The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  Hal Hutchings meekly bore the reflected honors that were thrust upon him, and well understood that it was his connection with the absent Fairport boy which made him such an object of interest. Hal however did not object to the golden gains which resulted from his new position. Everybody was ready to give him “a job” now, and his old clothes were soon exchanged for new ones, bought with his own money and adapted to his own taste.

  Not a day passed that did not see Hal Hutchings at Mrs. Robertson’s door, to lend his strong arm and willing feet to do for her some little kindness, a true labor of love. When the Sabbath was wearing away, Hal might be seen moving his coarse finger slowly along the sacred page, reading holy words, to which Mrs. Robertson from time to time added her voice of explanation or gentle persuasive counsel.

  So the chilling weeks of autumn passed at Fairport, and now the first snow was ushering in November’s dreary rule. A strong landward breeze was rolling the waves one after another as in a merry chase towards the shore, while the Fairport Guard were gathered on the wharf, valiantly fighting a battle with snowballs. The appearance of a ship entering the harbor soon called the attention of the combatants away from the “charge, rally, and charge again,” in which they had just been engaged. Men muffled in greatcoats came out of the neighboring stores and offices, and shivered in the cold wind as they bent their eyes on the stranger ship, for so at once they pronounced her.

  “British build and rigging, but the right colors flying. She knows the channel. See, she makes it as well as if she had Joe Robertson himself on board. There now, don’t she come up the harbor as if this was her home, and she knew just where she was going to cast anchor?”

  Remarks like these dropped from the lips of the eager watchers:

  “I shouldn’t wonder if it was our captain coming from foreign parts,” said a small member of the Fairport Guard. “He’s took that ship as likely as not, and is coming home in her.”

  “Pshaw, child,” burst from several listeners.

  “I wish we did know where that boy is,” said another speaker. “He’s a credit to this place, that’s certain.”

  “He’s an honor to America,” said Hal Hutchings, who was now allowed to give his views on all occasions. Hal’s face was bent forward, and his eye was fixed on a slender lad who was anxiously looking towards the shore. “It’s him, it’s him; it’s Blair, I tell you. It’s him,” shouted Hal, throwing his cap in the air, and giving three leaps that would have astounded a catamount.

  Hal Hutchings fought his way to the privilege of being the first to grasp Blair’s hand, as he stepped ashore; then there was a perfect rush of hands and a cheer from young and old that Derry Duck said was the pleasantest music that ever he heard.

  “Where is she? Where’s my mother, Hal?” said Blair as soon as he could speak.

  “Hearty, hearty, and just like an angel as she always was,” said Hal vociferously. The boy’s joy seemed to have made him almost beside himself. “She don’t know you’re here, she don’t. I’ll be off to tell her.”

  “No, Hal, no. I’ll be there in a minute myself,” said Blair, moving off at a marvellous pace for a boy who had been wounded so lately.

  The Fairport Guard fell into rank and followed their commander, while a motly crowd brought up the rear.

  Blair stood on the familiar door-step. He laid his hand on the lock, and paused for a second to calm his swelling emotions, in which gratitude to God was even stronger than the deep love for his mother.

  Quietly sat Mrs. Robertson, plying the needle at her fireside, when the door gently opened, and her son stood before her.

  That was a moment of joy too deep for description. While the mother and son were clasped in a long embrace, Hal could not help having his share of the interview by crying out, “He’s come home! Be n’t it splendid? He’s come! Dear, dear, I shall burst.”

  “You dear good fellow,” said Blair, throwing his arm over Hal’s shoulder, “you’ve been a comfort to my mother, I know.”

  “That he has,” said Mrs. Robertson. “It was he who told me how your noble courage saved your native town and the very home of your mother from the flames. I thank God for such a son.”

  “Then I did what you would have wished, mother. Your praise is my precious reward,” said Blair with affectionate simplicity.

