The Silver Skates

by Mary Mapes Dodge

  As for the men, they were pictures of placid enjoyment. Some were attired in ordinary citizen’s dress, but many looked odd enough with their short woollen coats, wide breeches and big silver buckles. These seemed to Ben like little boys who had, by a miracle, sprung suddenly into manhood, and were forced to wear garments that their astonished mothers had altered in a hurry. He noticed, too, that nearly all the men had pipes as they passed him, whizzing and smoking like so many locomotives. There was every variety of pipe, from those of common clay to the most expensive meerschaums mounted in silver and gold. Some were carved into extraordinary and fantastic shapes, representing birds, flowers, heads, bugs and dozens of other things; some resembled the “Dutchman’s pipe” that grows in our American woods;* some were red, and many were of a pure snowy white, but the most respectable were those which were ripening into a shaded brown. The deeper and richer the brown, of course, the more honoured the pipe, for it was a proof that the owner, if honestly shading it, was deliberately devoting his manhood to the effort. What pipe would not be proud to be the object of such a sacrifice?

  For a while, Ben skated on in silence. There was so much to engage his attention that he almost forgot his companions. Part of the time he had been watching the iceboats as they flew over the great Haarlemmermeer (or lake), the frozen surface of which was now plainly visible from the canal. These boats had very large sails – much larger, in proportion, than those of ordinary vessels, and were set upon a triangular frame furnished with an iron “runner” at each corner – the widest part of the triangle crossing the bow, and its point stretching beyond the stern. They had rudders for guiding and brakes for arresting their progress, and were of all sizes and kinds, from small, rough affairs, managed by a boy, to large and beautiful ones, filled with gay pleasure parties, and manned by competent sailors, who, smoking their stumpy pipes, reefed and tacked and steered with great solemnity and precision.

  Some of the boats were painted and gilt in gaudy style, and flaunted gay pennons from their mastheads; others, white as snow, with every spotless sail rounded by the wind, looked like swans borne onwards by a resistless current. It seemed to Ben as, following his fancy, he watched one of these in the distance, that he could almost hear its helpless, terrified cry, but he soon found that the sound arose from a nearer and less romantic cause – from an iceboat not fifty yards from him, using its brakes to avoid a collision with a peat sled.

  It was a rare thing for these boats to be upon the canal, and their appearance generally caused no little excitement among skaters, especially among the timid, but today every iceboat in the country seemed afloat, or rather aslide, and the canal had its full share.

  Ben, though delighted at the sight, was often startled at the swift approach of the resistless, high-winged things, threatening to dart in any and every possible direction. It required all his energies to keep out of the way of the passers-by, and to prevent those screaming little urchins from upsetting him with their sleds. Once he halted to watch some boys who were making a hole in the ice, preparatory to using their fishing spears. Just as he concluded to start again, he found himself suddenly bumped into an old lady’s lap. Her pushchair had come upon him from the rear. The old lady screamed – the servant who was propelling her gave a warning hiss. In another instant Ben found himself apologizing to empty air – the indignant old lady was far ahead.

  This was a slight mishap compared with one that now threatened him. A huge iceboat, under full sail, came tearing down the canal, almost paralysing Ben with the thought of instant destruction. It was close upon him! He saw its gilt prow, heard the skipper shout, felt the great boom fairly whizz over his head, was blind, deaf and dumb all in an instant, then opened his eyes to find himself spinning some yards behind its great skate-like rudder. It had passed within an inch of his shoulder, but he was safe! Safe to see England again, safe to kiss the dear faces that for an instant had flashed before him one by one – Father, Mother, Robby and Jenny: that great boom had dashed their images into his very soul. He knew now how much he loved them. Perhaps this knowledge made him face complacently the scowls of those on the canal who seemed to feel that a boy in danger was necessarily a bad boy needing instant reprimand.

  Lambert chided him roundly.

