Jimmie had an uncle who made game of him whenever he caught him in this kind of play, and often this uncle quoted derisively the following classic: “Once aboard the lugger, Bill, and the girl is mine. Now to burn the château and destroy all evidence of our crime. But, hark ’e, Bill, no wiolence.” Wheeling abruptly, he addressed these dramatic words to his comrades. They were impressed; they decided at once to be smugglers, and in the most ribald fashion they talked about carrying off young women.
At last they continued their march through the woods. The smuggling motif was now grafted fantastically upon the original lynx idea, which Willie Dalzel refused to abandon at any price.
Once they came upon an innocent bird which happened to be looking another way at the time. After a great deal of maneuvering and big words, Willie Dalzel reared his fowling piece and blew this poor thing into a mere rag of wet feathers, of which he was proud.
Afterward the other big boy had a turn at another bird. Then it was plainly Jimmie’s chance. The two others had, of course, some thought of cheating him out of this chance, but of a truth he was timid to explode such a thunderous weapon, and as soon as they detected this fear they simply overbore him, and made it clearly understood that if he refused to shoot he would lose his caste, his scalp-lock, his girdle, his honor.
They had reached the old death-colored snake-fence which marked the limits of the upper pasture of the Fleming farm. Under some hickory trees the path ran parallel to the fence. Behold! a small priestly chipmunk came to a rail and, folding his hands on his abdomen, addressed them in his own tongue. It was Jimmie’s shot. Adjured by the others, he took the gun. His face was stiff with apprehension. The Dalzel boy was giving forth fine words. “Go ahead. Aw, don’t be afraid. It’s nothin’ to do. Why, I’ve done it a million times. Don’t shut both your eyes, now. Jus’ keep one open and shut the other one. He’ll get away if you don’t watch out. Now you’re all right. Why don’t you let ’er go? Go ahead.”
Jimmie, with his legs braced apart, was in the center of the path. His back was greatly bent, owing to the mechanics of supporting the heavy gun. His companions were screeching in the rear. There was a wait.
Then he pulled trigger. To him there was a frightful roar, his cheek and his shoulder took a stunning blow, his face felt a hot flush of fire, and, opening his two eyes, he found that he was still alive. He was not too dazed to instantly adopt a becoming egotism. It had been the first shot of his life.
But directly after the well-mannered celebration of this victory a certain cow, which had been grazing in the line of fire, was seen to break wildly across the pasture, bellowing and bucking. The three smugglers and lynx-hunters looked at each other out of blanched faces. Jimmie had hit the cow. The first evidence of his comprehension of this fact was in the celerity with which he returned the discharged gun to Willie Dalzel.
They turned to flee. The land was black, as if it had been overshadowed suddenly with thick storm-clouds, and even as they fled in their horror a gigantic Swedish farm hand came from the heavens and fell upon them, shrieking in eerie triumph. In a twinkle they were clouted prostrate. The Swede was elate and ferocious in a foreign and fulsome way. He continued to beat them and yell.
From the ground they raised their dismal appeal. “Oh, please, mister, we didn’t do it! He did it! I didn’t do it! We didn’t do it! We didn’t mean to do it! Oh, please, mister!”
In these moments of childish terror little lads go half blind, and it is possible that few moments of their after life made them suffer as they did when the Swede flung them over the fence and marched them toward the farmhouse. They begged like cowards on the scaffold, and each one was for himself. “Oh, please let me go, mister! I didn’t do it, mister! He did it! Oh, p-l-ease let me go, mister!”
The boyish view belongs to boys alone, and if this tall and knotted laborer was needlessly without charity, none of the three lads questioned it. Usually when they were punished they decided that they deserved it, and the more they were punished the more they were convinced that they were criminals of a most subterranean type. As to the hitting of the cow being a pure accident, and therefore not of necessity a criminal matter, such reading never entered their heads. When things happened and they were caught, they commonly paid dire consequences, and they were accustomed to measure the probabilities of woe utterly by the damage done, and not in any way by the culpability. The shooting of the cow was plainly heinous, and undoubtedly their dungeons would be knee-deep in water.
