By George W. Cable
ilHE man of whom I am speaking was a tallish, slim, young fellow, shaped well enough, though a trifle limp for a Louisianian in the Mississippi cavalry. Some camp wag had fastened on him the nickname of “Crackedfiddle.” Our acquaintance began more than a year before Lee’s surrender; but Gregory came out of the war without any startling record, and the main thing I tell of him occurred” some years later.
I never saw him under arms or in uniform. I met him first at the house of a planter, where I was making the most of a flesh-wound, and was, myself, in uniform simply because I hadn’t any other clothes. There were pretty girls in the. house, and as his friends and fellow-visitors—except me—wore the gilt bars of commissioned rank on their gray collars, and he, as a private, had done nothing glorious, his appearance was always in civilian’s dress. Black he wore, from head to foot, in the cut fashionable in New Orleans when the war brought fashion to a stand: coat-waist short, skirt solemnly long; sleeves and trousers small at the hands and feet, and puffed out—phew! in the middle. The whole scheme was dandyish, dashing, zou-zou; and when he appeared in it, dark, good-looking, loose, languorous, slow to smile and slower to speak, it was—confusing.
One sunset hour as I sat alone on the planter’s veranda immersed in a romance, I noticed, too late to offer any serviceable warning, this impressive black suit and its ungenerously nicknamed contents coming in at the gate unprotected. Dogs, in the South, in those times, were not the caressed and harmless creatures now so common. A Mississippi planter’s watch-dogs were kept for their vigilant and ferocious hostility to the negro of the quarters Vol.. XX.—16
and to all strangers. One of these, a powerful, notorious, bloodthirsty brute, long-bodied, deer-legged—you may possibly know that big breed the planters called the “cur-dog” and prized so highly—darted out of hiding and silently sprang at the visitor’s throat. Gregory swerved, and the brute’s fangs, whirling by his face, closed in the sleeve and rent it from shoulder to elbow. At the same time another, one of the old “bear-dog” breed, was coming as fast as the light block and chain he had to drag would allow him. Gregory neither spoke nor moved to attack or retreat. At my outcry the dogs slunk away, and he asked me, diffidently, for a thing which was very precious in those days—pins.
But he was quickly surrounded by pitying eyes and emotional voices, and was coaxed into the house, where the young ladies took his coat away to mend it. While he waited for it in my room I spoke of the terror so many brave men had of these fierce homeguards. I knew one such beast that was sired of a wolf. He heard me with downcast eyes, at first with evident pleasure, but very soon quite gravely.
“They can afford to fear dogs,” he replied, “when they’ve got no other fear.” And when I would have it that he had shown a stout heart he smiled ruefully.
“I do everything through weakness,” he soliloquized, and, taking my book, opened it as if to dismiss our theme. But I bade him turn to the preface, where we read something like this:
That the seed of heroism is in all of us; else we should not forever relish, as we do, stories of peril, temptation, and exploit Their true zest is no mere ticklement of our curiosity or wonder, but comradeship with souls that have courage in danger, faithfulness under trial, or magnanimity in triumph or defeat. We have, moreover, it went on to say, a care for human excellence in general, by reason of which we want not alone our son, or cousin, or sister, but man everywhere, the norm, man, to be strong, sweet, and true; and reading stories of such, we feel this wish rebound upon us as duty sweetened by a new hope, and a new yearning for its fulfilment in ourselves.
“In short,” said I, closing the book, “those imaginative victories of soul over circumstance become essentially ours by sympathy and emulation, don’t they?”
“O yes,” he sighed, and added an indistinct word about “spasms of virtue.” But I claimed a special charm and use for unexpected and detached heroisms, be they fact or fiction. “If adventitious virtue,” I argued, ” can spring up from unsuspected seed and without the big roots of character”
“You think,” interrupted Gregory, “there’s a fresh chance for me.”
“For all the common run of us!” I cried. “Why not? And even if there isn’t, hasn’t it a beauty and a value? Isn’t a rose a rose, on the bush or off? Gold is gold wherever you find it, and the veriest spasm of time virtue, coined into action, is true virtue, and counts. It may not work my nature’s whole redemption, but it works that way, and is just that much solid help toward the whole world’s uplift” I was young enough then to talk in that high-flown manner, and he actually took comfort in my words, confessing that it had been his way to count a good act which was not in character with its doer as something like a dead loss to everybody.
“I’m glad it’s not,” he said, “for I reckon my ruling motive is always fear.”
“Was it fear this evening ?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “it was. It was fear of a coward’s name, and a sort of abject horror of being one.”
