START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WHALEMAN'S WIFE*** E-text prepared by MWS, SF2001, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 65718-h.htm or 65718-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/65718/65718-h/65718-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/65718/65718-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/whalemanswife00bullrich A WHALEMANâS WIFE * * * * * * WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THE CRUISE OF THE CACHALOT. THE LOG OF A SEA WAIF. THE MEN OF THE MERCHANT SERVICE. IDYLLS OF THE SEA. WITH CHRIST AT SEA. A SACK OF SHAKINGS. DEEP SEA PLUNDERINGS. THE APOSTLES OF THE SOUTH-EAST. WITH CHRIST IN SAILORTOWN. THE PALACE OF POOR JACK. THE WAY THEY HAVE IN THE NAVY. * * * * * * [Illustration: SHE STOOD THERE FRAMED IN THE PORTAL LIKE A GRACEFUL PICTURE. _P. 11._] A WHALEMANâS WIFE by FRANK T. BULLEN [decoration] London: Hodder and Stoughton [Decoration] 27 Paternoster Row: MCMII Printed by Spottiswoode and Co. Ltd., New-Street Square London TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA A SMALL TOKEN OF THE AUTHORâS ESTEEM FOR A STRONG CHRISTIAN CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Unrequited Love 1 II. âVeni, Vidi, Viciâ 9 III. A Sudden Resolve 17 IV. Departure 25 V. Outward Bound 34 VI. Disillusionment 43 VII. A Stricken Demon 54 VIII. A Disastrous Day 69 IX. Reuben Eddy, Mariner 85 X. The _Good_ Ship âXiphiasâ 99 XI. At the Old Homestead 115 XII. Repairing Damages 130 XIII. The Captain Goes Ashore 146 XIV. Among Right Whales 162 XV. A Double Deliverance 176 XVI. A Reign of Terror 192 XVII. Salvage Operations 207 XVIII. Humanity Rewarded 221 XIX. A Great Blow 236 XX. The Cyclone 251 XXI. A Strange Rescue 267 XXII. The Meeting 283 XXIII. Farewell to the _Xiphias_ 297 XXIV. Check to the King, and a New Move 311 XXV. The Education of the Skipper 326 XXVI. The Loss of the _Grampus_ 344 XXVII. And Last 361 Works by the Same Author 379 CHAPTER I UNREQUITED LOVE âYew donâ seem ter keer any gret amount fer me, Pris.â The speaker was a young man of twenty or thereabouts, whose loosely jointed frame showed, even under the shapely rig of homespun, consisting of just a shirt and pants, a promise to the observant eye that he would presently develop into a man of massive mould. He lay upon the stubbly ground, his head resting on one arm, looking wistfully up into the face of a girl about his own age. His clean-shaven face wore that keenness of outline so characteristic of the true Yankee blend in which the broad Saxon or Frisian features seem to have been modified by the sharp facial angles of the indigenous owners of the soil. But in the softness of his grey eyes a close observer would have foreseen a well of trouble springing up for their owner on behalf of others. It was the face of the typical burden-bearer. In her face, on the other hand, there were evident manifestations of discontent and weariness of restraint. A healthy, pleasant countenance enough, with dark brown eyes and curling hair, well-shaped nose and short upper lip just spotted with freckles. The eyes looked, however, as if they could harden and grow black upon occasion, while the square chin and firm curve of the shut mouth told a plain tale of self-will. There was just a touch of petulance in the quick movement of her head as she replied: âYouâre so exactinâ, Rube. Anâ surely you wouldnât want me to be a hypocrite anâ gush over you when I donât feel a bit like it. The honest fact is that I like you better than anybody Iâve ever seen, but you know I havenât seen many people at all; and as for the men folks about here, theyâre almost as dull and stupid as the cattle themselves. Anâ more than that, Rube, Iâm afraid I donât know what this love is that you seem to be et up with, anâ Iâm not going to say I do to please anybody.â There was silence. Over the wide stretches of newly reaped land not a breath of air was stirring; at eveningâs beckoning finger the voices of the day were hushed. It was nearing the gloaming of one of those heavenly days common in Vermont towards the end of harvest, when Nature seems to be contemplating in satisfied peace the result of her summerâs fruitage, and baring her bosom to the mellowing sun for a while, as if to store up warmth against the coming of the fierce blasts of the bitter Northern winter. The smell of the patient earth was sweet, restful in its effect upon the senses, and insensibly moulding impressions upon the mind that would remain through life ineffaceable by any subsequent experiences, and assert themselves in after-years by vivid reproductions of the present scene. Yet the calm beauty of their surroundings had upon each of the two young people an almost entirely opposite effect. He was permeated with a serene sense of satisfaction with life in all its details but one--if only he could be certain that Priscilla loved him! Born and bred upon the typical Green Mountain farm, educated up to the simple standard of the village school, and utterly unacquainted with the seething world beyond his horizon, he was as nearly happy as it is good for man to be in this stage of his existence. His parents, although, like himself, New Englanders born and bred, had somehow escaped from the soul-withering domination of that cruel creed that finds an awful satisfaction in the consignment to eternal fires of all who by one hairâs-breadth should dare to differ from its blindly ignorant conception of theology. Love formed the basis of their faith, and their ideas of an immanent God were mainly derived from the parable of the Prodigal Son. Under such mild influences it was hardly wonderful that Reuben Eddy had early âgot religion,â in the