“He did it, mister!” This was a general outcry. Jimmie used it as often as did the others. As for them, it is certain that they had no direct thought of betraying their comrade for their own salvation. They thought themselves guilty because they were caught; when boys were not caught they might possibly be innocent. But captured boys were guilty. When they cried out that Jimmie was the culprit, it was principally a simple expression of terror.
Old Henry Fleming, the owner of the farm, strode across the pasture toward them. He had in his hand a most cruel whip. This whip he flourished. At his approach the boys suffered the agonies of the fire regions. And yet anybody with half an eye could see that the whip in his hand was a mere accident, and that he was a kind old man—when he cared.
When he had come near he spoke crisply. “What you boys ben doin’ to my cow?” The tone had deep threat in it. They all answered by saying that none of them had shot the cow. Their denials were tearful and clamorous, and they crawled knee by knee. The vision of it was like three martyrs being dragged toward the stake. Old Fleming stood there, grim, tight-lipped. After a time he said, “Which boy done it?”
There was some confusion, and then Jimmie spake. “I done it, mister.”
Fleming looked at him. Then he asked, “Well, what did you shoot ’er fer?”
Jimmie thought, hesitated, decided, faltered, and then formulated this: “I thought she was a lynx.”
Old Fleming and his Swede at once lay down in the grass and laughed themselves helpless.
September, 1899
[Harper’s Magazine, Vol. 99, pp. 552–557.]
* Whilomville Stories.
THE REVENGE OF THE ADOLPHUS*
I
“Stand by.”
Shackles had come down from the bridge of the Adolphus and flung this command at three fellow correspondents who in the galley were busy with pencils trying to write something exciting and interesting from four days’ quiet cruising. They looked up casually. “What for?” They did not intend to arouse for nothing. Ever since Shackles had heard the men of the navy directing each other to stand by for this thing and that thing, he had used the two words as his pet phrase and was continually telling his friends to stand by. Sometimes its portentous and emphatic reiteration became highly exasperating, and men were apt to retort sharply. “Well, I am standing by, ain’t I?” On this occasion they detected that he was serious. “Well, what for?” they repeated. In his answer Shackles was reproachful as well as impressive. “Stand by? Stand by for a Spanish gunboat. A Spanish gunboat in chase! Stand by for two Spanish gunboats—both of them in chase!”
The others looked at him for a brief space and were almost certain that they saw truth written upon his countenance. Whereupon they tumbled out of the galley and galloped up to the bridge. The cook, with a mere inkling of tragedy, was now out on deck bawling, “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” Aft, the grimy head of a stoker was thrust suddenly up through the deck, so to speak. The eyes flashed in a quick look astern, and then the head vanished. The correspondents were scrambling on the bridge. “Where’s my glasses, damn it? Here—let me take a look. Are they Spaniards, Captain? Are you sure?”
The skipper of the Adolphus was at the wheel. The pilothouse was so arranged that he could not see astern without hanging forth from one of the side windows, but apparently he had made early investigation. He did not reply at once. At sea, he never replied at once to questions. At the very first, Shackles had discovered the merits of t
his deliberate manner and had taken delight in it. He invariably detailed his talk with the captain to the other correspondents. “Look here. I’ve just been to see the skipper. I said: ‘I would like to put into Cape Haytien.’ Then he took a little think. Finally he said: ‘All right.’ Then I said: ‘I suppose we’ll need to take on more coal there?’ He took another little think. I said: ‘Ever ran into that port before?’ He took another little think. Finally he said: ‘Yes.’ I said: ‘Have a cigar?’ He took another little think. See? There’s where I fooled ’im—”
While the correspondents spun the hurried questions at him, the captain of the Adolphus stood with his brown hands on the wheel and his cold glance aligned straight over the bow of his ship.
“Are they Spanish gunboats, Captain? Are they, Captain?”
After a profound pause, he said: “Yes.” The four correspondents hastily and in perfect time presented their backs to him and fastened their gaze on the pursuing foe. They saw a dull gray curve of sea going to the feet of the high green-and-blue coast-line of northeastern Cuba, and on this sea were two miniature ships with clouds of iron-colored smoke pouring from their funnels.