  “God has sustained you in the path of duty, and brought you in safety to your home and your mother. Let us thank him for all his mercies, my son. Hal is no stranger to prayer now; he will gladly join us.”

  It was indeed the voice of true thanksgiving which rose from those grateful hearts. He who has contrived joys for the meanest of his creatures, doubtless takes a pure pleasure in the happiness which he gives to his chosen ones even here; and rejoices to know that it is but the foreshadowing of that eternal delight in store for them where parting shall be no more.

  CHAPTER XX

  Sacred Joy

  Sweetly the Sabbath bells sounded in the ear of Blair Robertson. What a joy it was to be once more at home, once more in his native land. How delightful the thought that prayer had already gone up from many family altars, and already Christ’s little ones were gathering to be taught of him and sing his praise. To dwell among the ungodly is indeed a bitter trial. The society of the unprincipled had been to Blair like a dark cloud overshadowing his pathway; and it was a new delight to him to be once more among the people of God. What a blessing it seemed to him to be a dweller in the land of light and liberty, where the free worshippers might pray and praise without let or hinderance from ungodly men.

  Full of such glad thoughts, he walked towards the church so endeared to him by many hallowed associations. His mother was at his side, and his kind townsmen on every hand were giving him their cordial greeting, while the little children looked at him with curious wonder, as the brave boy whom even their fathers “delighted to honor.”

  Once in the house of God, all other thoughts were hushed in the mind of Blair, by the remembrance of the presence into which he was now ushered. It was a joy to him to join in heartfelt prayer, and praise with so many true children of God, and to stand among his brethren who like him could say from the heart, “I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  A deep, strong voice near him made the young worshipper aware of the presence of Derry Duck in the solemn assembly, joining with his whole heart in the hymn of praise. Ah, men might heap honor upon the young patriot, and applaud his courage in the hour of danger, and welcome was their cordial tribute; but their loudest acclamations had not power to wake in the soul of Blair Robertson such deep, grateful joy as the sight of that ransomed sailor, brought home to the Father’s house.

  Every word of the service had its meaning to Derry Duck. He confessed anew the sins of his burdened heart, and accepted once more the free forgiveness found in Christ Jesus. He called on God as his Father, and seemed to be professing before men and angels the faith for which he was willing to die.

  The clergyman gave forth the simple notice, “A person desires to returnthanks for a safe return from sea.” All eyes were suddenly bent upon Blair with loving pride. Very deep and true was the thanksgiving of the Fairport congregation for the return of their brave deliverer; but who shall tell what passed in the mother’s heart, or in that of her rejoicing son?

  CHAPTER XXI

  Conclusion

  It was in vain that Blair tried to persuade Derry Duck to see his mother, and accept her thanks for his kindness to her wounded boy. Derry declared that he would hear no thanks, the odds were all on the other side. And as for sitting down in a Christian woman’s parlor, and making himself easy there, he wasn’t fit for that. A forgiven sinner he believed he was, and could bow in the house of God with his fellow-men; but he was a beginner in the ways of godliness, too much tainted with his miserable past to be right company for those who had never gone so far astray. Besides, he pleaded, he had his little flower to see, in her own little nook. It would be a shame to him to set his foot on any other threshold bef
ore he had spoken to her. To her his first spare hours belonged.

  Derry returned from his visit to his child with his heart more than ever full of love to his darling. She had received his letter, and rejoiced over it with great joy, declaring that not a treasure she possessed was so precious. Derry had allowed himself but the usual short interview, ever trembling lest he should mar her delight in her father by some knowledge of the wild life he had led. Yet, when he laid his hand on her head at parting, he could not resist speaking the fervent “God bless you, darling,” which stirred at his heart.

  She had clasped and kissed his hand with a sudden gladness, as if such words from him were both a joy and a surprise. He waited for no questions, but hurried away.

  “When the war is over, you will come home and settle down with your little housekeeper, and let her take care of you. How glad that will make her,” said Blair persuasively.

