile better be gittin’ back to de galley an’ washin’ dem dishes.  Neber will git nothin’ done at dis rate, stan’in’ aroun’ an’ talkin’ like a lot o’ wenches at a pic-nic.”

“Hold on, Cornwallis,” said Pratt, taking hold of him as he neared the door. “You don’t need to be afraid as long as you didn’t get away with the liquor.  Stay right here and let’s hear how well Prince can read.”

“Dem dat takes sugah is to be made to drink bilge-water an’ nothin’ else, an’ is to larn to take de sun ebery mawnin’ an’ ebenin’.

“Ef you kotch one stealin’ gin, make a rope fas’ to him an’ t’ow him oberboard all day long.  Ef he don’t die de fust day, try him ag’in de second.

“Gittin’ away wid w’isky is bery bad. Ef a cook or stoord is foun’ out, he mus’ be drove full o’ marling-spikes till he stops yellin’, eben ef it done kills him.

“But ef one steals brandy,—wahl, der ain’t nothin’ bad ’nough fur him.  Brandy is awful hard to make, an’ costs a hun’red dollahs a poun’; so ’tain’t no sort o’ use foolin’ with one dat steals it.  De craf’ will sink ef he ain’t took in hand.

Prince made this up as he went along, pronouncing his words with much gravity, and it had such an effect on Cornwallis that we had all we could do to keep from roaring right out.  We had to look solemn, though, or he would have smelt a rat.  He stood with his back against the wall, rolling up the whites of his eyes and looking around in a scared way as if he didn’t know whether the whole thing was a joke or not.  Finally he said: “Cap’n Pratt, I axes you, sah, ef what dat niggah done read is wrote down in dat book, or is I bein’ made a wictim ob what dey calls de cu’cumstances?”

“What test am dat, sah?”

“Why, we must hang a grindstone round your neck and heave you overboard.  If you didn’t steal the brandy, you’ll float. That’s what the book says.”

The cook’s jaw dropped, and he fell down in a heap.  Throwing his arms around Pratt’s knees, he gasped: “Does yo’ mean dat, Cap’n?”

Pratt nodded.

“Oh, fur de good Lawd’s sake, what hab dis pore chile done dat he mus’ be kilt in cole blood!  Ain’t I sarved you, sah, fur one, two, six,—wahl, seberal yeahs?  An’ now is yo’ gwine to let dat blood-thu’sty niggah what’s been hankerin’ arter my life—is yo’ gwine to let him murdah me?”

“I feel sorry for you, Cornwallis,—d—n me if I don’t,—but there’s no help for it.  The book says the craft will never reach port if the guilty person escapes, so it’s a case of your going overboard or all of us giving up the ghost.”

This piteous appeal was addressed to Warriner and me, and the cook looked so miserable that I could hardly play my part.

“No, you must prepare for the ordeal,” said Warriner, “and if you have told the truth you will surely float.”

“What, an’ a grin’stone made fas’ to me?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh, Mass’ Warmer, I’s not ready to die; ’deed I’s not.  I’s been powe’ful wicked in my time, an’ dem kin’ o’ people has to jine de chu’ch an’ hab r’ligion ’fore deh heahs de trumpet blow.”

“No more fooling.  Prince, you bring aft the grindstone that the crew sharpen their knives on.  Hunt, you get the fog-horn and blow like h— when we heave him overboard.  The d—d thing makes more noise than any trumpet I ever heard.”

“Yes,” added Warriner, “It may comfort the condemned.”

When we got back with the horn and grindstone, Cornwallis was jumping up and down and yelling like a maniac.

“The sinner owns up,” cried Pratt, and Prince grinned till every one of his ivories showed. “Now, Cornwallis, your life will be spared on condition that you make a clean breast of this matter.  No more lies; and you must pay for the brandy you drank at the rate of one hundred dollars a gallon—wasn’t that it, Prince?”

“A hun’red dollahs a poun’, sah,” corrected Prince.

“I doan know how many poun’ I drank,” sniffed the cook, “an’ ef I has to pay dat much fur each one ob ’em, I’s got to wo’k more’n a year fur nothin’.”

“That’s better than being drowned to-day,” said I, “and you’d better be thankful.  Now tell us how you took the brandy.”

“Wahl, I was stan’in’ lookin’ at de bottle when I heerd a noise.  I turn roun’, an’ as shuah as I lib, ef de debil wahn’t right ’side ob me!  Oh, he looked orful, an’ I like to died from de shock ob seein’ him.  Ef yo’ wants to know what he looks like, jes’ take a good look at dat Prince Sahnders, fur ef him an’ de debil ain’t brudders I’m a cod-fish!

“I knowed it was de gospel truf, yo’ understan’, but at de same time it wahn’t right, an’ I tried to put ole Nick out ob de galley.  He wahr bigger den me, an’ jes’ made me drink dat brandy till de bottle looked a’most empty.  ’Deed I tried to git him out, but ’twan’t no use, an’ ebery drap ob dat liquor done wanished ’fore he quit pesterin’ me.  I’d had a misery in my head de hull mawnin’, but I felt right pert arter de brandy was gone.  I sot down to reflec’ a spell.