queer phraseology of the States, although in his case, as in that of his parents, there was scarcely any point of resemblance common to the ordinary religious professor. Following none of the orthodox forms of worship, and pretending to no formulated creed, the Eddys lived and moved and had their being in a quiet consciousness of the friendliness of God. They looked as if they would at no time have been surprised, as they certainly would have been unafraid, to see His face with their mortal eyes. They seemed to love God, as birds sing, from an inward impulse that is not a duty but a part of the organism, as natural a necessity as the breath or the heart-beat. Yet, or perhaps because of this, they were intensely human. There was none of that aloofness from the interests of their kind that some excellent people regard as the hall-mark of a Christian. In fact, they were a lovable family whose influence was like that of the spring sun upon all (though they were but few) with whom they came in contact. Within this last year or two, however, Reuben had felt the deep placid current of his life strangely disturbed. His life-long playmate, Priscilla Fish, whose parentsâ farm (three miles away) was the nearest to that of the Eddys, had suddenly assumed a totally different appearance in his eyes. For some time he went about dreamily wondering whatever the change could be that had at once removed her so far above the category of ordinary, everyday people, and at the same time had made him long for her society so ardently that every hour spent away from her seemed to drag, and every thought was shot through and through with side-issues about her. Now between him and his father there had been a life-long intimacy, gently sought and fostered by the elder man as soon as Rube was old enough to know him. Thus they were more than father and son--they were David and Jonathan, with no secrets from one another. So after Reuben had wrestled with this new experience long enough to be able to reduce it to some formulable expression, he took it to his father, as he had done every other difficulty as long as he could remember. The old man listened in sympathetic silence while his son described his symptoms with a gravity that would have been ludicrous but for its earnestness and sincerity. How he felt like a caged bird until he saw Priscilla, yet when she appeared he became hot and cold by turns, and felt so awkward and clumsy that he wanted to hide himself in the earth, and so on, in the same old way that was all so new and disconcerting to him. Very gently the old man explained matters to him, winding up with a merry twinkle in his eyes, as he said: âHaow en the name er pashense yeuâve shun clar ov this complaint all these years ez er merricle. Ef I know ye--en I ainât so dead certain of that as I wuz--yewâre just the kinder lad to fall in love fust go. Anyhow, Iâm goinâ ter chip in ân âelp ye if it kin be did et all.â With all his fatherly instincts aroused, the fine old fellow trudged over to his neighbourâs farm that same evening, and sought out old man Fish. In quaint fashion, and blaming himself whimsically for his lack of observation in not seeing how things were going before, he explained the situation, finding, much to his gratification, that Priscillaâs father was entirely agreeable to the match. Solemnly the two patriarchs discussed ways and means, planning all manner of pleasant things for the future of their children as far as their sober wishes would allow them. That Reuben and Priscilla should marry, inherit the Eddy homestead, and glide placidly along through life as their parents had done, seemed to these two fond old hearts as roseate a prospect as could be desired. So they sat on, exchanging their slow-moving thoughts, until long past their usual early hour for bed. After a long pause, Farmer Eddy stretched himself with a yawn and said: âWall, Zeke, I reckon Iâll be gittinâ toârds hum. Seems ter me we ben havinâ er mighty long yarn to-night, ârelse Iâm most amazinâ sleepy. Good-night tâye.â There was no reply. It was perfectly dark, for they had been sitting in the barn, and when the night closed softly down they had not thought to get a lamp, in their earnestness of conversation. Slightly raising his voice, Farmer Eddy repeated his salutation, but it fell upon the unresponsive darkness around like a pebble dropped into a deep well. With a chill creeping over his scalp the old man reached forward to where his friend was sitting and groped for his hand. It was some seconds before he could find what he sought, and when he did, the truth sank into his marrow instantly: Ezekiel Fish was dead. Trembling in every fibre, Eddy hastily made for the house, coming into the well-lighted living-room with his message in his face. The family, consisting of Mrs. Fish, her two grown-up sons, and Priscilla, were all seated there, eagerly discussing a knotty point in some book Priscilla had been reading aloud, but the entry of the old man and their first glance at his face froze them into silence. Going straight up to the mother, Eddy laid his trembling hand upon her shoulder, and said, âHepziber, the Lord be good tâye. Heâs taken away yewâre husband.