  “I shall never be fit company for her,” said Derry firmly; “I know it, my boy. True, I’m a changed man. I trust I’m forgiven for the sake of the Crucified. But I’ve a pit within that needs purging thrice over. A man like me is not made into a saint in a minute, though he may read his pardon clear. ‘Following hard after,’ shall be my motto; ‘following on to know the Lord.’ I’m not the one to sit down at the chimney-side with a creature like her. No, Blair, I tell you no. Look here, my boy. Here’s my path of duty. I’ve a God to glorify, I’ve a country to serve. Rough sailors wont think of my ways as she would. If I’m like a rock in what I know is right, and God will help me, I can do ’em good. I can set up the right banner among ’em. I can make the forecastle praise the great and holy name. It is for this I mean to work. It is for this I mean to be a sailor now. There’s not a port I’ve ever set foot in, but I’ve shamed a Christian land there. I mean to put in to every port where I’ve showed my face, and let them see I’ve changed my colors. Where I’ve done evil, there I mean to try to do good. I can’t wipe out bygones. They are written in the book up there. But there’s One in white robes will stand for me before his Father’s throne. I’ll work for Him while there’s life in me; and when I die, I hope it will be giving praise and glory to his name. I want to do my country credit too. It’s no shining thing, to get in the papers, that I expect to do; but just a patient serving God, that brings honor to the land where a man was born. You will pray for me, I know, when I’m off on the water; and if I die—your mother knows the name—she’ll go to my little darling, and tell her how her father loved her, and hopes to live with her in the kingdom of heaven. I shall be fit to sit down with her at that marriage-feast. I shall have on the ‘white robes,’ and poor Derry Duck will have a ‘new name,’ by which the angels will call him, and his little darling will not blush to hear it. I shall live with her there.” Derry dashed the tears from his eyes as he spoke, but he firmly repeated, “Here, I must labor alone, and struggle to grow like the Master. There, none shall lay any thing to the charge of God’s elect; and I and my pretty one will join with her mother in singing round the throne. Good-by, my boy. God bless you. You have sent out a Christian sailor to work for him on the seas. You have sent out a lover of his country to strive to do her honor in his closet on his knees, at his duty in the fight, and in his hammock when they drop him into the deep sea.”

  Derry wrung the hand of the young patriot, and then moved away with quick uncertain steps. A lonely man, yet not alone, there was a comfort and joy in the rough sailor’s heart. His life of labor was to be a glad voyage to a better country, whose harbor lights would be ever leading him onward, and whose shining shore would ever glisten for him in the certain future beyond the grave.

  The young patriot had indeed been blessed in winning such a devoted servant to the Master’s cause, and such a Christian sailor to maintain the honor of his native land.

  There was more such work for Blair Robertson, and for it he steadily labored.

  Peace came with its illuminations and festivities. The sword was laid aside on sea and land, yet Blair might still be serving the country he so dearly loved. His example, his fireside talk, and his glowing words in the assemblies of his people, might ever cast their weight in the right balance. The outcasts and the immigrant were still to be so trained and ennobled as to make them fit citizens of our free and happy land. Above all, by his prayers and his holy living, he might call down on his home and country such a blessing as ever encompasses the dwelling of him who feareth the Lord.

  To be such a patriot was the aim of Blair Robertson. Would that there were many so to live and labor. Then might we be sure of victory over all our enemies, and of the abounding blessings of lasting peace.

  BRAVE TOM

  or, The Battle That Won

  CHAPTER I.

  On a certain summer day, a few years ago, the little village of Briggsville, in Pennsylvania, was thrown into a state of excitement, the like of which was never known since the fearful night, a hundred years before, when a band of red men descended like a cyclone upon the little hamlet with its block-house, and left barely a dozen settlers alive to tell the story of the visitation to their descendants.

