Nautilus Part 1

Nautilus.

by Laura E. Richards.

CHAPTER I.

THE BOY JOHN.

The boy John was sitting on the wharf, watching the ebb of the tide. The current was swift, for there had been heavy rains within a few days; the river was full of drifting logs, bits of bark, odds and ends of various kinds; the water, usually so blue, looked brown and thick. It swirled round the great mossy piers, making eddies between them; from time to time the boy dropped bits of paper into these eddies, and saw with delight how they spun round and round, like living things, and finally gave up the struggle and were borne away down stream.

"Only, in the real maelstrom," he said, "they don't be carried away; they go over the edge, down into the black hole, whole s.h.i.+ps and s.h.i.+ps, and you never see them again. I wonder where they stop, or whether it goes through to the other side of the world."

A great log came drifting along, and struck against a pier; the end swung round, and it rested for a few moments, beating against the wooden wall. This, it was evident, was a wrecked vessel, and it behooved the boy John, as a hero and a life-saver, to rescue her pa.s.sengers. Seizing a pole, he lay down on his stomach and carefully drew the log toward him, murmuring words of cheer the while.

"They are almost starved to death!" he said, pitifully. "The captain is tied to the mast, and they have not had anything to eat but boots and a puppy for three weeks. The mate and some of the sailors took all the boats and ran away,--at least, not ran, but went off and left the rest of 'em; and they have all said their prayers, for they are very good folks, and the captain didn't _want_ to kill the puppy one bit, but he had to, or else they would all be dead now. And--and the reckoning was dead,--I wonder what that means, and why it is dead so often,--and so they couldn't tell where they were, but they knew that there were cannibals on _almost_ all the islands, and this was the hungriest time of the year for cannibals."

Here followed a few breathless moments, during which the captain, his wife and child, and the faithful members of the crew, were pulled up to the wharf by the unaided arm of the boy John. He wrapped them in hot blankets and gave them brandy and peanut taffy: the first because it was what they always did in books; the second because it was the best thing in the world, and would take away the nasty taste of the brandy.

Leaving them in safety, and in floods of grateful tears, the rescuer bent over the side of the wharf once more, intent on saving the gallant s.h.i.+p from her fate; but at this moment came a strong swirl of tide, the log swung round once more and floated off, and the rescuer fell "all along" into the water. This was nothing unusual, and he came puffing and panting up the slippery logs, and sat down again, shaking himself like a Newfoundland puppy. He wished the s.h.i.+pwrecked crew had not seen him; he knew he should get a whipping when he reached home, but that was of less consequence. Anyhow, she was an old vessel, and now the captain would get a new s.h.i.+p--a fine one, full rigged, with new sails as white as snow; and on his next voyage he would take him, the boy John, in place of the faithless mate, and they would sail away, away, down the river and far across the ocean, and then,--then he would hear the sound of the sea. After all, you never could hear it in the river, though that was, oh, so much better than nothing! But the things that the sh.e.l.ls meant when they whispered, the things that the wind said over and over in the pine trees, those things you never could know until you heard the real sound of the real sea.

The child rose and stretched himself wearily. He had had a happy time, but it was over now; he must leave the water, which he cared more for than for anything in the world,--must leave the water and go back to the small close house, and go to bed, and dream no more dreams. Ah! when would some one come,--no play hero, but a real one, in a white-sailed s.h.i.+p, and carry him off, never to set foot on sh.o.r.e again?

He turned to go, for the shadows were falling, and already a fog had crept up the river, almost hiding the brown, swiftly-flowing water; yet before leaving the wharf he turned back once more and looked up and down, with eyes that strove to pierce the fog veil,--eager, longing eyes of a child, who hopes every moment to see the doors open into fairy-land.

And lo! what was this that he saw? What was this that came gliding slowly, silently out of the dusk, out of the whiteness, itself whiter than the river fog, more shadowy than the films of twilight? The child held his breath, and his heart beat fast, fast. A vessel, or the ghost of a vessel? Nearer and nearer it came, and now he could see masts and spars, sails spread to catch the faint breeze, gleaming bra.s.s-work about the decks. A vessel, surely; yet,--what was that? The fog lifted for a moment, or else his eyes grew better used to the dimness, and he saw a strange thing. On the prow of the vessel, which now was seen to be a schooner, stood a figure; a statue, was it? Surely it was a statue of bronze, like the Soldiers' Monument, leaning against the mast, with folded arms.

Nearer! Fear seized the boy, for he thought the statue had eyes like real eyes, and he saw them move, as if looking from right to left; the whites glistened, the dark b.a.l.l.s rolled from side to side. The child stood still, feeling as if he had called up this phantom out of his own thoughts; perhaps in another minute it would fade away into the fog, as it had come, and leave only the flowing tide and the shrouded banks on either side!

