Chapter 5

He felt quite well now. All the dizziness and nausea had vanished, and he was his own strong, sturdy self again. The roll and swap of the boat were only the rock of a giant cradle; the surge of the sea, a deep-toned lullaby soothing him to pleasant dreams; and the sky! Dan had never seen such a midnight sky. He lay, with his head pillowed in his clasped hands, looking up at the starry splendor above him with a wonder akin to awe. The great, blue vault arching above him blazed with light from a myriad stars, that his books had told him were worlds greater than this on whose wide waters he was tossing now,--worlds whose history the wisest of men could never know,--worlds, thousands and millions of them, moving in shining order by "rule and law."

"Rule and law,"--it was the lesson that seemed to face Dan everywhere,--down in those black depths he had penetrated to-day, where valve and lever and gauge held roaring fire and hissing steam, with all their fierce force, to submission and service; in the polished mechanism whose steady throb he could feel pulsing beneath him like a giant heart; in the radiant sky where worlds beyond worlds swept on their mysterious way--obeying.

With half-formed thoughts like these stirring vaguely in his mind, Dan was dropping off into pleasant sleep, when he was roused by the sound of voices and the glimmering of a ship's lantern.

"I think you will find your boy here, sir."

It was Mr. John Wirt, who, with the aid of a friendly deck hand, was guiding a pale, tottering, very sick Brother Bart to Dan's side.

"Who wants me?" asked the half-wakened Dan, springing to his feet.

"Dan Dolan! Ye young rapscallion!" burst out Brother Bart, almost sobbing in his relief. "It's down at the bottom of the black sea I thought ye were. I've been tramping this boat, with this good man holding me up (for I'm too sick to stand), this half hour. Down wid ye now below stairs with the rest, where I can keep an eye on ye. Come down, I say!"

IX.--OBEYING ORDERS.

"Down below!" the words struck harshly on Dan's ear for good old Brother Bart was more used to obedience than command, and he was sick and shaken and doing his guardian duty under sore stress and strain to-night.

"Go below! What for?" asked Dan, shortly. "I'm all right up here, Brother Bart. I can't stand being packed in downstairs."

"Stand it or not, I'll not have ye up here," said Brother Bart, resolutely. "Down with ye, Dan Dolan! Ye were put under my orders, and ye'll have to mind my words."

"Not when it means being sick as a dog all night," answered Dan, rebelliously. "I tell you I can't stand it down in that stuffy place below, and I won't, I am going to stay up here."

"And is that the way ye talk?" said Brother Bart, who had a spirit of his own. "And it's only what I might look for, ye graceless young reprobate! God knows it was sore against my will that I brought ye with me, Dan Dolan; for I knew ye'd be a sore trial first to last. But I had to obey them that are above me. Stay, then, if you will against my word; for it's all I have to hold ye, since ye are beyant any rule or law.--We'll go back, my man," continued Brother Bart to the burly deck hand who had been supporting his swaying form. "Help me to get down to my bed, in God's name; for I am that sick I can scarcely see."

And Brother Bart tottered away, leaving Dan standing hot and defiant by his new friend, Mr. Wirt.

"Sorry to have made trouble for you," said that gentleman; "but when I found that good old man wandering sick and distracted over the boat, stirring up everyone in search of a lost boy, there was nothing to do but give him the tip."

"Freddy may stand it," said Dan, fiercely; "but I won't be grannied. What harm is there in staying up here?"

"None at all from our standpoint," was the reply; "but the good old gentleman looks at things in another light. You're under his orders," he said; and there was a faint, mocking note in the words, that Dan was keen enough to hear. He was hearing other things too,--the pant of the engines, the throb of the pulsing mechanism that was bearing him on through darkness lit only by the radiance of those sweeping worlds above; but that mocking note in his new friend's voice rose over all.

"Orders!" he repeated angrily. "I bet _you_ wouldn't take any such orders if you were a boy."

"No, I wouldn't, and I didn't" (there was a slight change in the speaker's voice as he paused to light a cigar), "and you see where it left me."

"Where?" asked Dan, curiously.

"Adrift," was the answer,--"like this big boat would be if there was no one to command: beyond rule and law, as that good old friend of yours said just now,--beyond rule and law."