  Tom Gordon lived a mile from Briggsville with his widowed mother and his Aunt Cynthia, a sister to his father, who had died five years before.

  The boy had no brother or sister; and as he was bright, truthful, good-tempered, quick of perception, and obedient, it can be well understood that he was the pride and hope of his mother and aunt, whose circumstances were of the humblest nature. He attended the village school, where he was the most popular and promising of the threescore pupils under the care of the crabbed Mr. Jenkins. He was as active of body as mind, and took the lead among boys of his own age in athletic sports and feats of dexterity.

  One summer day the village of Briggsville blazed out in black and red and white, every available space being covered with immense posters, which in flaming scenes and gigantic type announced the coming of “Jones’s & Co.’s Great Moral Menagerie and Transcontinental Circus, on its triumphal tour through the United States and Canada.”

  Naturally a tremendous excitement set in among the boys, who began hoarding their pennies and behaving with supernatural propriety, so that nothing should interfere with the treat, which in exquisite enjoyment can never be equaled by anything that could come to them in after-life.

  Tom Gordon had never yet seen the inside of a circus and menagerie; and as his mother promised him that the enjoyment should be his, it is impossible to describe his state of mind for the days and nights preceding the visit of the grand aggregation, the like of which (according to the overwhelming posters) the world had never known before. He studied the enormous pictures, with their tigers, bears, leopards, and panthers, the size of a meeting-house; their elephants of mountainous proportions, and the daring acrobats, contortionists, and performers, whose feats made one hold one’s breath while gazing in awe at their impossible performances. The lad dreamed of them at night, talked about them through the day, and discussed with his most intimate friends the project of forming a circus of their own when they became bigger and older. The latter project, it may be added, owing to unforeseen obstacles, never assumed definite form.

  But alas! this is a world of disappointment. On the morning of the circus Tom was seized with a violent chill, which almost shook him out of his shoes. He tried with might and main to master it; for he well knew that if he did not, his visit to the wonderful show must be postponed indefinitely. He strove like a hero, and was actually sick several hours before the watchful eyes of his mother and aunt discovered his plight. The moment came when he could hold out no longer, with his teeth rattling like castanets, and his red face so hot that it was painful to the touch. Since the performance did not open until two o’clock in the afternoon, he did not as yet abandon all hope.

  His mother and aunt sympathized with him; but although he rallied to a great extent from his illness, they could not give consent for him to leave the house. He partook of refreshment, and left his bed at noon. At two
o’clock he was able to sit in the chair by the window, with his fever greatly abated, and an hour later he was as free from all traces of the ague as you or I.

  But it was then too late to go to the circus. The disappointment was a sore one, but the lad stood it like the really brave fellow he was. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and smiled as he said to his aunt,—

  “When the circus comes again, I don’t think I’ll have a chill.”

  “And you shall see it, if you are alive then,—of that be assured.”

  The day was one of the most pleasant and balmy of the season, and Tom walked out of the house, leaned on the gate, and looked up and down the highway.

  Suddenly he observed a span of horses coming on a gallop, while the driver of the open wagon was lashing them with his whip and urging them to still greater speed.

  “They aren’t running away,” mused the astonished boy; “for, if they were, the man wouldn’t be trying to make them run faster. It’s Mr. MacDowell! I never saw him drive faster than a walk before; something dreadful must have happened.”

  As Mr. MacDowell caught sight of the boy, and came opposite, he shouted something, and with an expression of terror glanced around and pointed with his whip behind him. The furious rattle of the wagon prevented Tom’s catching the words, and the terrified farmer did not repeat them, but lashed his team harder than ever, vanishing in a cloud of dust raised by his own wheels.

  “He must be crazy,” said Tom, unable to think of any other explanation of the old man’s frantic behavior.

  The lad stood with his head turned toward the cloud of dust, wondering and speculating over the strange affair, when hurried footsteps caused him to turn quickly and look again in the direction of the village.