Nearer! and now the bronze figure lifted its arm, slowly, silently, and pointed at the boy. But this was more than flesh and blood could stand; little John uttered a choking cry, and turning his back on the awful portent, ran home as fast as he could lay foot to ground. And on seeing this the bronze figure laughed, and its teeth glistened, even as the eyes had done.

CHAPTER II.

THE SKIPPER.

The little boy slept brokenly that night. Bronze statues flitted through his dreams, sometimes frowning darkly on him, folding him in an iron clasp, dragging him down into the depths of roaring whirlpools; sometimes, still stranger to say, smiling, looking on him with kindly eyes, and telling him that the sea was not so far away as he thought, and that one day he should see it and know the sound of it. His bed was a white schooner,--there seemed no possible doubt of that; it tossed up and down as it lay by the wharf; and once the lines were cast off, and he was about to be carried away, when up rose the crew that he had rescued from s.h.i.+pwreck, and cried with one voice, "No! no! he shall not go!" The voice was that of Mr. Endymion Sc.r.a.per, and not a pleasant voice to hear; moreover, the voice had hands, lean and hard, which clutched the boy's shoulder, and shook him roughly; and at last, briefly, it appeared that it was time to get up, and that if the boy John did not get up that minute, like the lazy good-for-nothing he was, Mr. Sc.r.a.per would give him such a lesson as he would not forget for one while.

John tumbled out of bed, and stood rubbing his eyes for a moment, his wits still abroad. The water heaved and subsided under him, but presently it hardened into the garret floor. He staggered a few steps, as the hard hand gave him a push and let him go, then stood firm and looked about him. Gradually the room grew familiar; the painted bed and chair, the window with its four small panes, which he loved to polish and clean, "so that the sky could come through," the purple mussel-sh.e.l.l and the china dog, his sole treasures and ornaments. The mussel was his greatest joy, perhaps; it had been given him by a fisherman, who had brought a pocket-full back from his sea trip, to please his own children. It made no sound, but the tint was pure and lovely, and it was lined with rainbow pearl. The dog was not jealous, for he knew (or the boy John thought he knew), that he was, after all, the more companionable of the two, and that he was talked to ten times for the mussel's once. John was telling him now, as he struggled into his s.h.i.+rt and trousers, about the vision of last night, and the dreams that followed it. "And as soon as ever I have my ch.o.r.es done," he said, and his eyes shone, and his cheek flushed at the thought, "as soon as ever, I'm going down there, just to see. Of course, I suppose it isn't there, you know; but then,--if it should be!"

The dog expressed sympathy in his usual quiet way, and was of the opinion that John should go by all means, for, after all, who could say that the vision might not have been reality? When one considered the stories one had read! and had not the dog just heard the whole of "Robinson Crusoe" read aloud, bit by bit, in stealthy whispers, by early daylight, by moonlight, by stray bits of candle begged from a neighbor,--had he not heard and appreciated every word of the immortal story? He was no ignorant dog, indeed! His advice was worth having.

Breakfast was soon eaten; it did not take long to eat breakfast in Mr.

Sc.r.a.per's house. The ch.o.r.es were a more serious matter, for every spoon and plate had to be washed to the tune of a las.h.i.+ng tongue, and under an eye that withered all it lighted on. But at last,--at last the happy hour came when the tyrant's back was turned, and the tyrant's feet tottered off in the direction of the post-office. The daily purchases, the daily gossip at the "store," would fill the rest of the morning, as John well knew. He listened in silence to the charges to "keep stiddy to work, and git that p'tater-patch wed by noon;" he watched the departure of his tormentor, and went straight to the potato-patch, duty and fear leading him by either hand. The weeds had no safety of their lives that day; he was in too great a hurry to dally, as he loved to do, over the bigger stalks of pigweed, the giants which he, with his trusty sword--only it was a hoe--would presently dash to the earth and behead, and tear in pieces. Even the sprawling pusley-stems, which generally played the part of devil-fish and tarantulas and various other monsters, suffered no amputation of limb by limb, but were torn up with merciful haste, and flung in heaps together.

Was the potato-patch thoroughly "wed?" I hardly know. But I know that in less than an hour after Mr. Endymion Sc.r.a.per started for the village the boy John was on his way to the wharf.

As he drew near the river he found that something was the matter with his breath. It would not come regularly, but in gasps and sighs; his heart beat so hard, and was so high up in his throat he was almost choked. Would he see anything when he turned the corner that led down to the wharf? And if anything,--what? Then he shut his eyes and turned the corner.