“Too big a coward inside,” I laughed, “to be a good stout coward outside,” and he assented.
“Smith,” he said, and paused long, “if I were a hard drinker and should try to quit, it wouldn’t be courage that would carry me through, but fear; quaking fear of a drunkard’s life and a drunkard’s death.”
I began to reply, but kept my tongue. He read the warning accusation in my eye.
“I’m afraid so,” he responded. You can guess what we meant. “I had a strange experience once,” he presently added, abstractedly, as if reminded of it by what we had last said “I took a prisoner.”
“By the overwhelming power of fear?” I inquired.
“Partly, yes. I saw him before he saw me and I felt that if I didn’t take him he’d either take me or shoot me, so I covered him and he surrendered. We were in an old pine-clearing grown up with oak-bushes.”
“Would it have been less strange,” I inquired, “if you had been in an old oak-clearing grown up with pinebushes?”
“No, he’d have got away just the same.”
“What! you didn’t bring him in?”
“Only part of the way. Then he broke and ran.”
“And you had to shoot him?”
“No, I didn’t even shoot at him. I couldn’t, Smith; he looked so much like me. It was like seeing my own ghost. All the time I had him something kept saying to me, ‘You’re your own prisoner—you’re your own prisoner.’ And— do you know?—that thing comes back to me now every time I get into the least sort of a tight place!”
“I wish it would come to me,” I responded. A slave girl brought his coat and our talk remained unfinished until five years after the war.
Gregory had been brought up on the shore of Mississippi Sound, a beautiful region fruitful mainly in apathy of character. He was a skilled lover of sail-boats. When we all got back to New Orleans, paroled, and cast about for a living in the various channels “open to gentlemen,” he, largely, I think, owing to his timid notion of his worth, went into the rough business of owning and sailing a small, handsome schooner in the “Lake trade,” which, you know, includes Mississippi Sound. I married, and for some time he liked much to come and see us—on inclement evenings, when he knew we’d be
alone. He was in lore ret, as he had been when we were fellow – absentees from camp, and with the same girl. But his passion had never presumed to hope, and the girl was of too true a sort ever to thrust hope upon him. What his love lacked in courage it made up in constancy, however, and morning, noon, and night—sometimes midnight too. I venture to say—his all top patient heart bowed mutely down toward its holy city across the burning sands of his diffidence. “When another fellow stepped in and married her, he simply loved on, in the same innocent, dumb, harmless way as before. He gave himself some droll consolations. One of these was a pretty, sloop-rigged sail-boat trim and swift, on which he lavished the tendernesses he knew he should never bestow upon any living she. He named her Sweetheart; a general term; but he knew that we all knew it meant the mender of his coat By and by his visits fell off and I met him oftenest on the street Sometimes we stopped for a moment’s sidewalk chat, New Orleans fashion, and I still envied the clear bronze of his fine skin, which the rest of us had soon lost. But after a while certain changes began to show for the worse, until one day in the summer of the fifth year he tried to hurry by me, I stopped him, and was thinking what a handsome fellow he was even yet, with such a quiet, modest fineness about him, when he began, with a sudden agony of face, “My schooner’s sol 1 for debt! You know the reason; I’ve seen you read it all over me every time we have met, these twelve months—O don’t look at me!”
His slim, refined hands—he gave me both — were clammy and tremulous. “Yes,” he babbled on, “it’s a fixed fact, Smith; the cracked fiddle’s a smashed fiddle at last!”
I drew him out of the hot sun and into a secluded archway, he talking straight on with a speed and pitiful grandiloquence totally unlike him. “I’ve finished all the easy parts—the first ecstasies of pure license—the long down-hill plunge with all its mad exhilarations —the wild vanity of venturing and defying—that bigness of the soul’s experiences which makes even its anguish
seem finer than the old bitterness of tame propriety—they are all behind me, now—the valley of horrors is before! You can’t understand it, Smith. O you can’t understand”
But I did. Are we not, all, sinuers together? And, anyhow, one does not have to put himself through a whole criminal performance to apprehend its spiritual experiences. I understood all, and especially what he unwittingly betrayed even now; that deep thirst for the dramatic element in one’s own life, which, when social conformity fails to supply it becomes, to an eager soul, sin’s cunningest allurement.
I tried to talk to him. “Oregon-, that day the dogs jumped on you—you remember?—didn’t you say if ever you should reach this condition your fear might save you?”
He stared at me a moment “Do you “—a ray of humor lighted his eyes —” do you still believe in spasms of virtue?”
“Thank heaven, yes!” laughed I, and he said good-by and was gone.
