In Which Is A Sad Recognition
THE mate did not mistake his position, for the jut of land we described in the last chapter is but a few hours' ride from Nassau, and the houses are inhabited by wreckers. With desponding hearts did our unfortunates approach one of the rude cabins, from the window of which a faint light glimmered, and hesitate at the door, as if doubting the reception they were about to receive. The roaring of the beach, and the sharp whistling of the wind, as in clouds it scattered the sand through the air, drowned what sound might otherwise be heard from within. "This cabin seems deserted," says one, as he taps on the door a second time. "No, that cannot be!" returns the other, peering through a small window into the barrack-like room. It was from this window the light shone, and, being a bleak November night, a wood fire blazed on the great hearth, shedding its lurid glows over everything around. It is the pale, saline light of wreckwood. A large binnacle lamp, of copper, hung from the centre of the ceiling, its murky light mingling in curious contrast to the pale shadows of the wreckwood fire. Rude chains, and chests, and boxes, and ropes, and canvas, and broken bolts of copper, and pieces of valuable wood, and various nautical relics-all indicating the trade of shipwreck, lie or stand promiscuously about the room; while in the centre is a table surrounded by chairs, some of which are turned aside, as if the occupants had just left. Again, there may be seen hanging from the unplastered walls numerous teeth of fish, bones and jaws of sharks, fins and flukes of curious species, heads of the Floridian mamalukes, and preserved dolphins-all is interspersed here and there with coloured prints, illustrative of Jack's leaving or returning to his favourite Mary, with a lingering farewell or fond embrace.
Louder and louder, assured of some living being within they knock at the door, until a hoarse voice rather roars than speaks-"Aye, aye! hold hard a bit! I'se bearin' a hand!" The sound came as if from the clouds, for not a living being was visible. A pause followed; then suddenly a pair of dingy legs and feet descended from a small opening above the window, which, until that moment, had escaped their notice. The sight was, indeed, not the most encouraging to weak nerves. Clumsily lowered the legs, the feet making a ladder of cleets of wood nailed to the window, until the burly figure of the wrecker, encased with red shirt and blue trousers, stood out full to view. Over his head stood bristly hair in jagged tufts; and as he drew his brawny hand over the broad disc of his sun-scorched face, winking and twisting his eyes in the glare, there stood boldly outlined on his features the index of his profession. He shrugged his shoulders, gathered his nether garments quickly about him, paused as if half confused and half overjoyed, then ran to the fire-place, threw into a heap the charred wood with a long wooden poker, and sought the door, saying--"Avast heavin a bit, Tom!" Having removed a wooden bar, he stands in the opening, braving out the storm. "A screachin nor'easter this, Tom--what'r ye sighted away, eh!" he concludes. He is--to use a vulgar term--aghast with surprise. It was Tom Dasher's watch to-night; but no Tom stands before him. "Hallo!--From whence came you?" he enquires of the stranger, with an air of anxious surprise. He bids them come in, for the wind carries the sand rushing into his domicile.
"We are shipwrecked men in distress," says the passenger--the wrecker, with an air of kindness, motioning them to sit down: "Our party have been swallowed up in the surf a short distance below, and we are the only survivors here seeking shelter."
"Zounds you say--God be merciful!" interrupts the hardy wrecker, ere the stranger had time to finish his sentence. "It was Tom's look-out to-night. Its ollers the way wi' him--he gits turned in, and sleeps as niver a body see'd, and when time comes to unbunk himself, one disn't know whether 'ts wind or Tom's snoarin cracks hardest. Well, well,--God help us! Think ye now, if wife and I, didn't, in a half sort of dream, fancy folks murmuring and crying on the beach about twelve, say. But the wind and the surf kept up such a piping, and Tom said ther war nought a sight at sundown." With a warm expression of good intention did our hardy host set about the preparing something to cheer their drooping spirits. "Be at home there wi' me," says he; "and if things b'nt as fine as they might be, remember we're poor folks, and have many a hard knock on the reefs for what we drag out. Excuse the bits o' things ye may see about; and wife 'll be down in a fip and do the vary best she can fo'h ye." He had a warm heart concealed beneath that rough exterior; he had long followed the daring profession, seen much suffering, lightened many a sorrowing heart. Bustling about among old boxes and bags, he soon drew forth a lot of blankets and quilts, which he spread upon the broad brick hearth, at the same time keeping up a series of questions they found difficult to answer, so rapidly were they put. They had indeed fallen into the hands of a good Samaritan, who would dress their wounds with his best balms.