"Beyond rule and law,--rule and law." The words began to hammer somehow on Dan's head and heart as he recalled with waking remorse poor Brother Bart tottering away in the darkness,--Brother Bart, who, as Dan knew, was only doing his duty faithfully, to the boy under his care,--Brother Bart, who, like the steamboat, like the stars, was _obeying_.

For a moment or two Mr. Wirt puffed at his cigar silently, while the fierce fire that had blazed up in Dan's breast sank into bounds, mastered by the boy's better self, even as he had seen Nature's fierce forces of flame and steam mastered by higher powers to-day.

"In short," said Mr. Wirt at last, as if he had been having thoughts of his own, "I am a derelict, my boy."

"What's that?" asked Dan, who had never heard the word before.

"A ship adrift, abandoned by captain and crew,--a wreck that tosses on the sea, a peril to all that come near it. There is nothing a good sailor dreads more than a derelict, and he makes it his business to sink it promptly whenever he can."

"Couldn't he tow it into port?" asked Dan, with interest.

"Not worth the trouble," was the grim answer.

"Jing!" said Dan. "I'd try it, sure."

"Would you?" asked Mr. Wirt.

"Yes," replied Dan, decidedly. "If a ship can float, it must be worth something. I'd try to fling a hawser about it somewhere, and haul it in and dry-dock it to find out what was wrong. I've seen an oyster boat, that was leaking at every seam, calked and patched and painted to be good as new."

"Perhaps," said Mr. Wirt, with a short laugh; "but the oyster boats don't go very far a-sea, and derelicts drift beyond hope or help. I am that kind, and if--if" (the speaker hesitated for a moment),--"if I had a boy like you, I wouldn't take any chances with him: I'd keep him off my deck; I'd put him on a sound ship with a wise captain and a steady crew, and he should be under orders until--well, until he had learned to sail midnight seas like this by the light of the stars." And, tossing his half-smoked cigar into the water, Mr. Wirt turned abruptly away without any further "goodnight."

"He's a queer one," said Dan to himself, as he stared after the tall figure disappearing in the darkness. "I don't know what he means by his drifting and derelicts, but I guess it's a sort of talk about breaking laws and rules like I am doing here to-night. Gee! but Brother Bart is an old granny; stirring up all this fuss about nothing; and I'll be dead sick, I know. But I'm under orders" (Dan stretched his arms over his head, and, drawing a long, reluctant sigh, took a last look at the stars), "and I guess I'll have to go."

And he went, making his way with some difficulty over the swaying decks and down deep stairs where the footing was more perilous than the heights of Old Top; through long stretches of gorgeous saloons whence all the life and gayety had departed; for, despite the stars, the sea was rough to-night, and old Neptune under a friendly smile was doing his worst.

Jim and Dud, sturdy fellows that they were, had somewhat recovered their equilibrium and were dozing fitfully; but little Freddy was still white and wretched; and poor Brother Bart, all the ruddy glow gone from his face, lay with his hands clasping his Rosary, very sick indeed.

"Say your prayers as well as ye can, laddie," he moaned to that small sufferer. "The Lord be merciful to us both if we're not to see the morning light!--Ah, are ye back, Dan Dolan?" as his eyes fell upon the wandering sheep of his flock standing beside him. "May God forgive ye for this night's work! It was the looking for ye that killed me entirely."

"O Brother Bart, no, you're not as bad as that!" said Dan, remorsefully; "but I'm down here now to take care of you and Freddy, and you see if I don't do it right."

And Dan, who in the old days of Tabby and the blue teapot had watched with and waited on Aunt Winnie through many a night of pain, proved as good as his word. It was as close and hot and stuffy as he had foreseen; the big boat plunged and rolled so that it was hard to keep his footing; at times he himself grew so sick that he could scarcely steady his helping hand, but he never gave up his job. He bathed poor Brother Bart's aching head with all a woman's tenderness; bandaged Freddy's throbbing temples with the cold compress that sent him off to sleep; made dizzy forays into unknown domestic departments for cracked ice and soda water; shocked Brother Bart out of what he believed his last agony by reporting everyone on the boat in "the same fix."

"We'll be in smooth water, the men say, by morning; and then you'll be all right, Brother Bart. Let me bathe your head some more, and try to go to sleep."