I heard of him twice afterward that day. About noon some one coming into the office said: “I just now saw Crackedfiddle buying a great lot of powder and shot and fishing-tackle. Here’s a note. He says first read it and then seal it and send it to his aunt.” It read:
“Don’t look for me. You can’t find me. I’m not going to kill or hurt myself, and I’ll report again in a month.”
I delivered it in person on my way uptown, advising his kinswoman to trust him on his own terms and hope for the best. Privately, of course, I was distressed, and did not become less so when, on reaching home, my wife told me that he had been there and borrowed an arm-load of books, saying he might return some of them in a month, but would probably keep others for two. So he did ; and one evening, when he brought the last of them back, he told us fully, my wife and I—spiritual experiences and all — what had occurred to him in the interval.
The sale of the schooner had paid its debt and left him some cash over. Better yet, Sweetheart was still liiH. On the day of his disappearance she was lying at the head of the New Basin, distant but a few minutes’ walk from the spot where we met and talked. When he left me he went there. At the stores thereabout he bought a new hatchet and axe, an extra water-keg or two, and a month’s provisions. He filled all the kegs, stowed everything aboard, and by the time the afternoon had half waned was rippling down the New Canal under mule-tow with a strong lake breeze in his face.
At the lake (Pontchartrain), as the tow-line was cast off, he hoisted sail, and, skimming out by light-house and breakwater, tripped away toward Pointeaux-Herbes and the eastern skyline beyond, he and Sweetheart alone, his hand clasping hers—the tiller, that is— hour by hour, and the small waves tiptoeing to kiss her southern cheek as she leaned it away from the saucy north wind. In time the low land and then the light-house sank and vanished behind them; on the left the sun went down in the purple-black swamps of Manchac; the intervening waters turned crimson and bronze under the fairer changes of the sky, while in front of them Fort Pike Light began to glimmer through an opal haze, and by and by to draw near. It passed. From a large in-bound schooner gliding by in the twilight came, in friendly recognition, the drone of a conch-shell, the last happy salutation Sweetheart was ever to receive. Then the evening star silvered their wake through the deep Rigolets, and the rising moon met them, her and her lover, in Lake Borgne, passing the dark pines of Round Island, and hurrying on toward the white sand-keys of the Gulf.
The night was well advanced as they neared the pine-crested dunes of Cat Island, in whose lee a more cautious sailor would have dropped anchor till the morning. But to this pair every mile of these fickle waters, channel and mud-lump, snug lagoon, open sea and hidden bar, each and all, were known as the woods are known to a hunter, and, as he drew her hand closer to his side, she turned across the track of the moon and bounded into the wide south. A maze of marsh islands—huddling along that narrow, half-drowned mainland of
cypress swamp and trembling prairie which follows the Mississippi out to sea —slept, leagues away, below the western waters. In the east lay but one slender boundary between the voyager and the shoreless deep, and this was so near that from its farther edge came now and again its admonishing murmur, the surf-thunder of the open Gulf rolling forever down the prone but unshaken battle-front of the sandy Chandeleurs.
So all night, lest wind or resolve should fail next day, he sailed. How to tell just where dawn found him I scarcely know. Somewhere in that blue wilderness, with no other shore in sight, yet not ovey three miles northeast of a “pass” between two long tide-covered sand-reefs, a ferment of delta silt—if science guesses right— had lifted higher than most of the islands behind it in the sunken west one mere islet in the shape of a broad crescent, with its outward curve to seaward and a deep, slender lagoon on the landward side filling the whole length of its bight. About half the island was flat and was covered with those strong marsh grasses for which you’ve seen cattle, on the mainland, venture so hungrily into the deep ooze. The rest, the southern half, rose in dazzling white dunes twenty feet or more in height and dappled green with patches of ragged sod and thin groups of dwarfed and wind-flattened shrubs. As the sun rose, Sweetheart and her sailor glided through a gap in the sand reef that closed the lagoon in, luffed, and as a great cloud of nesting pelicans rose from their dirty town on the flats, ran softly upon the inner sands, where a rillet, a mere thread of sweet liater, trickled across the white beach. Here he waded ashore with the utensils and provisions, made a fire, washed down a hot breakfast of bacon and pone with a pint of black coffee, returned to his boat and slept until afternoon. Wakened at length by the canting of the sloop with the fall of the tide, he rose, rekindled his fire, cooked and ate again, smoked two pipes, and then, idly shouldering his grin, made a long half-circuit of the beach to south and eastward, mounted the highest dune and gazed far and wide.