â There was no outcry. Priscilla came swiftly to her motherâs side and tried to soothe the heavily stricken woman, whose silent suffering was pitiful to see; while the two sons and the old man, bearing lights, returned to the barn and reverently carried in the body. The usual sad offices were soon rendered to the remains, and with slow, uncertain steps Eddy returned home to tell his sorrowful story and warn Reuben that, for the present at any rate, a prior claim to attention had been made upon their neighbourâs family. Some months, therefore, elapsed before anything of the matter that lay so close to his heart passed Reubenâs lips. But he was by no means impetuous, and besides, he had always been trained to subordinate his wishes to those of others, so that while his love was undoubtedly rooting and grounding itself more firmly every day, he was able to abstain from all mention of it to its object. Summer came, and with it an opportunity during a long Sunday afternoonâs ramble with Priscilla to broach the important matter to her. She listened--somewhat listlessly, it is true, but still she listened; while Rube, growing bolder as he went on, and marvelling at his own powers of speech, poured out to her his hopes and plans. But no enthusiasm could hold out long under the unconcealed air of indifference with which his fervent speech was received, and he soon sobered down to wonder quietly how it was she took his vehemence so coolly. Being ready, however, to supply all deficiencies from his own abundant stock, he was not unduly depressed. And as the days went by his sweet sunny temperament asserted itself, and hope, almost amounting to certainty, arose within him that she would presently, as he had done, find all things changed under the new light of love. Yet in spite of his hopefulness, a weary sense of the hilly road he was travelling would occasionally give him serious pause, and he grew hungry for some return, however slight, of his lavish affection. And it was with one of these moods that this chapter and the story open. CHAPTER II âVENI, VIDI, VICIâ After the death of Ezekiel Fish the care of the farm devolved upon the two brothers, both of them typical Yankee farmers, but without a trace of the kindliness so characteristic of the Eddys. Rube had never been a favourite with them. They dared not despise him openly--he was too big and strong for that; but they spoke of him behind his back in terms of disparagement, and did all in their power to discourage the slightest feeling of affection for him that they imagined their sister to have. Jake, the elder brother, a man some three years older than Rube, had by virtue of his seniority assumed full charge of affairs, and already had begun to launch out in various speculative ways that troubled the old lady sorely. His visits to Boston âon businessâ were frequent and prolonged, and already he was becoming known to a few of his less reputable associates as a âfeller thet wuz makinâ things hum a bit.â In these altered circumstances it was no wonder that Rube pressed his suit more earnestly than ever. His unselfish nature was fully alarmed for Priscillaâs immediate future, and his anxiety on her behalf gave his love an added lustre which it had lacked before. But to his distress and chagrin, the steady growth of his affection did not awaken in her the slightest responsiveness. To a stranger it would have been at once manifest that she merely tolerated the young man; even to his love-blinded perceptions the fact stubbornly persisted in revealing itself. Rube endured this coldness patiently for months, until on the evening of the commencement of our story he had drifted almost unconsciously into a protest against this treatment of himself by Priscilla who, if she had never given him any encouragement worth speaking of, had at least tacitly accepted him as a lover. She had received his complaint in the manner already specified, speaking the exact truth about the state of her feelings towards him as far as she knew them. The trouble was that she had not quite realised the strength of a feeling of unrest and discontent with her surroundings which had been steadily eating into her mind for months past. It was largely due to her brother Jake, who, in the elated condition generally noticeable on his return from Boston, was wont to launch into extravagant praise of city life with its light and bustle and abundant enjoyments. Naturally he was correspondingly contemptuous of the well-ordered procession of days characteristic of the country. The majestic harmonies and sweet confidences of Nature, the changeful orchestra of each day, and the placid stillness of the nights, had become to his disorganised ideas like the stagnation of death. His was that subtle malaise that stealthily undermines the natural order of things, and, leaving the countryside to go out of cultivation, herds men and women together in vast feverish crowds to stew and fret and die, but never to return to the quiet of the country again. This miserable change had, without her knowledge, infected Priscilla also in such a manner that now every task was irksome, the stillness of the evenings almost unbearable. Irritability, which had never before disfigured her character, became increasingly noticeable. Even Rube saw the change, but could not dream of its cause, and innocently added to it by his dog-like untiring affection. Matters were in this unsatisfactory state when one evening the sound of wheels through the crisp air warned the inmates of the Fish place that Jake was returning from one of his Boston jaunts. Priscilla dropped her knitting and went to the door which looked across the wide paddock down the road. To her surprise she saw in the fast approaching buggy two forms. Jake was bringing a visitor! The prospect of any break in what had now become almost an intolerable monotony so affected her that she felt nearly intoxicated, her face flushed rosily, and a tingling thrill that was almost pain rushed all over her. Yet she could not move, but stood there framed in the portal like a graceful picture, while the buggy drew up at the roadside and the men alighted. As they came across the paddock towards her she saw that the stranger was