The schooner was there. No longer spectral or shadowy, she lay in plain sight by the wharf, her trim lines pleasant to look at, her decks s.h.i.+ning with neatness, her canvas all spread out to dry, for the night dew had been heavy. Lifting his fearful eyes, the child saw the bronze figure standing in the bow, but now it was plainly seen to be a man, a swarthy man, with close-curled black hair, and bright, dark eyes. Two other men were lounging about the deck, but John took little heed of them. This man, the strangest he had ever seen, claimed his whole thought. He was as dark as the people in the geography book, where the pictures of the different races were; not an Ethiopian, evidently (John loved the long words in the geography book), because his nose was straight and his lips thin; perhaps a Malay or an Arab. If one could see a real Arab, one could ask him about the horses, and whether the dates were always sticky, and what he did in a sandstorm, and lots of interesting things. And then a Malay,--why, you could ask him how he felt when he ran amuck,--only, perhaps, that would not be polite.

These meditations were interrupted by a hail from the schooner. It was the dark man himself who spoke, in a quiet voice that sounded kind.

"Good-morning, sir! Will you come aboard this morning?"

John was not used to being called "Sir," and the word fell pleasantly on ears that shrank from the detested syllable "Bub," with which strangers were wont to greet him.

"Yes, if you please," he answered, with some dignity. It is, perhaps, difficult to be stately when one is only five feet tall, but John felt stately inside, as well as shy. The stranger turned and made a sign to the other men, who came quickly, bringing a gang-plank, which they ran out from the schooner's deck to the wharf. The Skipper, for such the dark man appeared to be, made a sign of invitation, and after a moment's hesitation, John ran across and stood on the deck of the white schooner.

Was he still dreaming? Would he wake in a moment and find himself back in the garret at home, with Mr. Sc.r.a.per shaking him?

"Welcome, young gentleman!" said the Skipper, holding out his hand.

"Welcome! the first visitor to the schooner. That it is a child, brings luck for the next voyage, so we owe you a thank. We arrived last night only. And what is my young gentleman's name?"

"My name is John," said the boy, standing with down-cast eyes before this wonderful person.

"And mine!" said the Skipper,--"two Johns, the black and the red. You should be called Juan Colorado, for your hair of red gold."

The boy looked up quickly, his cheek flus.h.i.+ng; he did not like to be laughed at; but the Skipper's face was perfectly grave, and only courtesy and hospitality shone from his dark eyes.

"I wonder what the schooner's name is!" John said, presently, speaking low, and addressing his remarks apparently to the mast, which he kicked gently with his foot.

"The schooner is the 'Nautilus,' young gentleman!"

The reply came from the Skipper, not from the mast, yet it was still to the latter that the boy made his next observation.

"I wonder where she comes from, and where she is going, and what she is going to do here!" And having delivered himself breathlessly of these remarks, the boy John wished he could squeeze through a port-hole, or melt away into foam, or get away somehow, anyhow.

But now he felt himself lifted in strong arms, and set on the rail of the vessel, with his eyes just opposite those of the Skipper, so that he could not look up without meeting them; and on so looking up, it became evident immediately that this was the kindest man in the world, and that he liked boys, and that, finally, there was nothing to be afraid of. On which John heaved a mighty sigh of relief, and then smiled, and then laughed.

"I like to know things!" he said, simply.

"Me, too," replied the Skipper. "I also like to know things. How else shall we become wise, Juan Colorado? Now listen, and you shall hear.

This schooner is the 'Nautilus,' as I say, and she is a Spanish schooner. Yes;" (in reply to the question in the boy's eyes,) "I am partly a Spanish man, but not all. I have other mankind in me, young gentleman. We come from the Bahamas. Do you know where are they, the Bahamas?"

John nodded. He liked geography, and stood at the head of his cla.s.s.

"Part of the West Indies," he said, rapidly. "Low, coral islands. One of them, San Salvador, is said to be the first land discovered by Columbus in 1492. Princ.i.p.al exports, sugar, coffee, cotton, tobacco, and tropical fruits. Belong to Great Britain. That's all I know."

"Caramba!" said a handsome youth, who was lounging on the rail a few feet off, gazing on with idle eyes, "you got the schoolmaster here, Patron! I did not know all that, me, and I come, too, from Bahamas. Say, you teach a school, M'sieur?"

"Franci!" said the Patron, gravely.

"Si, Senor!" said Franci, with a beautiful smile, which showed his teeth under his black mustache.

"There is a school of flying-fish in the cabin. Better see to them!"

"Si, Senor!" said Franci, and disappeared down the hatchway.