Nowhere on sand or sea under the illimitable dome was there sign of human presence on the earth. Nor would there likely be any. Except by misadventure no ship on any course ever showed more than a topmast above this horizon. Of the hunters and fishermen who roamed the islands nearer shore, with the Chandeleurs, the stormdrowned Grand Gosiers and the deepsea fishing grounds beyond, few knew the way hither, and fewer ever sailed it. At the sound of his gun the birds of the beach—sea-snipe, curlew, plover— showed the whites of their wings for an instant and fell to feeding again. Save when the swift Wilderness—you remember the revenue cutter—chanced this way on her devious patrol, only the steamer of the light-house inspection service, once a month, came up out of the southwest through yonder channel and passed within hail on her way from the stations of the Belize to those of Mississippi Sound; and he knew—had known before he left the New Basin— that she had just gone by here the day before.
But to Gregory this solitude brought no quick distress. “With a bird or two at his belt he turned again toward his dying fire. Once on the way he paused, as he came in sight of the sloop, and gazed upon it with a faintness of heart he had not known since his voyage began. However, it presently left him, and hurrying down to her side he began to unload her completely, and to make a permanent camp in the lee of a ridge of sand crested with dwarfed casino bushes, well up from the beach. The night did not stop him, and by the time he was tired enough for sleep he had lightened the boat of everything stowed into her the previous day. Before sunrise he was at work again, removing her sandbags, her sails, flags, cordage, even her spars. The mast would have been heavy for two men to handle, but he got it out whole, though not without hurting one hand so painfully that he had to lie off for over two hours. But by mid-day he was busy
again, and when at low water poor Sweetheart comfortably turned upon her side on the odorous, clean sand, it was never more to rise. The keen, new axe of her master ended her days.
“No! O no!” he said to me, “call it anything but courage! I felt—I don’t want to be sentimental — I*m sure I was not sentimental at the time, but — I felt as though I were a murderer. All I knew was that it had to’ be done. I trembled like a thief. I had to stoop twice before I could take up the axe, and I was so cold my teeth chattered. When I lifted the first blow I didn’t know where it was going to fall But it struck as true as a die, and then I flew at it. I never chopped so fast or clean in my life. I wasn’t fierce ; I was as full of self-delight as an overpraised child. And yet when something delayed me an instant I found I was still shaking. Courage,” said he, ” O no; I know what it was, and I knew then. But I had no choice; it was my last chance.”
I told him that any one might have thought him a madman chopping up his last chance.
“Maybe so,” he replied, “but I wasn’t; it was the one sane thing I could do ;” and he went on to tell me that when night fell the tallest fire that ever leapt from those sands blazed from Sweetheart’s piled ribs and keel.
It was proof to him of his having been shrewd, he said, that for many days he felt no repentance of the act nor was in the least lonely. There was an infinite relief merely in getting clean away from the huge world of men, with all its exactions and temptations and the myriad rebukes and rebuffs of its crass propriety and thrift. He had endured solitude enough in it; the secret lonelineHS of a spiritual bankruptcy- Here was life begun over, with none to make new debts to except nature and himself, and no besetments but his own circumvented propensities. What humble, happy masterhood! Each dawn he rose from dreamless sleep and leaped into the surf as into the embrace of a new existence. Every hour of day brought some unfrettin^ task or hale pastime. With sheath-knife and sail-needle lie made of his mainsail a handsome tent, using the maiuboom for his ridge-pole, and finishing it just in time for the first night of rain—when, nevertheless, he lost all his coffee!
He did not waste toil. He hoarded its opportunities as one might husband salt on the mountains or water in the desert, and loitering in well-calculated idleness between thoughts many and things of sea and shore innumerable, filled the intervals from labor to labor with gentle entertainment. Skyward ponderings by night, canny discoveries under foot by day, quickened his mind and sight to vast and to minute significances, until they declared an Author known to him hitherto only by tradition, and every acre of the barren islet grew fertile in beauties and mysteries, and a handful of sand at the door of his tent held him for hours guessing the titanic battles that had ground the invincible quartz to that crystal meal and fed it to the sea.
I may be more rhetorical than he was, but he made all the more of these conditions while experiencing them, because he knew they could not last out the thirty days, nor half the thirty, and took modest comfort in a will strong enough to meet all present demands, well knowing there was one exigency yet to arise, one old usurer still to be settled with who had not yet brought in his dun.
It came — began to come — in the middle of the second week. At its familiar approach he felt no dismay, save a certain inert dismay that it brought none. Three, four, five times he went bravely to the rill, drowned his thirst and called himself satisfied; but the second day was worse than the first; the craving was better than the rill’s brief cure of it, and once he rose straight from drinking of the stream and climbed the dune to look for a sail.