And when at last Brother Bart did fall asleep in the grey glimmer of the early dawn, it was a very pale, shaking, dizzy Dan that crept out on the open deck beyond the staterooms for a breath of fresh air. He could not have climbed to forbidden heights now even if he would. But they were in smooth waters, and the boat was pushing onto a sandy point, where a branch railroad came down to the shore. A dozen or more passengers were preparing to land; among them was Mr. Wirt, with a gun slung to his shoulder, a knapsack on his back, and his two great tawny dogs pulling in their leashes impatiently,--all evidently ready for a summer in the wilds.

Dan felt too weak and sick for conversation until Mr. Wirt's eye fell upon the pale, trembling boy, who, with head bared to the morning breeze, was clinging weakly to an awning post.

"Why, hello, my lad!" said the gentleman. "What's the matter. I thought you were all right when I saw you last up above."

"I was," answered Dan, grimly. "But I came down, and, jing! I've had a night of it, with Brother Bart and Freddy both dead sick on my hands."

"And you nursed them all night?" (There was an odd tremor in the speaker's voice.) "Are they better this morning?"

"Yes," answered Dan. "They are all right now, sleeping like tops; but they had a tough time. It was lucky I gave up and came down to look after them."

"So you obeyed orders, after all. And now you're all broken up yourself?" said the gentleman, compassionately.

"Pooh, no!" was the sturdy answer. "I don't break up so easily. I'll be all right, too, in a little while,--after I've had more of this fresh air. Going to get off here?--" as the boat pushed up to the wharf.

"Yes," said Mr. Wirt. "I'm off to the woods for a few weeks; but--but maybe you will see me again later. Meanwhile what did the little fellow call you?"

"Dan,--my name is Dan Dolan," was the answer.

"Then good-bye, Dan!" Mr. Wirt's shapely hand closed over the boy's in a strong pressure. "You've given me a lesson, Dan,--I won't forget you." And he was off with his dogs across the gangway to the shore just flushing with the morning light.

The worst was over; and Dan, worn out with his night of watching, was glad to creep into his "packing box" of a stateroom, and, flinging himself in his berth, dropped off to sleep,--a sleep full of strange dreams. They were wild and troubled dreams at first. He was down in black depths where, stripped to the waist, he was working amid roaring fires and hissing steam; he was out on a dark wide ocean, striving to fling a rope to a wreck drifting helplessly amid thundering breakers; he was up on a wind-swept deck, with Brother Bart's shaking grasp dragging him down below. Then suddenly the picture changed: it was not Brother Bart but old Father Mack whose trembling hand was upon his arm, guiding him through the leafy shadows of the college walk where they had last talked together. Beyond and above them was the dazzling glory of the stars, those sweeping worlds on which the young dreamer had looked last night. But as he walked on now, the leafy shadows seemed to grow into arched and pillared aisles rising far, far above him, and the stars were but the countless tapers on a mighty altar reaching to heights he could not see; and Aunt Winnie, was kneeling on the steps,--old Aunt Winnie, with clasped hands and uplifted eyes. Then the guiding hand seemed to tighten on his arm, and it was Brother Bart again beside him,--Brother Bart, his sturdy, ruddy self again, shaking him awake.

"I hate to rouse ye, Danny lad" (there was a new friendliness in the old man's tone), "for it was the long, hard night ye had with us; but we're to get off here. Praise be to God, our killing journey is nearly done!"

And Dan stumbled out hurriedly to the deck, to find the boat pushing into the harbor of a quaint old town, whose roofs and spires were glittering in the noonday sunshine. Pretty sailboats were flitting hither and thither on sunny wings; the white stretch of beach was gay with bathers; the full notes of an orchestra came from the band stand on the jutting pier.

"Jing!" exclaimed Dan, in amazement at such a festive scene. "Is this Killykinick?"

"No," was Dud Fielding's surly answer. "I wish it was. But I mean to cut over here to the Fosters whenever I can. This is Beach Cliff, where we have to take a sailboat to Killykinick. And," Dud went on, with deepening disgust, "I bet it's that old tub that is signalling to us now."

Dan's eyes, following Dud's sullen gaze, saw, among the gaily painted pleasure craft moored at the wharfs, a clumsy little boat with rusty sides and dingy sail. An old man stood in the stern waving a tattered flag that, caught out by the breeze, showed in large faded letters--Killykinick.

X.--ON THE "SARY ANN."