tall and stalwart, walking with the easy loose-jointed swing of the smart sailor. He was dressed in the garb of an ordinary well-clothed townsman, but a wide sombrero, of brown velvet apparently, shaded his face. Whether by accident or design on his part, this hat completed his resemblance to one of the old conquistadores or grandees of Spain painted by Velasquez. For his visage was swarthy and oval, his eyes large, black, and brilliant, and the lower half of his face was covered by a pointed beard and immense moustache so black and thick and silky that it hardly seemed of natural growth. To Priscillaâs eyes he looked as if he had just stepped across the years out of Prescottâs living page, and, like so many others of her sex, in that moment she gave him her whole heart, offered herself up to the husk of a man, unknowing and uncaring what it contained. Her mind in a confused whirl of thought, she stood as if petrified until the travellers reached her, and made no sign, even when Jake said, âThishyerâs my sister Priscilla, Capân. Pris, Capân Da Silva.â The Captain bowed, gracefully enough because naturally, but with evident signs that the movement was unusual, and held out his small and well-shaped brown hand to meet Priscillaâs white and plump one. The contact of their hands acted upon her like a vigorous restorative, and the blood fled back again from her face and neck, leaving them for the moment unnaturally pale as she found her voice and bade the stranger welcome. Even Jakeâs dull eyes could not fail to see how powerfully his sister was impressed by the Captain, and it pleased him well. Selfish and grasping, he was by no means sorry to get rid of his sister, nor did the thought of his motherâs loneliness affect him in the slightest degree. So that it was with a chuckle of satisfaction he turned away to put up his horse and buggy, saying carelessly as he did so, ââScuse me, Cap. My sisterâll look after you in shape, wonât ye, Pris?â Thenceforward Priscilla and the Captain were constant companions, their intimacy tacitly encouraged by Jake, who was in a high state of satisfaction at the prospect of getting rid of his sister finally. The mother made many attempts to gain her daughterâs confidence, for she felt an innate distrust of the handsome stranger. But Priscilla, forgetting all her motherâs claims, avoided with intuitive diplomacy any approach to the subject on her part, showing at times an irritability of manner that sorely troubled the old lady, who, having no one to turn to in her distress of mind, was lonely indeed. At last, one day when Pris, the Captain, and Jake had driven off upon some excursion of pleasure, she felt that she could bear the trouble alone no longer, and taking advantage of her younger sonâs absence at a neighbouring farm, she made a pilgrimage over to the Eddy farmhouse, intent upon pouring out her heart to Mrs. Eddy. The meeting between the two old dames was full of pathetic interest, for Mrs. Eddy loved her boy so fondly that, although she had never felt drawn to Priscilla, it was enough for her that Rube loved the girl. His happiness was the consideration that overtopped all others in her heart. So that when Mrs. Fish unburdened herself, her hearer was torn by maternal solicitude for her boy, and for the time her anxiety as to the effect this news would have upon him was too great to allow her to reply. And when she did speak, her words sounded hollow and unmeaning--so much so that her visitor stared at her wonderingly. For Mrs. Eddyâs powers of consolation and wisdom of counsel were matters of common knowledge over a wide extent of country--she was looked up to as infallible. The look in her visitorâs eyes recalled her to herself somewhat, and choking down her feelings by a great effort, she said: âWall, Hepziber, yewrs âs surely a hard case, ânâ I kainât fur thâ life of me see wut yewâre to do. Ef Pris is âtarmined tu go her own way ânâ wunât listen to yew on the matter ât all, ânâ ef, âs yew say, Jakeâs doinâ his best tâ encourage her, yewâre jest brought face to face with thâ wall, âs yew may say. My Rube wâd hev made her a good husband, anâ one âbout whose record there couldnât be any doubt; but Iâve seen fur a long time that she wuz jest puttinâ up with him like--she didnât love him more ân she did me, ânâ you know she never took ter me, ner dad eyther. Go home ânâ pray about it, Hepziber; itâs all we kin do. As fur myself, Iâve got ter wrassle with thâ Lord for my boy, fur how heâll bâar this I kainât begin ter think.â And with this cold comfort (to her), Widow Fish had to depart for the home she was beginning to feel a stranger in, after all these years, leaving Mrs. Eddy with a heart overflowing with sorrowful love for her only son. With a natural dread of the effect the news would have upon him, she put in practice all the simple arts she knew to keep him in ignorance of what was brewing, and finally succeeded, by the aid of her husband, in despatching him to Boston on business without his calling at the Fish place first. He was absent from home for a fortnight, and when he returned, after an hour or two spent with his father and mother, he rose and said, with a transparent attempt to conceal his eagerness: âI guess Iâll jest stroll over anâ see Pris. Iâd like to tell her âbout some oâ the Boston sights. âNâ Iâve brought her a cunning little watch for a birthday present.â The mother looked appealingly at her husband, who, answering her gaze with eyes full of fondness, rose, and laying his hand upon Rubeâs shoulder, said: âMy son, yewâre a man in years anâ strength, ânâ Iâve brung ye up to be the _good_ man I bâlieve yâ are. Yâ havenât hed enny big trouble yet, but yâ know therâ ainât nothinâ in thâ world yew kin âpend on till itâs tested. Yewâre goinâ ter be tested now. Priscillaâs married.