He strove in vain to labor. The pleasures of toil were as stale as those of idleness. His books were put aside with a shudder, and he walked abroad with a changed gait; the old extortioner was levying on his nerves. And
on his brain. He dreamed that night of war-times; found himself commander of a whole battery of heavy guns, and lo, they were all quaker-cannon. When he would have fled monstrous terrors met him at every turn, till he woke and could sleep no more. Dawn widened over sky and sea, but its vast beauty only mocked the castaway. All day long he wandered up and down and along and across his glittering prison, no tiniest speck of canvas, no faintest wreath of smoke, on any water’s edge; the horror of his isolation growing—growing—like the monsters of his dream, and his whole nature wild with a desire which was no longer a mere physical drought, but a passion of the soul, that gave the will an unnatural energy and set at naught every true interest of earth and heaven. Again and again he would have shrieked its anguish, but the first note of his voice rebuked him to silence as if he had espied himself in a glass. He fell on his face voiceless, writhing, and promised himself, nay, pledged creation and its Creator, that on the day of his return to the walks of men he would drink the cup of madness and would drink it thenceforth till he died.
When night came again he paced the sands for hours and then fell to work to drag by long and toiling obliques to a favorable point on the southern end of the island the mast he had saved, and to raise there a flag of distress. In the shortness of his resources he dared not choose the boldest exposures, where the first high wind would cast it down; but where he placed it it could be seen from every quarter except the north, and any sail approaching from that direction was virtually sure to come within hail even of the voice.
Day had come again as he left the finished task, and once more from the highest wind-built ridge his hungering eyes swept the round sea’s edge. But he saw no sail. Nerveless and exhausted he descended to the southeastern beach and watched the morning brighten. The breezes, that for some time had slept, fitfully revived, and the sun leaped from the sea and burned its way through a low bank of dark and ruddy clouds with so unusual a splendor that the beholder was in some degree both quickened and tranquillized. He could even play at self-command, and in child fashion bound himself not to mount the dunes strain for a northern look within an hour. This southern half-circle must suffice. Indeed, unless these idle zephyrs should amend, no sail could in that time draw near enough to notice any signal he could offer.
Playing at self-command gave him some earnest of it In a whim of the better man he put off his clothes and sprang into the breakers. He had grown chill, but a long wrestle with the surf warmed his blood, and as he reclothed himself and with a better step took his way along the beach toward his tent a returning zest of manhood refreshed his spirit. The hour was up, but in a kind of equilibrium of impulses and with much emptiness of mind, he let it lengthen on, made a tire, and for the first time in two days cooked food. He ate and still tarried. A brand in his camp fire, a piece from the remnant of his boat, made beautiful names. He idly cast in another and was pleased to find himself sitting there instead of gazing his eyes out for sails that never rose into view. He watched a third brand smoke and blaze. And then, as tamely as if the new impulse were only another part of a continued abstraction, he arose and once more climbed the sandy hills. The highest was some distance from his camp. At one point near its top a brief northeastward glimpse of the marsh’s outer edge and the blue waters beyond showed at least that nothing had come near enough to raise the pelicans. But the instant his sight cleared the crown of the ridge he rushed forward, threw up his arms, and lifted his voice in a long, imploring yell. Hardly two miles away, her shapely canvas leaning and stiffening in the augmented breeze, a small yacht had just gone about, and with twice the speed at which she must have approached was hurrying back straight into the north.
The frantic man dashed back and forth along the crest, tossing his arms, waving his Madras handkerchief, curs
ing himself for leaving his gun so far behind, and again and again repeating his vain ahoys in wilder and wilder alternations of beseeching and rage. The lessening craft flew straight on. no ear in her skilled enouirh to catch the distant cry. and no eye alert enough to scan the dwindling sand-hills. He ceased to call, but still, with heavynotes of distress to himself, waved and waved, now here, now there, while the sail grew smaller and smaller. At length he stopped this also and only stood gazing. Almost on first sight of the craft he had guessed that the men in her had taken alarm at the signs of changing weather, and seeing the freshening smoke of his fire hail also inferred that earlier sportsmen were already on the island. Oh, if he could have tired one shot when she was nearest! But already she was as hopelessly gone as though she were even now below the horizon. Suddenly he turned and ran down to his camp. Not for the gun; not in any new hope of signalling the yacht. No, no; a raft! a raft! Deliverance or destruction, it should be at his own hand and should wait no longer!