"An' now I tak it ye must be famished; so my old woman must get up an' help mak ye comfortable," says he, bringing forth a black tea-kettle, and filling it from a pail that stood on a shelf near the fire-frame. He will hang it on the fire. He had no need of calling the good dame; for as suddenly as mysteriously does the chubby figure of a motherly-looking female of some forty years shoot from the before described opening, and greeting the strangers with a hearty welcome, set about preparing something to relieve their exhaustion. A gentle smile pervades her little red face, so simply expressive; her peaked cap shines so brightly in contrast with the black ribbon with which she secures it under her mole-bedecked chin; and her short homespun frock sets so comely, showing her thick knit stockings, and her feet well protected in calfskin laces, with heels a trooper might not despise; and then, she spreads her little table with a heartiness that adds its value to simple goodness,--her invitingly clean cups and saucers, and knives and forks, as she spreads them, look so cheerful. The kettle begins to sing, and the steam fumes from the spout, and the hardy wrecker brings his bottle of old Jamaica, and his sugar; and such a bowl of hot punch was never made before. "Come now," he says, "ye're in my little place; the wrecker as don't make the distressed comfortable aneath his ruf 's a disgrace to the craft." And now he hands each a mug of steaming punch, which they welcomely receive, a glow of satisfaction bespreading his face, telling with what sincerity he gives it. Ere they commenced sipping, the good dame brought pilot bread and set it before them; and while she returned to preparing her supper the wrecker draws his wooden seat by their side, and with ears attentive listens to the passenger as he recites the disaster.
"Only two out of twenty-seven saved-a sorry place that gulf!" he exclaims; "you bear away, wife. Ah, many a good body's bones, too, have whitened the beach beside us; many 's the bold fellow has been dashed upon it to die unknown," he continues, with serious face. "And war ner onny wemen amang ye, good man?" interposes the good dame.
"Seven; they have all passed into eternity!" rejoins the seaman, who, till then, had been a mute looker-on.
"Poor souls! how they mun' 'ave suffered!" she sighs, shaking her head, and leaning against the great fire frame, as her eyes fill with tears. The wrecker must needs acquaint Tom Dasher, bring him to his aid, and, though the storm yet rages, go search the beating surf where roll the unfortunates. Nay, the good dame will herself execute the errand of mercy, while he supplies the strangers with dry clothes; she will bring Tom hither. She fears not the tempest while her soul warms to do good; she will comfort the distressed who seek shelter under her roof. With the best his rough wardrobe affords does the wrecker clothe them, while his good wife, getting Tom up, relates her story, and hastens back with him to her domicile. Tom is an intrepid seafarer, has spent some seven years wrecking, saved many a life from the grasp of the grand Bahama, and laid up a good bit of money lest some stormy day may overtake him and make the wife a widow.
"This is a hard case, Stores!" says Tom, addressing himself to our wrecker, as with sharp, hairy face, and keen black eyes, his countenance assumes great seriousness. Giving his sou'-wester a cant back on his head, running his left hand deep into the pocket of his pea-jacket, and supplying his mouth with tobacco from his right, he stands his tall figure carelessly before the fire, and in a contemplative mood remains silent for a few minutes.
"Aye, but somethin' mun' be done, Tom," says the first wrecker, breaking silence.
"Yes; as my name is Tom Dasher, there must. We must go to the beach, and see what it's turned up,--what there is to be seen, an' the like o' that." Then, turning to the strangers, he continued, "Pity yer skipper hadn't a headed her two points further suthard, rounded the point just above here a bit, and made a lee under the bend. Our craft lies there now,--as snug as Tompkins' wife in her chamber!"
"Yes, but, Tom! ye dinna think as the poor folks could know all things," speaks up the woman, as Tom was about to add a few items more, merely to give the strangers some evidence of his skill.
"Aye, aye,--all right; I didn't get the balance on't just then," returned Tom, nodding his head with an air of satisfaction.
A nice supper of broiled fish, and toast, and tea, and hot rum punch-of which Tom helped himself without stint-was set out, the strangers invited to draw up, and all partook of the plain but cheering fare. As daylight was fast approaching, the two wreckers dispatched their meal before the others, and sought the spot on the beach described as where the fatal wreck took place, while the good dame put the shipwrecked to sleep in the attic, and covered them with her warmest rugs and blankets.
Not a vestige of the wreck was to be seen-not a fragment to mark the spot where but a few hours before twenty-five souls were hurried into eternity. They stood and stood, scanning over the angry ocean into the gloom: nothing save the wail of the wind and the sea's roar greeted their ears. Tom Dasher thinks either they have been borne out into the fathomless caves, or the men are knaves with false stories in their mouths.
Stores,--for such is our good man's name-turning from the spot, says daylight will disclo............