  “I thought it was over with you, you careless fellow! Why don’t you look where you are going? Not content with sitting on all the old ladies’ laps, you must make a Juggernaut of every iceboat that comes along. We shall have to hand you over to the aanspreekers yet if you don’t look out!”

  “Please don’t,” said Ben, with mock humility – then, seeing how pale Lambert’s lips were, added in a low tone:

  “I do believe I thought more in that one moment, van Mounen, than in all the rest of my past life.”

  There was no reply, and for a while the two boys skated on in silence.

  Soon a faint sound of distant bells reached their ears.

  “Hark!” said Ben. “What is that?”

  “The carillons,” replied Lambert. “They are trying the bells in the chapel of yonder village. Ah! Ben, you should hear the chimes of the ‘New Church’ at Delft – they are superb. Nearly five hundred sweet-toned bells, and one of the best carillonneurs of Holland to play upon them. Hard work, though. They say the fellow often has to go to bed from positive exhaustion after his performances. You see, the bells are attached to a kind of keyboard – something like they have on pianofortes. There are also a set of pedals for the feet. When a brisk tune is going on, the player looks like a kicking frog fastened to his seat with a skewer.”

  “For shame,” said Ben indignantly.

  Peter had, for the present, exhausted his stock of Haarlem anecdotes. And now, having nothing to do but to skate, he and his three companions were hastening to catch up with Lambert and Ben.

  “That English lad is fleet enough,” said Peter. “If he were a born Hollander, he could do no better. Generally these John Bulls make but a sorry figure on skates. Hallo! Here you are, van Mounen. Why, we hardly hoped for the honour of meeting you again. Who were you flying from in such haste?”

  “Snails,” retorted Lambert. “What kept you?”

  “We have been talking. And, besides, we halted once to give Poot a chance to rest.”

  “He begins to look rather worn out,” said Lambert, in a low voice.

  Just then, a beautiful iceboat with reefed sail and flying streamers swept leisurely by. Its deck was filled with children, muffled up to their chins. Looking at them from the ice, you could see only smiling little faces embedded in bright-coloured woollen wrappings. They were singing a chorus in honour of St Nicholas. The music, starting in the discord of a hundred childish voices, floated, as it rose, into exquisite harmony:

  Friend of sailors, and of children!

  Double claim have we,

  As in youthful joy we’re sailing

  O’er a frozen sea!

  Nicholas! St Nicholas!

  Let us sing to thee.

  While through wintry air we’re rushing,

  As our voices blend,

  Are you near us? Do you hear us,

  Nicholas, our friend?

  Nicholas! St Nicholas!

  Love can never end.

  Sunny sparkles, bright before us,

  Chase away the cold!

  Hearts where sunny thoughts are welcome

  Never can grow old.

  Nicholas! St Nicholas!

  Never can grow old!

  Pretty gift and loving lesson,

  Festival and glee,

  Bid us thank thee as we’re sailing

  O’er the frozen sea,

  Nicholas! St Nicholas!

  So we sing to thee!

  Chapter 20

  Jacob Poot Changes the Plan

  The last note died away in the distance. Our boys, who in their vain efforts to keep up with the boat had felt that they were skating backwards,
turned to look at one another.

  “How beautiful that was!” exclaimed van Mounen.

  “Just like a dream!” said Ludwig.

  Jacob drew close to Ben, giving his usual approving nod as he spoke:

  “Dat ish goot. Dat ish te pest vay. I shay petter to take to Leiden mit a poat!”

  “Take a boat!” exclaimed Ben in dismay. “Why, man, our plan was to skate, not to be carried like little children.”

  “Tuyfels!”* retorted Jacob. “Dat ish no little – no papies – to go for poat!”

  The boys laughed, but exchanged uneasy glances. It would be great fun to jump on an iceboat, if they had a chance, but to abandon so shamefully their grand undertaking – who could think of such a thing?

  An animated discussion arose at once.

  Captain Peter brought his party to a halt.

  “Boys,” said he, “it strikes me that we should consult Jacob’s wishes in this matter. He started the excursion, you know!”