A raft forthwith he set about to make. Some stout portions of his boat were still left Tough shrubs of the sandhills furnished treunels and suppler parts. Of ropes there was no lack. The mast was easily dragged down again to the beach to be once more a mast, and in nervous haste, yet with skill and thoroughness, the tent was ripped up and remade into a sail, and even a rude centreboard was rigged in order that one might tack against unfavorable winds.
Winds, at nightfall, when the thing began to be near completion, there were none. The day’s sky had steadily withdrawn its favor. The sun shone as it sank into the waves, but in the northwest and southeast dazzling thunderheads swelled from the sea’s line high into the heavens, and in the early dusk began with silent kindlings to challenge each other to battle. As night swiftly closed down the air grew unnaturally still. From the toiler’s brow, worse than nt noon, the sweat rolled off, as at last ho brought his work to a close by the glare of his leaping camp-tire. Now, unless
he meant only to perish, he must once more eat and sleep while he might. Then let the storm fall; the moment it was safely over and the wind in the right quarter he would saiL As for the thirst which had been such torture while thwarted, now that it ruled unchallenged, it was purely a wild, glad zeal as full of method as of diligence. But first he must make his diminished provisions and his powder safe against the elements; and this he did, covering them with a water-proof stuff and burying them in a northern slope of sand.
He awoke in the small hours of the night. The stars of the zenith were quenched. Blackness walled and roofed him in close about his crumbled fire, save when at shorter and shorter intervals and with more and more deafening thunders the huge clouds lit up their own forms, writhing one upon another, and revealed the awe-struck sea and ghostly sands waiting breathlessly below. He rose to lay on more fuel, and while he was in the act the tornado broke upon him. The wind, as he had forecast, came out of the southeast In an instant it was roaring and hurtling against the farther side of his island rampart like the charge of a hundred thousand horse and tossing the sand of the dunes like blown hair into the northwest, while the rain in one wild deluge lashed the frantic sea and weltering lagoon as with the whips of the Furies.
He had kept the sail on the beach for a protection from the storm, but before he could crawl under it he was as wet as though he had been tossed up by the deep, and yet was glad to gain its cover from the blinding floods and stinging sand. Here he lay for more than an hour, the rage of the tempest continually growing, the heavens in a constant pulsing glare of lightnings, their terrific thunders smiting and bellowing round and round its echoing vault, and the very island seeming at times to stagger back and recover again as it braced itself against the fearful onsets of the wind. Snuggling in his sail-cloth burrow, he complacently recalled an earlier storm like this, which he and Sweetheart, the only other time they ever were here, had tranquilly weath
ered in this same lagoon. On the mainland, in that storm, cane- and rice-fields had been laid low and half destroyed, houses had been unroofed, men had been killed. A woman and a boy, under a pecan-tree, were struck by lightning; and three men who had covered themselves with a tarpaulin on one of the wharves in New Orleans were blown with it into the Mississippi, poor fellows, and were drowned ; a fact worthy of second consideration in the present juncture.
This second thought had hardly been given it before he crept hastily from his refuge and confronted the gale in quick alarm. The hurricane was veering to southward. Let it shift but a point or two more, and its entire force would sweep the lagoon and its beach. Before long the change came. The mass of canvas at his feet leapt clear of the ground and fell two or three yards away. He sprang to seize it, but in the same instant the whole storm — rain, wind, and sand—whirled like a troop of fiends round the southern end of the island, the ceaseless lightnings showing the way, and came tearing and howling up its hither side. The white sail lifted, bellied, rolled, fell, vaulted into the air, fell again, tumbled on, and at the foot of a dune stopped until its wind-buffeted pursuer had almost overtaken it. Then it fled again, faster, faster, higher, higher up the sandy slope to its top, caught and clung an instant on some unseen bush, and then with one mad bound into the black sky, unrolled, widened like a phantom, and vanished forever.
Gregory turned in desperation, and in the glare of the lightning looked back toward his raft Great waves were rolling along and across the slender reef in wide obliques and beating themselves to death in the lagoon, or sweeping out of it again seaward at its more northern end. On the dishevelled crest of one he saw his raft, and on another its mast. He could not look a second time. The flying sand blinded him and cut the blood from his face. He could only cover his eyes and crawl under the bushes in such poor lee as he could find; and there, with the first lull of the storm, heavy with exhaustion and despair, he fell asleep and slept on til far into the day. When he awoke the tempest was over.