"It's the sign," said Brother Bart gratefully, as he caught sight of the fluttering pennant. "He was to wave the flag to us so we would know the boat. Keep together now, boys," continued their anxious guardian, who was a little bewildered by a rush and struggle to which he was not accustomed. "Ah, God help them that have to push their way in a world like this! Hold to my hand, laddie, or ye'll be tramped down. Straight behind me now, the rest of ye, so ye won't be lost."

And, marshalling his boyish force, Brother Bart pressed on through the hurrying throngs that surged over gangway (for it was the height of the holiday season) until he reached the shabby little boat whose occupant was a very old man with a face brown and wrinkled as tanned leather. A long scar across his cheek had twisted his mouth into a crooked smile. He spat a large quid of tobacco into the water, and greeted his passengers with an old sea dog's growl:

"Been waitin' more than an hour for ye, but that consarned boat ain't never on time! Hit some pretty rough weather, I reckon, out at sea?"

"We did," answered Brother Bart, with feeling. "It's the mercy of God we're alive to tell the tale. In with ye, boys, and sit steady. Take the middle of the boat, laddie, and hold to Dan. Give me a hand to help me in; for I'm weak and shaking yet. The Lord's will be done, but I never thought to be sailing the seas in a cockleshell like this," added the good man, as the boat rocked under his sturdy weight when he sank heavily into his place.

"I say so, too. Let's hire something better," replied Dud Fielding, eagerly.

"Thar ain't nothing better or safer than this here 'Sary Ann' along the shore," said the boat's master, grimly. "I sot every timber in her myself. She ain't got a crack or a creak in her. I keeled her and calked her, and I'll lay her agin any of them painted and gilded play-toys to weather the toughest gale on this here coast. You're as safe in the 'Sary Ann,' Padre, as if you were in church saying your prayers."

"I'm no Padre," disclaimed Brother Bart, hastily. "I'm only an humble lay-brother, my good man, that has come to take care of these boys."

"Brother or Father, it's all the same to me," was the gruff answer. "I'm a hardshell Baptist myself, but I've only good feelings to your kind. My old captain was one of you, and never a better man walked the deck. Now, duck, my lads, while I swing out the sail and we'll be off."

The passengers ducked their heads hurriedly while the 'Sary Ann's' boom swung around. Her tawny sail caught the wind, and she was off with a light, swift grace that her looks belied.

"Golly, she can clip it!" exclaimed Jim Norris, who had a home on the Chesapeake and knew all about a boat. "What sort of a rig is she, anyhow?"

"Mixed like good terbacker," briefly answered the owner, as he leaned back comfortably at the helm and bit off another chew. "Sloop, skiff, outrigger, lugger,--she's got the good points of all and none of their kicks. Not that she ain't got a spirit of her own. Every boat worth anything hez. Thar's days when she takes the wind and thar's no holdin' her. You jest have to let her spread her wings to it and go. But, Lord, let that same wind begin to growl and mutter, let them waves begin to cap and swell, and the 'Sary Ann' is ready for them, you bet. She will drop all her fun and frolic, and scud along brave and bare agin the wildest gale that ever leashed a coast. And them young bloods over yon laugh at her," continued the 'Sary Ann's' owner, glowering at the gay buildings of the fashionable "boat club" they were just now passing. "They call her the Corsair,' which is no Christian name to give an honest boat."

"You're right," said Brother Bart: "And, though you haven't the true faith, you seem to be a Christian yourself. What is your name, my good man?"

"Jeroboam Jimson," was the answer. "Leastways that was what I was christened, my mother going in heavy for Scripture names. I had a twin brother Nebuchanezzar. Sort of mouth-filling for general use, so we was naturally shortened down to Neb and Jeb. Most folks call me Jeb yet."

"It comes easier," said Brother Bart; "though I'd never think of giving it to a man of your years. It seems a pity, with the Litany of the Saints convenient, to have to go back so far for a name. But that is no fault of yours, as God knows. Have you been living long in this place we are going to?"