One of the correspondents strolled elaborately to the pilothouse. “Aw—Captain,” he drawled, “do you think they can catch us?”
The captain’s glance was still aligned over the bow of his ship. Ultimately he answered: “I don’t know.”
From the top of the little Adolphus’s stack, thick dark smoke swept level for a few yards and then went rolling to leeward in great hot obscuring clouds. From time to time the grimy head was thrust through the deck, the eyes took the quick look astern, and then the head vanished. The cook was trying to get somebody to listen to him. “Well, you know, damn it all, it won’t be no fun to be ketched by them Spaniards. Be Gawd, it won’t. Look here, what do you think they’ll do to us, hey? Say, I don’t like this, you know. I’m damned if I do.” The sea, cut by the hurried bow of the Adolphus, flung its waters astern in the formation of a wide angle, and the lines of the angle ruffled and hissed as they fled, while the thumping screw tormented the water at the stern. The frame of the steamer underwent regular convulsions as in the strenuous sobbing of a child.
The mate was standing near the pilothouse. Without looking at him, the captain spoke his name. “Ed!”
“Yes, sir,” cried the mate with alacrity.
The captain reflected for a moment. Then he said: “Are they gainin’ on us?”
The mate took another anxious survey of the race. “No-o-yes, I think they are—a little.”
After a pause the captain said: “Tell the chief to shake her up more.”
The mate, glad of an occupation in these tense minutes, flew down to the engine-room door. “Skipper says shake ’er up more!” he bawled. The head of the chief engineer appeared, a grizzly head now wet with oil and sweat. “What?” he shouted angrily. It was as if he had been propelling the ship with his own arms. Now he was told that his best was not good enough. “What? shake ’er up more? Why, she can’t carry another pound, I tell you! Not another ounce! We——” Suddenly he ran forward and climbed to the bridge. “Captain,” he cried in the loud, harsh voice of one who lived usually amid the thunder of machinery, “she can’t do it, sir! Be Gawd, she can’t! She’s turning over now faster than she ever did in her life, and we’ll all blow to hell——”
The low-toned, impassive voice of the captain suddenly checked the chief’s clamor. “I’ll blow her up,” he said, “but I won’t git ketched if I kin help it.” Even then the listening correspondents found a second in which to marvel that the captain had actually explained his point of view to another human being.
The engineer stood blank. Then suddenly he cried: “All right, sir!” He threw a hurried look of despair at the correspondents, the deck of the Adolphus, the pursuing enemy, Cuba, the sky and the sea; he vanished in the direction of his post.
A correspondent was suddenly re-gifted with the power of prolonged speech. “Well, you see, the game is up, damn it. See? We can’t get out of it. The skipper will blow up the whole bunch before he’ll let his ship be taken, and the Spaniards are gaining. Well, that’s what comes from going to war in an eight-knot tub.” He bitterly accused himself, the others, and the dark, sightless, indifferent world.
This certainty of coming evil affected each one differently. One was made garrulous; one kept absent-mindedly snapping his fingers and gazing at the sea; another stepped nervously to and fro, looking everywhere as if for employment for his mind. As for Shackles, he was silent and smiling, but it was a new smile that caused the lines about his mouth to betray quivering weakness. And each man looked at the others to discover their degree of fear and did his best to conceal his own, holding his crackling nerves with all his strength.
As the Adolphus rushed on, the sun suddenly emerged from behind gray clouds, and its rays dealt titanic blows, so that in a few minutes the sea was a glowing blue plain with the golden shine dancing at the tips of the waves. The coast of Cuba glowed with light. The pursuers displayed detail after detail in the new atmosphere. The voice of the cook was heard in high vexation. “Am I to git dinner as usual? How do I know? Nobody tells me what to do! Am I to git dinner as usual?”
The mate answered ferociously. “Of course you are! What do you s’pose? Ain’t you the cook, you damn fool?”