Even more completely the tumult within him was quieted. He rose and stool forth mute in spirit as in speech; humbled, yet content, in the consciousness that having miserably failed first to save himself and then to rue himself back to destruction, the hurricane had been his deliverer. It had spared his supplies, his ammunition, his weapons, only hiding them deeper under the dune sands; but scarce a vestige of his camp remained and of his raft nothing, and as once more from the highest sand-ridge he looked down upon the sea weltering in the majestic after-heavings of its passion, at the eastern beach booming under the shock of its lofty rollers, and then into the sky still gray with the endless flight of southward-hurrying scud, he felt the stir of a new attachment to them and his wild prison, and pledged alliance with them thenceforth.
Hebe, in giving me his account, Gregory asked me if that sounded sentimental. I said no, and thereupon he actually tried to apologize to me as a professional story-teller, for having had so few deep feelings in the moments where the romancists are supposed to place them. I told him what I had once seen a mechanic do on a steep, slated roof nearly a hundred feet from the pavement. He had faced around from his work, which was close to the ridge-tiles, probably to kick off the shabby shoes he had on, when some hold failed him and he began to slide toward the eaves. We people in the street below fairly moaned our horror, but he didn’t utter a sound. He held back with all his skill, one leg thrust out in front, the other drawn up with the knee to his breast, and his hands flattened beside him on the slates, but he came steadily on down till his forward foot passed over the eaves and his heel caught on the tin gutter. Then he stopped. We held our breath below. He slowly and cautiously threw off one
shoe, then the other, and then turned, clinibed back up the roof and resumed his work. And we two or three witnesses down in the street didn’t think any less of him because he did so without anv show of our glad emotion.
‘O.’if I’d hail that fellows nerve,” said Gregorv, ■• that would be another thing!”
My wife and I smiled at each other. “How would it be ‘another thing ?” we asked. ‘• Did you not quietly get up and begin life over again as if nothing had occurred?”
‘■ There wasn’t anything else to do,” he replied, with a smile. “The f ings came later, too, in an easy soi■: gradual way. I never could quite:.:. ke out how men get such clear notion ■ >’ what they call * Providence,’ but, just the same. I know by experience there’s all the difference of peace and misery, or life and death, whether you’re in partnership with the things that help the world on, or with those that hold it back.”
“But with that feeling,” my wife asked, “did not your longing for our human world coutinue?”
“No,” he replied, “but I got a new liking for it—although, you understand, / never had anything against it, of course. It’s too big and strong for me, that’s all; and that’s my fault. Your man on that slippery roof kicking his shoes off is a sort of parable to me. If your hand or your foot offend you and you have to cut it off. that’s a physical disablement, and bad enough. But when your gloves and your shoes are too much for you, and you have to pluck them off and cast them from you, you find each one is a great big piece of the civilized world, and you hardly know how much you did like it, till you’ve lost it And still, it’s no use longing, when you know your limitations, and I saw I’d got to keep my world trimmed down to where I could run barefooted on the sand.”
He told us that now he began for the first time since coming to the island, to find his books his host source, of interest and diversion. He learned, he said, a way of reading by which sea, sky, book, island, and absent humanity, all seemed parts of one whole, and all to speak together in one harmony, while they toiled together for one harmony some day to be perfected. Not all books, nor even all good books, were equally good for that effect, he thought, and the best
“You might not think it,” he said, “but the best was a Bible I’d chanced to carry along;” he didn’t know precisely what kind, but “just one of these ordinary Bibles you see lying around in people’s houses.” He extolled the psalms and asked my wife if she’d ever noticed the beauty of the twenty-third. She smiled and said she believed she had.
“Then there was one,” he went on, “beginning, ‘Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty; neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too wonderful for me;’ and by and by it says, ‘Surely, I have quieted myself as a child that is weaned: my soul is even as a weaned child.'”
One day, after a most marvellous-sunset, he had been reading, he said, “that long psalm with twenty-two parts in it— a hundred and seventy-six verses.” He had intended to read “Lord, my heart is not haughty” after it, though the light was fast failing, but at the hundred and seventy-sixth verse he closed the book. Thus he sat in the nearly motionless air, gazing on the ripples of the lagoon as, now singly, and now by twos or threes, they glided up the beach tinged with the colors of parting day as with a grace of resignation, and sank into the grateful sands like the lines of this last verse sinking into his heart; now singly—” I have gone astray like a lost sheep;” and now by twos— “I have gone astray like a lost sheep; save thy servant;” or by threes—”I have gone astray like a lost sheep; save thy servant; for I do not forget thy commandments.”
“I shouldn’t tell that,” he said to us, “if I didn’t know so well how little it counts for. But I knew at the time that when the next day but one should bring the light-house Bteamer I shouldn’t be any more fit to go ashore, to stay, than a jelly-fish.” We agreed, he and I (my wife dissenting) that there can be as wide a distance between fine feelings and faithful doing as, he said, ” be
tween listening to the band and charging a battery.”