“‘Now,’ I says, ‘ef de brandy was to be sot fire to an’ burned up, it am plain dat it can’t be drank.’  I ’lowed dat keerosene ansahs de pu’pose jes’ as well, so I puts it roun’ de puddin’.  Golly! how dat ile did burn!  I was real dis’pinted ’bout de sass, fur I reckoned dat ile mought pizen yo’. So I lef’ it out, an’ hoped dat fak’ would ’scape de company’s obserbation.

We all laughed till we nearly parted our braces, especially Warriner.  I wouldn’t have believed he had so much humor. The passenger pulled away the tablecloth and the smashed crockery till he sighted the pudding.  What with the smell of oil and burned feathers, and being all scorched up and stepped on, it wasn’t a very fine sight by this time.

“Did any of you ever read ‘Great Expectations?’” he asked.

None of us had.

“Even so, my friends, should I preserve this pudding and enthrone it in my Brooklyn home to remind me of my lost brandy and of this most extraordinary Thanksgiving.  But that is impossible, so follow me.”

He picked the pudding up from the floor and held it out at arm’s length, at the same time leading the way out on deck.  Sunday and Tuesday, Flip and Jackson and all the crew forgot what they were about at sight of the queer procession, and Warriner holding out the pudding.  He marched over to the lee bulwarks, got on top of an empty box, and began to look at the pudding with a very sorrowful expression, his eyes blinking and his head on one side.

“What the devil is he about?” thinks I.

He looked around at us and wiped his eyes with a silk handkerchief; then held out the blasted pudding in both hands so all of us could see it.

“Good G—, if he ain’t blubbering!” whispered Pratt, while Warriner looked so affected that Prince, Cornwallis and me nearly cried.

“Good-by, pudding.  Go-od-b-bye,” (heaving it overboard) “and be thou food for worms—I should say, fishes!”

Away it went, and struck the water with a splash.  All hands stared until it sunk, and then we looked at Warriner. He had taken up the fog-horn, and just as the pudding went under, he blew a mournful blast.

“May the dear departed rest in peace,” he said, feelingly.

Then we all pulled ourselves together and went back to work.

My sister laid aside her paper, both surprised and pleased.

“How glad I am, George, that you at last see the necessity of it.  Where shall you go?”

“Well, according to my dream of the last two nights, my destination will be latitude 3° 50′ 30″ South, longitude 32° 24′ 30″ West.”

Alice stared at me as though she doubted my sanity, while I folded my arms, nodded my head, and tried not to look foolish.

“Night before last I slept unusually well, and was conscious of nothing until I heard a clock somewhere strike four.  I dozed off soon after, and had this dream:

“I was seated alone in the stern of a little boat, that floated on a calm and gently-heaving moonlit sea; while close on my right hand was a small, densely wooded island, with phosphorescent waves breaking upon its sandy beach.  Behind it, and belonging seemingly to another body of land, a lofty peak towered into the air.

“While striving to see their features, I became sensible of a veil of mist enveloping both land and sea, and when it passed, island and peak were gone.  In their stead was a gigantic blackboard rising out of the ocean, with these characters upon it, in figures and letters so large that they terrified me:

“As I looked, the great object seemed to advance upon me—I should be annihilated!  I tried to grasp an oar in the bottom of the boat, but could not move a muscle.  On it came, rapidly, noiselessly.  At the instant it was upon me, I made a frantic lunge and found myself sitting up in bed, drenched in perspiration, and my heart beating so I could hardly breathe.

“I said nothing to you yesterday, Alice, but now you know why I have been so preoccupied.  Again last night I had the same dream.”

My sister said little, except to advise me to dismiss the whole subject from my mind, but I could see that it had made more of an impression on her than she chose to admit.

I had already consulted the atlas in regard to the spot of which I had dreamed, and found it to be an island with an unpronouncable name, lying near the coast of Brazil.

That night I wrote to my nephew Ralph at New York, telling him that I had decided to take a sea voyage, and asking him what was the best way of getting to Fernando de Noronha, for that was the name of the island.  He was master, and one-third owner of the brig Sea Witch, and I knew his advice was to be depended on.

Ralph’s answer came Saturday.  Here it is:

It was the afternoon of July 2 that the tug Charm pulled the brig out from Pier 1, East River, and took her in tow for Sandy Hook.  It is a long tow, and the stars were shining when the pilot went over the side, the tug’s hawser was cast off, and we were left to shift for ourselves.

Before we sailed, I had told him my dream, which he ridiculed until I spoke of the lofty peak, when he became serious.

“There is just such a peak at one end of the island,” he had said.  “It is eight hundred feet high, and the observatory at its summit overlooks the island, and the ocean for sixty miles in every direction.”

This was enough for me to know; I was now determined at any cost to get ashore on that island and try and find the scene pictured in my vision, for that such a scene existed I no longer doubted.

After a particularly fine day’s run, I said to Ralph, who had just marked it on the chart, “I had no idea that sailing vessels could go fast.  As this rate we shall soon be across the Equator.  You say we are only 8° North this noon.”

During the forenoon a violent rain squall struck us from due South, and we tore along at a nine-knot rate, while such torrents of rain I never saw before.  Barrels were put in position to catch the water, but before noon the rain ceased suddenly and the wind with it.  Thus it was all that day, all the next day, and for a whole week,—nothing but calms, rain-squalls, and variable winds (usually from the wrong direction), until I was nearly beside myself.  Some days we made less than thirty miles in the twenty-four hours, and it was no unusual occurrence to tack ship three, and even four times a day, which put Ralph and the mate in a horrible humor.