The cook retorted in a mutinous scream. “Well, how would I know? If this ship is goin’ to blow up——”
II
The captain called from the pilothouse. “Mr. Shackles! Oh, Mr. Shackles!” The correspondent moved hastily to a window. “What is it, Captain?” The skipper of the Adolphus raised a battered finger and pointed over the bows. “See ’er?” he asked, laconic but quietly jubilant. Another steamer was smoking at full speed over the sunlit seas. A great billow of pure white was on her bows. “Great Scott!” cried Shackles. “Another Spaniard?”
“No,” said the captain, “that there is a United States cruiser!”
“What?” Shackles was dumbfounded into muscular paralysis. “No! Are you sure?”
The captain nodded. “Sure, take the glass. See her ensign? Two funnels, two masts with fighting tops. She ought to be the Chancellorville.”
Shackles choked. “Well, I’m blowed!”
“Ed!” said the captain.
“Yessir!”
“Tell the chief there is no hurry.”
Shackles suddenly bethought him of his companions. He dashed to them and was full of quick scorn of their gloomy faces. “Hi, brace up there! Are you blind? Can’t you see her?”
“See what?”
“Why, the Chancellorville, you blind mice!” roared Shackles. “See ’er? See ’er? See ’er?”
The others sprang, saw, and collapsed. Shackles was a madman for the purpose of distributing the news. “Cook!” he shrieked. “Don’t you see ’er, cook? Good Gawd, man, don’t you see ’er?” He ran to the lower deck and howled his information everywhere. Suddenly the whole ship smiled. Men clapped each other on the shoulder and joyously shouted. The captain thrust his head from the pilothouse to look back at the Spanish ships. Then he looked at the American cruiser. “Now, we’ll see,” he said grimly and vindictively to the mate. “Guess somebody else will do some running,” the mate chuckled.
The two gunboats were still headed hard for the Adolphus, and she kept on her way. The American cruiser was coming swiftly. “It’s the Chancellorville!” cried Shackles. “I know her! We’ll see a fight at sea, my boys! A fight at sea!” The enthusiastic correspondents pranced in Indian revels.
The Chancellorville—2000 tons—18.6 knots—ten five-inch guns—came on tempestuously, sheering the water high with her sharp bow. From her funnels the smoke raced away in driven sheets. She loomed with extraordinary rapidity like a ship bulging and growing out of the sea. She swept by the Adolphus so close that one could have thrown a walnut on board. She was a glistening gray apparition with a blood-red waterline, with brown gun muzzles and whi
te-clothed motionless jack-tars; and in her rush she was silent, deadly silent. Probably there entered the mind of every man on board the Adolphus a feeling almost of idolatry for this living thing, stern but, to their thought, incomparably beautiful. They would have cheered but that each man seemed to feel that a cheer would be too puny a tribute.
It was at first as if she did not see the Adolphus. She was going to pass without heeding this little vagabond of the high seas. But suddenly a megaphone gaped over the rail of her bridge, and a voice was heard measuredly, calmly intoning. “Hello—there! Keep—well—to—the—north’ard—and—out of my—way—and I’ll—go—in—and—see—what—those—people—want——” Then nothing was heard but the swirl of water. In a moment the Adolphus was looking at a high gray stern. On the quarterdeck, sailors were poised about the breach of the after-pivot-gun.
The correspondents were reveling. “Captain,” yelled Shackles, “we can’t miss this! We must see it!” But the skipper had already flung over the wheel. “Sure,” he answered almost at once. “We can’t miss it.”
The cook was arrogantly, grossly triumphant. His voice rang along the deck. “There, now! How will the Spinachers like that? Now, it’s our turn! We’ve been doin’ the runnin’ away, but now we’ll do the chasin’!” Apparently feeling some twinge of nerves from the former strain, he suddenly demanded: “Say, who’s got any whiskey? I’m near dead for a drink.”
When the Adolphus came about, she laid her course for a position to the northward of a coming battle, but the situation suddenly became complicated. When the Spanish ships discovered the identity of the ship that was steaming toward them, they did not hesitate over their plan of action. With one accord they turned and ran for port. Laughter arose from the Adolphus. The captain broke his orders, and, instead of keeping to the northward, he headed in the wake of the impetuous Chancellorville. The correspondents crowded on the bow.
The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane Page 79