  “Pooh!” sneered Carl, throwing a contemptuous glance at Jacob. “Who’s tired? We can rest all night at Leiden.”

  Ludwig and Lambert looked anxious and disappointed. It was no slight thing to lose the credit of having skated all the way from Broek to The Hague and back again, but both agreed that Jacob should decide the question.

  Good-natured, tired Jacob! He read the popular sentiment at a glance.

  “Oh, no!” he said in Dutch. “I was joking. We will skate, of course.”

  The boys gave a delighted shout, and started on again with renewed vigour.

  All but Jacob. He tried his best not to seem fatigued, and, by not saying a word, saved his breath and energy for the great business of skating. But in vain. Before long the stout body grew heavier and heavier – the tottering limbs weaker and weaker. Worse than all, the blood, anxious to get as far as possible from the ice, mounted to the puffy, good-natured cheeks, and made the roots of his thin yellow hair glow into a fiery red.

  This kind of work is apt to summon Vertigo, of whom good Hans Andersen writes* – the same who hurls daring young hunters from the mountains, or spins them from the sharpest heights of the glaciers, or catches them as they tread the stepping stones of the mountain torrent.

  Vertigo came unseen to Jacob. After tormenting him awhile, with one touch sending a chill from head to foot, with the next scorching every vein with fever, she made the canal rock and tremble beneath him, the white sails bow and spin as they passed, then cast him heavily upon the ice.

  “Hallo!” cried van Mounen. “There goes Poot!”

  Ben sprang hastily forwards.

  “Jacob! Jacob, are you hurt?”

  Peter and Carl were lifting him. The face was white enough now. It seemed like a dead face – even the good-natured look was gone.

  A crowd collected. Peter unbuttoned the poor boy’s jacket, loosened his red tippet and blew between the parted lips.

  “Stand off, good people!” he cried. “Give him air!”

  “Lay him down,” called out a woman from the crowd.

  “Stand him upon his feet,” shouted another.

  “Give him wine,” growled a stout fellow who was driving a loaded sled.

  “Yes, yes, give him wine!” echoed everybody.

  Ludwig and Lambert shouted in concert:

  “Wine! Wine! Who has wine?”

  A sleepy-eyed Dutchman began to fumble mysteriously under the heaviest of blue jackets, saying as he did so:

  “Not so much noise, young masters, not so much noise! The boy was a fool to faint off like a girl.”

  “Wine, quick!” cried Peter, who, with Ben’s help, was rubbing Jacob from head to foot.

  Ludwig stretched forth his hand imploringly towards the Dutchman, who with an air of great importance was still fumbling beneath the jacket.

  “Do hurry! He will die! Has anyone else any wine?”

  “He is dead!” said an awful voice from among the bystanders.

  This startled the Dutchman.

  “Have a care!” he said, reluctantly drawing forth a small blue flask. “This is schnapps. A little is enough.”

  A little was enough. The paleness gave way to a faint flush. Jacob opened his eyes, and, half bewildered, half ashamed, feebly tried to free himself from those who were supporting him.

  There was no alternative now for our party but to have their exhausted comrade carried, in some way, to Leiden. As for expecting him to skate any more that day, the thing was impossible. In truth, by this time each boy began to entertain secret yearnings towards iceboats, and to avow a spartan resolve not to desert Jacob. Fortunately a gentle, steady breeze was setting southward. If some accommodating skipper would but come along, matters would not be quite so bad after all.

  Peter hailed the first sail that appeared. The men in the stern would not even look at him. Three drays on runners came along, but they were already loaded to the utmost. Then an iceboat, a beautiful, tempting little one, whizzed past like an arrow. The boys had just time to stare eagerly at it when it was gone. In despair they resolved to prop up Jacob with their strong arms, as well as they could, and take him to the nearest village.

  At that moment, a very shabby iceboat came in sight. With but little hope of success, Peter hailed it, at the same time taking off his hat and flourishing it in the air.