â The watch dropped from the young manâs fingers on to the stone floor and was broken. Except for that sound there was absolute silence: none of the three seemed to breathe. Presently Rube spoke: âThank ye, father, fur tellinâ me plain ânâ prompt. Now I think Iâll go upstairs ânâ rest.â And with heavy uncertain steps Rube left the kitchen, mounted to the little room he had occupied since he was a child, and shut himself in. It was true. With a haste that was explained by the Captain as absolutely necessary on account of his ship being ordered to sea at a very short notice, he had pressed his suit when once he found how willing Priscilla was to take him at his own valuation. Mrs. Fish, thoroughly bewildered by the whole hasty proceeding, wandered about the house like an unquiet ghost, doing nothing either to help or hinder the preparations. Jake was unwontedly lavish with the funds necessary, and indefatigable in giving assistance, so that two days before Rube returned from Boston the newly married pair had departed for New Bedford with the intention of spending their honeymoon on board Captain Da Silvaâs ship as she journeyed southward on the commencement of her long voyage. She was called the _Grampus_, and was one of the fine fleet of South Sea whaleships then sailing from New Bedford, although so ignorant were the farm-folk of Vermont of maritime matters that even Jake, smart as he fancied himself, had but the dimmest, vaguest idea of what the life was that his sister was going to be shut up to for the next three or four years. Still less did he care. As for Priscilla, she would have accepted unquestioningly any situation into which she might be brought so long as she was by the side of the man she worshipped with a fierce unreasoning intensity. Of Rube she never thought for more than a minute at a time, and then it was only with a sense of relief at the knowledge that he would trouble her no more. From her mother she parted without regret: there seemed to be no room in her mind for anything else but intense satisfaction in the prize she believed herself to have won. Even the prospect of seeing the great world which had once claimed all her desires was but a feeble unit now in the vast sum of her delight in the possession of Ramon Da Silva. Nor was her joy in the least damped by the masterful way in which he accepted all the affection she lavished upon him. To do him justice, he was hardly to blame for this. His career, from the time he had enlisted as a green hand on board of an American whaler at Fayal, in his sixteenth year, had been one long series of successes, due to the great force of his character, his utter unscrupulousness, and entire absence of fear. Step by step he had risen in his dangerous profession until he had become master of a whaleship, while his name was a household word among the fleet for smartness, courage, and--brutality. CHAPTER III A SUDDEN RESOLVE When Rube came down the next morning and composedly met his fatherâs and motherâs anxious looks, he had the listless air of a man whose spirit had been broken. There was a droop in his shoulders, a dulness in his eyes that contrasted painfully with the bright alertness of his glance and carriage of the day before. But he said nothing of his blow, and his parents wisely forbore to say anything either, trusting that his young and healthy body would come to the assistance of his mind, and that the wound would soon skin over. Unfortunately for their hopes, his love had been the pivot of his life. While a good farmer, a good son, and a good business man, he had no hobbies, he read little, and, being much alone, he had allowed his passion for Priscilla to become so interwoven with his every thought and action that the knowledge of her loss had been like a rending of soul from body. So he went about his duties like a somnambulist, seeking no comfort, making no confidences, and apparently as insensible to externals as a hypnotised man would be. In this dull round of daily tasks several weeks passed away, until it happened that he found himself at the village grocery on some trivial errand. There was the usual knot of loungers ready to talk, and absurdly grateful for the coming of any stranger with something fresh to say. As he passed through them with a brief nod of recognition to one and another, and entered the store, he saw standing erect in their midst a tall wiry-looking man, whose face was unfamiliar to him. Pausing for an instant, with the first symptom of interest he had manifested for many days, he heard the stranger say: âYas, ânâ if enny ov yew fellers hed thâ grit ov a chipmunk, yew wouldnât take twicet tâ think over yer anser. Wut manâd go on grindinâ mud all his life in a dead-ânâ-alive God-fergotten corner like this when heâs got ân opportoonity of seeinâ the world--all thâ world, mind ye, east, west, north, and south--anâ makinâ a small forchin âs well? I dunno wuts come over the yewth ov Amurica to-day. Sims tâ me theyâve lost their old vim ânâ push altogether. Well, sâ long, boys; if I kainât persuade ye I kainât, ânâ thereâs an eend on ât, ânâ I musâ be gittinâ âlong. But ef enny ov ye wants time tâ make up yer minds, I shâl be back this way agâin ter-morrer evâninâ, ânâ thatâll be the lasâ chance youâll git, enny ov ye.