"More than five and forty years," was the answer,--"since the 'Lady Jane' struck the rocks off Killykinick, November 27, 1865. I was second mate to old Captain Kane; and I stood by him until last May, when he took the cruise that every man has to make by himself. And I'm standing by his ship 'cording to orders yet. 'Blood is thicker than water, mate,' he says to me; 'I've got to leave all that I have to little Polly Raynor's boy, but you're to stick to the ship as long as you live. I've hed that put down in the log with my name to it, and priest and lawyer and doctor as witness. You're Captain Jeroboam Jimson of the "Lady Jane," in my place, and thar ain't no land sharks nor water sharks can bother ye.' I lay that's the chap he called Polly's boy," said Captain Jeb, turning his eyes on Freddy, who, seated at Brother Bart's side, had been listening, with flattering interest, to the old sailor's conversation.

"Yes," he spoke up eagerly, "my mother was Polly. Did you know her?"

"I did," said Captain Jeb, nodding. "She came down here once as a bit of a girl, dancing over the sands like a water kelpie. The old Captain didn't care much for women folks, but he was sot on her sure. Then she come down agin as a bride, purty and shy and sweet; but the old man warn't so pleased then,--growled he didn't know what girls wanted to get married for, nohow. So you're her boy!" The old man's eyes softened as they rested on Freddy. "You've got a sort of look of her, though you ain't as pretty,--not nigh."

Meanwhile the "Sary Ann," her tawny sail swelling in the wind, had left the gay beach and bathers and boat club of Beach Cliff, and was making the swell of the waves like a sea bird on the wing.

"Easy now, lass!" cautioned Captain Jeb, as they neared a white line of breakers, and he stood up firm and strong at the helm. "Steady, all of you younkers; for we're crossing the bar. Many a good ship has left her bones on this same reef. Easy, 'Sary Ann'! It's no place for fooling round here."

And, as if to emphasize his words, the black shadows of a wrecked ship rose gaunt and grim before them.

"Struck the reef two months ago," explained the Captain, with eye and hand still steady on his helm. "Can't get her off. Captain fool enough to try Beach Cliff Harbor without a native pilot! Why, thar ain't no books nor charts can tell you nothing 'bout navigating round these here islands: you have to larn it yourself. It's the deceivingest stretch along the whole Atlantic coast. Thar's times when this here bar, that is biling deep with water now, is bare enough for one of you chaps to walk across without wetting your knees. Easy now, 'Sary Ann'! Ketch hold of that rope, younker, and steady the sail a bit. So thar, we're over the shoals. Now clip it, my lass" (and the old man swung the sail free),--"clip it fast as you like for Killykinick."

And, almost as if she could hear the "Sary Ann" leaped forward with the bulging sail, and was off at the word; while Captain Jeb, the harbor reef safely passed, leaned back in his boat and pointed out to his young passengers (for even the elegant Dud was roused into eager curiosity) the various things of interest on their way: the light ship, the lighthouses, the fishing fleet stretching dim and hazy on the far horizon, the great ocean liner only a faint shadow trailing a cloud of smoke in the blue distance.

"Them big fellows give us the go by now, though time was when they used to come from far and near; all kinds--Spanish, Portugee, East Indian. Them was the whaling days, when Beach Cliff was one of the greatest places on the coast. She stands out so far she hed the first bite at things. All the sailing ships made for snug harbor here. But, betwixt the steamboats and the railroads gobbling up everything, and the earth itself taking to spouting oil, things are pretty dead and gone here now."

"But lots of fine folks come in the summer time," said Dud.

"And there's a church!" exclaimed Brother Bart, who had caught a passing glimpse of a cross-crowned spire. "Thank God we'll not be beyond the light and truth entirely! You're to take us to Mass every Sunday, my good man; and we are to give you a dollar for the trouble of it, to say nothing of the blessing upon your own soul. Were you ever at Mass?"

"Never," answered Captain Jeb.

"Ah, God help you, poor man!" said Brother Bart. "Sure we never know our own blessings till we talk with them that's left in the darkness. But it's not too late for the grace of Heaven to reach you yet. Never been to Mass! Well, well, well!" Brother Bart shook his head, and, as if unable to cope with such hopeless religious dearth, relapsed into silence.

"Is it much further to Killykinick?" asked Dan, who, with shining eyes had been taking in all this novel experience. "Looks like we're heading out to nowhere."

The "Sary Ann," with the wind full in her sail, seemed bearing off into sunlit distance, where sky and sea met. There was a faint, shadowy line to the left; and just beyond, a dim pencil point pierced the cloudless blue.

"That's a lighthouse, isn't it?" asked Jim, who had a sailor's eye.