  The sail was lowered, then came the scraping sound of the brake, and a pleasant voice called out from the deck:

  “What now?”

  “Will you take us on?” cried Peter, hurrying with his companions as fast as he could, for the boat was “bringing to” some distance ahead. “Will you take us on?”

  “We’ll pay for the ride!” shouted Carl.

  The man on board scarcely noticed him except to mutter something about its not being a trekschuit. Still looking towards Peter, he asked:

  “How many?”

  “Six.”

  “Well, it’s Nicholas’s day – up with you! Young gentleman sick?” (nodding towards Jacob).

  “Yes – broken down – skated all the way from Broek,” answered Peter. “Do you go to Leiden?”

  “That’s as the wind says. It’s blowing that way now. Scramble up!”

  Poor Jacob! If that willing Mrs Poot had only appeared just then, her services would have been invaluable. It was as much as the boys could do to hoist him into the boat. All were in at last. The skipper, puffing away at his pipe, let out the sail, lifted the brake and sat in the stern with folded arms.

  “Whew! How fast we go!” cried Ben. “This is something like! Feel better, Jacob?”

  “Much petter, I tanks you.”

  “Oh, you’ll be as good as new in ten minutes. This makes a fellow feel like a bird.”

  Jacob nodded, and blinked his eyes.

  “Don’t go to sleep, Jacob. It’s too cold. You might never wake up, you know. Persons often freeze to death in that way.”

  “I no sleep,” said Jacob confidently, and in two minutes he was snoring.

  Carl and Ludwig laughed.

  “We must wake him!” cried Ben. “It is dangerous, I tell you. Jacob! J-a-a-c—”

  Captain Peter interfered, for three of the boys were helping Ben for the fun of the thing.

  “Nonsense! Don’t shake him! Let him alone, boys. One never snores like that when one’s freezing. Cover him up with something. Here, this cloak will do – hey, skipper?” and he looked towards the stern for permission to use it.

  The man nodded.

  “There,” said Peter, tenderly adjusting the garment, “let him sleep. He will be frisky as a lamb when he wakes. How far are we from Leiden, skipper?”

  “Not more’n a couple of pipes,” replied a voice, rising from smoke like the genies in fairy tales (puff! puff!) “Likely not more’n one an’ a half” – puff! puff! – “if this wind holds
!” (puff! puff! puff)!

  “What is the man saying, Lambert?” asked Ben, who was holding his mittened hands against his cheeks to ward off the cutting air.

  “He says we’re about two pipes from Leiden. Half the boors here on the canal measure distances by the time it takes them to finish a pipe.”

  “How ridiculous.”

  “See here, Benjamin Dobbs,” retorted Lambert, growing unaccountably indignant at Ben’s quiet smile, “see here, you’ve a way of calling every other thing you see on this side of the German Ocean ‘ridiculous’. It may suit you, this word, but it don’t suit me. When you want anything ridiculous, just remember your English custom of making the Lord Mayor of London, at his installation, count the nails in a horseshoe to prove his learning.”

  “Who told you we had any such custom as that?” cried Ben, looking grave in an instant.

  “Why, I know it – no use of anyone telling me. It’s in all the books – and it’s true. It strikes me,” continued Lambert, laughing in spite of himself, “that you have been kept in happy ignorance of a good many ridiculous things on your side of the map.”

  “Humph!” exclaimed Ben, trying not to smile. “I’ll inquire into that Lord Mayor business when I get home. There must be some mistake. B-r-r-roooo! How fast we’re going. This is glorious!”

  It was a grand sail, or ride – I scarcely know which to call it. Perhaps “fly” would be the best word, for the boys felt very much as Sinbad did when, tied to the roc’s leg, he darted through the clouds; or as Bellerophon felt when he shot through the air on the back of his winged horse Pegasus.* Sailing, riding or flying, whichever it was, everything was rushing past, backwards, and before they had time to draw a long breath, Leiden itself, with its high-peaked roofs, flew halfway to meet them.