â Although he had not heard any of the strangerâs preliminary discourse, and shrank from making inquiries, Rubeâs interest was aroused to the highest pitch. He returned to his home with the few words he had heard seething and bubbling in his mind. For he felt that at last here was a way of escape from the almost insupportable deadness of his life. He could not realise that âthe mind is its own place,â and so, like a caged animal, seeing a door of hope open to him, he felt an unconquerable longing to flee. He said not a word throughout the evening meal, but that was so much his habit now that it passed unnoticed. Mechanically he bowed his head at âworship,â but his fatherâs reading of a chapter from the Bible might have been in the original Hebrew for all he understood of it. After gaining the solitude of his room, he sat on the bed, his head on his hands, trying hard to reduce the whirlpool of his thoughts to some definite shape until far into the night, but in vain. Only one idea seemed to stand out sharply and distinctly against the misty tumult: he must _go_. At last, wearied with mental conflict, he fell backward, dressed as he was, and went to sleep. He rose unrefreshed, with a racking headache for the first time in his life, and went about his usual round of duties automatically. But his face bore such evident traces of his last nightâs conflict that they could not escape his motherâs keen eye. She anxiously inquired after his health, but was met with the careless reply that he was âall right.â She knew better, of course, but it had never been her way to force confidence, and so she manifested no more curiosity. She only looked wistfully at her boy when unobserved by him, and hovered about him as if more than ordinarily solicitous for his comfort. All day long he moved and looked like a man in a dream, every thought, every feeling merged in one idea--escape. Strange, that it never occurred to him how impossible it is for a man to flee from himself. Without waiting for supper, and as if dreading to be questioned, no sooner was the dayâs work done than he strode off to the village grocery, assuming, as he approached it, a most elaborate air of unconcern, and lounging into the midst of the little knot of listless men hanging about the door as if nothing mattered--an attitude common to all of them. He had not long to wait. In about ten minutes after his arrival a brisk footfall was heard, and turning the corner sharply the lean, keen-looking stranger of the previous evening strode into the midst of the group. âEveninâ, boys,â he jerked out, diving into the pockets of his pants at the same time and producing a formidable plug of hard tobacco and a knife. Having provided himself with a fresh cud and passed on the materials to his next neighbour, he proceeded: âWall, boys, hev ye made up yer minds yet? This, as the paestor sez, is the last time ov askinâ. Yeâve got ter speak up now, ârelse stay right whar yâ are fârever ânâ ever. âNâ that, _I_ shâd say, âd be ânough tâ decide frâanny young _man_. Vegâtables donâ count anyhaow.â This short harangue ended, he looked slily at his hearers to see whether he had made any impression upon them, but with the exception of a vacant half laugh or two, accompanied by an uneasy shuffle on the part of the utterers thereof, they might as well all have been deaf for any notice they took of him. But suddenly, to his astonishment (although he was careful not to show it), Rube, who was a stranger to him, stepped forward and said: âWall, stranger, I guess Iâll hitch hosses with ye. When dâ ye start, anâ whatâs thâ ârangements?â âRight, my boy, Iâm real proud of ye. Iâm startinâ this eveninâ as ever is; ânâ as tâ ârangements, yeâve only got ter sign thishyer paper agreeinâ tâ join any ship I sâlect fâr ye, ânâ take a little keepsake from me in the shape of two-anâ-a-haef dollars. Then yeâll pack up yer traps, ânâ Iâll see ye booked through to Noo Bedford. Yewâll start first thing in the morninâ.â Hardly looking at the form of agreement, Rube signed, the stranger being provided with pen and ink, and dropping the money loosely into his pocket, he strode off homewards, leaving the loungers all agape at the idea of Rube Eddy, who was well known to be one of the steadiest and most comfortably established young men in the county, going off at a minuteâs notice to foreign lands. Long and earnest was the discussion that followed, all sorts of possible and impossible reasons for the step Rube had taken being brought forward. The stranger lolled at his ease, listening in the hope that Rubeâs example might prove contagious, but, to his disappointment, it seemed to have quite a contrary effect. The talkers were like men who had just witnessed one of their number take a plunge into the fathomless abyss, from the brink of which they all drew back with horror. This state of mind soon became evident to the stranger, who, jerking himself to his feet, shook himself, stretched, yawned, and finally said: âWall, boys, kainât linger with ye always. Iâm beginninâ tâ feel like Rip Van Winkle meself in thishyer slumbersom place. I reckon I shall hev to hurry back to civilisation agen before I go to sleep too. How on airth yew fellers keep âwake long ânough tâ eat ân drink I dâno.â With this parting shot he turned on his heel and disappeared into the gathering darkness, and they saw him no more. Meanwhile Rube, his mind a blank, reached home and, hastily ascending to his room, busied himself gathering together his clothing. Good serviceable homespun, most of it, such as would be fit for any work, however rough, that might fall to his lot. Having made it into a compact bundle, with a celerity that raised a dim wonder even in himself, he drew himself up, as if bracing all his fortitude to meet father and mother. Memories of the quiet, pleasant years began to crowd in upon him, but with a gesture as if to crush them back, he deliberately walked down the narrow stairway, whose every step seemed to utter a reproachful creak. Entering the kitchen, he crossed over to the fireside, where his parents sat facing each other and calmly talking over some trivial happening of the day. Standing before them, he waited a moment, while they both looked up at him, and in that one swift glance his mother knew that a crisis had arrived. In a husky voice, that sounded as if it belonged to someone else, he said: âMother, Dad, Iâm goinâ away termorrer morninâ. Fergive me fer leavinâ ye like this, but I jest had ter go. Iâm no good here any more. Iâm goinâ tâ sea, ânâ when I come back mebbe Iâll be a stronger man. Naow Iâm a wuthless, dreamy shote, ânâ I feel âs if thishyer quiet easy life âd certainly drive me mad befoâ very long.