‘On the islet the night deepened. The moon had not risen, and the stars only glorified the dark, as it, in turn, revealed the unearthly beauties of a phosphorescent sea. It was one of those rare hours in which the deep confessed the amazing numbers of its own living and swarming constellations. Not a fish could leap or dart, not a sinuous thing could turn, but it became an animate torch. Every quick movement was a gleam of green fire. No drifting, flaccid life could pulse so softly along but it betrayed itself in lambent outlines. Each throb of the water became a beam of light, and every ripple that widened over the strand—still whispering, “I have gone astray “—was edged with luminous pearls.
In an agreeable weariness of frame, untroubled in mind, and counting the night too beautiful for slumber he reclined on the dry sands with an arm thrown over a small pile of fagots which he had spent the day in gathering from every part of the island to serve his need for the brief remainder of his stay. In this search he had found but one piece of his boat, a pine board. This he had been glad to rive into long splinters and bind together again as a brand, with which to signal the steamer if—contrary to her practice, I think he said—she should pass in the night. And so, without a premonition of drowsiness, he was presently asleep, with the hours radiantly folding and expiring one upon another like the ripples on the beach.
When he came to himself he was on his feet. The moon was high, his fire was smouldering; his heart was beating madly and his eyes were fixed on the steamer, looming large, moving at full speed, her red light showing, her green light hid, and her long wake glowing with comet fire. In a moment she would be passing. It was too late for beacon-flame or torch. He sprang for his gun, and mounting the first low rise fired into the air, once !—twice !— and shouted, “Help !—help!”
She kept straight on. She was passing, she was passing! In trembling haste he loaded and fired again, again wailed oat his ay for help, and still she kept her speed. He had loaded for the third discharge, still frantically calling the while, and was lifting his sun to fire when he saw the white Light at her foremast-head becin to draw nearer to the red light at her waist and knew she wa% turning. He fired, shouted, and tried to load again; but as her green light brightened into riew beside the red. he dropped his gun and leaped and crouched and laughed and wept for joy.
“Whr, Gregory!” the naval lieutenant cried, as the castaway climbed from the steamers boat to her deck. “Why. you blasted old cracked fiddle! what in”
•• Right, the first guess!” laughed Gregory. “there’s where I’ve been!” and in the cabin he explained alL
‘•The fiddle’s mended.” he concluded. “You can play a tune on it—by being careful”
•• But what’s your tune ?” asked his hearer: “you cannot go back to that island”
“Yes, 111 be on it in a week—with a schooner-load of cattle. I can get them on credit. Going to raise cattle there as a regular business. They’ll fatten in that marsh like blackbirds.”
True enough, before the week -was up the mended fiddle was playine its tune. It was not until Gregory’s second return from his island that he came to see us and told us his simple story. We asked him how it was that the steamer, that first time, had come so much earlier than she generally did.
“She didn’t,” he replied. “I had miscounted one day.”
“Don’t you,” asked my wife, who woidd have liked a more religious tone in Gregory’s recital, “don’t you have
trouble to keep run of your Sabbaths away out there alone ? *
“Why *” — he smiled — *• it’s always Sunday there. Here almost everybody feels duty bound to work harder than somebody else, or else make somebody else work harder than he, and you need a day every now and then for Sunday— or Sabbath, at least. Oh. I suppose it’s all one in the end, isn’t it? You take yours in a pill. I take mine in a powder. Not that it’s the least bit like a dose, however, except for the good it does.”
“And you’re really prospering, even in a material way!” I said.
“Yes.” he answered. “0 yes; the island’s already too small for us.”
“It’s certainly very dangerously exposed.” said my wife, and I guessed her thought was on Last Island, which, you remember, though very large and populous, had been, within our recollection, totally submerged, with dreadful loss of life.
•■Oyes,” he responded, “there’s always something, wherever you are. One of these days souie storm’s going to roll the sea clean over the whole thing.”
“Then, why don’t you move to a bigger island closer inshore?” she asked.
“I’m afraid,” said Gregory, and smiled.
“Afraid!’ said my wife, incredulously.
“Yes,” he responded. “I’m afraid my prisoner!! get away fro in me.”
As his hand closed over hers in goodby I saw, what he could not, that she had half a notion to kiss it. I told her so when he was gone, and kissed hers —for him.
“I don’t care,” she said, dreamily, as it lingered in mine, “I’m glad I mended his coat for him that time.”