â â_Must_ you go to-morrow, my son?â murmured his mother hopelessly, for she knew the breed, knew that once set upon a thing the Eddys were immovable, and yet she felt obliged to make an effort. âYes, mother. âGreementâs signed, thâ airnest moneyâs in my pocket, anâ my duds are all packed. Iâm goinâ, sure.â âRube,â said his father, âweâve been mighty cluss friends all our lives, anâ we ainât goinâ ter fall eout naouw, Iâm dead shore oâ that. But ye mout haâ told me wut ye wuz meditatinâ. âT wanât far tâ me, boy, naow wuz it?â For all answer Rube reached for his fatherâs hand and held it tight, while the working of his face showed how hard the simple words had hit him. The father broke the silence again by saying, âLet us pray.â With a sudden return to his childhood Rube knelt at his motherâs knee, while the old man, as had been his nightly wont ever since he first brought home his young bride, but with an added solemnity born of the shadow of his first bereavement, spoke to his Friend: âFather, eour hearts air troubled. Yewâve brung us along a pleasant road right inter the green valley of comfortable old age. Weâve hed a happy time together, ânâ this our son hez alwus ben a delight to us. We looked that he shâd still be so, that he shâd close eour eyes when we laid us down at last tâ sleep. Pâraps we hev been selfish, ânâ need a lesson to teach us wut it means to spare an only son. Heâs goinâ away from us fâr a long time--where, he doesnât know himself; but however fur he goes, donât let him get away from you. We donât ask you tâ spare him tâ us ef itâs necessary we shâd never see him alive any more; but ef it _might_ be, Father, you know how âtis yourself, ânâ therefore you know what itâll mean tâ us tâ have him back again. Make him through all heâll have tâ bear such a man as yewâd love to have him, ân supply his place at home, if it ken be supplied, by a truer sense of yewâre presence with us. Bless my son, O Father, and bless us, fâr _yewr_ Sonâs sake. Amen.â Little more was said, although they sat hand in hand far into the night. Rube wanted nothing that his father could give him, having sufficient money for all his prospective needs; but he accepted his motherâs Bible gratefully, feeling that it would be a palpable link with her. At last they went to bed, where Rube, not from callousness, but from sheer overstrain of mind, slept soundly. His mother lay all through the hours silently praying, while the unhindered tears trickled slowly and continuously down. And his father watched with her. CHAPTER IV DEPARTURE Morning broke over the Eddy homestead grey and cheerless, a fitting reflection of the frame of mind holding sway over its inmates. Rube came down with his grip-sack in his hand, his best clothes donned, and an air of stern resolve on his strong features. He found his father and mother awaiting him in the humble room where he had met them ever since his mind first awakened to the knowledge of worldly matters. For a few moments after the âgood morningsâ were said, no word further passed the lips of the three. Suddenly the mother spoke, saying: âRube, my son, you never told us _wharâ_ you were goinâ.â To some of us perhaps it may seem strange that neither father nor mother had asked this question before, but the fact is that in their secluded lives the mere idea of one of them leaving home for so long was sufficiently terrible, without any definition of the precise locality to which the wanderer might be directing his steps being thought of. But the motherâs heart was already in prospect reaching out after the absent one, and therefore it was but fitting and natural that she should be the first to desire to know whither he was going. Rube flushed a deep red as the necessary vagueness of his reply dawned upon him, but he said: âIâm goinâ ter sea, mother; thetâs all I know at present. When I git tâ Noo Bedford anâ find out wharâ I kin git letters or write frum, be sure Iâll let you know to onct. Iâm drefful sorry I kainât tell you anythinâ more ân thet.â The morning meal, ample and palatable as it always is on these Eastern farms, was spread, and the three took their places at the board; but although they made a brave show of eating, the food would not be got rid of, and suddenly Rube arose, as if the sight of his fatherâs worn face and his motherâs eyes, bleared with weeping through the long night, was too much for him, saying as he did so: âWall, itâs time I wuz off. Good-bye, mother; good-bye, father. I know yewr prayersâll hover rounâ me wharever I go; and ez soon ez I hev worn out this drefful restless feelinâ Iâll come back and settle down, please God, never to go away any more.â A silent kiss from the mother, a grave handshake from the father, and Rube turned his back upon home. Nor did he once look behind him as he strode down the road towards where, in the little village, a conveyance was waiting to take him to the station, whence he might reach New Bedford by railroad. He did not look back because he feared to see his motherâs face. Not that his resolve to go would have been thereby weakened, but that he could not help feeling guilty in that he was weakly fleeing from what he could not help knowing was his duty--weakly giving way to what he could not help knowing was after all, cowardice. But who shall dare to judge the action of his fellow-men under abnormal conditions? âPut yourself in his placeâ is a good motto, but how very rarely is it possible for us to act it out! Therefore, although many of us may very well feel inclined to judge Rube harshly for thus deserting father and mother and a life of usefulness, and becoming a wanderer on the face of the deep simply because the woman of his choice could not be his, let us not forget that ever since the world began, and men and women have been able to recount their experiences, strange things have been recorded as done by disappointed lovers against their better judgment. Rubeâs mind as the train sped him onwards towards the beautiful New England town whence he was to start upon his long sea journeyings was almost a blank. Never given much to a habit of introspection, he was by reason of the shock that he had recently received less able now to devote himself to concentrated thought than ever; and so, had he been asked what he was thinking about during that long railway journey, he would have replied, no doubt with perfect frankness, âHardly anything.â I think this experience is not uncommon, even among men and women given to meditation, when suddenly they have received a mental blow. Be that as it may--and I will own that it is a debatable point--when Rube arrived at New Bedford he had just the air of stolid bewilderment that is generally noticeable upon the faces of country-bred people first coming in contact with the strangeness of life in a seaport town. And truly one might have sailed the wide world round and not have found a more wonderful seaport than New Bedford was in those days. Men of almost every nation under heaven, clad in outlandish garments, jostled each other along the strongly smelling wharves and picturesque streets bordering the bay. New Bedford was then in the height of her prosperity as metropolis of the whaling world. Over six hundred fine ships came and went on their adventurous sea-questings, bringing with them from the uttermost ends of the earth queer-looking denizens of those far-off lands. Kanakas from the multitudinous Isles of the Pacific, Aborigines from Central America, Aleuts from Alaska, Japanese from Nippon, Chinese, Malays, Papuans, and Dyaks from the East Indian Archipelago, Lascars from Hindustan, Arabs from the Persian Gulf, and last, but by far the most numerous of all these wanderers, Portuguese of every hue, from deepest black to creamy white, from the Fortunate Isles. The diversity of peoples was not more wonderful than the quaintness of their costumes, which were, indeed, a chance medley of all the national dresses of the world. Yet in every case a keen observer, and one acquainted with the subject, might have recognised evidences of an attempt on the part of the wearer to give to his nondescript raiment some national peculiarity. Not only were the people a wonderful sight, but another sense--that of smell--was overpoweringly arrested on the crowded wharves, where scores of weatherbeaten ships discharged their greasy spoils, the odour from which permeated the entire atmosphere, seizing upon a stranger with almost intoxicating effect. Then the sounds!--the loud cries of the labourers as they toiled to discharge the cargoes from the ships, the wonderful medley of languages spoken by the strange seafarers slouching along the shore, and, pervading all, the hollow murmur of the sea as it rolled in on the beaches of the beautiful bay under the stress of a strong landward gale. Amidst these novel sights, sounds, and smells, Rube made his way like a man in a dream towards the place whither he had been directed, not without considerable difficulty, as three out of every four persons of whom he inquired his direction did not understand a word that he said. This, to a man who had never before met with anybody not speaking his own tongue, was really bewildering, and it was not therefore to be wondered at that by the time Rube had found the building he sought, his mental processes, never too acute, were reduced almost to numbness. Inquiring timidly at the door of the building to which he had been directed as the place where he should find Mr. Sawtell, he was answered nonchalantly by an elderly man, whose grey beard was plentifully streaked with tobacco juice, that if he went right in and took the first door on the left heâd find what he sought. Rube meekly obeyed, and entered a large, high-ceilinged room, scantily furnished, with several desks enclosed by a low fence and some benches. Two men sat at the desks looking as unlike the embodiment of our modern ideas of clerks as could well be imagined, for both of them had soft wideawake hats perched on the backs of their heads, both were smoking enormous cigars, and both bore in their countenances the expression of temporarily out-of-work pirates more than that of peaceful quill-drivers. As Rube approached the nearest desk he was somewhat amazed to see the clerk with his chair tilted back and his feet apparently resting upon the papers before him. He gazed at the strongly-marked lineaments of the official, and that worthy returned his look with interest, presently removing the cigar from his mouth and saying: âWal, young feller; anâ wut kin I hev the pleasure?â Rube stammered out, rather incoherently: âMr. Sawtell engaged me thâ other day to come down
{'title': "A Whaleman's Wife by Frank Thomas Bullen", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}